I was holding a tornado in a jar
Lid on as tight as I could *****
I heard the glass start to shake
Like a window, but I didn't think circles could shake,
I thought they were sturdy
In the roundest of sense.
I could've let it loose
Watched cards fly around.
But pieces of cardboard never have a choice. Let just fall where they may.

The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like ****** Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)

.
She bestowed upon me her lacy favour,
     tying it about my lance,
     so my fortitude should not waver,
     and doubt lead me a merry dance.

She crowned me with a kiss as blessing,
     sealing it to my lips,
     with grace so soft and caressing,
     like a breeze touches sailing ships.

She gave to me her most cherished gift,
     surrendering up her chastity,
     with joy I feel my spirits lift,
     at the thought of her next to me.

She anointed her wish on my beating heart,
     so gently as to sleep,
     her private desires locked deep within,
     and secrets for me to keep.


© Pagan Paul (01/08/16)

The girl in the black
bathing suit swims
through my dreams;

her orange eyes warn
me that summer
is coming.

An inescapable
swelter of air
threads itself
through the slats
of picket fences,

crisping insects
and terrifying
an army of black birds
bivouacked in the trees.

I hear the soft explosion
of hibiscus, red petals as
bright as belly wounds,

and the heartbeat
of the dog panting,
stupefied by the heat
of a relentless star.

Up and down the street,
abandoned children call
out from the bottom of
empty swimming pools.

I slouch in an aluminum chair,
trying to get black-out drunk
on warm gin and tonics.

The tidy rectangle
of grass around me
ignites in a legion
of slender flames.

I remember the dark room
and my father’s deathbed,
his whispered, final words:
dying is thirsty work.

I strip to my underwear
and fantasize about ice.
I pray for the neighborhood
sprinklers to spring to life.