Who paid me to read Dostoyevsky?
Who paid me to read Solzhen-itsyn?
-no one, and then me, I paid me,
for having some idea,
should ever cause such a time as this:

Synch, Long Now, novel actuality,
down in the epi-stem logic, init
function
enough,

breathe and fret not next breath,
rest assured,
professional care has been taken,
we all become ready to make peace,

previously unthinkable, rights, made
possible whole otherwise, other tongues,

essential utterances eventually all blend,
and we believe the algorythms rhyme truth,
I'll go rhythms tug your muse,

mojo,
samesame gnosishit gnosisnot,
spirit breathes,

spit it out,
feel it being, said as good as done,
once,
upon a certain time,
and in this certain place, we come

hear wholey all she wrote, she wrote
on the wall at Delphi junction,
know:
your scale, measure, worth, weight, whole self.
your appetites are yours to hold true to good.
your owned certainties are your maddest bits.

.
And I stumble on across the barren land,
the mist, like a shroud, about me swirls,
chipped flint rocks assault my bare feet,
an endless quarry of slate grey, my world.

So the curtain of sadness and submission falls,
covering my mind with an opaque funeral drape,
the hazy images of the isolated and desolate,
forming the features of depressions landscape.

Vaguely felt, the invasion of another waits,
blind and innocent in a palace of real fear,
set free to roam in a strange arid topography,
desperate times pause for vision to be clear.

A stark scene viewed through teardrops frozen,
by ice winds of piercing calamity and despair,
of a place exclusive to the disaffected and lonely,
the last retreat for an exhausted mind to repair.

And this is my world where the haunted party,
leave me be with my cold mists and grey stone,
the frozen tear for a souvenir means everything,
my special gift, the feeling of being utterly alone.



© Pagan Paul (24/01/18)