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 Dec 2018 Wanderer
lX0st
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
 Dec 2018 Wanderer
Pagan Paul
.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.

And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.

His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.

His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
.
Irreverent look at history :)
.
 Dec 2018 Wanderer
Pagan Paul
.
Kalypso sports within the waves
luring sailors to watery graves
but if they make it to her isle
there they may tarry for a while.

Food and wine are given a'plenty,
they are rocked into lust so gently,
Nymph, Maidens, Bacchanalian revelry
lead the sailors into darkest devilry.

*** and sin are openly displayed,
a salacious procession, ***** parade,
And all men their vices expressed
seek the comfort of Kalypso's breast,
her hospitality soothes, allays their fears
as she slowly steals away their years.



© Pagan Paul (05/12/18)
.
 Dec 2018 Wanderer
Devin Ortiz
In ritualistic insanity, the amnesiac begins to wail.
He hears the symphonic tune of damnation.
A wicked chord struck on a lyre of bones.
As tears flow, the pain sharpens, his fingers split, adding thick crimson curdles to death's hymn.
The weight is bore, lightless eyes follow the ache of mortal fatigue.
This sad creature screams his terror, as he remember his ode.
Played from his own marrow, from his own calcified soul.
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