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Jul 2017 · 878
Hurt
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
A warm wet circle on my cheek,
all that remains of your presence.
In a cold grey room so empty,
that no longer holds your essence.
My skin and bones have turned to dust,
a heart dripping to pools so dry.
The fibres of being are unbound,
as you walk away and say goodbye.

© Pagan Paul (23/07/17)
.
Just trying to recall what its like to have a love to lose.
PPx
.
Jul 2017 · 783
Raindrops and Tears
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
Tears like raindrops roll down my face
as I start awake from another dream.
The stark isolation set in another place
reflecting the here by subconscious means.

The wind whistles a gale of fury
whilst I squat on the mountains summit.
Bracing my heart from an angry jury,
whose purpose is to find me unfit.

Not worthy, by proxy, a foregone verdict
delivered eloquently from myself to me.
Scything confidence away, I've heard it.
Raindrops taste like tears to the lonely.

Shutters and barricades drop, my armour,
holding back the bad, and the good.
Protected, the gale blows much calmer,
the stark isolation accepted and understood.

But the dream persists, always the same,
a looping litany whilst I lay asleep.
The withdrawal is but temporary in name
until I locate that which I humbly seek.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Jul 2017 · 702
Stealing The Sky
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
Three meet upon the moor.
Clouds boil, the thunder roars.
Magick crackles about the tor,
voices raise to chant the call.

Fires at midnight burn with power.
Time stands still in the witching hour.
The moot works in the night to devour,
to catch the moon and starry showers.

Mystical nets float way up high.
Glowing globes with which to scrye.
The howling wind screams its cry,
as ancient powers steal the sky.


© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Jul 2017 · 915
Sun and Moon
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
Sun rises
in misty dawn,
early rays
light brings warm.

Sun sets
in hazy dusk,
late rays
to darkness brusque.

Moon rises
in quiet night,
early beams
throw out light.

Moon sets
in peaceful morn,
late beams
are ragged torn.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Originally called Vivasvan and Chandra Indu.
(4 x 10 Word)
.
Jul 2017 · 850
The Seeker
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
The sky hangs heavy, still and sore,
sad, it doesn't change any more.
Maybe the answers are right here,
Not up there with uncertainty and fear.

A voice cries out desperate and loud,
'every silver lining has a cloud'.
Perhaps there are no answers now,
but the future may reveal somehow.

Unmasked and uncloaked, the weary mind,
through the imagery the thoughts unwind.
A storm rages and a light bursts through,
a path, years lost, there, in full view.

Where this leads is mystery unclear,
but not up there with all the fear.
A whole new vista, could be uncertain,
the arduous task of raising the curtain.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
A poem about the mood swings inherent in BPD,
the struggle to understand them and to manage them.
.
Jul 2017 · 1.0k
Mid-Stream Isle
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
Let us linger for a while
upon this sacred mid-stream Isle.

Between the banks of this woodland river,
the flanking tree-scape murmurs peace.
Tinkling drops over pebbles tumble,
eager and away to the sea, its home.
The easy flow of destiny contained
in a dashing continual race.
Birds chatter until the big one shrieks,
its flashing form
diving through the canopy
in search of a mammal to feed its young.
The chorus resumes.
A nervous Doe peeks from dense undergrowth,
constant alertness as she moves,
body trembling in anticipation of attack,
but conquering fear, bends to drink.
Lazy grass and moss so soft
lies underfoot in this magikal place,
the feel and the pull of the earth
brings comfort and peace to the tired body,
tranquility evoked with sight and sound,
soothing the mind with touch and smell,
a sensual cuddle from the Natural world.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
A peaceful place to hang out :)
.
Jul 2017 · 1.4k
Hidden
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
As I walk this lonely path
the music plays for me.
Picking at the neat stitches,
the seams of my inner universe.
Somewhere a dam bursts,
a levee breaks, floodgates open.
And vision is impaired by drops
like boulders of rain on a windscreen,
but I have no wiper blades,
just the rims of my wraparounds.
And the music plays on regardless,
ripping through the fabric,
the cushion of my existence.
Control lets go, an illogical absentee.
Millennia creep by as minutes tick.
Sliding through black curtains sight returns,
the shakes pass slowly, rubbernecking shame.
And as the music plays in my head,
I walk the path and treasure the gift
of tears for souvenirs.


© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
When nobody sees you cry ...
.
Jun 2017 · 1.3k
Marooned
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
'No man is an Island'
Maybe not true my Dear friends.
Perchance in general, contact is good.
But take a good look.
There are many Islands in the emotional ocean
with closed harbours and sealed ports.
Refugees of romance; Tortured traumas;
Insane individuals; Mental mercenaries;
Each one a lonely star,
a pinprick of light, disconnected,
on a girdle of the sky,
protected by a carapace of experience,
cold, distant, drifting further from the source,
in a race for consolidation and annihilation.
Islands of safety become Isles of danger.
Selfishness; Self-hate;
Self-perpetuating; Self Destruct;
The inward circle and downward spiral
cloaking the Island, shielding its existence,
shunning the continents of integration.
So can it be true my Dear friends,
no man is an Island?


© Pagan Paul (28/06/17)
.
I wish I could remember how to swim! PPx
.
Jun 2017 · 2.0k
You Fill Up My Senses
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
The sight of your femininity, beauty,
draws breath from your perfect form,
swaying, flirting, a stunning visual love,
with swoon fantasy and anticipated arousal.

The aroma of your perfume, honeysuckle,
drifts lazily from your elegant neck,
teasing, promising, a consenting floral love,
with delicate grace and scented arousal.

The tone of your voice, seductive,
velvet whispers from your deepest want,
lilting, singing, a desperate lyrical love,
with inviting sound and timbred arousal.

The taste of your mouth, sweetness,
drips honey from your delicate lips,
flowing, flooding, a desire sugared love,
with urgent passion and oral arousal.

The feel of your body, intimate,
drapes sensual from your soft skin,
clothing, wrapping, a flesh blanket love,
with spine tingles and fingertip arousal.

You fill up my senses, stunned,
conflicting feelings play with my mind,
heat, lust, a primal instinct love,
frozen in time and with frightening arousal.


© Pagan Paul (25/06/17)
.
Jun 2017 · 666
Life's Road
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
I stand here with thumb outstretched
as the years speed by like passing cars.
Trying to hitch a ride on Life's Road,
for all it cares, I may as well be on Mars.

Relentless, never seeming to slow down,
the years pass me by like pouring rain.
And here I rot, the forgotten wretch,
standing on the kerb of Life's Road again.

Shivering and soaking, I turn to walk,
and the years fly past like hot arrows.
My steps trace a line toward the horizon,
beyond the point Life's Road narrows.

For Death, she will claim me as hers,
when the years stop, no more to erode.
The raw relief, release, too turn away,
and leave the madness of Life's Road.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Jun 2017 · 742
Poetica
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
The Land of Poetica is viewed
as far as the eye can see,
reaching out to unknown shores
edging the oceans of infinity.

Each drop is a Lord or a Lady
contributing to the community,
sending out their words of Art
with no judgement nor impunity.

Though storms may hit at times
rocking the boat of security,
waves of the Lords and Ladies
save Poetica from obscurity.

from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica


© Pagan Paul (22/06/17)
.
Jun 2017 · 872
Mind Flux
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Waves of psychic nausea
make the teeth shiver,
as the mind grates on lava
and the cloak pulls tight.
An echo from an illusion
permeates the imagination.
glistening with rancid dew
resplendent in its own reflection.
The image mirrored
is not the genuine original.
The genuine original
is not the image mirrored.
Born of the same picture
yet entities of separate strokes,
Romulus and Remus consort
to blur the edges and paint the story.
The host, confused and special,
supplicates to the paths,
waiting for the reformation,
release, relief, and re-definition.

© Pagan Paul (19/06/17)
.
Jun 2017 · 4.2k
Fyne Arte
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Thy loveliness be fyne arte
powdered 'pon a velvet page.
Thy heart doth sing lullabies
penned in a lovers cage.

Thy loveliness be crystal jewels
studded 'pon a silver thread.
Thy breath doth fan the fyres
stitched in a lovers bed.

Thy loveliness be sweet dreams
strewn 'pon a meadow fair.
Thy nature doth perfume give
flowers in a lovers snare.

© Pagan Paul (14/06/17)
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Jun 2017 · 2.1k
The Devils Dilemma
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Today I went

to Hell,

to sell my soul

to the Devil.



I don't know how

it happened,

but I wound up

buying his.



Now I own

the tortured spirit

of an angel

fallen and disgraced.



He wants it back

so it can't pass

auctioned into the

wrong hands.



The dilemma

beckons an answer

from eternities

waiting hordes.



A decision so large

the universe

holds its breath

in chaotic silence.



I don't know how

it happened

but I've ended up

becoming the Devil.



© Pagan Paul (2016)
.
Jun 2017 · 967
Grandfather Time
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Tick

The Grandfather clock
draws in time
and holds its breath

Tock

A slow exhalation
paints the mind
with images of silence.


© Pagan Paul (June 2017)
.
Jun 2017 · 1.7k
The Gift
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
The serpent around my eye
in perpetuity eating its tail.
A sigil to represent fluidity,
sheds its skin to no avail.

The Truths play around my head in loops eternal,
infinite possibilities of *******,
fractal gems cavorting in lustrous oceans,
that cleanse an hours disgrace.

Pan-Dimensional
and Omni-Directional
Truths are connecting.

Ouroboros, protector of the Tree of Life,
his apple is the gift of Knowledge.
Are those tempted weak and futile?
or hungry for the secrets of Cronos.
The fruit of Wisdom picked, and devoured,
in the garden quest for clarity.

And the serpent around my eye,
like a monocle allowing sight,
flows Truths into my mind,
reflecting matrices taken to flight.

© Pagan Paul (09/06/17)
.
If someone asks a question
that appears to be a riddle.
Just play it really safe
and put a Haiku in the middle  ;-)
PPx
.
Jun 2017 · 1000
Black Tulips
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Pillars of sand start shifting,
the loving spoonful curdles tourmaline,
and the moon will be as blood,
darker than the inside of night.
Resonance as Death's hourglass screams
where a blade slices through flesh.
Angels are not supposed to have ******
on clouds of orange musk.

Poems fall like mountain rain,
excellent in obscurity, rich primal green,
reflecting olive trees in starlight,
glancing twice with Capricious intent.
A butterflies wings kiss the breeze,
Free. Serene. Long ago and far away.
In a circle of hearse black tulips
I lay down my shattered heart to die.


© Pagan Paul (16/02/17)
.
Re-write. PPx
.
Jun 2017 · 2.4k
Letter To The Dead
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
The menace emerges from the shadows,
a barked order, but unintelligible.
Then the soft steel kiss
slicing through flesh into entrails.
A fist connects with a crunching face,
legs buckle with pain and blood-loss.
And the Darkness of Death takes me,
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
My Temple violated and de-sanctified,
the blade withdraws with a whisper.
Darkness cuddles
and welcomes me with a smile.

The morphine haze
keeps me inert and motionless,
but makes my mind giggle.
It wanders aimless
through psychedelic chapters …

This place is sterile, white, drab.
My eyes move slowly left.
There is something in a doorway.
The door.

… my head flies to a Poets Banquet,
where I am the bones thrown to the dogs.
And the wood grain in the door moves,
a cascading chocolate fountain,
over and over again,
flowing, melting like molten lava.
They taught me to write,
then cut off my hands.
Obscurity is purity;
fame is pain.
So I penned a letter to the dead.

My eyeballs are all that move,
floating in mid-air,
but still connected and transmitting
drug induced images.
I remember the assassin, the blade,
the darkness, the sirens, but no pain.
Images but no feeling.
They move right to a cold bedside table,
and then I think I cried.
Somebody Knows me.
No chocolates, no flowers.
Somebody Knows me.
No fruit. No magazines.
Just …
a pen and a pad.
Somebody Knows me.
I did cry, someone remembers me.
And each teardrop contained a thousand images,
a thousand stories, a thousand poems.
Inspiration. Illusion. Insight.
And the Darkness of Sleep takes me
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
The morphine haze retreats
further into my mind and I dream …

of ambulances and white walls
of green gowns and bright lights
of scalpels and scissors and surgery
of needles and nurses and nightmares

… I dream of Poetry
in colour.
I see worlds in the sky
and words painted on clouds.
A kaleidoscope of teardrops
dripping images into my mind.
A fountain of mist cascading,
seeping into a memory sponge.
And I feel; somebody who Knows me
gently wipe away the tears.

© Pagan Paul (04/06/17)
.
May 2017 · 1.1k
Lust In Peace
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
Your flesh lies in your grave,
my ashes fly on the breeze.
And our Ghosts intertwine,
link-haunting through the trees.

Ethereal energy in ivory white,
wraith-like tinged in blue.
Mist shroud figures wrapped
are the Ghosts of me and you.

You call across my aeons,
your shade is next to mine.
I reply within a veiled second,
deflowering the ***** of time.

Forever conjoined fog-twins,
eternity is our lust to save.
With my ashes on the wind
and your flesh lying in a grave.

© Pagan Paul (31/05/17)
.
Dark, but at least its new! PPx
.
Pagan Paul May 2017
I slip the straps and release the clasp
of your over-the-shoulder boulder holder.
Gravity asserts itself, and you sigh as
I wonder if I should get even bolder

because

The jaws of love masquerade
as petals of a flower

so

Just say if you want me to stop.
We are, after all, in the middle of a shop.
I was attracted when I saw you smile.
As we passed in the frozen food aisle.
Now people are staring though the window.
Shocked at my nonchalant innuendo.
And if your purse metaphor extends to this.
We can go to the Bank for a little kiss

though

I may not be able to afford
nine feather mattresses and a golden pea.
But if you could make do
with a lilo and a marble
then …
You've pulled Princess.

© Pagan Paul (30/05/17)
.
Prequel to Even Poets ***** Up A Date (Mar 31)
The 3rd, Even Poets ***** Up A Night Of ***, to be published at some point.
.
May 2017 · 1.2k
Woe is Me!
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
Woe is me!
Oh! Woe is me!

No longer can I create art
No longer can I pen stanza's
No longer can I rhyme couplets
No longer can I compose beauty

Because they won't let me
They won't let me

Not until
I get
a
.
.
.
Poetic Licence





© Pagan Paul (01/09/16)
.
another oldy :) or maybe oddity :)
.
May 2017 · 1.4k
Little Black Book
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
Would you like to take a look
in the covers of my little black book?
Would you like to see if you are there,
and if not, would you really care?

Would you like to scan the pages
of my lovers through the ages?
Would you seek to find your name,
and if not, should I be ashamed?

Would you like to read the index,
and see what my preference reflects?
Would you like to peek and find
the comments I write, and of what kind?

I am sorry but you will never see
the yellowed pages of my history.
It's best that what will be, will be.
My book retired when you chose me.

© Pagan Paul (24/05/17)
.
May 2017 · 1.1k
Thoughts of a Dying Atheist
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
'The wall on which the Prophets wrote is cracking at the seams'
King Crimson - Epitaph (In The Court of the Crimson King).

.
I have no God.
I have no religion.
But one thing I do know ...

Any self-respecting Prophet
would be spinning in their grave
if they knew about
the atrocities and violence,
the fanaticism and ****,
carried out in their name.

Any self-respecting Prophet
would be crying through time
if they heard how
their thoughts and teachings,
their messages and words,
were used to justify hate.

© Pagan Paul (25/05/17)
.
This applies to all religions guilty of aggression , violence, hate and expansionism throughout history. PPx
May 2017 · 908
Dream Book
Pagan Paul May 2017
Do you know what it means
to be caught in a dream?
Do you know how it feels
to be caught in between?

When things are not there
but they are if you look?
Where all of the pages
are blank in the book?


© Pagan Paul (09/10/16)
.
Old Poem
.
May 2017 · 8.4k
Violin and Quill
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
So here I am once more, in the playground of the broken hearts.
One more experience, one more entry in a diary self-penned.
Yet another emotional suicide,
overdosed on sentiment and pride.
To late to say I love you, to late to re-stage the play.
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday'.



The first words you killed me with.
The first Script to make me cry.
The opening song on a plate of sorrow.
The opening sight of my Poets eye.

Your words soaked my childlike mind
as I lost on the roundabouts and swings.
The Jester stands with violin and quill,
composing tears on his broken strings.

I sat and chewed those daffodils
and I still struggle to answer why.
I grew up and left that playground
but its the place where my heart died.

So I never did write that love song,
My words just never seemed to flow.
The martyrs twisted smile haunts me,
my Harlequins head dreams in sorrow.

The game is over.
The game is over.

© Pagan Paul (22/05/17)
.
*First verse from the title track of 'Script for a Jesters Tear' by Marillion.
First heard this song when I was 14, I always wondered why Fish's lyrics spoke so deep with me. I only understood when I started to write poetry.
The album is their first, and the first of a trilogy that also includes Fugazi and Misplaced Childhood.
I am the Harlequin. PPx
.
May 2017 · 2.8k
Valleys
Pagan Paul May 2017
My thoughts drift slow and lazy
through the valleys of my mind,
reaching out for answers,
searching for something I left behind.

My memories were here once before
with darkness, screams and pain,
the intense fire of creative spirit
dampened to pulp by a wicked brain.

So where did I leave myself
when I escaped in to my head?
I've deconstructed the mental walls
to discover the places I had fled.

Between. Betwixt. Bewitched. Be still,
a balm to soothe this anxious seer.
My thoughts drift slow and lazy
through the valleys of my fears.


© Pagan Paul (20/05/17)
.
May 2017 · 963
The Sky (Haiku)
Pagan Paul May 2017
<>
The sky sheds its tears
over the sea of forever griefs
salty dew eddy's
<>
The sky dries its tears
with handkerchief clouds of white
blue shines and dazzles new
<>


© Pagan Paul (22/10/16)
.
May 2017 · 3.8k
Blusher
Pagan Paul May 2017
Poet I may be, and rather gallant
but my tongue has another talent.
An ability only special ones know,
a secret skill I hardly show.

So here it is for your delight,
just the once, this very night.
Come my Dear! Let us walk
whilst I knot your cherry stalk.

© Pagan Paul (08/12/2016)
.
Well someone has to put the verse into perverse :)
PPx
.
May 2017 · 874
The Anatomy of Melancholy
Pagan Paul May 2017
I lift my gaze from the page.
Looking through the dragon plant,
and the miniature fig tree,
past the rain spattered window pane.
Out into the dusk at mid-day.
The sky is black, the wind chilling,
the rain relentless, daylight scarce.
And just as I think its bad
Mother Nature flashes at my eyes
and unleashes the roaring sound
of a building collapsing,
multiplied a thousand times.
The street lamps fight their hardest
but barely touch the insipid gloom.
I love Nature.
But sometimes, days like today,
make me question that relationship.
So I return my gaze to the page
and write.


© Pagan Paul (21/11/16)
.
Old Poem
.
May 2017 · 1.6k
Ghost
Pagan Paul May 2017
I see the Ghost again.
He visits every night.
Keeping to the shadows.
A cold chill menace.
Though he watches me,
his head remains bowed.
The stare is penetrating.
His mind is accusing.
I know he hates me.
I feel the total disgust.
The bile tastes foul,
and the pain is searing.
I know.
Because he is me.
And I am haunting myself.


© Pagan Paul (06/10/16)
.
May 2017 · 1.0k
Depeche Toi
Pagan Paul May 2017
.
J'ai amour, cela me preoccupe.
Avez vous un petit ami?
Non!
Vous avez maintenant ... s'il tu plait.


© Pagan Paul (14/05/17)
.
Je suis desole.
Je ne pas parle la Francais.
Mais ... Je essayer :)
PPx
May 2017 · 3.0k
Wood Nymph Blues
Pagan Paul May 2017
Such a sad sad tale of woe,
the story of the wood nymph Echo.
Cast aside with never a care,
her sobs reverberate through the air.

Warning the forest of her sorrow,
no fanfares did she need to borrow,
far and farther her tears did go,
fading and fading, just like Echo.


© Pagan Paul 25/07/16
.
Echo is the Nymph spurned by Narcissus
when he fell in love with his own reflection.
Always felt sorry for her :)
Re-post.
.
May 2017 · 2.8k
Attraction
Pagan Paul May 2017
Gliding
Serenity in a crowd
Deft glances and secret smiles
Promised whispers of the future

Flirting
Beauty before the eyes
The dampness of licked lips
An invitation to taste comfort

Melting
Duality in a single act
Spiralling heat and falling fast
Naked truth of the now

©Pagan Paul (12/01/16)
.
Apr 2017 · 1.4k
Romantique
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
.
She bestowed upon me her lacy favour,
     tying it about my lance,
     so my fortitude should not waver,
     and doubt lead me a merry dance.

She crowned me with a kiss as blessing,
     sealing it to my lips,
     with grace so soft and caressing,
     like a breeze touches sailing ships.

She gave to me her most cherished gift,
     surrendering up her chastity,
     with joy I feel my spirits lift,
     at the thought of her next to me.

She anointed her wish on my beating heart,
     so gently as to sleep,
     her private desires locked deep within,
     and secrets for me to keep.


© Pagan Paul (01/08/16)
.
Apr 2017 · 2.3k
Room of Dancing Shadows
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like ****** Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)
.
Apr 2017 · 7.0k
Hold Me
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
Hold me through the night
Still the pain and keep me safe
I can't face being alone

Fold your arms so tight around me
make the dark go away
Please stay, hold me through the night


© Pagan Paul (01/01/17)
.
Haiku 5-7-5, 7-5-7
.
Apr 2017 · 2.1k
AutoBiography 1
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.

My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.

But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.

Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.

She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.

The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.

So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.

Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.

© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
.
Pure fiction :)
.
Apr 2017 · 3.4k
Judderwitch
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)
.
Apr 2017 · 1.2k
BirthStones
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
.
Birthstones
Grave stones
Pebbles in the Stream of Time.

Birthstones
Grave stones
Grains of Sand in the Story of Stone.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)
.
Apr 2017 · 2.3k
A Poets Value
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
.
If you happen to find a poet
hiding shyly beneath a stone.
Gently put him in your pocket
and carry him safely home.

Show him love and kindness,
take time to get to know him.
And if you smile so sweetly
he will gladly pen you a poem.

For if you hold his real value,
and recognise his true worth.
He'll look deep into your soul,
to give you the sun, moon and earth.

© Pagan Paul (05/04/17)
.
Some people know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.
PPx
.
Apr 2017 · 4.6k
Rough Diamond
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
.
I'm glad I am a rough diamond,
not cut, and ready to buy.
Women don't want polished men,
they want a malleable guy.
I'm not the King of Diamonds,
not domesticated nor trained.
I'm not a gent, soft of touch.
I'm wild and lustful and stained.

So I am the Jack of Diamonds
strong and rugged and tough.
No culture taints my mind,
and knowledge is just - stuff.
When I find me a willing Lady,
she just can't get enough,
especially when I head for
her Diamond in the Rough.


© Pagan Paul (03/04/17)
.
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its not winter, it should be colder.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its just dandruff on your shoulder.

No my Dear, I am not in pain.
Neither am I hurting, or showing grief.
No my Dear, I am not in pain.
Its the lettuce in between your teeth.

Yes my Love, I am listening.
I was just temporarily distracted.
Yes my Love, I am listening.
But your friend is so attractive.

No my Sweet, its not that draughty.
Its not windy, you've got it wrong.
No my Sweet, its not that draughty.
Your skirts caught in your thong.

No my Darling, that is not snow.
It can't be true, its a wrong fact.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its just ******* on your compact.


© Pagan Paul (31/03/17)
.
Another silly one for April Fools Day ;-)
PPx
.
Mar 2017 · 1.4k
Gilded Cage
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
And from a golden thread
hangs a gilded cage with filigree.
Waiting for a little bird
to sing a sweet soliloquy.

In your heart this gilded cage
is kept under lock and key.
Waiting for a heartache's tears
to sing a sweet soliloquy.

Be proud little bird and sing
from your cage so eloquently.
Waiting for a lovers kiss
to sing a sweet soliloquy.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Mar 2017 · 1.3k
Chameleon Girl
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
Changing her disguise,
lover in liquid lapis,
**** wearing turquoise,
blending serene, frozen,
collecting flirtations,
in green emeralds,
feeding on innocence,
emotion camouflaged,
sacrificed phrases melting,
****** hot tears, crimson,
return to the silence,
and decriminalise sentiment.


© Pagan Paul (2016)
.
old poem
.
Mar 2017 · 2.3k
Parasite
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
Slip your arm around him and smile,
tell her that she has beautiful style,
bring love and friendship to them all,
then stand back and watch them fall.

Shower compliments from way up high,
be with them all to laugh and cry,
share their pain and share their lives,
whilst in the darkness sharpening knives.

For rumours, and cursed words you weave,
behind the scenes, intent to deceive,
to bring them crashing to their knees,
and conquer that which has you displeased.

Then laugh until it hurts, somehow,
the means may have justified the ends,
but take a good look around you now,
you no longer have any more friends.

© Pagan Paul (25/03/17)
.
I was going to call this Ingratiate and Conquer.
I changed my mind.
PPx
.
Mar 2017 · 2.7k
Wiccan Woman
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
I love her many faces,
they swim in my dreams eternal,
tantalising, playing, and held within,
breaking the shell to find the kernel.

The source of beauty beholden there,
brings succour to an aching heart,
chanting, singing, a pretty lullaby,
straight as an arrow, swift as a dart.

A veil of Wisdom hangs loose,
showing me the way with herbs,
aromatic, evocative, a hazy swoon,
a tranquil lake, a thrown stone disturbs.

I adore her seductive curves,
they dance in my time and space,
rhythmic, ******, and shown external,
a Wiccans kiss and a Womans grace.


© Pagan Paul (08/08/16)
.
Lord of Green series, poem 4
Re-post.
.
Mar 2017 · 1.3k
Punishment
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
Hello.
Is there anyone there?
Hello.......hello.
Can you hear me?
Mum?.......Dad?
Hello.
Let me out.
I want to come out.


The darkness is stalking me.
Creeping around my misery.
Touching my arm, pulling hairs.
In the cupboard under the stairs.


Hello.......hello.
Can anyone hear me?
Let me out.
Are you out there?
Please let me out.
Please.
I'm sorry.......
hello.......hello.......


© Pagan Paul (2016)
.
For those who like a bit of Dark.
.
Mar 2017 · 7.8k
Words Are No Longer Enough
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
How I wish I could lay my head
down gently on your thighs,
to make you moan and sigh aloud
and slowly close your eyes.

How I wish I could use my tongue
and give you more than rhyme,
to bring a flush up to your cheek,
of feelings beyond space and time.

How I wish that I could speak
in words of feathered certainty
and so entice your curious mind
to lay down with me for eternity.
.
.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
For the Muse I have yet to meet.
For the Lady I have yet to undress.
For the Lover I have yet to eat.
For the Goddess I have yet to impress.
I continue searching for you.
PPx
.
Mar 2017 · 1.2k
Isolation
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
There is a man
     with only one hand,
in the 3rd eye of Buddha
     he learnt about clapping.

There is a woman
     with only one heart,
in the land ruled by men
     she retained her compassion.

There is a man
     with only one eye,
in the land of the blind
     he was ostracised.

There is a mind
     with only one thought,
in the land of the banal
     it treasures imagination.



© Pagan Paul (19/10/16)
.
Old Poem
PPx
.
Mar 2017 · 1.2k
Soul Mates
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
War. Famine.
Pestilence. Death.
Enjoy a game of poker.
It relieves the boredom.
They only have one Big project
booked into the work diary.
The horses are stabled,
so why not have down time?
The day-to-day business
takes care of itself.
Ably supervised by the humans
in a race to the Big day.

The stillness is penetrated by sound.
Death cleaning his teeth
with his reaping scythe or
Death sharpening his reaping scythe
on his teeth.
Either way, it shattered vertebrae.
His nerves were getting twitchy.
Three Kings, the Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Royals were dropping like flies.
It was going to be a busy night.
He met Wars eyes and her bet,
(****! She looks beautiful sweating),
paid an advance and called.
Uncharacteristically delicate,
he lay down his souls.
Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Kings of Diamonds, Spades and Hearts.

War smiled sweetly.
Her dirk-like eyelashes
fluttering an assassins dance.
Letting her cards fall soft,
triumphant with winners ecstasy,
she declares her hand...




… “SNAP!” she says.




© Pagan Paul (14/03/17)
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