The direct, circular reaction between chemistry and electricity
gestates a cyber-space that pretends to know something
about autonomy.  
Unfortunately, the website sparks the Shakespearian within me.
Unfortunately.  It translates and relates with the mission not to deviate,
but as I read "O Villainy!" my eyes glance suspiciously at the sidebar propaganda:
Don't make these makeup contouring mistakes,
there are nine bases in hooking up now,
celeb quotes that will make you feel better about yourself.
"O Villainy!"
O, say this device don't know squat about me!

A veil of light and ashen grey
invites me to peer in to stranger day
fluttering and beckoning
behind it what is happening?
a smorgasboard of molten colour
winks at me, summons me near
I become swept up, in hurricane
that rolls and waves across the plane
of one reality in to another

'Tis here I feel my spirit brew
imbued with bright, celestial hue
deep in hinterlands of enchanting joy
where I ravish these pleasures coy
too overwhelmed to fight, resist
the very light with which I'm kissed
from famished eyes I am engorged
my tender spirit enlarged
on trajectory of bliss

On horizon, magic gestates
Leaves my spirit insatiate
Adorned by sparks phantasms brood
Lifting like hot air balloon my mood
Between chasm of magic and reality
Goes visions with conviviality
Enchanting the mind with true force
Summoned from natures magic purse
Which sprinkles havoc on normality

Forms of Beauty riddle my eye
With their heavenly symmetry
Godesseses of divinest shine
Beam soul-deep, from theirs to mine
Behind the veil of usual routine
Lies awesome truth with golden sheen
Nourishing the spirits belly
To magical shores the spirit ferried
Enamoured of most lucid of dreams

And sometimes it happens
That it wells up
A lump in the throat
Something deserving of more than tears
But so suppressed by well-meaning logic
Hidden by a dramatic mask, too well worn
of its true shape, sharp edges removed.

A vectorless emotion
Stuck in a maze made with walls of reason
The unreasonable contained
Rebellious without a cause

Yet so susceptible to a simple kindness
That puts all at risk of disastrous desire, calamitous confusion
Demanding release.
So, those poetic parents; Darkness and Light
In a tryst at their boundaries, defuse the danger
And make, in quiet conception,
Amongst the gentler shadows of the soul
What gestates and finally
In a spasm of wordy contractions
Spills live and ****** into the paper world.

feeling it pierce my skin is a mysterious thing.. a type of pain that makes my heart sing.. it's funny what this emotion of expression can bring.. scraping my skin while all i feel is this sting.. so i lie and wait for us to start.. then i hear the machine hum.. my heart starts beating like a pounding drum.. my skin starts to feel numb.. this symbolic expression of myself in this art begins as my soul takes depart.. a temporary place where i can restart so my life wont fall apart.. this journey of pain and skin scraping keeps me sane.. accompanied by good music and mary jane.. as the pain begins to seep, my mind trickles in a drain.. washing away the heavy thoughts and the broken heart.. releasing the hate and the blame.. singing songs to keep myself tame.. with this ritual, i reclaim my creative independence.. with this artist i attendance, she looks at me to see my soul in transcendence.. slowly, this story of art begins to take shape.. this experience is more than an escape.. it is where dreams and creativity take shape.. it is where superheroes design their cape.. where love and passion dance around imagination.. this is where a poet would write a narration.. where fire and water dance in harmonious flotation.. now the pain gets my eyes in dilation.. but i know this is temporary.. for this expression of art has no expiration.. here i am ready to take the bait.. this is where i escape to less hate.. to strengthen the space where love gestates.. to have more than one reason to feel lightweight.. once in a while i find myself starting into the mirror.. looking deep within my pupils to find the meaning of my rhyme.. to find the spirit that hid with time.. do understand that these scars of art are not just for show.. they are part of the tools i use to flow.. living life each day wanting to grow.. so i implore you not to judge me till you really know; why this lifestyle thrives on being down low.. aside from the stories, these marks attack the status quo.. so there aint no way you can insult me with your stack of dough.. because these marks, these wounded stories is part of what makes me feel the glow.. so the next time you see someone with ink, dont assume you can make them feel your stink.. cause we'll be the same people who'll pull you out of your little sink.. we dont even need you to think.. all we'll do is nod, and wink..

pauldeeeeee
4apr2011

This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.

It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.

Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.

With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes

You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.

I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.

I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.

Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.

My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain

I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.

A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.

By early mornings light
Shadows disperse
Run for cover to the dark roots
Subterranean refuge
Safety in the cold earth
Mother Nature’s bedrock womb
Necrosis of light gestates
Rests its weary, starless mind
Gloom retires, lies in wait
Twilight beckons the return

Midst wizened trees the ancient word
Blows through ears that strive to have heard
The magic medley of the land
The stirring Spring gestates her garland
Dribbling music to the bards

We are the bards. Long time ago
We dwelled and swelled in Nature's glow
We lived, felt Love, but now we go
Searching for rainbow, to and fro

Our path takes us high and low
To truth, which raptures us in throe
The torch of truth be ours to hold
In streams of dreams and fires of gold
Sat brooding in desire and woe

grinning(green clad)devil
satted silent in
a sharp cafe
waiting eternal

in walks man
sighing sadly sits
across from greengrin devil
forked tongue river
roils implications

"thou art the skin of weak *******"
drips emerald

"this i know, yet unable to face its truth, i find my i"
ripples trite man

in this way satting
supping murky fluid
sin gestates
in celadonian
lips

.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)

Crease

I met someone today.
I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom
in my underwear, eyes gouging flesh like dull chisels,
with the same expression they adopted
when I first knew I wanted to be attractive:
No mercy.

I’ve been training to be a fighter
because after my last girlfriend- excuse me, partner-
excuse me, friend- excuse me,
partner- excuse me, friend- excuse me
Polyamory! Millennial shorthand for
Please **** me even though I don’t know what I want.

She revealed to me once that,
early on in our relationship and unsolicited,
she’d begun to refer to me as a they.
To this day, one half of me
believes she just couldn’t admit
to her radically feminist,
anarcho-permaculturalist
wild witch woman persona
that she’d fallen in love
with another cis white male.
The other half can’t help but smile
each time I recall the memory.

To be seen,
******* god, to be seen,
for someone to trace all the creases of your being with amorous fingertips
unfolding you as gently as an origami flower, gasping at you like art! -
then, a curling beneath your ribs, a closing of eyes,
cheeks and palms smudged terra cotta.

For 2 months straight, I woke up angry.
Few people know this sensation.
Most have only been kissed by rage;
slapped, provoked.
But when devastation gestates in your abdomen,
you can feel your body chemistry shift,
the oxygen in your blood replaced by volatile gases,
bones glowing white hot beneath unloved skin,
the tectonic plates of your psyche roiling,
every hissing breath a collision and separation.

I began to fear myself, this anger,
what it might take from me
after I was already pregnant with grief,
my body less and less my own,
so I threw myself at things I could not break-
all my polluted oceans, my clotted skies,
my smothered mountains and putrid valleys,
tearing them madly from my insides
that I would not see them birthed.


I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom
wondering how I will carry this.
Looking at my body again,
softer somehow;
my arms hewn and wiry,
my chest ample.
I see my stomach is scarce
as my gaze traces the angles of my hips.
My thighs thick against their garment,
I can’t help but twist to see my *** curve upward neatly.

I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom,
the same smooth bulge in the front of my briefs.
Under the fabric pulled between my thighs, a crease.