resl

the pleasured thrills of a
une liaison dangereuse
the mystery du triangle hypoténuse

two open, unended lines attached
to make a so interesting right (wrong) angle,
mais sans l'hypoténuse leur est pas de connectivité

indeed the hypotenuse hypothetical is crack for my brain
imagination steel furnace fired, molten are my fingers
as they trace the line you left for me on your body

to adore to cherish to lick to follow an arrow pointing
where?

to the heavenly pleasures that earth reside
in our differences substantial
which intrigue rather than
divide

opposites attract is true and not,
we could be
we could not be more unalike
that so excites for dreams only I can uncover
in the rounded shape  of thine wide eyes

a horrific inserts
she is only teasing me

but the need to dance on the brink
the fulfillment that origins in a need perpetual
is the one that satisfies because it cannot
be fully satisfied

if you know this need, then you are mine bonded

beyond is at where the hypotenuse connect our lines,*

"we'd be beyond human,  beyond poem, beyond horizon,
beyond stars and black holes and daisy-chains and metaphors
with  nothing to say to say to an end, because it goes on, my dear,   -- I'll see you at the brink...dance with me there"

.

The unknown depths call out to me
promising oceans of tranquility,
so let me slip down silently
'neath the waves of a midnight sea.
Addicted to this supplicant swoon,
witnessed only by the waxing moon,
the descent into a liquid room,
as Sirens wail their plangent tune.
Surfing out the softest of tides,
'pon the crest of love my being rides,
to where the deepest of feelings reside.
I sink with ease most graciously.
So let me slip down silently
'neath the waves of a midnight sea.


© Pagan Paul (04/02/18)

Insane, insane what follows old
This tragedy you're about to be told.
Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
It is love that we most of all bequeath.
Amongst green pastures grows a flowering field
One not tainted by what this life yields.
Somewhere in the withered forget-me-knots
It lives long enough to be what it ought.
A shining prince upon a silver steed
Riding home to find that which was decreed.
Nothing more than just a thought
Of something born here in Camelot.

Oh mastery of misery art thou my friend?
Do we have so much to gather or defend?
Send us upon this grievous plain
To battle for all that must be regained.
Oh ported soul of Arthur’s gallant lot
Send to us the dear Sir Lancelot.
He be the bravest of all hearts,
His bravery known right from the start.
He hast no legend braved in fear
Doing the right by his lady Guinevere.
Life deals us such a broken art
Of a finger painted love here in Camelot.

The quest be of ill fated charms
Where love survives the coat of arms.
To be so brave is to be a slave
Fighting for the thing we crave.
For no coat of arms can delay
Love’s onslaught once on display.
For to pour the grail back into the flask
Would be to hold love as a captured task.
For ‘tis love that captures all at last
And nothing loved can truly pass.
Though the lance laid silent Lover Lancelot
His secret survives him here in Camelot.

the sun’s veins  

a unique thot, it's magi source:

naǧí  


my poem-joy instant-isthmus arises
and asks that I  
cross, connect,  
write of the sun’s veins that we will be forever unable
to see


but the veins will  heat yours - and it is not shared blood it warms,
it is poem joy
<•>


a warmth organism that leaves one gasping wrestling
for words  
so weakly I am grasping the connection
that snakes across
globes

and the poem joy that has no end, no boundaries  -
that full fills me

And I say,
thank you