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English Jam  Mar 2018
Washed Out
English Jam Mar 2018
My golden years are a retrospective view
Doubtful, not sure, might be a last dance
One day I was gum-chewing with my Batman yo yo
Now my soul is rubber, and it leaks on the outside
Faded away from the youthful days
Once giddy pleasure
Now it’s all so
serious

The teen lifestyle washed over within seconds
Sure it’s fun to friends
Entertaining to have enemies
But the squabbles and meanders slow you down
The pitiful liars and desperate seekers
Worship through blasphemy whatever they care
Limbs don’t respond
Thoughts and actions don’t line up

You see it for what it truly is
Baby
You’re in danger
of maturing

Forgotten and dazed
Sitting in a broken armchair
It's difficult seeing through the fogginess
Finding the missing hours
Difficult on a drowse

...I work only weekdays (don't we all)...
...Fantastic gatherings on Sundays (family days)...
...Jimi Hendrix, he's good (bit of an understatement, mate)...
....He's the kind of guy I wish I could...

...etc...
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing
Fourth-Side.

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.


Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
+
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
=
Dracula was a Librarian?



Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** ****** question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** ****** question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Salivating!
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** ****** questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?




© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)
.
My psychedelic washing machine mind on spin cycle!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/29495/strange-world/
.
English Jam  Oct 2018
Orange Sun
English Jam Oct 2018
An orange sun shimmering with heat
Blankets its cloud all over our heads
Your eyes fill with wonder and stars
Gazing at the trees unevenly spread
We talk of fantasies and breathless sighs
And romance we have never known
While all the butterflies vibrate with ecstasy
And the sky, into our heads, is sewn

Little crystals melt on our tongues
Honey dripped bees infect our sights
Faintly, on the other side of the desert
Our threat awaits, patient as night
Orange sun begins to paint the world
As leaves fall like words murmured
Buzzing hummingbirds cry out in alarm
And the edge of our vision is blurred
Cheated and defeated –
                      my mistakes, themselves, repeated...
A monster made of gluttony;
                     I’ve no option but to feed it.

I saw the writing on the walls,
           But, my feeble eyes had failed to read it.
Still... I’m not convinced that this warning,
        Was chosen by my eyes, not to be heeded.

Perhaps my head was the catalyst
           A byproduct of an acid trip;
           Had split this world in two.
Some for me, and some for you.
Maybe . . . this warning wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe . . . it’s for the second half of two.

“Ye kind-hearted shall not go forth”
                              … is what I believe it said,
But I can’t be too certain.  
                              After all, I’ve lost my head.
And that brings up some emotions;
                              Or maybe they're allusions?
Although, I can’t tell through the hallucinations
                If these are real or illusory movements.

So the fish hook pulled me deeper . . .
                       All the while, stretching skin.
                       I knew not about the rabbit hole
                       to which I just dove in.

It seemed a lot more like an alley when I first took a glance,
But once I took that fateful step, I guess I chose to dance.

                Oh, what a recital it’s been!  
                And we haven’t yet hit intermission!
                Although I’m not sure when that is…
                                       For I seem to have lost my vision.

The Queen of Hearts shouted,
                              “Off with his head!”
But without a brain to notice,
      I couldn’t hear what she had said.
She said it before the guillotine dropped…
So was my brain already gone
                      when my head hit the block?

I’m not sure where to find the pieces.
                     I didn't know I fell apart.
                     I didn’t know
I was a headless servant
                    To the heartless
                    Queen of Hearts.
Now, without a head,
                   I’m trying to piece it back together.
And I’m worried that this rabbit hole
           just may have me trapped here forever.

So, I trace my steps backward, to try to find my "forward."
But as I set my pace faster, I find I'm moving slower.
Things turn upside down, when you’re this far down . . .
And the carousel just spins – around and around.
Gaining speed, with increasing malice,
I hopped right on --
        and chose a different path than Alice.

Here we arrive again at choice, but was it one at all?
This is when I found the Hatter – where the bounds of logic fall.
He asked me why I was there.
             He said, “My boy, have you gone mad?”
And as I searched for reason,
                                          I concluded that I had.

Standing on the ceiling,
            we both watched the world, twirling.
Sipping from our cups,
            between the stirs of sterling.
We chatted over tea, and while I was now content with spinning . . .
My content grew simultaneous
with the Cheshire Cat’s grinning.
He looked at me and said,
                                      “Upside down, yet, you seem alright?”
I responded with a “Hm…”
                                        and my spinning turned to flight.

I flew from the table and
       As I questioned if I was stable,
I grasped for the air.
       And for the first time . . .
                                          I was able.

Apart from the question, I now knew that I was mad,
Because I gripped a fist of air,
                             knowing full-well it can’t be grabbed.
I swung through the air…
                                    maybe I flew . . . I’m not sure.
But as I passed over ground, I surveyed it for Her.
I looked for Alice as my guide,
                              but someone took her place:
The "heartless" Queen of Hearts
                                     and her over-sized face.
Was it the face? Or just the head?
                            What’s ahead without a face?
It seems I lost the bounds of logic
                                    upon my fall from grace.

Was I flying?
Or was I falling?
It seems that orbit was my calling . . .
Where, as high as I fly,
   the paradox of orbit keeps me falling.
Maybe I’ll stay out here, where it’s quiet by the stars
And there’s no signs to read;
               no catalysts for scars.  
But did I ever escape?
                Am I still in the hole?
I found among these fragments
          the completion to my soul.

Somewhere between falling and flying,
              I told the truth while I was lying
And found my equilibrium
               between the living and the dying.
Data Apr 2017
We have re-entered the plaza
and amidst the throng
blend as a smudge of colour—
[we are] vital, vibrantly swirled through the scene
[we are] psychedelic pink sugar lines
struck through white peppermint candy canes
In a moment, we come again…

But this artifice of joyful interconnection
is not as solid as it might seem
—by those ghosts we have joined hands
they, who coexist within this cable,
whisper
I can feel you, I feel you…

thinking…

O yes, I lived on the edge
in the age of america

(Bless us, Father…)

As he comes into manhood, I am born again, gleaming
with the blinking sheen of chromed Cadillac off my ****:
high-styled, immaculate, moon-dealt daydreams
etched on this shrine’s shiny walls,
screen-printed teeshirts
wild-flapping in dusty wind,

Too many flies
the stench of death
sprayed
on rotting flesh,
In the backseat & littering the roadside
a million empty aerosol cans

I, permitted to drop such a bomb… implode
settling… transubstantiated… postmodern
beyond death and life…
I, a digitised analogue
or microwaved noodles
seething like a can of worms—
i eat, i eat, but it is never enough…

O yes, I am the vanishing point
captured simultaneously on this 16mm Bolex
dyadic before, during, and after the singularity collapse.

We all got old, eventually,
golden ages paid for
with stoved ideals & broken-promised half-truths

At the end, we digitised handprints
and handshakes simply so that we
would not feel
each others heart beating,
or blood pulsing
or the wet damp of *** in our pants

In the end,
it was all about endlessly becoming
without noticing how or why,
In the end,
all I wanted was ice cream at Serendipity’s
and Sunday-papered propaganda,

Oh yes, I lay on the edge of infinity
staring at the fat Buddha’s navel
my breath connected to the breath of the stars
and I wondered:

I am, you are, but we, oh yes, WE!


__________________­____________________

by­ Data © 2017
Ode for Andy
Jim Davis Mar 2017
Time frozen
Horns blaring
Heart thumping
Palms wetted
Words in whorls
Nebulous thinking
Thoughts in twirls
Spinning in circles
Gaze hypnotic
Moment surreal
Vision kaleidoscopic
Life chromatic
Living hallucinogenic
Gone tripping
Psychedelic eyes
In psychedelic mind
Once more
Loved again

©  2017 Jim Davis
Everyone talks about falling in Love
How bout that getting caught by Love
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.




© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
.
David Flemister  Feb 2017
trees
David Flemister Feb 2017
i feel like someone else
i cant remember
though these bones paint a picture
that i know i've seen before

i can see, curiously
all the fallen leaves beneath my feet say,
"hey, i've got a real big thing to show you"

i'm lookin through the trees
and they're talkin back to me
they're sayin things that show me how it needs to be
and i'm lookin into me
and i see things i dont quite understand
but i'll be ******, if i dont dig deeper

this looks like somewhere else
it seems so familiar, oh
and with the breath of a dragon
when the wheel of a wagon
gets a turnin dontcha know the world just keeps goin' round

i'm lookin through the trees
and they're talkin back to me
they show me why to question, who i seem to be
and i'm falling into me
and feeling things i cant quite comprehend
but in the end, it'll all come back to me
this is about the first time i took mushrooms
Daphne Ryan Oct 2018
Fall into a state of angelic bliss,
Where the stars shine within a spirit that is home,
Ever present moments of awakening,

Feelings that become a world to explore,
To be insightful and wise so that becoming yourself leaves all emptiness behind,

Over the moon,
Blissfully seeking a place to believe another journey into an enchanted land is what is meant to be,
To understand what it means to see the vastness of the universe,

Within you, without you, beyond you,
With a wholehearted explanation
Into the depths of what it means to be alive.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
Like a watermark through crisp white vellum
a face appears through the veil of dreams,
to colour wash away a montage of image
and decorate a mosaic of sleep dust seams.

As halcyon lakes waterfall into prism nebulae
and the courtesan face evades its emotions,
inevitably slipping between the chasms of space
like golden dolphins through plasmic oceans.



© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)
.
Old poem, rewrite. PPx
Rei Coman  Nov 2018
Nightscape
Rei Coman Nov 2018
I was afraid.
Terrified, even
paralyzed
with fear.
But that’s all
gone now.
Like a vapor
scattered
on the breeze.

Happiness
traces back
to only one,
for me.
She’s so
beautiful
and strong,
and her hair
is soft and red
like a fox’s.

Oh how
I love her.
Beyond words.

More than
every contour
of every leaf
on a forest,
fall yellow
like an oil
painting.

More than
the sudden
spasmodic
fits of gentle
laughter
that make my
entire upper
body vibrate
like one huge
drumhead.

More even
than the
hidden,
distant stars,
sparkling
imperceptibly
through the
misty clouds.

She makes
my arms twitch
with excitement,
my body aching
to embrace
her and hold on.
With her head
on my shoulder
this world really
does seem so
much brighter.
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