Glass 19h

1886: Dijjin "dysfunctional,
timelines with him has morphed
over to us but we're not like that
we never were" the acomist crucial
weather soigne coalescent
but this is a vellichor wallflower
ostranenie manque espoir
in sanitarian but how will you
find God if you won't believe
vagary despite codicil
and devastation although perhaps
we are in cafe Terrace
at the night (latte's) then
the bedroom with pastries
almond/caramel recovery
tomb rifles always a
sequence to justification distant
because the ghosts are worthy redrew
semaphore by avenue
historical elegance never
seen, for example the
documentation rotate;
"I am acid precipitation
never aerobic" anticodon
tertulias/regiment -
panopticon autumn

- G
Jeannel - Mind Tricks

tingles in your toes,
looking up and
seeing the same moon,
a form of disappearing,
taking a holiday
to a tropical place,
falling at your feet
because it hurts
so bad,
"hey, this song made
me think of you,"
a melody you want
to play over again,
the sun rising
over the Mississippi,
finger tips traveling
down your back,
a canvas with
different shades of violet,
drowning in a foreign body
of water and struggling
to breathe,
conversations in a
parked car,
tears streaming
down your face
like an ocean,
freshly dried
a warm embrace,
the twinkle in
your eyes
when you talk,
saying goodbye
when you'd
rather say hello,
a flower
that just found
the strength to
a fall day
with a slight breeze,
the sun shining
on your skin,
realizing it's
okay to let go,
white lace on
your skin,
the strand of hair
that always falls
in your face,
apologies that came
too late,
the leaves
changing colors,
the silhouette
of the person
I thought
you were,
chasing a shadow
I'll never catch,
the sun reflecting
on the water,
a path I wish
would never end,
drinking to find
you at the end
of the glass,
a flicker of light
in the dark,
smell of coffee
in the morning,
touching hands
for the last time,
a slither of sunshine
peeking through,
a summer storm,
grief that felt
like a mountain,
drunken kisses,
driving with no
destination and
losing ourselves,
the book I never
want to finish,
the roses you gave
me withered away,
the grass turning
green again after
a long winter,
brick roads
that lead to nowhere,
restarting that song
just to hear that
part a second time,
transforming into
something I never
thought I'd become.

all kinds of love in the world
but never do you experience
the same kind of love

You have eyes like needles,
pulling me together
into something cohesive,
something beautiful.
Soft silk draping from my arms,
cotton dreams, lavender goodbyes.
Canvas memories
written across my eyes
with the sound of sorrow weaving
designs into my skin,
let me in
let me in.
Feel the softness beneath your hands
as you fix my broken bones
with polyester thread,
look at me with your piercing
gaze and repair my wounded soul.
Create a work of art,
literature, mastery,
with the tide of your lips.
Stitches, stitches,
skin on skin.
Now I am changed,
reel me in
reel me in.

~~ Scopophobia, the fear of being stared at. ~~

Tears like raindrops roll down my face
as I start awake from another dream.
The stark isolation set in another place
reflecting the here by subconscious means.

The wind whistles a gale of fury
whilst I squat on the mountains summit.
Bracing my heart from an angry jury,
whose purpose is to find me unfit.

Not worthy, by proxy, a foregone verdict
delivered eloquently from myself to me.
Scything confidence away, I've heard it.
Raindrops taste like tears to the lonely.

Shutters and barricades drop, my armour,
holding back the bad, and the good.
Protected, the gale blows much calmer,
the stark isolation accepted and understood.

But the dream persists, always the same,
a looping litany whilst I lay asleep.
The withdrawal is but temporary in name
until I locate that which I humbly seek.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)


The cracked screen is staring at me
Each line a show of mistakes
The black mirror has ruptured
And my armour inside breaks

From a centre, each hairline starts
As the fractures spill further out
They can't be brought back in
As my core fills with doubt

I've turned it into a metaphor
It's my own head to blame
But it still serves a reminder
Of my struggles, of my shame

The marks match my arms
The dent is in my head
I know I'll move past this
But I still feel like shit

I stare at the cracked screen
I will find the solution
I have dealt with worse before
I can be better than my delusion

Broke my phone, ended up being a reflection of other things

These days, I feel I've lost my spark
That flicker of creativity.
Well yes, I lit the candle;
I knew it was time for it to burn,
That eventually it'd burn out:
The dulling light emanating faint warmth.

But I think there's something poetic, too
About blunt truths
And being so honest it feels bland—
Bland enough to make you feel.

Little musing

I hope one day
            that the stars on your eyes
  Will light up mine.
                     Deep within fears
        I turned off my light
Darkness everywhere I looked
                              Filled my eyes
with pure black.

Three meet upon the moor.
Clouds boil, the thunder roars.
Magick crackles about the tor,
voices raise to chant the call.

Fires at midnight burn with power.
Time stands still in the witching hour.
The moot works in the night to devour,
to catch the moon and starry showers.

Mystical nets float way up high.
Glowing globes with which to scrye.
The howling wind screams its cry,
as ancient powers steal the sky.

© Pagan Paul (2017)

Glass 7d

hydroxyzine queue
the "water is the excel
to draconian candela"
impavid reciprocated
that parlance condemned
is licentious promenade
which prior's similes
refutation "hazard
reiterate, there is a fountain
of my cinnamon
arid sovereign suave
- ice cones truffle devour -
- Lucifer/Master but
I can't resist the touch -
as I read Aristotle's
poetics and metaphysics
because I am not holy as
I once was even though I am
already dysfunctional
never giving back quarters
or dimes

- G

dedicated to Clark Davis Hitchens

I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness

I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning

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