"resurgence" poems
.
*Links in the chemist chain
laced in a double helix
defy the laws of the universe,
and the atavistic resurgence
creates isotopes of dream passion.
Elements conspire in panic
with a symmetry of casual chaos
that mimics an atomic bomb,
destroying its own creator
in a cruel parody of birth paradox.
Arresting the Iris of Dissolution
with cuffed anxiety drowning
in a pond of helium ore,
carelessly drifting on acid flesh,
coagulating in a soup of memory.*
And the paradigm shifts again,
reality unfocussed clears, strains,
revealing your shuddering form,
next to me, keeping me warm.
Lids flicker and you open your eyes,
shining, smiling in cute surprise.
Moving my finger up to my lips
whilst I gently untangle our hips.
*Do you remember this night?
Last night, tonight, tomorrow night?
Time begins to slowly rewind,
on the night you blew my mind.*
My essence is filled with your heart,
a love I have yet to discover.
Whilst you wander between the stars,
my universe starts to recover.
So please don't break this silence now.
Please don't shatter this moment long,
I want this post ****** memory to remain
in the morning when you have gone.
© Pagan Paul (04/11/17)
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
Inferno,
exponential flame
tearing at the world until
all that’s left is it’s name
from the dust and gravel
arise the youth
on revolutionary wings of
marble
only for the glorious resurgence
to become fallen angels
engulfing the world
that they had wished
to save in
earnest
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
i
a wee shaft of beam
across
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
…then
a whistle in the dark
ii
i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.
iii
to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
misquotations,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.
iv
back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.
v
i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…
vi
i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Music
by Stephen Vincent Benet
My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest,
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
An army stormed the bastions of the air!
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
Marching together as the lightnings march,
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed,
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast-
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture
To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;
Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,
And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;
That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,
From the loose net of words to deeds again
And to all courage! Perilous and sharp
The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!
. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,
"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.
2k
To All Men Who Can:
We must articulate our sorrow; find joy in the grief
Call the resurgence when anguish is chief!
Illuminate Dark Alley
There is no finale
But the ethereal timeless bliss
Return solemn calling
of the moon,
Return to the mother
flowers in bloom
Listless excursion
Our soul's in aversion
To the petty game we made
Love be thine calling,
Our souls are not falling to this
Infatuous State of Sin
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
It is with great sadness that I must announce that wit has withered and died. Actually, it probably died years back, but, like a character on a soap opera, it returns in flashbacks on occasion.
The ability to use wit to insult, as Will Rogers, Dorothy Parker, and the great writers of the past is no more. The use of wit to make someone leave feeling good about themselves, while having just been put in their place verbally, is an art.
I told someone the other day that he was a veldt of intellect, he didn’t know what veldt meant, I could see from the complete look of “duh” on his face. He told me **** off….and then after I laughed, he said it again.
This is the replacement comeback now….fuck off. Witty…at the least. Groucho Marx, was great with the witty comeback, Noel Coward was a genius with his ability to use wit to disarm a situation. Now, **** off. yep….that’s it.
If, wit has a resurgence and there is a verbal afterlife, let’s hope **** off is left at the door, holding a copy of watchtower.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
You're dangerously honest
Silently filled with screams
Your body lies in the waking world,
Yet your mind still wanders in dream
Walking alongside mannequin masses
How much of this is real?
Staring back at what I assume to be myself
Emptiness pervading all that I feel
I drown in the sin of impassioned sweat
These stained sheets that mark my grave
These years are poison; these tears are deadly
The lies of living have made me a slave
Lost, wandering in a vicious world
Of constant contradictions and deadly afflictions
Dying by the hand of my own vices
And misguided, misinterpreted convictions
My favorite song is being sung by a dead man
Stolen are his hopes and dreams
A resurgence of his soul enlivens me
Though his revelations remain unseen
For I know why the caged animal cries
Through iron bars, he is fed lies
The truth is but a lie undiscovered
Who controls the thoughts in your head?
Discreet indiscretion and silent objection
Our minds spoon fed the brilliant flesh of the dead
I long only to feel the warmth of your love
Before I grow tired and cold
I long to be blessed with your passion
Realize such worldly wonders without being told
A shallow grave sunken in marshy swamp
No one to watch over or preside
This empty box houses my world for eternity
In the darkness of the infinite is where I will hide
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
I look back on all my old poems
Wow
This is love.
I feel resurgence in myself.
All these old gears are turning again.
You have to take time to sit down,
and just shut up for a minute.
Remember, please remember
Our first time meeting.
I was so nervous,
but I was so calm around you.
He's different
Our first date
How can this many embarrassing things happen in one day
He definitely saw my ****
Accident.
Our first kiss
Just like in the movies
One swift motion,
And I was there.
Remember
Please
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
It's hard to forget the past
When it takes away something
That I felt was meant to last
So I'll wait for my phone to ring
No line and hook to be cast
We'll see what time will bring
Jul 16, 2023
Jul 16, 2023 at 8:41 PM UTC
My tired eyes,
my fatigued mind
falls slow and time becomes obscured by
the drowsy raven sailing sunset sky boulevard.
My phone is ringing orders and misdirection calls,
that funny little radiation box hollering voices
of somewhere, telemarketers in India, automated messages,
spurious connections anywhere but here.
The rain-shine of approaching April Wednesday
trails golden hues among the treeline being viciously
torn like a gradual atomic bomb flattening the hoary hills
and spectacular firs beryl in frequent times of showers.
Each day I hope for that fabled resurgence,
nearly a year my fingers have been crossed
while wars are still wars, politicians still politicians,
gods still gods. Everything is so still, silence among fury.
Carpet bombings, protests, genocides, reforms, riots, the drowsy
raven circles in view of the window and my thoughts cycle around
my washing machine consciousness wiping off the grit of untruths
of everywhere else but within myself. That seems to be the problem
with most people.
As the clouds roll in, as the sun subsides into darkness,
as my mind is clouded by that ever-expanding raven encompassing
night sky and nightmares, I realize I hadn't even gone out at any point
that day and probably wouldn't the next.
We've become so dull some of us.
Vacuums inside of vacuums.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
What is the purpose of beauty without creatures to charm?
How can the moon awake passions without the black sky of the night?
Where would swallows be going without a winter making them fly?
Why are you afraid of the darkness if you experienced the light?
We are born in pain, because it is pain what proves us alive.
We must master the fall before we learn how to walk.
We can only accomplish success if we experienced the fail.
You are worried, I see, use this friend’s ear, let’s talk.
I hope you believe me, my friend, your worries will pass.
You will endure the pain, you will soon understand.
It can’t be always the same, it can’t be back as it was.
But your night will be over, making place to a brighter dawn.
The phoenix has risen from ashes infinite times.
The flood of punishment passed for resurgence of life.
Our ancestors strove struggles to bequeath us some peace.
You can make the future brighter. Stand up! Do not abdicate!
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 2:22 AM UTC
An intrinsic insistence of negative choice
A high-jacker of will
An undeniable voice
A captivating spirit that justifies oneself
A sideline observation
Our resistance on the shelf
A resurgence of trauma
A manifestation of pain
An implicit reminder from within
A validation of weakness
An inference of youth
Our self inflicted sin
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 4:08 PM UTC
Americans live with fear.
Fear of being found out for what they are….an incredibly insecure people populating the most powerful nation on earth.
The power of Wall St. feeds their fear in the belief that the nation’s leaders and political machine have been bought and sold by big money.
In fact the only candidates registering positively in the current Primary elections are those who feed the fear. Trump feeds the fear every time he opens his big mouth.
Hillary engenders fear because she is a WOMAN who can, most probably, win the votes which will give her the Presidency in November next.
Americans fear the resurgence of Asia in China’s burgeoning thermonuclear militarist stance, the utter unpredictability of the simmering, India, Pakistan standoff
And the instability of the plump, demonic, demagogue armed with the atomic weaponry in the bleak wasteland that is North Korea.
Islam’s mobilisation scares Americans witless. The savagery of the Isis personifies all that is promised by an expanding worldwide Islamic threat.
And then there is Putin's Russia.
The encapsulation of American fear though, is painted graphically, starkly, by the nation’s absurd fascination, obsession, with the hand gun.
Everyone has a hand gun, in the car, in the office, in the mall, in the bedroom…..some even strap a hand gun on the hip to go to church.
Americans, first and foremost, fear each other.
Fear of the fear exacerbated by more fear.
Americans live with fear.
M.
Auckland NZ
13 February 2016
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
There are barely memories left untainted
A childhood cut short
A trusting soul shredded with each stolen touch
Still now, after a lifetime of living,
Of forcibly refusing to be nothing,
Of overcoming everything
Remnants seep through the skin
From the depths of demon's lair
Distant cackles mock the resurgence of nightmares
Scouring pad scrubbies only removed skin
The stink of it remains
Filling every pore
Escaping in a sigh, infectious by design
Time heals nothing
It protects the broken pieces
Masking them behind affection & other surface emotions
The jagged edges of the memory of pain
Still violate innocence
Still ruin a smile before it is born
Used as brutal warnings,
They are jabbed straight through a heart trying desperately to heal
At the first sign of affection, the pain awakens
At the first sign of attachment, it skins the heart alive
Angered at defiance, it burns like molten metal
Scraping at the hardened crevasses of the mind
Searing pain in hidden dreams
Cauterizing the memories open
Reliving the blade time has dulled
Never allowed to love
Even if it's make-believe
Twisted sounds of tinkling music boxes
And the distant laughter of demons
CACKLE AND HISS
Cackle And Hiss
cackle and hiss
Muted into a familiar rhythm
Underlying the complacency of life
Only to scorch a soul into nightmares
When the heart dares to feel
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
Then you will suffocate me more
Till I run out of breath...
And I linger in the garden of despair and mess
Where shards of your dreams pricked my feet
Your incessant turmoil stabbed my blurry eyes
In the heavenly friction when worlds collide
Flares your flowing colours and mine died
Stillness in your stone stature remains in flow
I burned and turned to ash left hanging by smoke
You layed lasting in between death and resurgence
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
it's electric
chilling to the touch
can't let go of the idea
your hands gliding
down my arms
to grasp my hands
it's a silly i suppose
the way i dream of you
but i can't help it
have we met before?
or do you stay here
during waking life?
locked away, as i remain.
longing for the moments of rest
where i'll still find you
do you wait for me?
between delicate dreams
and a fifth dimension?
do you know how you move me?
phantom touches of fingertips
as you look into my eyes?
god, i'd love to be loved
to remember the glow if it,
even for a moment.
to remember how it feels
to wear a borrowed sweater
or to lend mine to a lover
to wear it.
the hug that lasts
'til you decide it's over
to feel it.
the warmth that lingers,
your heart in their sleeves
to breathe it.
the smell of their cologne,
the connected memories of being held
held in a way that let you know
that they never want to let go,
that to do so is a temporary measure
so later on,
they can embrace you once again
reliving the euphoria of human connection
but is it love?
to crave when you are so starved
or is it merely loneliness
to crave the escape of a lover's arms
carefully wrapped around you,
as they whisper low
those sweet nothings,
telling you that you are everything
when you have felt so empty
a resurgence of half-filled cups,
rose-tinted outlooks and lovesick melodies
exchanged glances that form their own languages
and i want so badly
for a name to be honey in my mouth again,
so sweet i am afraid to open up and let it out
i crave so deeply the feeling
of being fully clothed and yet naked,
fully myself and fully in love.
and i may be a romantic,
but i don't need flowers at my door
i don't need you to tell me what your heart is for
i want the little things,
tag teaming the dishes as you tell me your day,
the rough draft of the email you need to send
( if it needs an edit, i promise to be kind )
nothing speaks of love like the mundane,
to share a life; to share even a moment
what else could be so intimate?
i want to know your middle name
or to invent, should you not already possess one
i want to have knowledge that gives fae their power
i want to know your favorite color,
so i can wear it when i'm alone
to encapsulate the meaning
i desire above all else,
to be loved
with only the best intentions
why would the world be beautiful
if every inch of it didn't deserve
to be enveloped by love?
i ponder alone
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 6:15 AM UTC
When it is I set my sights
On what all man has done
I'm not sure it is I like
What all man has become
This is the evaluation of evolution
The evolution of what we've become
This is the resurgence of a revolution
The revolution of us running from us
Though it's one we often fight
It is one we seldom win
A war that's waged inside our minds
Fought for the souls of man
The heart is a mechanism, I know this much
The mind is fizzled, but it catches the senses
The eyes seem human, they've got tear ducts
The soul is a body rack, that builds its own fences
We seem to treat life as if it's a game
Lost in the playground of wonder
Where we're our own bullies and nothing's the same
As we drag ourselves under
Lost in the fray of wonder and folly
We're the sheep headed for slaughter
It's the war of empathy and apathy
Passed down to our sons and daughters
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
When she gets ill
Everything disordered;
Light and warmth amend,
Day and night differ,
Breeze revolutionize,
Everything dismayed!
When she gets ill
Everyone distressed;
Rivers and streams waste away,
Birds are becoming shove,
Flowers desiccated,
Crops shrunken,
Everything dirtied!
When she gets ill
Murkiness delimited us,
Our aspiration and potency endanger;
Let’s pray for her resurgence!
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
Grab-ass is as far from **** as promiscuity
is from prostitution---
The Weinsteins move to Nigeria
to make Nollywood blockbusters
w/ kpop soundtracks---
big in China & Russia, making movie stars
of Ukrainian beauty queens driving drunk
at midnight in a country where grab-ass is okay
& homosexuality is illegal
& subject to the death penalty---
See beautiful African women
lining up to get their ***** felt
by the Jewish movie mogul
who can make them stars overnight---
Mathematically correct & joined by Chinese
& Indian beauty queens in a veritable renaissance
Of ***** men and women
who become bolder in public
than in private in speaking out against those
who promote the homosexual lifestyle;
**** them all!’ they cry
& the Nollywood industry cranks on---
American boycott the new Nollywood films
Which means nothing but free publicity
Since Asian people line up
around the block & ***** the ***** of women
in front of them & Russians
hail the resurgence of masculinity
when the life of Pushkin is made into a biopic
with a Russian cast in
a Russian-Nigerian co-production;
In Elizabethan theatre
(the height of the Renaissance in England)
Young boys played girls
& backstage got their butts dutifully reamed---
The universal irony that young boys
replaced women yet were *****
& molested as if they were---
European history has always been gay
from the Neanderthals who died out from ******
(the root of the myth of ***** & Gomorrah);
To the Greeks & Romans
to the Catholic Church---to gay marriage
to the rights of transgenders
to be treated like women & men except in reverse
which changes everything for everybody---
In Nigeria gay men are lynched by mobs
Of right-thinking citizens
who pay good dollars to see movies
Where some of the world’s most attractive women
get sodomized by rough,
burly macho male stars as if they were boys---
Nollywood becomes Nollyporn
becomes Nollyrape & sells around the world
bringing in millions & then billions---
while Americans & Europeans, Australians & Kiwis
adamantly promote the gay agenda
that is rejected by the rest of the world---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
My hands were wrung
not long ago, in fact the other day
they grasped towards each other
with a frightening pulse
felt through veins that stretch
across tendons as though they were longing
for escape from beneath - as a millipede would dig
out from the earth
painfully giving resurgence
to the fact that he was more alone there,
that I am alone
with only my hands
to feel what is not here.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
There’s a reason why I’m scared,
It’s because all I’ve done is be unprepared,
If I fall down now, it would be the end of my repair,
So I fight it all for the time when I’m born again,
Right now I’m in a place where I don’t want to be
Without a trace of pride or humanity
Stuck in a place that doesn’t suit me
In this situation it’s true that I’m afraid
That each day that passes is another day I’ve thrown away
I look around myself and all I see is the waste that I’ve created
And turned into my grave
It’s so dark and lonesome it makes me full of self pity
But like I said before,
It’s where I don’t want to be
So I fight for the day when I’m free from myself
A day when I’m happy and free from my hell
It gives me hope to see all the future will bring me
And that one day soon, I’ll be free from my animosity
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC