"plasmic" poems
.
Like a watermark through crisp white vellum
a face appears through the veil of dreams,
to colour wash away a montage of image
and decorate a mosaic of sleep dust seams.
As halcyon lakes waterfall into prism nebulae
and the courtesan face evades its emotions,
inevitably slipping between the chasms of space
like golden dolphins through plasmic oceans.
© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
.
I have always known you
Stranger,
In this whirling tavern,
Where life is plasmic.
You speak with sweetest
Nothings,
In my groping, deaf ears,
Where sense is non.
And now we are laying
Hollow,
On this letted, fresh bed,
Without any clues.
Your are plain, beautiful
Stranger,
Your hands ply my soul,
As bees on dry flower.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)
the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.
google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still believe in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
When the universe
And all her baby stars
Souped down
In clotted clumps
Tightly wound in
Golden-plummed roses –
This is when the sea
Ascended, and all your
Mother’s tribes descended.
(In a pop,
Not a bang.)
“Red paint and crushed
Blackberries will drip
Like plasmic syrup
Down your arms and
Into your bellies.
You will hear the Earth
Sing a lullaby,
Soft as clouds making love.
Our canyons will rupture
And we will bathe in the gush
Of purple-blue paper water.”
But then the sky exploded.
And pellets of dusty snow
Climbed down
And pierced my flesh,
Froze my core,
And numbed my Native voice –
Hushed my sweet mother,
Dyed my ancestors’ blood
To match the soiled snow.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Why does a love that does not exist still burn as powerful as the plasmic magnetic fields that boil within the sun?
Maybe one day this fascination will burst into a supernova..
And you may have no where to run..
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Not since the plasmic glow of the Inflationary period,
When the glorious Universe could be held in the palm of your hand,
Has the Light prevailed;
Ever-after, the Darkness has gained increasing **********
Forget those globular perturbations coalescing into Galaxies;
Forget, too, the denser gases igniting into radiant stars;
The cold, dark space-time only retreats temporarily - and grows all the while.
The expanding Universe acts to isolate the Light,
And the Darkness is patient enough to await its ultimate victory.
When Matter has run its race,
And complex Life is a distant echo;
When atoms and molecules haven't the Energy to socialise,
Then the Darkness will swallow the Light for good.
The Universe will be dark and dead -
And God will cease to exist.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Some things, told me, I shouldn't feel this way.
Not a voice..... Just small things.
The instruments,
Her heart speaks, revealed a smile,
That brought the sun
Slowly
Above us.
The decades of stone & brick.
It took awhile to shadow the hurt.
Days,
To build this empire of air around me.
To get the confidence,
To not care anymore.
The guy I am.
Usually sits on the darkest rock,
Under a bridge, by a stream.
Just thinking.
& She,
The woman she was, wasn't there.
I remember the moon & a dream.
Building a secure SELF
For accepting, but isolated.
The furthest things were so close,
She couldn't understand.
I'm really no-one.
Not anything more then human.
On this bench, I sat.
It was worn from all the years.
The silent disappointments from rejection.
Peeled the paint.
At my feet, the concrete, discolored.
I thought I had the power to heal,
REBUILD
But the guy I am,
Was left without a hammer,
Or even the smallest axe,
Or a plug,
For the furniture,
In the plasmic gleam,
Under the sunrise.
"Who am I?"
I whispered to a breeze.
It carried it with it.
"Your You."
Was the musically fading answer.
I turned back to the moon in a daze.
" I Am WHO I Am "
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
Tide's pulsation
in conflux with moon
hosts a nexus
Rendezvous
my waters
at an hour dark
Beams
lunar reflection
is passing
Earth's
other side
My pull
is greater
than
temptation
It is
mesmerism
A magnetic
locking
of the
organic elemental
Your push
My pull
Our plasmic toll
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
The sky was pinkle when I woke,
A shade of laughter, half a joke.
The clouds turned sorn, a moody hue,
Like whispers drenched in morning dew.
I dress in plasmic, soft and shy,
A color caught between a sigh.
My shoes were tied with strings of frave,
The color brave, that I crave.
The streets were wet, a glistening feel,
Like promises too sharp, too real.
I stepped through puddles, blur and glant,
With hues that speak, but never chant.
The trees were spindle, tall and thin,
Their leaves were painted grun and kin.
The world spun round in shades unknown,
Colors that feel, but never shown.
By evening, selk began to fall,
A hue that echoes with no call.
And as the night wore shades of flow,
I drifted where the colors go.
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
What if years after the butterflies, and after the fire and ash has settled there is nothing but the pooling of guts. The detritus that lies smitten with various bacterial lineages, and a hot ooze that overboiled from the seams of your heart now are being slowly engulfed; Mesmerised by the steady beats and thumps, the fissioning crowd wells in awe, clawing, a cacophony of enzymes heaving toward the heavy membrane. Swell; where trichogramma turns to ask the orchid floating among the horizon: what do parasites contribute to an ecosystem?
Perhaps the cumulative swarm of such chemically catalytic beasts, towering, twisting, spitting emulate the acute plasmic oxygenation of a flame. A perhaps.
Such are perhaps.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 5:06 AM UTC
Good night American Oligarchy ...
Our children are still receiving a deplorable education ,
young people will be shot in the back tonight running from the
kinder , gentler Gestapo policeman ...
Our hungry that died on the streets this evening will be swept away ,
so a potential killer like Trump or Clinton can have a parade !
The Rectangular Plasmic Brain Melter will be feeding the citizens
what you want to hear ...
We'll all be off to grease the machine , looking over our collective shoulders in fear.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
This is an eastward trek on repeat.
A tape cloaked in static,
clicking and turning over itself.
A departed decade's daydream
whirling towards Lands of Plenty.
With nebulas dot dot dashing into Eternity,
eyes are locked on the horizon as plasmic ghouls
gravitate and spindle from a restless breeze.
Why probe
another world;
Let the space jazz
lose your mind;
Slide down the
Wormhole
as asteroids
light the Moon?
In the zone, everything begins to shine.
Feel goods
engrained
in verbal tides.
A tale
abundant
in
sweet illumination.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
My mind can travel
Farther than any airplane
Any train
Any Titanic laying waste to thousands of icebergs
Deep pools of liquid twilight
Know my name
I visit briefly
Then am on my way
Broken shards of starlight
Pierced through by the screams of a newborn
I have heard
Seen
All there is
And when the feathery light axe
Begins to fall down
Down
Onto the neck
Of a plasmic colored swan
We will know
All there is
To fear
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
NATURE OF HEART
Dual curved carved
crystalline
earth pointed plasmic
Oneness
quantum wave
particled
allows Heart to heave
Heal with white light
eagles
on Tibetan height nights
continuously crafted
through storm eyes
looping solace
sighs
whorling whispering
Rain tears feed
its sizzling stamens
pistillate androgyny
crying
crumbling
simultaneously graniting
granting access
piously
Soft supple sublime
in rhythmic dance
twirls across seaspun song
sealed
bends baritone bones
gliding through skulls
of ancestral
sacrament
Heart curiously examines
coral swimming coloured
through sockets
smiling
Silent sacred still
holds no longings or
exalted expectations
observes
its own arising gyrations
destructions
cannot label
nor muse
or impress empress
governors or lover
fathoms no fools
Only presents
primal
lingering longings
for its own beatings
irrepressible expressions
lavic lush luminosic
explosions of expirations
split open
exposing slivered voluptuous
vulnerability
breathing
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2024
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 8:56 AM UTC
We live among kings and sorcerers and plasmic sonnets
and serpent-lined oceans and speed-freaking comets
breaking left around untapped worlds of ether
and crested hawks and tales of Caesar
and acetylene-soaked music (and the guitarist drops a match)
and pharaohs and arks and Grecian tracts
and the words of Faulkner and pianos
and gilded lilies heaving like sopranos
and foamy, crashing sunsets and Davis’ “Kind of Blue”…
Why in hell would I care for the evening news?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC