I envy the bugs,
I envy the weeds,
trampled by stampedes
of furious beasts,
bodies crushed,
spirits broken,
all at once
by a storm
of violent hooves,
while I lay here,
trampled by you,
one step,
one breathe,
one at a time.

If a sky full of jagged teeth mashed
leeches drowning in their dinner,
towering trees without roots,
palaces wrapped in locked doors,
sages howling over squandered wine,
finches who hop in fear of their wings,
mice instructing owls how to wind theirs necks,
apparitions beaten by trembling fingertips,
and every other detestable thing
into clumps of negligible plaque,
Tell me,
what would I complain about then?

What’s in a name?

A cold reminder
of mistakes, choking
each time a name
slithers off a tongue.

A stark reminder
that you, owner
of a timeless name,
will never own another

A boundary separating
who you are,
who you aren’t,
who you couldn’t be.

A repetitious word
lost in the crowd,
hay in a haystack,
worthless in totality.

So birth and nurse it
raise it as your own
or bury it deep
where none can find it.

But alive or dead,
don't mistake it,
in sound and silence
a name will always

Be yours.

The floor is wet with scarlet pools, huddling around shards of glass and self and faith you left behind.

Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.

Again.

.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
do you think this is funny?

I’ve seen you snickering
swinging from the roof beams,
pecking at the taught strings
of us, your unwilling playthings.

You dangle comforts in front of our eyes,
long enough to want,
close enough to widen,
fleeting enough to waste away.

Who’s leg are you pulling?
Which ribs are you jabbing?

Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
your teasing is our torture.