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Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.



© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
.
Sorry, my brain is on meltdown :(
.
Knit Personality Jul 2017
There was a theatrical fellow
Who played most bizarrely the cello:
   His sound supersonic,
   His air histrionic,
He jiggled vibratos like jello.

#
DivineDao Aug 2016
You were the main attractor
For my curious cognition

The wise troubadour under the wicked spell
Of simple words, yummy words, words
loving words sweet

As muffins!

I ~ on the other hand ~ were complex
Used by phenomenological concepts

Floating upon the faraway rainbow
Where you kneel down on the young

Grass of poetry and admit all this love
To everybody who wants your dignified

Old school romantic courtship charisma.

I've always known you're eyes.are.fiery ~ dreamfully
Enchanting. . .
And when you smile for your lover

Sunbursts and fusion reactions collide. Fiercely!
Breathtakingly beautiful. I start to glow and shine!

In the faraway silken fold of our mysterious Universe
One single supernova exploded. Recently. Touching your woolen pulover in a manneristic manner. And that ~ pretty much classy shall ~ makes you look adorable!
With all the surplus of poetry ~ And That . . .
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF5t7OuO2rg

You got a bad attitude,
worse than my cat's cattitude
when I dab my tears on her fur
in the lap of lassitude.
Ziggy Stardust
was a rock 'n' roll platypus,
so I scratch electric platitudes:
her 'ump is an Acme muse.

Her languor louche
unleash my lassitude,
& lassitude is literati for the blues.
La la la la la la la-lassitude!
La la la la la la la-liceytude!

Loving you:
punitive assuetude.
Kissin' ******* altitude,
not lips of latitude.
Your fratchy gratitude,
dark matter jewelled.
But I'm allowed to look at you
- looking ain't no glass lasso!

Her languor louche
funleech my lassitude,
& lassitude is literati for the blues.
La la la la la la la-lassitude!
La la la la la la la-liceytude!

J'accuse Ted Hughes:
Lady Lazarus in lion's mouth of white goods.
J'accuse Ted Hughes:
Assia in lion's mouth of white goods.
Brother Jimmy Oct 2017
Today I’ll pack my woes away
And head toward the sun
And whisper to the surging fray
That I have now begun

So sit back as I start
Performing my release,
My new and novel fledgling art,
And hone my masterpiece
L Seagull Feb 11
Drop the stream through this sieve into the bottle
Where it shouldn’t belong you wish to
Drink up the poisoned milk in infinitesimal gulps
Of deathly satisfaction only because
The glass shards under your feet pretended
To be the grass and you believed as much as
That what felt like downfall was anything resembling warmth
Sneaking snapshots of neglect for nothing else
Is allowed to who you know yourself to be
And nothing else is a possibility for the
Identity was outlined in ink and blood and
Disappointment and disappointed you are
As a way to make the world feel familiar
At least there is one listener to make one feel at home
While the rest hold on to their promises
While keeping their ears open and their feet in the destined direction
And you are wasting away the precious moments
To drag yourself through the dessert of
Familiar bitterness
To be seen through the prism of your
Poisoned safety blanket
Only as illegitimate
Worthless poem really. A hundred bucks works better than mirrors
Eno Sep 2018
There’s 3 left now
To state their case
For past and present
They’re all happy to show their face
One more so than others
Gets up on a podium
And shouts
When everyone
Was already
Listening
Hard to let it in
Without the illusion of choice
A soliloquy
Of triumph
Should be spoken alone
You wonder
If modesty
Breeds honesty
Or the other way around
Or neither
Bee Dec 2017
Pathetic parasite
of a woman
perpetuates
love indefinitely,
a plague
upon hopelessly
romantic people.
A performance.
Smiling, always.
Hates
good news and
sleeps around,
sleeps
surrounded
in black light.
Wearing sunglasses.
Her day is
nighttime.
She breathes
aesthetic,
instagram posts
to survive.
But thrives, only.
The numb gummed
princess cries
every day and
yes. She said it,
even
a hundred times
but
language
proves flexible.
Same words mean
different things
and we
obviously don’t
speak the same
language.
I meant mine.
I didn’t know
she’d sell hers
for snow.
Fame.
Attention from strangers.

Welcome home.

Winter came and stayed,
love never lived here.
freed from time and space
we gave our last performance
you said it was sort of pompous
and a little too hollow
unlike the figure of the maid
who came back and left me my dinner
grief is a river i would never swim in
we undressed the girl wearing hemp
because you said grifters do it the best
and if heads are gonna roll tomorrow
so must our feet move on too
love is abundant and frequently dismayed
the moment you allow
another to enter your heart
mimi Dec 2018
please sing me a
song of your most
precious memories and i
will try to sing one of
mine

of rainy days spent
under worn down umbrellas,
of clear nights where
the constellations are
sublime

please compose me a
rhythm that will be neither
too soft nor unbearably
loud

i am afraid unwanted
ears may hear, for i
desire to be your only
crowd

please perform for me
the show you've only
dared to execute in your
wildest dreams

and i will dance along
as the moon does for the
stars every time they
gleam
s 4d
i can’t stop thinking about this//
so i was getting ready to do
a performance today,
and i overheard a mom
doing her 6-ish year old daughters
makeup/hair
the little girl told her mom:
“mommy this hurts i dont like it”

and the frustrated mom simply said:
“beauty is pain sweetheart you might as well learn it now”

and i can’t stop thinking about how some of the things kids learn about so young, is so sad.

yeah i don’t know,

i can’t stop thinking about how//

beauty is pain
but pain isn’t beautiful.
dance fck with heads
ryn Jan 2015
New year, new future, new performance on life's stage
New book, new chapter with a brand new page
New friends, new plans, scrapes from new falls

But...

I am the same, I am still me, penning the same ****** scrawls
Mark Upright Aug 2018
The World Requires Edmund Black’s Random Acts of Doughnut Kindness (1/36)

Edmund!


a friend mutual on HP
sent me your poem below
asking me to respond appropriately,
close the tale, he said,
and that I would understand,
thinking by being marked,
I had some expertise in the matter

perhaps you are unaware that the world
exists only because there are at least thirty six^
righteous men on the earth and
personally believe,
there are more

who they are, a well kept secret,
but secrets tend to leak so...

only one,
Mr. Edmund,
employs a dozen doughnuts
(chocolate frosted)
to follow through
on the most important
commandment human
love thy neighbor
with a dozen holies

I’m told that like certain loaves of bread,
a dozen doughnuts
now have along with
wine and water
a place in the repertoire of the selector of the
thirty six

which needs noting,
a dozen
is 1/3 of thirty six

sometimes the answers are in the wholes of the holiest!


<•>
Edmund black
Jul 15

My Perfect Morning

The climate in the
World may change
But it will never
Change me
not for a moment
I truly have the most
amazing  life ,
Couldn’t be any better
I get up every morning
Next to  this gorgeous
amazing woman
Get my morning kiss
Maybe a few morning kisses
in my open mouth
If you get my drift
Cause you know I’m in love
Sit back in the back patio porch
Listening to Mother Nature’s  
Performance
while reading hellopoetry
Few minutes later
I told my lady  I had to
Go run  some errands
Not realizing yet
What’s up ahead,
Arrived and
While in line at Chrispy kreme’s
A little boy about 5 years of age
Loosing his mind over some
Chocolate frosted
Mother and father told him
They couldn’t afford it
They were only there for coffee
Little boy started
crying hysterically
My Heart Cries out for him
And chivalrously I’ve waited
in line right behind them
Just couldn’t allow
That to take place
I told dad if it was okay
I would love to buy the boy
a dozen chocolate frosted
He accepted and gave
me a hand shake
Mom teared up and dad
wouldn’t Stop thinking me
I hate seeing good
People like this
But anyway,
What an awesome moment
A moment of love sharing
And here’s the most
Amazing part of
my early morning outside
Of my morning kisses
I got the longest hug
From the little man
A handshake
From dad
And a kiss on the cheek
From mom
What can be any better
Than the life I live
I do what I want
And it’s mostly
Helping other people
That’s all that matters.
Having meanings in
Other people’s lives
Fulfills me ,
And what more
Can I say ,
My perfect
          Morning

I live life
For the inexplicable
Moment
Life is love and love
     Always gives
                    ALWAYS
^Mystical Hasidic Judaism as well as other segments of Judaism believe that there exist 36 righteous people whose role in life is to justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of God. Jewish tradition holds that their identities are unknown to each other and that, if one of them comes to a realization of their true purpose, they would never admit it:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tzadikim_Nistarim
Johnnie Woods Jul 2018
Writing a poem.

There are lots of things that contribute to the outcome, the poem.
-Certain words hold a hard to describe sensation to them, they're made to evoke some feelings and also give a sense of unique kind of rhythm. Had the writer used a synonym, it wouldn't have the same impact on the reader. He's like mysterious chemist adding proper ingredients to his mixture to make it work perfectly.
-The way a writer constructs the poem leads to rhythm as well, how he decides to start a new verse that divides a sentence, the way he locates words - or even blank spaces - on the surface of sheet - the field of his performance - it all contributes to the creation of imagery. Therefore, we can see that creating a poem isn't just writing words. It's how you put them together, too. A poem that's being created, sometimes slightly wanders away from the realm of plain writing - and goes beyond.
Grace Feb 2015
In flickering eyes
Is the glow of a smoldering fire
They are sizing us up

My body transforms, a whirlwind
A temple for worship
To a stage for performance

All eyes are on me
Shadows flickering on the walls
Whispers scattering
Hurried footsteps down the hall

Their lips glisten in the dark
A shred of light
Despite the darkness  trapped inside

Grumbling stomachs
Resonating like heart beats
Growling for me

They are starved
For my skin
Ravenous

For to them
I am nothing more
Than meat
Because I am not solely for your entertainment.
Bad Luck Jun 2014
Cheated and defeated –
                      my mistakes, themselves, repeated...
A monster made of gluttony;
                     I’ve no option but to feed it.

I saw the writing on the walls,
           But, my feeble eyes had failed to read it.
Still... I’m not convinced that this warning,
        Was chosen by my eyes, not to be heeded.

Perhaps my head was the catalyst
           A byproduct of an acid trip;
           Had split this world in two.
Some for me, and some for you.
Maybe . . . this warning wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe . . . it’s for the second half of two.

“Ye kind-hearted shall not go forth”
                              … is what I believe it said,
But I can’t be too certain.  
                              After all, I’ve lost my head.
Which brings up some emotions -
                               Or maybe, they’re allusions?
But, I can’t tell through the hallucinations
                If these are real or illusory movements.

So the fish hook pulled me deeper . . .  
                       All the while, stretching skin.

                       I knew not about the rabbit hole
                       to which I just dove in.

It seemed a lot more like an alley when I first took a glance,
Once I took a second step, I guess I chose to dance.

               Oh, what a performance it’s been!  
                And we haven’t yet hit intermission!

                 Although, I’m not sure when that is…
                            As I seem to have lost my vision.

The Queen of Hearts shouted,
                              “Off with his head!”
But without a brain to notice,
      I couldn’t hear what she had said.
She said it before the guillotine dropped…
So was my brain already gone
                      When my head hit the block?

I’m not sure where to find the pieces.
                     I didn't know I fell apart.
                     I didn’t know
I was a headless servant
                    To the heartless
                    Queen of Hearts.

Now, without a head,
                   I’m trying to piece it back together.
And I’m worried that this rabbit hole
           just may have me trapped here forever.

So, I’ll trace my steps backward, to try to find my "forward."
But as I set my pace faster, I find I'm moving slower.
Things turn upside down, when you’re this far down . . .
And the carousel just spins – around and around.

Gaining speed, with increasing malice
I hopped right on
        And chose a different path than Alice.

Here we arrive again at choice, but was it one at all?
This is when I found the Hatter – where the bounds of logic fall.
He asked me why I was there.
             He said, “My boy, have you gone mad?”
And as I searched for reason,
                                          I concluded that I had.

Standing on the ceiling,
            we both watched the world, twirling.
Sipping from our cups,
            between the stirs of sterling.
We chatted over tea, and while I was now content with spinning . . .
My content grew simultaneous
with the Cheshire Cat’s grinning.
He looked at me and said,
                                      “Upside down, yet, you seem alright?”
I responded with a “Hm…”
                                        and my spinning turned to flight.

I flew from the table and
       As I questioned if I was stable,
I grasped for the air.
       And for the first time . . .
                                          I was able.

Apart from the question, I now knew that I was mad,
Because I gripped a fist of air,
                             knowing full-well it can’t be grabbed.
I swung through the air…
                                    maybe I flew . . . I’m not sure.
But as I passed over ground, I surveyed it for Her.
I looked for Alice as my guide,
                              but someone took her place:
The "heartless" Queen of Hearts
                                     and her over-sized face.
Was it the face? Or just the head?
                            What’s ahead without a face?
It seems I lost the bounds of logic
                                    upon my fall from grace.

Was I flying?
Or was I falling?
It seems that orbit was my calling . . .
Where, as high as I fly,
   the paradox of orbit keeps me falling.
Maybe I’ll stay out here, where it’s quiet by the stars
And there’s no signs to read;
               no catalysts for scars.  
But did I ever escape?
                Am I still in the hole?
I found among these fragments
          the completion to my soul.

Somewhere between falling and flying,
              I told the truth while I was lying
And found my equilibrium
               between the living and the dying.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1691941182
Levi Sharpe Mar 22
Here I stand, a most gracious host

For though we’ve just met

I’ll quickly bend my spine

And offer a look inside

While the contents may fly errant

I hope the words are read

Risking the tearing of my pages

Over performance and stages

Or the staining of my sleeve

Over the webs spiders weave

But when all is said and set

Those who are transparent

Have more in common with ghosts
When asking myself why I do evil things,
He replies: for prestige.

The theatrics are in full swing.
This performance is a furnace, fueled
by success of the ego, it is suffocating me.

Atlas, the parasite. He
is an engine of relentless thought

who has decided "I am the one who knocks."

He is the sardonism in my heart.

Meanwhile what's left of my gentle side
sighs
and writes the words: What has become of me?
Quotes:
Line Eight by Heisenberg from Breaking Bad
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain

the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root

the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan

genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all

no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food

mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition

each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish

asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,

"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"

and she, burst out loud in laughter
Christopher Lowe Dec 2014
Pretending used to be so innocent
You would play pretend doctor
And oh how brilliant
A flawless performance
And all those years not a patient lost
Ahh the pretend heroes we were

Now it's a little more sinister
We pretend we are busy or sick
And we think we are intelligent
Like no one will know
And year after year we fill with lies
Pretending to still be super heroes
When we really turned into bad guys
We all got plenty of practice. Anyone have any better title ideas let me know.
Leigh May 2015
The story of a tiny gift, half chewed and fear-stained
Left on the alter outside the back door:

When first stunned with a slap or a precisely timed
Bite, a vigil is held -- wings twitch and flutter.
With a curious tilt, widened eyes record
Muscle spasms; calculating the
Flight risk; metering the force of the next
Outburst; prolonging the fun.

A game or performance art?
The victim's peers yell and screech
From the rooftops - do they know
The show is for them?

After few manoeuvres more it matters little
As a tiny neck snaps between missing teeth.
The audience scatters and the corpse is left behind
As an offering for those who feed the beast.
.

The joys of owning a cat.
.
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