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 Jul 2023 Pagan Paul
winter child
In case no one gets it,
i collect my excerpts
better
than i spell my prayer.
Spills my personal feelings
and trouble,
longer than i bow
on my knees.

i memorize every shame
and quote it
in a piece of paper,
the same stroke
they did to break
my bones.
Marks down
every of their tone
when i got yelled at,
being degraded.

In case no one gets it,
i use my fingertips to fight.
Being sure of my words,
but never myself.

They can take off my guts,
break down my sanity
into pieces of insecurity.
Yet i’m here to remain bold
until the last spill of ink,
and my pen
can no longer stand.
the battle is in my head

(w.c)
 Jul 2023 Pagan Paul
Al
She speaks in clouds,

her curves drink lost
words.

Her dress entrances.

This marketplace so full
of colour,

many fragrances merge.

I watch her dance with
gypsy jazz tones.

Olive skin and dark hair.

She beckons me forth, to
a flaming beauty.

With her clouds I
merge.
 Jul 2023 Pagan Paul
M
I went to the rooftop
I saw you there
dancing with the dreds
in your hair
how I wished I could tell you about my dream
I had about you the other night
how much I miss you
how much I wish I could date you
and hold you tight

But I decided
and said outloud
I let you go
and I forgive you
it hurts to hold the feelings in my heart for you
knowing that it can't ever be.

I watched you another beautiful women
you with the dark hair
curly hair
gorgeous almond colored eyes
the way you danced
how much I wished
I had the courage to
ask you to dance
but the gay panic
kept me frozen there
with my mouth frozen
possibly for the fear of rejection
that has hurt me
and punctured me so deeply
I love women ,
I love men
I love humans
and I don't wanna feel shame
for it anymore
for I love people
and I can't wait to be in a loving relationship
one day.
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
A riff taken from the slang name for police vans in certain times and areas, especially featured in The Clash song "Guns of Brixton", and alternate meanings, such as a lady who wore black gowns, a racehorse, a boarding house owner. Really a hodge-podge of meangs with emphasis on civil rights violations. I spelled it "Mariah" so it would not be pronounced "Ma-ree-ah"!
They will fall to the ground...
Blossoms of the cherry tree...
Without you,
being in my womb...
ripening grain,
And the heady scent
of primrose flowers
from the moon...
and his dust...


به روی زمین خواهند ریخت...
شکوفه هايِ درختِ آلبالو...
بی آنکه تو،
در رَحِمَم باشي...
دانه اي،
در حالِ رسیدن...
و عطرِ خوشِ پامچال ها...
از ماه
و خاكِ او....
I see frogs in the sky

Don't ask me why

Clouds that shift and drift crafting amphibian splendor

Or maybe... I'm just on a ******
******* bad gateway, after a year I'm finally back in!!!
She numbly sits in a ragged sleep shirt
Her life in tatters all around her,
Pieces scattered bent and broken
It’s cold and raining in her soul
And she lost her new umbrella.

Celebration banners flap in tatters
From the New Year party deemed long over.
Confetti pools in puddles at the curb
Staining rainbows in the murky water.
The echo of the midnight chime a memory.

Three hundred unfulfilling days await her
Should she stumble to her crippled feet
And stagger to the place that should be home.
But there will be no cocoa by the hearth fire
Or anything that might engage her mind
Except the fact that there will be no rescue.

Sitting numbly in her ragged sleep shirt
She has no thought of any better place
Available to someone with an injury like hers.
An wound that cripples ingenuity
And renders her unwelcome
In the tangled depths of her own mind.
        ljm
Written 1/3/23   I think I saw her on Douglas Street.
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