.
He is just another notch
     on her sterile bed of love.
He is just another victim
     of conquest for her thighs.
She is just another link
     in his daisy chain of woe.
She is just another span
     on his long bridge of sighs.


© Pagan Paul (21/05/17)

.
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)

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the grave
Darkness, darkness, teach me to be brave
As shadows fall across the trees
and inky shade stills stormy seas
Darkness, darkness, teach me to be brave.

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the night
Darkness, darkness, take me from the light
Clothe me in the velvet soft black
and weave me a cloak to take me back
Darkness, darkness take me from the light.

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the moon
Darkness, darkness, sing me a soft tune
Hold my hand and lead me away
hide me from the sun of the day
Darkness, darkness, sing me a soft tune.

Chorus:
Gently, hold me, unto the end.
Darkness, darkness. Approach my friend.
Gently, hold me, unto the end.
Darkness, darkness. Approach my friend.

.
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)

.
Merrytree the Holly sprite
danced across the snow,
no mark did she leave in sight
wither whether she doth go.

So joyful and magickal is she,
darting in betwixt the flakes,
her wild spirit cavorting free,
laughing at mischief she makes.



© Pagan Paul (30/08/18)

.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.

She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.

Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.

A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.

Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.

She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.

Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.

She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****.

Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?

But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.

And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.


© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)

.
You who would direct my dreams
to a salacious and lustful cause.
Infusing my thoughts
with the dark and twisted games you play.
You who would pull my strings
and throw me in to a puppets dance.
Being your marionette
I'm a toy for distraction, a novel pretty.
I know you; I feel you;
My phantom of romance.
.
You who prowls my nights with ***
to leave me cold, sad and unfulfilled.
Discarding my carcass
with the disdainful and pitying looks you give.
You who would chain me to you,
lock me up and throw the keys.
Being your prisoner
I'm a nightly diversion, a nocturnal visit.
I know you; I feel you;
My phantom of romance.


© Pagan Paul (20/06/2016)

.
I would love to see you
pretty at the Summer Fayre,
a twinkle in your dark eyes,
and flowers in your hair.

Arm in arm we would wander
to see the delights and share
moments of wonder together,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We'd visit the Gypsy fortune teller
to learn what secrets lay there,
take our fill of games and stalls,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

And dance we shall tonight,
unrestrained, with never a care.
Its there I'll fall in love with you,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

I'll take you off to my home,
to the forest if you dare.
My carefree, captivating, Lady Leaf,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We will dance on into the night,
lovers loving, so that I can swear,
I've never seen you so beautiful,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.


© Pagan Paul (12/11/16)

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)

.
Step out of your life,
take my hand, walk with me.
Deep to the heart of the forest,
and we'll visit the bonding tree.

Step out of your life,
hold my hand, lets walk a while.
To the magic woodland glade,
just a few steps, just another mile.

Step out of your life,
grip my hand, tie the cord.
We will jump the midnight fire,
my Lady Leaf, your Green Lord.

Step out of your life,
kiss my hand, lose your dress.
Sky-clad lovers on a mossy bed,
natural union consummated, blessed.

Step out of your life,
holding hands, we'll walk together.
I will step out of mine,
hold your heart, promise you forever.

Step out of your life,
take my hand, walk with me.
Handfasted lovers, blessed by nature,
and witnessed by the bonding tree.


© Pagan Paul (28/10/16)

.
She walked slow through Her home the forest
loving the feelings that made Her laugh,
when a strange shiny thing caught Her eye,
Her first ever sight of a photograph.

She bent to pick up the new object,
its smoothness feeling nice on Her skin,
at first She saw the reverse blank page
then She stared at a picture of Him.

What fey enchantment could well capture
an image of so handsome a man?
She stared at His face with mute wonder
as an owl hoots and the sky grows wan.

Slipping it into Her warm bodice
finely laced on Her long dress of green,
she smiles and meanders to shelter
thoughts of Him into Her mind did teem.


He and friend Tia were out walking
with Tem the dog around the big wood,
a rare visit He was paying her,
filling up the day as best they could.

A memory of that day she took
as good fortune offered her the chance,
a secret photograph she stole when
He stopped to watch a butterfly dance.

Slipping it into her skirt pocket,
a polaroid keepsake gained by farce.
But as they walked on her skirt wavered,
the picture fell to lay on the grass.

Unnoticed the wind blew it away
landing it in a glade so shady,
and the picture of Him lay face down
until found by the forest Lady.


Daughter of Nature She roamed the trees,
His image She held with growing need.
A wise face that looked kind and gentle,
enough to make Her lonely heart bleed.

She reached for Her paints and easel,
pinned His image to a wooden frame,
touching her pencil to reed paper
she sketch copied for to know His name.

The sketch layered into a drawing,
Her hands moving deftly and with skill,
to capture His form and His likeness
with every fibre of Her will.

She paints around Him filling detail,
background grass, the butterfly and trees.
Delicately Her brush touches Him,
strokes building His image by degrees.


He closed His tired eyes and heavy yawned
laying in the guest bed for to sleep,
the cry of the forest calls to Him,
the feeling to answer draws Him deep.

His mind begins to wander away
on its night journey it does embark,
sliding into the open dream world
as an owl hoots and the sky grows dark.


As an owl hoots and the sky grows dark
She completes the last stroke of the brush.
She steps back to view Her painted man,
a brief panic hits Her with a rush.

A brief panic hits Him with a rush,
he started then slow opened His eyes.
He found He was in a woodland glade
getting brighter under clearing skies.

She started then opened Her eyes,
He stood there made flesh and oh so real,
He stared at Her face with mute wonder
and watched as Her smile She did reveal.

Staring silently at each other
they stood in the glade cool and shady.
He smiled back at Her with eyes and mouth,
and He spoke soft “Greetings my Lady”.


© Pagan Paul (25/07/20)

Take a peek inside his poems
if you really want to know him.
He hides himself deep, immersed
a tiny piece in every verse.

Take a peek and take your time
savour the moment of every line.
Relish the thought of what lies there
and appreciate his soul laid bare.

© Pagan Paul (31/08/16)

I tip my hat to the Poetess,
the Word Witch whose spin enthralls,
with language arranged in patterns,
and verse that often calls.

Her art is to conjure images,
the Sorceress whose quill entrances,
with phrase beautiful in texture,
and a word that often dances.

Her creations are her offspring,
the High Priestess whose rhymes capture,
with stanza's keen in construction,
and meanings that evoke pure rapture.


© Pagan Paul (24/07/16)