Her scent was ambrosia on his lips,
swimming within oceans
hearing the waters calling.

Waves gently lapped upon features.
As the ripples settled, he could taste
the essence of her, drowning in pleasure.

I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.

God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
  that stuff, ladies and germs.

I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.

There is nothing  I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.

Don't be scared, Love;
show me your scars.
Give me a piece of your soul,
and maybe a glimpse of your mind.

I could show you beauty,
without a field of flowers.
And an amazing high,
without the foul aftertaste.

Just let me in,
let me feel your pain.
I'll touch your soul,
and make you go insane.

This bed is like a coffin
With a burial each night.
I could tell you where
it all went wrong
But it wouldn't make it right.
I'm never worth
Remembering
You each showed me that.
With your pretentious self obsession
Words that always fell flat.
Each day is long and empty.
I cannot find my way,
So forgive me
Graciously
While I slowly fade away.

.
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)

through words,
I heal my wounds
by completely exposing them

They’ll be rockin’ in Heaven
Down St. Peter’s Gate Way.
Chuck Berry passed over,
But he still can play.

True King of Rock,
He’ll live for evermore.
And he’ll keep duck walking,
Along that golden shore.

His guitar keeps twanging,
Wah wah tlang tang tang.
Ya want a Showman?
Chuck’s still yer man.

He died at ninety.
It was very sad.
But now he’s up there,
I’m sure that God is glad.

He’ll love that Rock N Roll Music,
Chuck’s sense of humour too.
A touch of Devil also,
When he sings the blues.

So all you Saints and Angels,
You better move and hurry,
For they all want to dance with
That amazing Chuck Berry.

Paul Butters