Ban the burka or the bomb?
Ban the turban or the gun?
Ban the Bible or the gore?
Ban the Torah or the war?

Ban religion, ban belief
Ban San Frontièrs, ban relief
Ban the poets, ban free speech
Ban the people born to teach

Ban the children, ban the old
Ban the meek and ban the bold
Ban the weakest, ban the strong
Ban the music, ban the song

Ban the freedom of the sea
Ban ideals of liberty
Ban your birthright, ban free will
Ban excitement, ban the thrill

Ban all things with no misgiving
Ban the joyous gift of living.

.
The scent of your love,
sweeter than Arabian jasmine
wafting on soft sirocco
through an orchid oasis
in the sun-kissed desert.

The scent of your love,
purer than Mysore sandal
drifting on cool breeze
through a fresh glade
in the rain-soaked forest.

The scent of your love,
more than aroma therapy
carried on astral light
through a frozen waste
to my tear-stained heart.

© Pagan Paul (31/01/17)

I feel unsafe now, even though I'm not
in that place. He really does trump them all,
doesn't he - the bigots and fascists,
homophobes and racists alike. He is
going to lead them and unite his country
in hatred against us. We are becoming
afraid again, the lost and the ostracised,
so we will hide from the people who will
reverse our progression into the light and
lock us in the darkness of a conservative
world. But it will not be enough. They will
find us, they will shame us and they will neglect
us, sending us back to the fear and danger
of being free. They will tear our wings from
our backs and leave us to die, bloodied and
trampled, in the dust that is settling
on our "freedom".

I've painted your eyes
As I was coming this morning...

از صبح که می آمدم
...چشم های تو را رنگ زدم

I laugh indoors
Like the sound of lullabies on Saturday night
Drowning in liquor
Seeping into my eardrums
Leaking through the bedsheets

I hold my breast in one hand
And my eyes in the other
Trying to maneuver the small talk I had wanted to abandon
Over dinner
Last week, or
Was it last month?

Maybe a year back.

It all comes crashing down
I swore to you that I was honest
That I did not need more than my daily bread
You pour wine down my throat
And grab my wrist as you twist my words
So I go up those stairs
And out of your life
And I hold my breath
So one day you won't have to


I was born and thrown into the deep end
Ankles twisting and cork heels breaking
Mascara running
Lipstick smears on your collar
Fear manifesting within the buttons on my shirt
As you pop each one onto the floor

To sleep perchance
To be awake
It isn't long until my back is in the grass
And my knees are red
From trying to grasp the need for all of it

Leave it be


I'm 15 and you're all but a fever dream.