"bacchanalian" poems
.
Kalypso sports within the waves
luring sailors to watery graves
but if they make it to her isle
there they may tarry for a while.
Food and wine are given a'plenty,
they are rocked into lust so gently,
Nymph, Maidens, Bacchanalian revelry
lead the sailors into darkest devilry.
*** and sin are openly displayed,
a salacious procession, ***** parade,
And all men their vices expressed
seek the comfort of Kalypso's breast,
her hospitality soothes, allays their fears
as she slowly steals away their years.
© Pagan Paul (05/12/18)
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
One pill, two pill
Orange pill, blue pill
White beads, pressed ecstasy and some ****
Gluttony, greed,
My real sin is debauchery.
Gram of this, gram of that
marred my memories, myelin mortuary.
Skin, bones, but no fat
I'll eat gelatin capsules that can only subtract.
Artificial enthusiasm in Walgreens jars.
Decadence lost opulence to tolerance of bars.
Still I solicit any alter:
self-indulgence for Bacchanalian revival.
Hedonism's propensity,
mankind's perpetual denial-
but not for I,
the lotus eater
with the omniscient third-eye.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
Oh, just one glass, can't hurt
Complex decision made.
A fermented drink to suit my mind
Red for blood
Bacchanalian ecstasies
Dionysian depravity
Ritual madness and ecstasy
A fermented grape
A fervered mind
Freedom, intoxication, liberty
The cult of souls to those who know Dionysis
The dead are fed blood by his maenads
Vampire women
Maenads a nymph, immortal goddesses of natural manifestations;
Maenads the extremes of pleasurable emotions and actions:
*** rage, inebriation, frenzy, and dance, original Manson women
He the bull, the ivy, the serpent surrounded by Satyrs
Sated, Satyrs offer another glass of wine;
Oh, go on, one more glass can't hurt.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
This depravity has got me frothing at the mouth,
like a rabid animal, I'm losing control
likely to commit a spree of societal carnage,
you'll see me on the ten o'clock news,
*local man arrested engaged in frenzied ****
a pornographic festival for the bacchanalian priesthood
There's nothing for it anymore, no books, no baths, no music,
I am filled with a pure and terrible lust
with no lover to bear this world shattering Eros,
I fear for the next woman who beds me,
I am now made beast, and will tear her limits for pleasure to shreds
like a hungry jackal leaving a panting shivering mass in my wake,
animal I become,
I will howl and growl and take all that I want,
a fountain of insane carnality,
pumping hot blood coursing through flesh on fire,
like the seasoned farmer,
I long to bury my seed deep into the ground.
I refuse my own release, edging myself closer to violent madness,
a constant stick banging on the bars of the lions cage,
stoking quiet battle rage, pacing to and fro,
biding my time to pounce and taste blood,
now I am beyond romance, my aims are sinister,
and all who look into my flashing eyes will know carnal desire,
it will be my van guard,
a thunderous March of pounding feet
kicking up rolling plains of dust seen far off in the distance
like a flaming pyre, heralding my coming on the horizon,
it will emanate from me like shimmering waves of heat
rising from the summer asphalt,
and all who feel it should tremble
like the trails of shaken walls and broken beds soon left behind,
I am something beyond lust,
I am depraved.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
Stories always seem to start in the summer
Not as in
"begin"
or for the first time
be conceived,
but when they live
Winter is dormant,
all the laid groundwork
beneath frozen grass,
yellow-green ice shards
protruding from their
chandelier garden
Hopes and
wishes and
dreams and
sadness and
loves
Pent up
for the past 9 months,
emotional gestation
released in
a bacchanalian
of shameless
feelings
and ritzy wine-coolers
Drink from the goblet.
Fear of the Kool-Aid
has past.
It's immortality.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
to a dusty shelf I aspire
collected among your beloved works
my spine illegible and creased
pages molded and dog eared
i rest eye level
in your drawing room
i was yours originally
as much as i was my own
no
i was written by a three greats something
a man and a woman
far removed from me now
and was lent to your three greats something
passed down to you
now found cloistered
three shelves down
as per the sensibility
of three greats aunt percy
you would expect the syllables
bound within me
to be replete with ratiocinative reminders
but my binding betrays me not
bloviative bacchanalian blabberings
are the texts contained beyond my cover
but you wouldnt know
the dust proves it
but i dont mind
purely delighted
to be covered in dander
and the skin that used to make you up
that i might be found when you need me
or that i might remain in your family
for at least one more generation
but
if you need a quick ten spot
if youre really hard up for cash
if. you. need. money.
i know a really cute used bookstore
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Former CIA Director
John Brennan scathing headlines
Washington Post op-ed sharply
published critical accusations
muted excoriation slams
Commander in Chief
volcanic blatant pathological lying
spews like lava his American
foreign policy boilerplate brazenly
bastardizes by banditry blueprint,
balefully balkanizing beautiful bracketed
booming brady bunch brand,
bests best-buy buffer braking balanced
bastion, bolstered beloved benighted
bequeathed bicameral bipartisan bliss,
Baptizing bacchanalian buffoonish bombast,
betokening bobble-headed Bumstead,
barmy bartered bride bravado, bizarrely
brash brassiness, blindsiding behavior,
beetlebrowed bonehead, bafflingly baldfaced,
bankrupting, blithely bollixing,
bombastically belittling, badmouthing,
banally blasting, banana-boat baseless,
bearish blandishments, beastly boastful
boosterism, bellicosely boorish, bug-eyed,
bighearted, bigoted blathering breeding
blunderbuss bloopers, bewildering
bloodletting bellyache blight,
brazenly being bandying bellwether,
blitzing bourgeoisie balderdash,
balking but beaming barbaric
berserk ballyhoo backbiting,
backslapping backstabbing
blacklisting bromides,
besetting basic bestowed blooming,
Bobbitizing bedeviling beneficial
bulwark bereft badinage, ballistically ballooning
betrayal birthing bedlam.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
alternately titled: breast ****** fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically **** cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and ****** 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
****** free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that *** hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ***********
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans ***** seams burst
**** strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within ****** tabloid pulp pit
***** sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eylit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
How many nights has the radio
next to your pillow droned
a drunkard’s lullaby
loud enough to wake the dead.
Tonight I beg for quiet,
but clouded eyes scowl angrily at me.
Calling out some menacing retort,
you soon return to bacchanalian dreams.
Sober briefly,
during day’s first waking moments.
You finally rise up,
fortified by countless doubles.
You’ll be gone soon,
till who knows when.
Relieved when you finally depart,
I remove traces of your essence.
Sweet twilight’s stillness,
transforms my dismal surroundings,
to finer illusions where,
only small bits of life’s reality remains.
My soul dances
with an ecstasy for living.
I am a silent watcher
filled with euphoric radiance
This sanctuary of separation,
contains my sanity secret.
Only in this stillness is
there is a brighter self.
Be still, I whisper,
God is with you.
Be still, I whisper,
you are never alone.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" ****** exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Matthew Scott's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
**** suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
How carefully she is shuttering her heart,
with pastel paper eyelids tightly drawn
against the Sun and his every brilliant son.
But, like a woman behind a white silk screen,
the glow of life reveals her fragrant form
as she slowly does her lonely pirouettes.
So lovely and so alone.
So very lovely.
So very alone.
Bravely, she begins to hum a song
heard once in Bacchanalian reveries.
Her voice, as pure as snowflakes, flutters down
into the open mouths of forgotten dreams.
Sated,they sigh behind her milky *******
where abstracted fingertips draw complex maps.
So beautiful and so sad.
So very beautiful.
So very sad.
On Mount Olympus, marble eyes and hearts
turn towards the sorrow pouring from her lips,
disguised as sweet remembrances of love.
The marble hearts all crack with tenderness
and tip their rhytons filled with halcyon
to bathe her in sweet Lethean repose.
So silent and so still.
So very silent.
So very still.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC