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Pagan Paul Sep 2017
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Far atop the highest clouds,
down below the deepest seas,
all the space thats in betwixt,
words will flow with skilful ease.

At every point upon the compass,
around about three-sixty degrees,
the tumbling omni-present sound
of words upon Poetica's breeze.

So fly high above the clouds,
and swim deep beneath the seas,
Poetica is freedom to express,
and Her words no law decrees.


from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica


© Pagan Paul (23/09/17)
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3rd of the poems stolen from Lord Pagan :)
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Pagan Paul Sep 2017
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In a garden fair with flowers
is where she whiles away her hours.
Especially in the months of Spring,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.

Flying high and dipping low
she lets her emotions freely flow.
Not caring what the feelings bring,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.

Hanging beneath an apple tree
a virginal symbol of her purity.
Listening quiet to the songbirds sing,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.


© Pagan Paul (25/09/17)
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  Sep 2017 Pagan Paul
Lora Lee
I love you
dow
       w
           n
to your jagged,
         dark edges
culling smoke
               and twisting tides
                  your steaming heart
              that pulses, in my hands
          as you give it-
and the pungent tears
when they fall
         from your eyes
I lick up your pain
to soothe it smooth
its rawness catching
       velvet ripples of skin
I pull a blanket
of mahogany wine
over your soul
          lacerations
that seep out
              from the layers within

and in that tender of
nightfall's darkest foliage
I long to calm
your monsters' clawing
as they gnaw at you from
                  the inside out

I crave to fill
the hollowed-out longing
my own hungers writhing
      in obscene
                      devout

For I am all that is sacred and wild
the spark has been lit
from my innermost rooms
I dance to the drums of
the woman as child
her mystical ways chanting
rhythms in runes

Demons might dance
as you gaze in reflection
in the mirror of time,
of unfiltered space
      but I adore all your sides,
          your imperfections
discern the divine
in the planes of your face
You are my galaxy
              of dark matter
bringing out my
           own looking glass
                         of vantablack
in a feral crown of obsidian
                             and onyx
as you reach me deep,
there's no going back

For when you love me like that,
plant your tameless,
                            hot seed
it blossoms within me
a tightly-wrapped tourniquet
               for when I bleed
and if my guts
should spill upon
               the  floor
you will remind me,
in glowing of pores
           of who I am
and how I am whole
a lovelight lit in the
storm of my soul
I will push down deeper
until I feel those roots
that connect me to
my center
  to my
succulent fruit
So slice me open.
     Pull me apart.
Let the juice run down
to heal
     your
jagged-edged
               heart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPA18-tENac

This song, which I listened o repeatedly while writing, means something other to me than the meaning of the video.. much more personal.
This also can apply:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcfOmhGJ8G4
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.

If

He who hesitates is lost

then why

Look before you leap?
.




© Pagan Paul (19/09/17)
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I realise these are British proverbs, so some poets
may not have heard them before,
However, they do contradict each other.
.
The forest floor soft and glowing
sun-rays shining through the trees,
light orbs sparkling through the shadows
like fairies dancing on the breeze.

Sitting beneath the pine trees
where the ferns grow thick and green,
some growing sharp and tall like swords
others like wide green screens.

There’s a little stream running through
bubbling over rocks worn round and smooth,
getting lost within the music of the sounds
relaxing my soul, it caresses and soothes.

Lost in these tranquil moments
such precious times spent,
remembering, hoping and dreaming
surrounded by sweet and spicy forest scents.
~

© 2017 Brianna Love/SA/DBMA
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Tapioca sky,

feel the knife curve
like a Moon-hook,

wrenching a tourmaline ****
into hallucinating gums,

ritualised in immortal agony.


Lemon clouds,

see the portrait smile
like a nightmare,

feasting on famine entrails,
of sacrificed words,

scything off the tongue.



© Pagan Paul (2017)
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Old psychedelic poem.
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