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 Jul 2017 Winn
Mydriasis Aletheia
If you head out into the desert
you might as well take something strange
with you, to catalyse a change within you.

Jupiter wanders across the summer night sky,
Raise your kylix to the auspicions of July, turn
whitewater into purple wine.

Saturn wonders
what was on your mind
the day the eart♄ smiled.

5ub1ime/Θblivious.
Inspiration taken from
Whitewater - Kyuss (generator gig):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQdY0LCqoeg
Hallelujah , chipper fledglings
Bold showers , random blessings
Barefooted , o'er wetted summer carpets
For silver eyes that patrol countryside miracles
Sweet , scented blooms
A trace of empirical , welcome sunshine this afternoon
Hallelujah , hallelujah* ..
Copyright July 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Jul 2017 Winn
Eve
Insecure
 Jul 2017 Winn
Eve
He said that he would love to have me around

Only if when I touch him, I didn't tear him down

Only if when I'm with him, I didn't make him reach the ground

Only if when I call him, he didn't feel compelled to respond

Only if when I love him, I didn't bruise him with my tongue

Only if just only if, this list didn't go on and on and on

-fir.m
 Jul 2017 Winn
Pagan Paul
Marooned
 Jul 2017 Winn
Pagan Paul
.
'No man is an Island'
Maybe not true my Dear friends.
Perchance in general, contact is good.
But take a good look.
There are many Islands in the emotional ocean
with closed harbours and sealed ports.
Refugees of romance; Tortured traumas;
Insane individuals; Mental mercenaries;
Each one a lonely star,
a pinprick of light, disconnected,
on a girdle of the sky,
protected by a carapace of experience,
cold, distant, drifting further from the source,
in a race for consolidation and annihilation.
Islands of safety become Isles of danger.
Selfishness; Self-hate;
Self-perpetuating; Self Destruct;
The inward circle and downward spiral
cloaking the Island, shielding its existence,
shunning the continents of integration.
So can it be true my Dear friends,
no man is an Island?


© Pagan Paul (28/06/17)
.
I wish I could remember how to swim! PPx
.
 Jun 2017 Winn
Word Hobo
As I sit . . .
green leaves hang . . . motionless . . .
~our earth spins on it's axis over a thousand miles per hour~

As I watch . . .
adagio grasses bow in repose . . .
~our earth orbits the sun over sixty-six thousand miles per hour~

As I rest . . .
vinca vines trail unruffled . . .
~our solar system whirls around the milky-way over five-hundred thousand miles per hour~

As I wonder . . .
flowers pose placid and serene
~our milky-way hurls headlong over a million miles per hour~

In my garden . . .
stillness reigns resolute . . . amidst this unimaginable tempestuous maelstrom

I am called to witness this defiance;
this static anarchy against the universe's irresistible momentum
I am surrounded by leafy verdure in stock-still solidarity;
blossoms colored with un-budged boldness
and tendriled vines in composed contempt
I am called to witness this unperturbed mutiny against torrid irascible forces

As I sit . . . musing on this peaceful anarchy

I think on He . . . that humble anarchist
waging peace against war
love against hate
grace against revenge
His submissive cheek immovable against brutish forces

I sit . . .
peacefully content in my garden of Eden
unmoved . . .
by the celerity of this careening world


geo.vuy 2015
 Jun 2017 Winn
Elizabeth Squires
on the stone parapet*
the small troop stood guard
to keep any interlopers
out of their hallowed yard

they didn't want others
setting up a permanent camp
for that kind of turf gain
there'd be no rubber stamp

whomever contemplated
taking over at the location
were issued with a not
so nice get lost explanation

the place was theirs it would
be held by only them
a special title awarded unto
this company's stem

being aware of who's in control
on the castle's fortification
will serve those invaders
a very well timed notification

upon the gates was seen
the following post's discretion
to not heed it will be viewed
*as a mistaken perception
 Jun 2017 Winn
Zero Nine
Lately I.
Can't seem to wrap my head around this recurrent plight.

When I was.
Something playing male and heterosexual, my one regret.

Was I met.
Fearfully disgusted partners, with no touch, nor hungry glance.

Now and queer.
Something more akin to a metronome.

All the same.
Years of absent kisses caress new dejection
in their tidy space.

She said, "Grant your soft skin to devour."
Woke in abundant sheets, in the mess that I left them.

She said, "Open wide for my river."
Eyes up, ingest to distention.

She said, "Thank you for getting me done."
On my back so blue that I'm bruised plum.

Forever waiting for mine, wet with a lover's ***.
Inspired by the works of Blaqk Audio.
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