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William Keckler Oct 2014
Must go. Cannot explain.
The sadness is on the table.
I left you as much as half
of everything I own.
Maybe more.
Spend it how you like.
I know you will anyway.
This is no joke.
The marriage painting is fixed.
The key is under
your lover's pillow.
Tell the cat
Vive La France for me.
Paul Mackenzie May 2010
1.

A broken path of pleasure,
Confronts my waking mind,
Skeletons line the carpet,
The path I seek to bind.

2.

Uncertainty surrounds me,
But so the way of life,
An infant artist,
An unconscious exuberance,
The perverse I secretly entice.

3.

Duel opposition's approach in unison,
Fighting for peace with each,
The true anima hides beneath the blood,
Narcissistic emotions naked on a beach.

4.

Forbidden in reality,
The dark caves of the primal soul,
The lost murmurs of effrontery,
Tortured desires repressed explode.
                                            
………………………………………………………
Paul Mackenzie Nov 2013
1.

Our love cannot be compared,
To that of mortal existence,
Our passion shall never remit,
For it's heavenly in its brilliance.


2.

Our love is a oneness of being,
With romantic benevolence herewith,
Our blood of mysterious union,
Pumps furiously among loving bliss.

3.

Our love lies deep inside,
Resident in each others heart,
Exploding the flames of desire,
An inferno to banish the dark.

4.

Our love will never be challenged,
Never forgotten, nor passed,
Our bonding of timeless beauty,
As infinite in the joy it has cast.

.........................................
Sara Kellie Dec 2017
I've taken my sorrows
& buried them deep,
The things like my laughter
I'm trying to keep,
but things like my sadness,
they all need to go.
My privacy took so
now they all know,

Denied, denied and my God I tried,
Each time that I asked,
they all ******* lied,
All that I did and all that I do,
Destruction, a gift was to me
and from you,

With this gold ring,
I take your life.
Into your back,
I put my knife.
You wouldn't listen and
you were my bride,
You weren't by my side,
it was then that I died.

I feel like a ghost,
unable to feel,
I don't know who's fake,
I don't know who's real,
Unable to trust who's
*******,
I can't make new friends
when I feel like this,
Vulnerable and insecure,
I stay inside and lock my door,
This isn't life,
not for me I'm sure,
I cannot take this anymore.

Poetry from my dead heart
by Kaydee.
No news is good news
I hardly tire of hearing you Teach
Though finely interesting this Playful Twang
The last Imported Mentor greatly reach
Though in a Week he returns with a Bang
And Memories, live for Drink's Still deserve
Just try to include me in Good Effort
Though, through Training's Round, frankly fine observe
A Stumble, made me aware of such Report.
I still have my Sponsers. But then so now
A Gracious Note if I can Independ
So when you leave, a Happy Cloud you shout
That all your Efforts were well worthy spent.
And I'll just sit here, drinking my Good Ale
Toasting Heaven's Brew to a Friend you avail.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
a television interview, Oct. 2018  with Sir Paul McCartney

~for all of us, forever~


<•>

**** you Paul, old man
you trying to make us all look bad?
guess you’re just another
‘miner for a thousand years’
or more,
cause we haven’t seen a reason why the vein should run dry,
for the stolid earth resupplies endless old metal and the liquid veins
supply the need, the urgency of a warm gun of composition,
a drug nonpareil

and the things that provoke,
still provoke once more and again,
love and need, even memories,
petri dish cell regrown,
breathing atmospheric nutrients in the hotheaded hothouse air
of the human farm

‘tis why I paean you at 4:25am understanding full well,
better than most, for once I wrote,
it’s always the next one, that will be,
the flawless poem,
that will permit the laying down of the pen, the guitar

but even flawless is not
“good enough yet”
for all of us, forever


for “yet,”
even more than forever,

is the most unlimited word we share

~

5:02am 10/17/18
july hearne Jul 2017
devil time
and Pyrex pipe

whatever will you find
so late on a weeknight
that is not found
every other night of every other week

Pyrex pipe
and devil time

margaritas, marijuana,
everything i need
and eye drops in the morning

my favorite gypsy
first cut
early take
quit while you're ahead
but you never do

that hammond *****
really shining something through
my favorite gypsy
don't get too friendly
but you never do

Pyrex pipe
and devil time

i was just a star
i meant for you to name
nothing more than that
you were just the devil
if the devil's name was music
and he still stayed up late
writing songs for everyone
takes all kinds
to give power to the name

Pyrex pipe
and devil time

my favorite gypsy
stays up all night
devil's got a lot of songs to write

that hammond *****
really shining something through
if you could hear it as clearly as i do
but you never do
08/12/2013
my last days
"turn that vocal up just a little bit"
Zoe Mae Jan 2018
I wish you'd go away
I'm tired of your voice
I hear it night and day
As though I have no choice
It's been over a year
Since I last saw your face
You looked just like a deer
But I was froze in place
I'm sure you've since moved on
While I dribble out this trite
And my voice is long gone
Like a black cat in the night
Pagan Paul May 2017
I slip the straps and release the clasp
of your over-the-shoulder boulder holder.
Gravity asserts itself, and you sigh as
I wonder if I should get even bolder

because

The jaws of love masquerade
as petals of a flower

so

Just say if you want me to stop.
We are, after all, in the middle of a shop.
I was attracted when I saw you smile.
As we passed in the frozen food aisle.
Now people are staring though the window.
Shocked at my nonchalant innuendo.
And if your purse metaphor extends to this.
We can go to the Bank for a little kiss

though

I may not be able to afford
nine feather mattresses and a golden pea.
But if you could make do
with a lilo and a marble
then …
You've pulled Princess.

© Pagan Paul (30/05/17)
.
Prequel to Even Poets ***** Up A Date (Mar 31)
The 3rd, Even Poets ***** Up A Night Of ***, to be published at some point.
.
King Panda Oct 2015
this is a medical emergency ossified
in utero part the hair to cover
pink earwax scar innervated this
cochlea this ******* that steals
the spotlight and rooster’s comb
braised sockets for teeth wired through
the rafters kissing corner braces
shallow chromium double-eye poke
like a pile of face bones stacked
paul bunyan forest slide and jump from
the peak to the pool shallow and
undisturbed to dunk your face and
see future pure voodoo spirit board
and voice box locked with tongue-ectomy
removal of cough through neck hole
cardboard cut stickers in half to
write ******, I’m done.
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
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Pagan Paul Apr 2017
Hold me through the night
Still the pain and keep me safe
I can't face being alone

Fold your arms so tight around me
make the dark go away
Please stay, hold me through the night


© Pagan Paul (01/01/17)
.
Haiku 5-7-5, 7-5-7
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
Stars shine behind clouds
peeking through on occasions
the sky's hide and seek.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/18)
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Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....

And the abyss calls so inviting,
          a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
          an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.

Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.

The feelers take a hold of me,
     whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
     in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
     all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
     open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
     the images created by any reality.

It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.


© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
.
Paul Butters Nov 2015
This poem is by Norman Stevens in response to MY poem about HIM. Have made some minor changes.

In *****’s Bar on High,
Sheltered from Cleethorpes sea and sky,
Paul Butters utters words of cheer,
While quaffing his pint of *****’s beer.

He sets about his spicy meal,
Loading up for his evening’s sport,
When he’ll aim to be the real deal.

Owner Bill’s Angels prepare another stew,
To help down another “home –made” brew.

They nip outside for another “staff meeting”,
Paul says they’ve gone for a ***,
But THAT I’m not repeating.

Throughout these capers,
Norman reads his informative papers.

Sipping his Nectar Beer,
He’ll leave in good cheer.

Norman Stevens
Assisted by Paul Butters

(C) PB\NS 17\11\2015.
As I say, it's Norman's poem - was handwritten by him and embellished by me.
Broadsky Jul 23
I want to scream at you. I want to shout at you until it clicks; I'm the one for you. I'm the one you should have loved. I'm the one you should be smiling at when you wake up. You never should have let me go, I was sold. No refunds with this purchase. So you just left me on the side of the road and said you'd come back for me. Days passed, months passed, years passed. I've built a home while you've left, would you like a tour? When I finally move out will I ask you to come over? Even when you become single will you return my calls? Ha, if you become single. You're going to be 25 in November, I can't believe it. We broke up when you were 20 you said. That really shocked me. I wish you still read my poetry, I wish you still saw a future with me, I wish you had more patience, I wish you could have seen that you can’t use the same standards with me. I'm unlike anything you've ever held in your **** hands and you know I have the cosmos in my eyes. Did you want to venture beyond that? Was one universe completely devoted to you not enough? Oh right, money. I won't achieve my goals? My goals are to be happy, to be healthy and to heal myself of wounds caused by people who didnt believe in me like you. I am achieving my goals. It's amazing how well someone can do in the right environment. I dont think you get how abusive my father was, I dont think you realize I have dreams that I can't remember in the morning but my heart is racing and I can't breathe. These night terrors, moments of mania, moments of low, moments when I needed you. I needed you. You weren't there. How many times did I go to the hospital? Do you remember coming over to my house with beer and holding me while I slept after I got home? Do you remember going home when I told you I wanted you? I remember you fell back in love with me and I ******* pushed you away. What the ****. My life has been moving so fast ever since you left and I can't see you anymore. I’m spinning too fast and I'm holding my hand out for you to stop me. Every time my phone rings I pray it’s you. Every single time my phone chimes I hope it’s you telling me you miss me and that you want to see me. I want to beg you to come back but no one should do that. I want to push this girl off of you and kiss you instead, I want you to come behind me while I dance and move with me like we used to. Do you still watch the videos we made? We made a couple. We made a great couple. We were so ******* cute together. Poster couple, poster happy, hip, cool couple. With me you'd be reminded of the taste of life, with her she's reminding you to take the trash out. I wanted to make our ******* bed. I wanted to wash your ***** clothes and hang them up, I wanted to dust off our shelves with our pictures of all the vacations we took and the trinkets we picked up from them. I wanted to get our kids ready for school. I wanted to drop them off and kiss their curly haired heads. I wanted to walk around your father’s backyard barefoot, in a skirt, hair long as could be, with our son picking flowers. I impressed your father to a degree but without a degree I was still just a girl from a broken home with another excuse and then that’s all you began to see. And that ******* killed me.
I wrote this in December of 2018, I reread this just now and my jaw dropped. Sometimes I impress myself with my ability to explain just how badly I wanted you and just how badly you hurt me. I don’t feel this way anymore, I’ve finally healed from the lashes you cast upon me. I no longer look for you on those downtown streets and I no longer wish I was still yours, I learned what it meant to be loved by you... to be hurt by you and make no mistake I would push you away in a heartbeat if you wanted me back again.
Pagan Paul Jun 27
.
Through a forest glade
and down a narrow path
there stands a sacred tree
with its heart torn in half.

Bramble clings to its trunk
ivy covers over its bark,
reaching up for the light
fighting against the dark.

Forgotten by the woods,
ignored in a crowded place,
for it yearns for attention,
just a little tender grace.



© Pagan Paul (27/06/19)
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Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
High Priest Paul stalks them in the night
He promises forgiveness by the edge of his knife
He never stops to question or hesitates to bite
Believe in him and he will make it right  

Scar-Faced Jake doesn't like to wait
He murders Myan time and claws the hands of fate
He bullies his way to the top of the state
He wears a velvet hat and sells you ****** bait

Senator Chris keeps his lovers on a list
A check for every thrill and a line for every kiss
Somewhere, out there, far beyond the bliss
There's kids wondering where their daddy is

Groovy Jungle Jim buries his guitars
Played them like a fiddle in middle country bars
Slept with the lowlifes and wannabe a stars
His voice is the air and his clothes are in the yard

Ali of the Valley sees the starry sky is clear
Reflecting in her eyes like a cosmic mirror
Wondering if the universe looks at us and sneers
While the people on the earth scoff and call her weird

Mr. Priestess Slim puts the bottle on the floor
It's full of whiskey eyes but just a moment more
Someone is rapping on his chamber door
But when he opens it up, he starts a holy war
Pagan Paul Mar 6
.
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
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Pagan Paul May 2017
.
So here I am once more, in the playground of the broken hearts.
One more experience, one more entry in a diary self-penned.
Yet another emotional suicide,
overdosed on sentiment and pride.
To late to say I love you, to late to re-stage the play.
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday'.



The first words you killed me with.
The first Script to make me cry.
The opening song on a plate of sorrow.
The opening sight of my Poets eye.

Your words soaked my childlike mind
as I lost on the roundabouts and swings.
The Jester stands with violin and quill,
composing tears on his broken strings.

I sat and chewed those daffodils
and I still struggle to answer why.
I grew up and left that playground
but its the place where my heart died.

So I never did write that love song,
My words just never seemed to flow.
The martyrs twisted smile haunts me,
my Harlequins head dreams in sorrow.

The game is over.
The game is over.

© Pagan Paul (22/05/17)
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*First verse from the title track of 'Script for a Jesters Tear' by Marillion.
First heard this song when I was 14, I always wondered why Fish's lyrics spoke so deep with me. I only understood when I started to write poetry.
The album is their first, and the first of a trilogy that also includes Fugazi and Misplaced Childhood.
I am the Harlequin. PPx
.
Pagan Paul Jan 14
.
Midnight sees a chain
of lights,
heading into the forest
so dark.

Follow the Will-O the Wisp
at night,
walk with the lone wolf
that barks.

Take that step into the unknown, the path that leads to me,
and I'll be waiting there somewhere, deep within the trees.

So walk that long path
in peace,
follow your dream as
it winds.

Keep purpose in plain sight
to release,
love that is not left
behind.



© Pagan Paul (13/01/19)
.
ATL Sep 7
when I awaken
I extend my finger
towards a panel of dancing light-

did you know that its veins were torn from a mountain?

a whole hierarchy of angels
living inside the earth
were turned to transistors

so that my letters
could glow in your hands.

when I learned this
I began sleeping beside a stream,

in the places where I could watch
wires dance-

beneath wooden pillars and their flimsy black arms
whispering secrets in permanent embrace.

every night I would dream  
to the forward noise
of churning water;

of fluid drifting through the air unseen
or pouring from life long past-

terraforming
for the maintenance of symmetry.
Pagan Paul Nov 2016
.
Her charms cannot be hidden,
laying languid in soft repose,
cloaked in dreams of night,
to her secret fantasies she goes.

Doe eyes closed in star sleep,
sweet gentle breath from parted lips.
A shift of woven mist she wears,
nestling flirtatious about slim hips.

A moment stirs her silent rest,
a sigh, rises, pours and escapes.
Anticipating beauty, the inner promise,
of doe eyes when she wakes.


© Pagan Paul (26/11/16)
.
Lord of Green series, poem  7
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
Fig leaves suit you,
but I can't wait 'til Autumn ;)


© Pagan Paul (2018)
.
Adam'n'Eve - cockney rhyming slang for 'believe'
.
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
.
I'm glad I am a rough diamond,
not cut, and ready to buy.
Women don't want polished men,
they want a malleable guy.
I'm not the King of Diamonds,
not domesticated nor trained.
I'm not a gent, soft of touch.
I'm wild and lustful and stained.

So I am the Jack of Diamonds
strong and rugged and tough.
No culture taints my mind,
and knowledge is just - stuff.
When I find me a willing Lady,
she just can't get enough,
especially when I head for
her Diamond in the Rough.


© Pagan Paul (03/04/17)
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Pagan Paul Mar 2017
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.

Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.

Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.

Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.

For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.


©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
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From my old notebook I found recently :)
Yes there is a story in it!
PPx
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