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Paul Martin Poem
empty headed,
just me
and Jesus
drinking jack,
both trying
to forget our name,
both victims of the insane.
Sitting watching,
soil turning to mud.
rotting seeds
and black roots,
we pray.
the rain it never stops.
In silence we drink,
as eternal sorrowful clouds
cries its tears,
upon the wandering souls below.
Don't come here,
looking for shelter from your sins,
or forgiveness for your failures,
our blood runs cold,
just whiskey and water
flowing in our veins,
and when the treacherous sun,
rises upon the dusty morning.
the black crows on the wire laugh.
as man crawls on his belly again today,
and Jesus kicks a beer can down the road.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2015
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Paul Martin Poem
everything is temporary.
the future will be the past.
all them certainties,
are going to fade away,
and you’ll have nothing to show
only a morbid mind,
obsessed with death’s cold hand
and voices echoing from long ago.
everything is temporary.
what are we going to do?
but dance and laugh
drink and cry.
even your unstoppable greed
will not be a place to hide.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2014
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Paul Martin Poem
I join my fellow travellers
On the road to Damascus
The guilty the ignorant the egotists
With our ashen faces
And threadbare skin
Confined and self absorbed
We walked mostly in silence
But some dare to speak of destiny
of been no other way
We can see Damascus in the distance
Beyond the mist perched upon the hills
But the road is long and many fall by it's side
And nobody weeps for the defeated
Their bodies picked cleaned
by eternal hungry vultures
Who turn honest men
Into money making machines
Oh they had me for while
Got me chasing television dreams
Driven demented by the fallacy
Of a corrupt and plastic reality
Yet Damascus always waited
So I take perilous steps
Towards that beacon of light
Hoping like my fellow travellers
To be anointed in it's enlightenment
Washed in its salvation
and forgiven by it's redemption
So I tie the laces of my tattered shoes
and swallow the last of my pride
And follow the road
That can have no end.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2015
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Paul Martin Poem
I'm tired of fishing for truth,
and catching only,
Worm eaten boots
And plastic flim-flam,
of egotistical minds,
This river is polluted!
With a million fallen dreams,
And spineless fish,
That cannot see,
So I raise a glass
To the strangers.
To the outsiders.
Who swim in isolation.
In deeper darker waters.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2015
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Paul Martin Poem
The city rattling,
Feet trampling,
Faces focusing,
Engines purring,
Drivers sighing,
Music drifting,
Ads whoring,
Johns buying,
Click Clack,
Shoppers yapping,
Money swearing,
Tills ringing,
Workers wishing,
Cameras spinning,
Wealthy plotting,
And me weeping for eternity.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2015
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Paul Martin Poem
(FOR THOSE WHO CANT SLEEP)
Morpheus you traitor!
Why have you abandoned me?
And Left me to the mercies
Of my destructive mind.
The cruelty of silence,
The ceiling,
Engulfing walls.
The constant drip
Of some faraway tap.
This bed of sorrow,
This trap of regret,
and those forgotton voices
That linger within my soul.
Oh please Morpheus!
Won't you lay,
Your cool hand
Upon my brow,
And wash away today.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2015
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Paul Martin Poem
I am a gambling man
broken by the world again
I’m not what i am
but who cares where i stand
jealous eyes and the lonesome rain
is all i have for my enternal shame
swanky cars,ruby lips
and thin cigars
happy people with happy lifes
parade like peacocks in their empires of lies
my sinful soul will never fail
I’m seldom wrong and i’m never right
so bound my feet and tie my hands
and just throw me into the fiery pits of hell
if jesus has the will
maybe he can forgive my rotten heart
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2014
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Paul Martin Poem
The rationalist must reduce,
It's in their nature.
Pragmatic logic insists,
On conformity of thought,
Anomalies will not be tolerated,
Measurable verifiable data,
Equations balanced,
Algorithms written,
Formulas deduced,
Universal laws obeyed,
But shadows still linger,
The face behind the face,
Unconscious chaos,
Irrational processes,
That feeds the soul.
Ah but we have no soul,,
For logic deems it thus,
No individual light,
Only predictable
Chemical reactions.
And biological impulses,
And our bones rot into
Infinite night,
Not for me,
Give me wisdom
Beneath cool moonlight,
And wild gypsies songs,
Give me anarchist poems,
And the strange happiness
Of religious folk,
Give me anything,
But your sterile world
Washed in monotone grey.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Martin Poem
Masses of sunburnt grass,
Sway with delicate ease.
Seduced by the composer
Of the soothing May breeze.
Swallows parade,
Pirouetting,
Swooning,
With humpy gluttonous crows
Giving weary approval
From tops of telephone poles.
The summer silence,
Bestows dignity upon this land.
As downtrodden seeds,
And wild limitless weeds
Claim their ancient ways,
My mind is light,
To hot,to drunk,
To care about the darkness of man,
And all his little subplots.
I turn on some baroque,
Wishing to dream
transcendental dreams.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Martin Poem
Evading feral branches and pools of stagnant stuff.
I'm taking the short way home ,
Greasy grass and soaking anarchist weeds saturate my feet,
I'm frozen to the bone all to take the short way home.
Through hawthorn trees With vampire's teeth,
Whose thorns delight in biting soft drunken meat.
Their existence justified beneath the silent moonlight
And soon I am out moaning bloodied and shivering
To start the long traipse through dank sludge
My shoes disappear beneath the earth to be reunited with the land
So here I stand bleeding and barefooted.
With the frost rattling my bones,
All to take the short way home.
Is that the wind or some ancient spirit weeping With laughter.
In the distance beneath the shadow of a bungalow
I see the wall I must scale
Each step is heroic an act bravery
That only foolish men with frostbitten toes can only know
Is it hour or ten minutes I cannot tell
Trudging through no man's land this self inflicted hell
My clothes are destroyed head to toe in smelly stuff
As if I was wrestling on a pigsty floor with a horny and frustrated boar
Oh how I could sing for joy as my muck encrusted hands finally carcass
The cold hard cement of my neighbours wall
With the will of Genghis kahn or one those ancient warriors.
I heave my aching frame over thinking victory is mine,
Only to hear the crunch of shattering glass and I scream words unsuitable for delicate ears,
For I landed in a bin of empty wine bottles and rusty tin
I hear a click and see a porch light been turned on,
"whose out there I got a gun"
"don't worry about it"i nearly cry
"it's just your average drunken fool
taking short way home.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2016
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