If love is a drug than I don't want it.
cause I got a gypsy soul for leaving
and a mothers heart for scars in need of healing

If love is a drug than I don't want it.
Because I got no self control,
An addict mind and habits ages old

Love has always been an intoxicating idea. I recognize that I find corrosive people to satisfy my temporary state of mind. When midnight comes calling and I'm all alone I seek out relationships to keep me high. I seek love but find a cheep substitute drug in the form of infatuation and lust. Most times I can't tell when it's the substitute and when it's the real thing so I simply try and never take the plunge in the first place never take the first hit. I keep everyone at arms distance because I'll never be addicted to the fake thing if I never take a hit. consequently I'll never get that real high and so I die with my extroverted mind driving me insane as I look for connection but can't let anyone in.
Aaron LA Lux Oct 5

Got that Celebrity Life,
got that “He’s Too Real” type of vibe,
got that you want to have him forever,
but you can’t because it’s “Hi” and “Bye”,

that he moves too quickly like a Gypsy,
that life’s too good somebody pinch me,
that you see him but don’t really know him,
like I’ve heard the name seen the face but who is he,


no time for the drainers,
I’ll ball until on the wall of the Hall of Famers,
if Life’s a Game then I’m all in,
Life to me is what a game is to a Gamer,

tunnel vision,
writing books about all of this,
split decisions,

split screens and wet dreams,
getting rings I get things,
a champion at being a champion,
into inventing things that are inspiring,

even my sadness makes me happy,
can’t bring me down,
and I can’t fully pronounce this city,
but when I’m with my local friends this is my town,

this is our town,
we are local heroes,
make a lot give a lot,
so what yeah I’m a weirdo,

but so is everybody else that’s anybody,
the freaks come out at night and I’m a night owl,
if you know the Mysteries of Life,
then you already know me well,

developed such a relationship,
that strangers act like they know me,
but I guess that’s what happens,
when you’re an underground celebrity,

a celebrity to celebrities,
anybody that’s somebody should know me,
connected to a higher power,
not Austin Powers all real more like Jay Z,

got that Celebrity Life,
got that “He’s Too Real” type of vibe,
got that you want to have him forever,
but you can’t because it’s “Hi” and “Bye”…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Brianna Sep 27

Dancing through the bright and loud New York streets my little gypsy queen floated by with her camera in hand.
Snapping memories here and there she found love around those dirty streets and neon lights.

He tried to grab her waist and pull her in but she was too preoccupied with the memories she was making.
Her hair sparkled like glitter and her smile could make the ice caps melt.

Singing to the beat of the sirens and the moving to the beat of the traffic she weaved in and out of local shops like the complex braids in her hair.

She was the queen of the grungy corner kids waiting for one more cigarette.
She was the goddess of adventure and the muse to all who craved the lust of life.
She was the Gypsy.
She was the Artist.

Dancing through the crowded New York underground, my little gypsy queen was unbelievably and undeniably herself in every way possible.

The patter of an early evening rainstorm awakens her
and she untangles her sweaty limbs from those of her lover.
The sun has begun to set;
the thrill of adventure calls to her once more.
He begins to stir, awoken by her chaotic movements;
And lazily admires her beauty as she sifts through mounds of overdue laundry,
still smelling of suntan lotion and chlorine,
in search of the perfect shirt.
She’s late, as always,
She can hear her friends are outside in the car -
blasting throwbacks and spilling drinks
as the laugh and scream for her to hurry.
They fly through the night -
windows open letting the cool breeze filter the air thick of smoke and jubilance
All too eager to reach their destination;
moon children growing restless under the stars.
The ocean calls her home and its salty air clears her mind
as flames shoot out of the fire,
crackling and popping in the midnight sky.
Cheers are heard as bottles are passed;
pulling her head back out of the clouds.
Champagne to welcome the sunrise,
whiskey to bid summer adieu.
Daylight begins to break -
she takes one last drag of her cigarette and turns to go.
He’s still sleeping when she arrives,
this time she’s more careful not to wake him when she leaves.
The morning dew on bare feet remind her it’s time to move on -
the mountains are calling her name and to them she would roam;
it was always temporary,
changing with the seasons.
But to him -  
she tasted like skittles,
and she smelled like summer;
one he would never forget.

My friends called her Gypsy
And other offensive things.
Her clothes were always colorful
And she wore a lot of rings.
Her skin was dark and lovely
As was her long lustrous hair.
She had the second sight
And a lot of love to share.

She knew what she was doing
And I, a youth, surely did not.
I was fascinated from the start
Blown away by the luck I’d got.
Here was this exciting woman,
A creature of such mystery
Who seemed to want to spend
Her time with such as me.

I couldn’t call her Gypsy
Like other of my friends
I loved her and determined to
Stay and see how it ends.
But she took me much further
And showed me the secret me.
She said she was Cassandra
And she meant the world to me.

Her manner seemed to know me
Though we had only just met,
I was sure this was an interlude
I would not let myself forget.
She told me things about myself
She could never have guessed,
And took me into her bed
So I could learn all the rest.

We spent our time those days,
Those first few like a dream
And it may have taken many more
But that was how it seemed.
Then one day I woke up to see
She was packing a few things.
She took away her second sight
Her beauty, her candles and rings.

I couldn’t call her Gypsy
Like other of my friends
I loved her and determined to
Stay and see how it ends.
But she took me much further
And showed me the secret me.
She said she was Cassandra
And she meant the world to me.

Pagan Paul Sep 2

Silver charms on an anklet tinkle
as her foot stamps down once,
crossed dainty in front of the other,
and her hands start a slow ascent.
From hips up into the air
in the nonchalant action of the flame,
arcing a half circle about her waist
she turns to face the assembled crowd.

A tabla starts a sleepy beat
and the sitar player awakens,
or returns from a meditation,
readying himself for his introduction,
to blend a melody of the Moon
with the woven movements of dance.
The beat increases and four taps
signal a change in the rhythm.
The following note is punctuated
by the tinkling of the charms
and the first strum of the sitar,
sending music to the starry sky.

And her hips sway in gentle waves
as her hands mimic the lotus flower
in cups of dreams above her head,
and the anklets jangle a soothing sound.
The wrists twist and move graceful,
delightfully twinned with the neck of a swan,
and her body sways like a leaf in the wind
to the melody from ages past.

The tabla starts a frantic beat
as the sitar player lets fly,
his new unrestrained chords
dilute the night with ecstasy.
And she dances in her trance,
skin shining with the dew of reflected joy,
her lithe body telling the story
that began before the dawn of time.
A crescendo summons the dance to end
and silence fills the void,
but far into the deep dark night
silver charms on an anklet tinkle.

© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)

An evening spent in the Rajasthan desert in a nomads camp,
with the stunningly beautiful Jaiselmer sandstone fort in the
background changing colour as the sun set in the west.
Eleni Jun 16

As I lie on an empty street
I see the city lights glimmering, shimmering
A white light flooding over me
exposing my heart hopelessly.

The city feels clean,
the pollution pure air
I am hallucinating
but the high feels rejuvenating

My head descending into an abyss
The lights are dead in every window
My arms loose and waving singing an anthem
Can nobody see me, am I a phantom?

So I drown my sorrows into a bottle
Curl up into my dungeon
That has been my bed for three years
A graveyard for all my tears

Softly, I dream away
Wishing that one day
I will be in the House of God
Safe and secure.

Something approaches me in the darkness
I clasp my knife under my carcass
An open hand awaits me
Wondrous eyes face me

I collapse into warmth.

I heard my own voice
In the music of Esma Redsepova,
"Queen of the Gypsies".
The Sorrow,
The Hopelessness,
The Aimlessness
The Grief.
We put on our backpacks here in Denver,
But we don't know where we're going?
If I am a European,
I am also among
"The Trash".

This poem was influenced by listening to the CD, Mon Hisoire (My Story)  by Esma Redžepova, "Queen of the Gypsies" along with Titi Robin before going to sleep last night

My gypsy heart longs for the road
my ears wait for the stories told
throughout the years, passed down the line
stories that have outlived time.
My wandering eyes yearn for the stars
let's pack our bag, live in the car
with a forest bedroom in the trees
pillows made from maple leaves.

My gypsy heart cries for the skies
begging them to come alive
to wash away our soiled souls and
let us live in times of old.
My bleeding ears search for the song
but every sound I hear is wrong
in vain I try to find the tune
as the sun rays burn away the moon.

My gypsy heart calls out your name
in hope that yours will do the same
two sorry souls joined into one
our journey, now, has just begun.
My waiting lips anticipate
the commencement of our woven fates
as we lie upon the forest floor
you leave me wanting so much more.

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