Sunday, June 30, 2013

The Poetic Dark: Podcast

Enjoy!

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/the_poetic_dark

Saturday, June 29, 2013

The Poetic Dark

A Unique Structure,


      Despite all my awareness of the impending impact of despairing self loathing, my conscious efforts  were not enough to persuade the Poetic Dark to leave me be. Hope for myself is lost, I surrender it all willingly to help others, holding none back. Thus I could not harness it to overcome the darkness that dwells in the shadows of my valueless lonesome decrepit life. Ending up printing myself out digitally with tweets, now over 8,000, like:



Border transgression,Mental push to rationalise faith in a world of wishful fiction's ability to send us to idle comfort,Forgetting to live!



The death of the mental illness of prejudice,The birth of unprecedented love & understanding which leads to acceptance!Things I don't know.



Some say sink or swim,I wrote myself a ship without a white flag,There upon sailed the seas of endless imagination until my soul was empty.



A particular new favourite of mine the monster created while cycling through Pollock Park in Glasgow, Scotland. The peaceful serenity of Mother Earth's majestic beauty cannot sate the passionate creative dark within. It comes at random, it comes like the onset of a fever, like writer's block in reverse.

It isn't something I have to work at or think about, it just happens...


Pretty sure it'll leave a misunderstood legacy behind of suicide, depression and self loathing, but that's not the truth of it. I do actually really enjoy life, being myself. This shell that my ghost exists within is actually very awesome, it now has long curly dark locks, muscles that allow a hundred pull ups in half an hour and a lengthy cycle every day, not to mention its flexible and for the most part pretty joyful, nearly always smiling!



Survival hope of the heart tactics off,I am the last of the hydra,Watching my other selves drown & I go willingly into the hole in my wrists



Leeching off borrowed moments of time,Sanctuary scene what's left inside the heart's battle ground,Willing extra fate curricular activities!



Rate your answer 1-10 why you're alive,O negative hopeless romantic pessimist blood at minus one,Positive for the sake of everyone save self



Dear All Mother,Whatever theology is truth,Bow to the vaccine of fate,Hope faded from the plague of human reasoning after destiny's fall



Friendless victim of misunderstanding,No living soul could embrace the poison in my mind & ask why... Let alone walk for a moment at my side



Just keep searching for acceptance,Dream of the white noise within:Hope,Cant pretend I'll find it anymore,I will never truly be part of this



No creat(ed)ive God could pull out the arrows bleeding the heart on my slit wrist dry,Raise no arms to lift my drudge of doubt chest anchor



Sink my eyes into the arms that surround me,Too bad they are my own,A fool sucked back into the illusion of love & acceptance in this li(f)e



So sick of myself,F*cking glad no one is watching this stream of doubt at the edge of life,Signs of the decrepit misanthrope within surface!



Insufferable of syllables,Consciously worded self destructive arc of the plot,Valve of consequence voice command shut the fail safe off!



An every day attempt to empty the hard drive of the heart,Waking breaks the rules of suicide,Should have filled a hole the first day of life



The cloud of darkness has passed,The illusion of solitude worked out by poetic means,Healing through art,I recommend finding your dreams!



Calm is the vibe of a man who dreams of taking a love stance of the heart's virtue reflected will for another,Peaceful alive where she is...



God damn the eighty thousand lines met by silence,All the things I ever had to say,Recognition will come after my wrists have paid the price



Ten thousand days of rain,Clouds parted that I begged to stay,Grey is the only God damned colour left for me,Shade of my lost forlorn soul!



Drowning soul,Drenched by years of silence & rain,Single digit fist holds the chain of hope against the undertow,I dream of the unattainable



Emotionally breathless after a flicker of hope's mantle rekindled went dark,Rearrange the heart yet again,Push for love past the lonely pain



The world in seven days,No moment's rest since the dawn of man,Kind of at a loss in the struggle to appreciate the virtue of love gone mad!



Paper personality disorder overly produced malignant spread through the soul killing off dreams tumour,Host accepted no treatment or love...



Ugly black ghoul duckling trapped in the mirror,Shadow's chains hideously overdone,No escape for the I accepted on life's lonely parade.



Mic check the love at the door for petty verbiage boasting of sexual glory,Appalling revenant dialogue with dollars & ghosts of debt,Greed!



Yeah folks, that's all one day of writing, not to mentioned the pre-tweet-buffered ones I didn't copy to paste. It really doesn't matter what I write any more, no one cared in the first place and doesn't now. Everyone's turned off my feed on facebook, blocked or deleted me.



Most would think that's pretty messed up, but it is merely a poetry the algorithms of prayer. Mine occurs in reverse, instead of asking for what is needed, I betray myself to the opposing darkness. In this way I keep mend myself, yet also do I perpetuate the Creative Dark. Hopefully someday a few of the words I've written inspire someone else' imagination to create, to live by hope or pursue their dreams with dedication.



For all these lines are but forgettable items, like me, when I pass away all this will go dormant, along with my podcasts, short stories and novel word as well the twitter and no one will give a f*cking damn. But that's okay, it doesn't stop me from writing, for when I am empty then I shall die.



In earnest anticipation of,







Podcast: Chromosome Time Bomb

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/spoken_word_chromosome_time_bomb


No Land,

Man on fire, I'll aid with the pyre, Built from his own bones, Scorched off ligaments stolen while he laid his head down, Beside a plague entitled carnal lust, Avidity on demand behind his every day eyes, Child of mine or the demon's own, It doesn't matter, His fleshless skin dry heaves for acceptance, Thrust of destruction, Innocence lost too young to the inappropriate values of the Devil.


Chromosome time bomb,Man who penetrates his daughter,Blacked out strike after punch drunk,Violent rape wasted inner peace,A morbid trial...! Gray twilight after a poetic mushroom cloud of verbiage explaining the decay of sexuality as the sky falls, Down the thighs of a bird at dusk, Eyes heat seek a moment of recluse to pillage her in most being, A drunken dialogue with day dream'n at the pub,


Illogical principles thrown down the stairs, Out the window the daughter flees, Victim of a sexual crime in the dry darkness under invisible sheets, Nothing to hide the intoxicating shame that lies inside after the perpetrator of rape has finished his breach, Malefaction of a disgusting nature, Innocent child's womb stolen by blood after she tested positive for a beating...


Visual image hidden damage at a blame without cost generation, Where men lay hands on their daughters, Takes the stand against his own flesh and blood, Alter netting a story of accusation of flesh against flesh her, Exposing a lie against the truth that inside dwells a chromosome time bomb whose birth will wipe away the hate, An arrival of perfectly defect free eyes staring back at her, A mirror image in retrospect, Amidst the tears she promises the same wounds won't ever happen to her new born daughter.


Prison arrival for vengeance, He raped without penalty of time spent behind bars while he cost reeled her life before the judge until all was reamed out and silent, Before the flashing lights of a living room lit by a tube she became the embodiment of domestic violence, Crimson spattered as steel married flesh, Lost control as the knife impregnated flesh, Mercy is for the free not for fugitives living in the home of a rapist for a blood line would be father.


Silent chalk outline the police pass her by, Not a single question nor the cold of cuffs, She stands amidst the vermilion scene at peace... This is the story of a wound so deep, may no one ever live through nor discover such a travesty in their own lives from long lost memories, trapped...


In earnest anticipation of,

Juton

PodCasting: Self!

Music, Starting with Deftones is The Gates of Metal Reborn!

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/gates_of_metal_reborn_episode_i

Spoken Word for LawLs & inspiration!

If Childhood Magic Were True

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/if_childhood_magic_were_true

In earnest anticipation of,
none-silence!
FINALLY
Oh geez...

Of Demons & Cowboys

Upon the barren plains,

   Of a dry and desolate wasteland of the world's most Southern continent there walked a lone gunman. His hat was wide of rim and brown with a flat top, it and a yellow, black and white checked scarf hid his face well from any who paid him any notice. His baby blue and brick orange checked collared tunic sleeves were rolled up and the collar stuck out on one side along his neck above the scarf. Atop that he wore a tan brown and tiny egg shell blue pin stripped waistcoat, his trousers were once blue but were weather worn stained white and grey from dust and smoke, his belt was hazel brown with gold skulls upon it and his shoes were thin rubber soled black and tan leather flats, devoid of a stinger or spur.

     Like many of the modern day warriors of the Southern Continent once known as Africa, the demon carried a revolver, though not one that fired typical ammunitions. Most all casings and gunpowder were done away with at the end of the final world war, when the magic of the universe was resurrected by the melting of the polar ice caps and rained down upon the earth, changing everything.

      Each of the six chambers that once held bullets was now a cylinder for a single shot laser cannister, which slowly recharged over the course of several hours. It was the same for Shotguns, though their double or pump action barrels fit single shells that would have to be put into a case charger fitted to the belt, though very few cowboys had this equipment, most just had to wait for the shells to recharge. Often whilst waiting, they ended up dead.

     Generally the land had three types of cowboy who roamed the plains, the skilled one whose dedication to the way of the gun paid off with accurate shots, the maniac who had somehow collected a recharger or a myriad of weapons who won his life by firing as many bullets as possible, usually just the mere look of such a deviant was enough to scare off any foe. Then there were those who had a gun, but it was merely for show. Always strung to their hip or underarm in a well decorated holster, rarely, if ever, cleaned or fired. These men were the folk of cities, where battles were fought and won by the local justice, but just in case, they carried.

      For years our traveller circled to reach this place again, where his rebirth began, where the gunfighter was reborn. Most didn't survive their first fight, surrendering their last breath to the laser blades of revolver bullets or a flash of scattered shotgun short beams. The old ways of duelling had ended when the last of the gentlemen died to the trigger happy fools who had rekindled an inspired dedication in rogue warriors to seek skill and patience in the way of the quick draw. Indeed it was the only way to defeat someone with more shots than you.

     What once was known as Africa was left in solitude by the kingdoms and empires of the other remaining inhabited continents. For the wars upon it's shores were not bound to laws but prejudice, mere contests of arms, for amusement. From the top most kingdom to the lowest street scum, it mattered not if you were born demon, human, dwarf or elf nor even reanimated undead; all that mattered was how much fire power you were packing.


     Jaghoul stood on the edge of town staring down the lone boulevard beyond the massive gate and high walls, the place seemed devoid of life save for the movement of dust in the wind. To enter the oasis city meant certain death, a cesspool for scoundrels, bottom feeders, bounty hunters and rogues all seeking glory at the edge of the world.

     In the distance an airship, a flying wooden vessel made in the image of ancient ocean fairing ships, often with cloth wings and a levistone or hot air balloon instead of any sails, was rising into the skies. It was a majestic thing to watch the ships take off into the open air on a voyage to the floating continents or to some abandoned mine in search of treasure, though rarely to war.

     Large scale battle was a thing of the past, king pins and jesters ruled the lands beside necromancers and emperors, power had long ago surrendered itself to those who inhabited the bars of the city streets, to the mercenary, for there weren't enough citizens on the continent to make up armies from, let alone get them to wage war against one another for some rich scum's plot to overthrow his neighbour's town for the sake of image or meagre monetary gain.

     Today was different though, Jaghoul had come to the birth place of his resurrection to begin a quest, a journey into the perilous dark realms of the forlorn continent. Seeking to answer a simple question, who pulled the strings on rebirth, from man into immortal... From corpse to lich?

Brought to you by: http://dailyfixtion.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/of-demons-cowboys.html

Friday, June 28, 2013

Renegade Station

The children huddled together,

     In the far Eastern wing of the station against the frigid air that ever maintained a constant state of visible breath, in a corner the seven of them held on to one another for warmth despite several layers of clothes, which were much too large for them in most cases being made generations ago for soldiers who fought in the world wars. Thick grey or green wool was the trend, all of them had a scarf overly long wrapped several times around making their necks look like part of their shoulders which were hidden under layers of tunics, jumpers and a long trench coat with a cloak and hood attached. The same could be said for their legs, long under garments layered beneath wool pants in which their tiny feet were wrapped up in socks trapped tightly in wool coated leather boots. Some had a beanie on or a wool cap while others had fighter pilot leather caps but all of them had goggles as old as the wars themselves.

     For as long as anyone could remember the children had been sent out from the frozen citadel high above the frozen tundra atop a spire of ice and stone. There the fortress had been since the world changed and the immortals had come out from their exile, back to the light of the sun. They were sent out, escorted by armed guards, to a crack in the ice where they would search the caverns for shards, crystals filled with liquid light, the fuel that kept the village outside and the stronghold atop the spire lit and warm.

     The seven children had plotted to escape after hearing the elder's tale of the child who fell and dreamt of green lands beyond the icy passage at the edge of the vale. The entrance to the mountain's depths was by means of a brick mason bridge at the edge of the village along the cobble stone lane along the walls of the fortress. Beyond the statues of gargoyles at the far end was a path that lead into the vale where the gates to the mines were locked.

    Of the seven, only two of them were over the age of twelve, the rest were wee squirts that were swept up in the motion of escaping when the guards discovered them in the alley on their way to the bridge, diverting them into the sewers where they found the abandoned station. The squat overly long armed pig men who hid their faces behind masks, some would know as goblins, had not given chase for they had met their end at the shard blades of the eldest two in a short but blood skirmish.

     Through the darkness of the village streets, for the blue lights of the shard were shut off in the late hours, the children were given chase by the soldiers of the spire, the silence was only broken by the footfalls of the children, for the goblins wore no shoes. When the group was nearing the bridge the oldest of the escapees realised the group wouldn't make it with the guards so close at their heels.

    Contra stole himself against the wall of one of the houses and in the shadows waited for the guards to pass as Sabine lead the group onwards. He only just noticed in time that the silent soldiers had passed for they moved as shades in the darkness. One quick flash and the first guard crumpled to his knees, a shard of crystal logged in his neck. The other turned to face the assailant, sending his spear out as he spun, nearly decapitating Contra, who just narrowly avoided the blade. Contra rose from his crouch like a snake he lounged at the exposed chest of the soldier whose life was taken by reflex and luck, if not by fate.

      Silence reigned as the realization set in that he had just taken the lives of two sentient beings, whose souls now meandered aimlessly between the shadow world and that of the living. Rising up from atop the dead guard's chest, Contra made his way through the dark streets to join the others.
   
     Under the last arch on the edge of the village, beyond which lay the bridge and freedom, the group stole their way into the ventilation maze between the town above and the forge works below. There they found the abandoned station and lay down to rest, though the eldest two knew their plans had gone seriously awry.

Brought to you by self, via http://dailyfixtion.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/renegade-station.html

The Time Machine Tattoo

   Ever since Dominic could remember,

     He had heard stories of Namiah, queen of the angels, sister to Lilith the damned, whose army succumb to the power of darkness in the invisible wars that raged long ago high up in the clouds. In dreams he had held her hand as she fled under a reign of arrows, narrowly escaping from the citadel of obsidian stone where for so long she was held captive, high up in the skies. 

Every night hidden under the covers lit by a tiny flash light Dominic would watch the hands of his grandfather's pocket watch as if it retold the story of his first dream. It was that same silver handed circle that he carried with him where ever he went, but today the watch had special purpose.

Dominic hand't felt so much as a fairy's tickle throughout the, normally quasi painful experience, procedure. Dominic sat upright and awake, not an ounce of alcohol or drugs in his system, completely sober he had sat through a needle injected art form. 

The tattoo was that of a nineteenth century pocket watch painted upon the underside of the Dominic's wrist. When he was not but a lad that same wrist had been broken during a climbing expedition with his elder brother in the neighbours back yard. The barkless and twisted red Manzanita tree had been a prestigious centre piece of the lush forest of fauna that compromised the beautiful fairy tale garden behind the ancient stone walls of the Quiest family.

When the deviant artist had finished, he looked up at Dominic and smiled 'just one final touch and we'll be done.' With that the artist put down his needle and took off his gloves. He looked back to my wrist, gently grasped it in his left hand and leaned in, at first the young man couldn't tell what it was he was doing, but then he saw it. The tattoo artist was turning the dials of the watch, as he did Dominic began to swoon with the onset of an intense dizziness. With each turn of the hands past twelve the room grew darker until it was nearly black, then suddenly it stopped and the enveloping darkness began to dissipate. 'That should do it son,' the deviant artist said with a wicked grin 'you may leave now, if you can.' With that the artist let go of the Dominic's wrist and the world went white.

Wind, a bitter intense breeze bit through the young man's clothes, kindling a chill as deep as his bones. It felt as though he were standing naked upon stones and pebbles in the middle of a dry river bed, a tempest howling down upon him with no barrier in sight. It was so intense Dominic's eyes began to tear up as he attempted to open them, it was a struggle and it was several seconds before he was able to squint.

It wasn't wind at all, Dominic was falling. He closed his eyes and prayed it was all just a dream, biting down hard on his lower lip and pinched his his index finger underneath his thumbnail until it started to bleed. Opening his eyes once again Dominic admitted to himself that he was not in fact dreaming.

The ground was invisible, hidden behind thick white fields of cloud. Dominic was rushing towards them in a free fall, what lay behind them, he would soon find out.  Once again he closed his eyes, this time to feel the open air rippling down his skin, the wind made it feel as if he had no clothes on at all. Suddenly a cool mist began to form about him, he could feel his clothes now damp with moisture.

When next he opened his eyes, Dominic found himself enveloped by the white fields. Soon he was completely drenched from head down to his toes, he felt as if his pants would fall off at any moment. Reaching down he did his belt up another two notches, just for safety, the denim of jeans was overly heavy when wet. 

Straining to hold his eyes open through the mist like rain Dominic began to wish for a view of his demise, how far off was the ground or even the slightest glimpse of the earth? Not a second later there was a break in the cloud and so too was the deep brown of dirt mingled with stone. Only a few thousand feet below Dominic could see plainly the outline of a mountain top or maybe it was simply a hillside in the middle of the country side.

 The clouds before Dominic's eyes began to break, he was falling very swiftly towards an island floating in the sky. He rapidly surveyed the landscape, it was more than an island, it was a continent hovering there before him. 

It was massive, as he grew closer the island in the sky grew more distinct. Dominic could make out there were at least three lakes, one near the Eastern edge surrounded by fields of tall grass upon rolling hills, close to what he guessed to be a city of stone surrounded by what could only by forest, marshes lay before its gates and the lake beyond it, in the Western realm of the continent, was also near to a town, though this one was much smaller than the other.

In the centre of the continent was what appeared at first glance to be a spiral tower, that reached thousands of feet into the sky, most of which as disguised, hidden by the same clouds that Dominic had just emerged from...    

World's Over: Waking

Have you seen,

     The world? Not the one before your eyes, that you rehearse your life in every day, walking around as if nothing were wrong until... That moment when your emotions are interrupted from calm comfort conformity. I am talking about the world as it truly is, after the World's Over Journal was written and you were woken upon the face of a Magical Mother Earth.

In earnest anticipation of,
us

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Rattle & Chain

I escaped,

       On the last train out of town. That day the rain poured down in torrents from an obsidian sky, the clouds loomed over the coastal village black and foreboding, indeed it was a good day to leave.

Forsaken by the magic of the universe and utterly tired I leant my head up against the cracked and cob web covered glass to appease the the train rumbled down the tracks my jaw rattled as my unbeating heart within my ragged and skeletal chest yearned for the one who I had lost in the city I was just driven out of.

     Why did my decaying heart even care at all, about the present or the past, I'm sure that I could hear its withered form rattle inside of me as the mist rolled over the sea side town, he had watched me die. Dangling there from the noose under the stone arches, hand made gallows before the cathedral doors. My final act wasn't ignored, the twitch of my toes in Morse' code... 'I love you.'

I had been searching the street markets for my lover's favourite cheese to go with the mushrooms I had returned with and a few greens when I was pulled into an alley by a city guard. The malice in his eyes stole my attention from the muttering of a death threat, a predatory wolf in guard's skin would not escape the poise of rage within my lover hero if he found out...

     This demon in the flesh of a man who lay vacant atop of me, trousers half way down his knees, utterly spent after raping me in a back alley upon the brick cobble stones of a tiny ancient passage way in a town a thousand years away. For a moment he let down his guard, my lover's malice wouldn't be necessary, I would deal with this vile creature myself. My hands clasped to the wicker man's ox cart slipped from the childish bindings and as the predator's awareness slacked, but for a moment after cumming, I found his knife and drew it. One clean gash up his left arm as it dangled there against the bindings that once held my hands, how foolish the devil was. His leather wrist guard and tunic melted away before the blade and his forearm opened like a sheep's belly, inner wrist to elbow, he would bleed out in minutes. Even after the mad lust the guard bestowed upon me and possibly countless women of the city, there was panic in his eyes as he realized his doom, slowly he curled up into a ball and lay there whimpering as he died.

    A crowd had gathered at the ally's entrance, Soon after more guards had come and I was swept up in chains before Kæfka, a wicked judge.When next I opened my eyes I panicked for a second at the realization... The impact to unconsciousness would be my last vision of rest. I stood between two guards before the Cathedral's courtyard archway, a noose dangling there waiting to steal my last breath... So I thought but now I find myself sitting on this ancient train, alone in the silence of the car, no lover to attempt another rescue of my forlorn undead but never decaying beautiful heart...





In earnest anticipation of,

Darkened Sun; Love's Survivors

I woke from reverie,

    There in the window sill of our tenth floor apartment, sat the form of my lover. We hadn't bothered to leave like so many others when the bombing began, both of us had long ago given over fear to the moment of being alive, though now not even that could be said to be true of either of us.

     She was but a mannequin of her former glory, her soul fleeted in and out of the skeletal form that sat motionless in the sun as it streamed in through the shattered glass of a rain stained brick frame, in a building overlooking the ancient hill top Necropolis, from the highest point one could see the entire city and the surrounds down to the distant hills of the Green Belt. Every day she sat there, waiting for the return of something she never wanted in life, but in death the desire had become overwhelming.

   We hadn't been able to have a child, we both saw this as a good thing since neither of us had ever really wanted a kid, but when the world began to change, mending occurred across the earth for those infirm, the deaf, those stricken by cancer and a myriad of other genetic illnesses. So it was that near the end, just before the war began, as if to bind ourselves to the dying planet, we conceived and it was to be a girl.

    Four months along and none of the check ups had shown any signs of complication, save the ones the whole world was dealing with outside our apartment where my office had been transformed into a beautiful white baby's room. I had to move all our creative production tools and bins of random yet useful digital tech chords along with the writing desk and all our other geek quirky imagination inspiring helpful inventions into the living room where my wife, the beautiful maiden of mine, sat face to face, our laptops and the worlds we had together created the only thing between us as something  began to stir deep underneath the earth and in the oceans that flooded so many cities as the polar ice caps magically melted away.

     It was then when the war began and mankind lost it's marbles to vengeance that the mending stopped and darkness reigned. Penumbra spread over the land like a plague, even before the clouds of ash and destruction accumulated as the bombardment of the city took place, it only lasted a few days, then, the whole world went silent.

    The television had no channels, the radio lost all its air waves, the streets were littered with silent people, would be corpses, though we I never checked, it didn't matter anyhow, I was a corpse and yet I am still able to write and survive via my ghost of a soul being trapped in this husk that was my body.

     I don't know where my maiden goes when she leaves her body there in the window sill, but I imagine that she has trained her soul to truly act as a ghost, an ethereal being to the eyes of long lost mankind, searching the streets of our city, even to the top of the hill for the spirit of our lost child. Often she doesn't come back for weeks at a time, it is then, I think, that she delves into the darkness below the hill, into the Necropolis. Risking her own soul for a rifted love, fighting and fleeing from banshee, valkyrie and all manner of undead from wraith to wight and every sort of zombie in between vampire and lich, the last we both had become.

    If only I could remove myself from this hollow unbeating chest, then I too would fly along side my maiden, hand in hand we'd seek unto the ends of the world. But, I believe she needs me here to protect her body as we both slowly decay, a reason  for her to come back.

In earnest anticipation of,


A Far Off Aim...

I consider,

    The riddle of strife amidst the vacant timeline of a selfless disposition of silence, Never played a new card yet was always short in the deck of tribute paid to the daily existence of people droning out compassion as if it's what's meant to due in an ongoing drudge match anatomy of historical hand me down past a lethargic date of expired time's adulterated relief is empathy's tale of mercy forgotten on purpose.

In earnest anticipation of,
us

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Charted Ambition

Notice to Self

     Replay witness memories on display in the inner eye at the head of all my cards, She told me that's why I never win, Dreams are for living and heaven is for death... Too many men live for themselves and no one else, leaving countless lives about the streets behind their apathetic life description.

     I'm dreaming out loud trying to speak her face into memory via her name, Can't begin to chorus the aftermath of said verse of what I felt for her life. No one but Mother Earth could have foreseen the melody of  my life existing intertwined with her's. If this isn't heaven, Then I shall regret eternity...

In earnest anticipation of,
Us

Breaking Point of a Lover: Time Bomb

When you leave,

     Breaking up with my heart for who I am, Just delete to forget whoever the nightmare of me, God damn me to silence, I'll laugh for a moment in the damnation of the loneliness roll of the inner ear drum's relentless echo of merciless resound, Echoing the fate of love that what I had was real...

In earnest anticipation of,
Us

May Patience Be...

Short of breath against the night trade where dreams are sold off for comforts buzz rebirth,Will our potential die this time


Some men believe in steps,

     Achieve a timeline via moments plotted out in a mechanized plan of a protagonist for your life, I believe in signs. Not ones we wait idle for, but the kind we must prepare our character to persevere through, uncompromising to the core, values of the heart nurtured by nature must never waiver.

    Belief's onset most sobering fact, everything and everyone has a purpose, yet some are stolen by means of   violent theft, others are dismantled by plague brought by greed as a well planned onslaught to end lives for momentary gain... More dreams are yet dismembered from the heart by domestic vigilance against misunderstood or unwanted dream algorithms that appear when signs to wake occur...

     Yet still, most dreams, the easiest to recognize inside self version of fate, are murdered by flocks of black birds lingering within our souls, they are the words of the external, voices of supposed loved ones and f(r)iends whispering of the birth of acceptance of self begins with a measure of comfort and status.

     I have heard the song of a billions valkyrie cry in unison as the vision of mankind surrendered itself willingly over to an apology to that which lies within. 'Dear soul, please don't resurrect my dreams any more, I've got a sequence of wonderful five, House, Wife, Kids, White Picket Fence and Car... ' Then as the prayer of resolution finishes there is a breach in the silence, 'Maybe in mid life of crisis I'll survive the expenditure to wonder at it all... Why?'

       There are too many signs of purpose lost to signals of apathy in the well trained soul, Craft your character to persevere for the aspiration of greater design that starts within, No one is better than man to causing the extinction of beautiful creatures with prospect to achieve their ambition, However dormant.

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton

Ps. I have spent a thousand times three lonely nights in the hollow dark behind this desk writing in preparation for what is to come next... How over joyed am I that I did!

Friday, June 21, 2013

Twilight's Moniker

Rules of Force,

      Ring of a stormscape land alive with fire half opened apocalypse seismic activity breaking point of the heart at my hands, This is my dread-thought, Deviant in denial of grievous blunt word force trauma to the constellation of beauty that once ruled in abundance over every portion of the universe that was me.

    Emotional sail upheld amidst the stars were once we travelled in the everlasting dark, Two lights intertwined at twilight's core, The inner most fire churning at the others sight deep inside the soul, No one ever wrote love like the one we know...

     I have witnessed a myriad of satellite men fall to ash when beauty's masquerade falters into truth from both sides, Star gazing for my dancing satellite, Seven lions from the dawn of time darks the sun each night as I bare witness to eternity in a single breath held inept to exhale by her beauty.

In earnest anticipation of,

   

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Object Force

Too much Dark,

     Ever present clock work image display of the past on repeat of where I've been rummaging about in my head, Force a quell on the shadow within, Don't want to feel this overwhelming hate for the skin that's my disguise, Too old to begin the acceptance process even the mirror denies,

     Reprogram the internal self loathing disposition algorithm, Tonight I'm conscious of you oh creative dark, Fight back the cloud of once flash of light's hope impenetrable plague a mental disassociated shadow of self acceptance disorder, Breathe to flex the soul's muscle imbued feminine embraced mass, Side of a leaf stirring in the winds of blowing signs in fate's breeze.

     I am awake and I strive... An aptitude test for hope is subliminal keeping so many alive tonight against suicide, Yet inside I can barely fathom a breach of another's heart on my behalf, No way despite hell could I ever inspire love, Maybe I've just spent too many hours on this thirty year journey on a lonely walk one way road to giving, Thus it's indescribable a reciprocation conduction in a connection to me, It doesn't matter though, Tonight I fight the lonely dark with words so tomorrow I might rise and write to die... Empty, of all inspiration, though I might find myself surprised at finding acceptance... and possibly the ever evading thing spelt l.o.v.e.

In earnest anticipation of,

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Validated Warmth

When sex is irrelevant
Life cycle's invisible blood loss
Beauty has not forsaken
Quell the upheaval
Emotional touch
Still I love...
You

Still the empress
Holding the heart
Without make up
Trust the warmth
A hero at your side
Hand in hand
As sex dies

Irrelevant sex times
Lunar's glass hour cycle
Beauty appears forsaken
My touch quells the upheaval
Emotions confirmed a reconnection
Love re-established its balance
Warmth of a lover's arms
A hero's heart granted
Access to the divine
Being at her side
All is for love

Still the empress of my heart
Loyalty held doubt captive
No makeup bewitchment
Trust the touch of virtue
Honour in the arms
Quest of a hero
Stay at your side
Hand in hand
As sex dies
For a time
Kiss me

Ghoul of Self

Mirror glimpse,

     How I see myself, Via the mirror or a glimpse of what inside lies, White tales stopped being told after moral binges long ago, When realized there is only the haunting of self to blame for the jests rendering me isolated in an oasis after following the heart's mirage into a desert landscape of dreams where I scrapped myself bare foot and bloody every day up off the pavement where I grew older every day as just another glimpse of one existing in wishful fantasy.



Photo By
        Ramses Melendeze

In earnest anticipation of,

An Ending Gift

A Silent Penumbra,

    Greets what's been written to right the world, Yet I believe; That in my living of death, my words might change this earth... Inspiring a bit more positive notes, Bearing witness to sorrow, mourning and doubt, But also joy in the aftermath of said mourning, Mending an internal prayer of healing as sorrow fades away, Doubt is a watcher's conscious wound; Stand up and join the stanza of the human condition crowd. Get involved.

    The saddest thing will be that in death I should be entirely misunderstood, as a man who longed merely to die, Too weak to take his own life. No witness exists to grant testimony to how I lived. How positivity endorses my every moment, A smile fixated upon my greying yet oft pierced & bearded to hide the gaunt face.

    How I rebuilt my body twice, Once from an accident the second from being anorexic, Because I wanted a healthy frame for a future someday who might find a way to my side, Even if it only lasted for a short time, To be re-inspired of memory of love; Trapped now only in dreams and hollowed out rehashed too often recollection of anamnesis.

     Impossible to fathom however, when not even your parents, who claim to know you better than yourself and love you above all, have any wish to understand anything about you. I have never known the joy of being who I am in love or being granted the acceptance of the greatest cosmic gift of beauty, An majestic inter-relational image mingled in a painting wherein is trapped a scene immobilized between twilight's grace and dawn's waking eyes amidst a smile; So intoxicating to the heart... In dreams.

     To retell the tale of old, How I spent ten thousand lonely nights pouring out myself upon digital pages for the sake of that which I recant myself an impossibility to find upon this earth, Masked is the decadence of love from this version of self, In the forever after shall I continue to describe the lingering fascination with the most beautiful faith, Virtue living in every second for another; For this escapes me and it is called love.

    Some will surely say I lead a most deplorable boring non-existence, Sheltering myself away from the moments I describe as living in reverse Carpe Diem, But someone has to inspire... Someone has to write and I believe in the words I've written. Whence ever my imagination came to be functional in isolation yet remain attached to live in day dreams of life beyond my four walls, I am grateful!

    When it is you find your dream, Someday you will realize that to obtain or share on a scale worthy of said wish born of the soul, That dedication is necessary. Thus I live to write, and maybe also to smile! Remember that now matters more than yesterday or even tomorrow, so find yourself believing in what you can do, Grow in it, See where it will take you! I should never have fathomed this day having written what I have, being even capable of such endeavours, nor would I have sought the path I now walk... 

    Yet I am utterly content to write in the silence until Death, She finds me vacant of jest and all words are entirely spent, I should be devoid and ready to accept the final exhale before the grasp of the hollow dark.

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton

Ps. I love all of you.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Song for Remission

Suffocated,

Hero crawled out from your dreams
Unable to clot the blood loss of time
Crimson stained flame cauterized
Scars covered his depleted form
Malnourished from sorrow
Bruised by a loneliness beating
Alive despised the scars cost
Reunion of a vermilion tide
Steady harbour stream
Pool of self losing time
Wrist watch vein
Heart's sleeve wide open
Dialogue with reason
To question the answer of life
Why breathe if all we can do is try...
No single stroke of the seconds
Survives to relive itself twice
Everyone changes or dies
Disconnect into seclusion
Exist solely in this moment
Homeless to a definition
Outlined by wind & cloud
Stars beyond tell the tale
Constellation of riddles
Metaphor for who you are

In earnest anticipation of,
VoT

Monday, June 17, 2013

If I...

Should live,

    To see the breath of my hope lived again, Nothing on this earth liberates more than living knowing you are dying, Seeing lucid dreams surviving after dawn's waning once again appeases twilight realm of obscurity of lines dipping reality between fictional memories and faction present moment tense of the human conditional treating of existence upon this earth.

    I'm sorry for the intensity, face to face via every platform of words people have told me to be... Be sorry for writing the words that no one's ever wanted to hear, No one ever cared about understanding the man behind the endlessly growing mirror of self projected by poetry, Be silent they said, Remain calm and comfortable for our heart's sake, Hate claims a wrecking ball floor dance bell's final toll over scenarios we'll never know... Because we fear a grave push over the edge of darkness what we don't understand.

    Thus the spell was cast, A hollow wage of praise eternal curse over a villain's words, An apprentice of penumbra the fades harbour a silent reclamation for his all inspiration amidst darkness, Left to apologize at dream's tombstone in the ever present cusp of too late's aftermath, Signs never waited for human stimulation, Appearing the world over courage won the moment's battle toasted the devil.

     Not seeking perfection of form in the universe to grasp not to let go, Light inside is a fairy tale nearly impossible to find even half complete in this life, So for love show off your moral code, Equality's genuinely denied to most but for brief moments of time, Broken is resolution of the heart's will to flex for anything but selfishness, A sad pathetic human condition induced by sedation for a parade of comfort, For the sake of a broken now, Projecting their past or hiding it amidst doubts of the future...

   Breaking my heart through poetry to inspire, Your journey in the here and now, To improve your character, your mind and grant you a smile in a serene moment of absorbing counter prose, Where we find only the moment of reading and feeling exists... All that matters is this, right now.

In earnest anticipation of,

Troll Under Love's Broken Bridge

Echo of an ancient scene,

     Love is trapped under it's own forum trolled post forgotten long ago in dreams as an important childhood coming of age adventure under a cobble stone country side bridge, Discovery of self amidst turbulent wounds after a fall, The heart awoke as she rescued your soul, Little girl or fiery red haired angel... A memory lost along life's debt over greediness poison hearted way, A formality of the human condition today, An invention of something we all know, Denied by a complex of comfort! Love, the reason we're here.

     Line cut short off a question stanza from the heart's stage, Is a hero necessary, No doubts about a second chance for one too intense to describe other than insanity living amongst us today, A sexual partner whose comfortable existence we adore... That's all our love desires to need any more...

    Unleash the fury of a long withheld internal promise, Fighting to apologize against solitary confinement shackled to a requiem of doubt troubled by worry inside, The body's heart hath forgotten the soul trapped in a box of the mind, Freedom rules for this moment alone, So smile and live in virtue for another's sake, For this is the universe reason for birth: Love.

In earnest anticipation of,

Solo Edition: I Wish My...

Wish my epitaph read
God f*cken damn me straight
To hell without time's wait
Condemned birth orientation
An unforgettable supposed curse
Wounding hearts of my blood
Their hesitation lost to prey
Dozens of alter kneels
My childhood's gay
Wished out of me

Wish my epitaph could have read
Born this way & was accepted

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Men have Died, Yet I live...

For less,

     Than the grand oft secluded appearing majestic achievement of love, Echo upon my lips can't describe the blossom inside, Shadow the sun and I should still smile, Here upon the waking beside a not so familiar constellation of a smile, Oh hope, Cuddling hand in hand not bound by cuff or rope... With an unforeseen yet dreamt of ever after.

     At the edge of hope there is love, Tragic lonely life sign apparel, Stranger to everyone offshore, Treading water in a sea of battered denial of a whisper on the cusp of a single breath, Anticipation held back by undisputed, Ill conceived of self destructive day dreams,  Distance for a heart on the wrist telling the time of fate oft leaps over faith's endurance on our lonely human condition swim. Suddenly befuddled by a lean in, Smidgen of the lips, Beautiful amidst battered wishes, Chivalrous had nearly put in notice, Left us stranded on an island of selfishness labelled 'every moment defeated.' Kind words reclaim the process of a most deplorable truncheon, Isolation, Yet a simple kiss asks 'heal me, I'm already complete...'

     I saw the windy city sat upon my gravestone, Beside a far cry distance to a hope random encounter, Hands locked in hand coy behind her back, Leant in smile askew with patience's unanticipated use, Lips from every generation past can't explain the scenario of hopeless desperation in the mind of this man of what to do in said situation, Closed my lidless inner eye and turned off the imagination, Living in the moment I met her skin...

     If I could be her man, I'd decipher the signs, Determine the type of hero necessary to take a stand as her secondary life line, Side by side we'd content to survive the sorrows of the sad beautiful state of human kind, Mending the storm inside with necessary acclimations of virtue amidst the struggle oft persuaded in silence to transmit but a simple touch: cuddles, hugs and kisses.

     I swear God damn upon my own grave should I not live up to the perseverance  of one, Promise to never become the desperate fiend seeking inner eye imagination sex in the mind kitten candy skin of another, Never block out the sun with a bruise like a one whose lover fibs a story of ditsy morning attempt to bypass a stare to end up falling down stairs, lays a hand on his lover, Raises a sadistic rampage over skin violent fist after a blow of a jealous ill begotten of his own betrayal voice!

     Peace reigns where patience's flux of the will to persevere of chosen destiny passes, Dramatic shot to the centre of self, I'd rather return to loneliness than wound you... The fire inside calls for a phoenix rebirth as I continue to write poetically infused prose towards a memory of something I never knew, My imagination is dazzled by the paradox of belief and faith in my rekindled heart, towards acceptance the foundation of love I've never known... Trapped in the silent dark amidst my shadowy flock of self discovered crows.
For myself...

In earnest anticipation of,

Friday, June 14, 2013

Chromosome Time Bomb

No Land,

Man on fire, I'll aid with the pyre, Built from his own bones, Scorched off ligaments stolen while he laid his head down, Beside a plague entitled carnal lust, Avidity on demand behind his every day eyes, Child of mine or the demon's own, It doesn't matter, His fleshless skin dry heaves for acceptance, Thrust of destruction, Innocence lost too young to the inappropriate values of the Devil.


Chromosome time bomb,Man who penetrates his daughter,Blacked out strike after punch drunk,Violent rape wasted inner peace,A morbid trial...! Gray twilight after a poetic mushroom cloud of verbiage explaining the decay of sexuality as the sky falls, Down the thighs of a bird at dusk, Eyes heat seek a moment of recluse to pillage her in most being, A drunken dialogue with day dream'n at the pub,


Illogical principles thrown down the stairs, Out the window the daughter flees, Victim of a sexual crime in the dry darkness under invisible sheets, Nothing to hide the intoxicating shame that lies inside after the perpetrator of rape has finished his breach, Malefaction of a disgusting nature, Innocent child's womb stolen by blood after she tested positive for a beating...


Visual image hidden damage at a blame without cost generation, Where men lay hands on their daughters, Takes the stand against his own flesh and blood, Alter netting a story of accusation of flesh against flesh her, Exposing a lie against the truth that inside dwells a chromosome time bomb whose birth will wipe away the hate, An arrival of perfectly defect free eyes staring back at her, A mirror image in retrospect, Amidst the tears she promises the same wounds won't ever happen to her new born daughter.


Prison arrival for vengeance, He raped without penalty of time spent behind bars while he cost reeled her life before the judge until all was reamed out and silent, Before the flashing lights of a living room lit by a tube she became the embodiment of domestic violence, Crimson spattered as steel married flesh, Lost control as the knife impregnated flesh, Mercy is for the free not for fugitives living in the home of a rapist for a blood line would be father.


Silent chalk outline the police pass her by, Not a single question nor the cold of cuffs, She stands amidst the vermilion scene at peace... This is the story of a wound so deep, may no one ever live through nor discover such a travesty in their own lives from long lost memories, trapped...


In earnest anticipation of,

Juton


Dodge This

Right of Passage,

     Stealth mode engage, Rogue passes the bleed thunderstorm cleave area of effect right of passage, Advanced skill pariah hiding in shadow, Cloak of evasion steps through darkness behind the prey one can never keep, Lock of the heart can't be picked, Not even patience driven by a vigilante can


    Away in the wake of love,Arms of the unforgiven bound by hate, Even the lover she cannot forgive, Comparative nature of souls, A worrisome internal narrative that leads to reckless words, Touch of the grave spell bound by a conjured stone set in a shield to reflect, Balance of the state of eclipse to distribute evenly the damage, Treants at the chicken's side amidst a forest of healing hands raining down falling leaves from their treeform free cast time limbs on the run from a death knight and a ring of frost.

     Tell me a story of a world of war and craft, Witches eaten by warlocks only to be counterspelled by mages trapped in ice blocks after a melee cleave trained them nearly into the ground, Leap of faith rescued the pyromancer from an execute asphyxiation, Welcome to my world... Of Warcraft!

In earnest anticipation of,
VoT

Word Sketch

I sit in clouds,

     Painting the landscape of memory with words, Former days of glory & hope, Barely recognizable far off in the distance, Scattered by the constant migraine of the silent swell of death's exile, Fading out of life's beautiful stream, I was but a pebble in the vast sea of humanity, At least for a short while, Her eyes held my feeble form as friend & lover.

    Jade green carved figurines set within the scene of her orbital eyes, Stare deep into the constellation to get lost in the mystery of her face, A pale serene structure at the top of her majestic form a riveting delight to get lost while intertwined in love, No sooner alter the Re-Maker's plot of her smile than loose fingers sense of touch as they ripple over her skin, The prowess of all art could not adore justice enough to qualify a description of her design, The All Father had it in for my heart that glorious fated night.

     In a magical parade of historical shame I admit my loss, As I sit here amidst the clouds intoxicated by mere flash backs into time of her memory.

In earnest anticipation of,
VoT

   
   

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Men have Died

For less,

     Than the grand oft secluded appearing majestic achievement of love, Echo upon my lips can't describe the blossom inside, Shadow the sun and I should still smile, Here upon the waking beside a not so familiar constellation of a smile, Oh hope, Cuddling hand in hand not bound by cuff or rope... With an unforeseen yet dreamt of ever after.

     At the edge of hope there is love, Tragic lonely life sign apparel, Stranger to everyone offshore, Treading water in a sea of battered denial of a whisper on the cusp of a single breath, Anticipation held back by undisputed, Ill conceived of self destructive day dreams,  Distance for a heart on the wrist telling the time of fate oft leaps over faith's endurance on our lonely human condition swim. Suddenly befuddled by a lean in, Smidgen of the lips, Beautiful amidst battered wishes, Chivalrous had nearly put in notice, Left us stranded on an island of selfishness labelled 'every moment defeated.' Kind words reclaim the process of a most deplorable truncheon, Isolation, Yet a simple kiss asks 'heal me, I'm already complete...'

     Theological beliefs contained by faith, Regiment of religious life living since days of old, Dear Christ: I just couldn't part with the stardust of hope left behind by love, Though I know in silence to persevere for equality is mine to uphold for he heart's after-this-life ends intentions of changing the world!

     I saw the windy city from a gravestone, Beside a far off distant hope randomly encountered, She leant in to beckon a kiss, Lips can't explain the scenario of hopeless desperation of what to do next in said situation! Closed my lidless inner eye and turned off the imagination, Living in the moment I met her skin...

     If I could be her man, I'd decipher the signs, Determine the type of hero necessary to take a stand as her secondary life line, Help her survive the sorrows of this sad state human condition, Taking a stand amidst life's impending time bomb, Mending the storm inside with cuddles, hugs & kisses, Cycles through silent parks in the city of lost heroes, Wondrous landscapes that enhance her beauty

     Promise to never become the desperate fiend a hated one, A man who lays a hand on his lover, Raises a violent fist after voice, Peace reigns where patience passes over current affairs, Dramatic shot to the centre of self, I'd rather return to loneliness than wound you... The fire inside calls for a phoenix rebirth as I continue to write poetically infused prose towards the love that rekindled my heart, I'm sorry unto your soul.
For myself...

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Online Dating...

Starting to Dabble,

    What the f*ck! I don't fit what anyone wants. Sure I'm stable with no baggage, a poetic hero who wants to change the world and spends way too much time thinking and thus writing in hopes of doing so... But women want funny, I can be that... Seldomly, when it strikes me, usually via sarcasm in stating the obvious, Sorry I'm Canadian!

   

     

     Even with my long hair hidden, the beard disguising my thin features, I can't be found worthy of the tragedy of romance, Love is affordable to those who seek comfort & all the ins and outs of how to daily appease said regime, I'm trapped outside the social norm in a counter poetic culture that exists as one, Writing to inspire or provide awareness to others... You are not alone.

    In my attempts to give women an honest moment, poetically infused prose romanticizes when applicable, a thousand times seven I'm met with silence, Why break the mould of humanity, The common male's decrepit chivalry, Because I believe... In validating the worth of a women through my poetic being. 

In earnest anticipation of,
VoT

Whole (Foods)

Working at Whole Foods

   It isn't just a job for me. I may just be 'that guy who still wears the name tag' at the bottom of the wrung, but I seek to live what I believe and I believe in Whole Foods Market, worldwide. Sure it's a massive corporate entity, where many would seek to blame for this or that in the realm of organics, G.M.O labelling, or possibly some rather insignificant imperfection or another, but through conscious capitalism it is something wholly unique and aspires to be as much.

     One would think that a very large (Cambie Street, Vancouver) organic market is the worst place to work for a recovering victim of multiple eating disorders while others might say it is the best. For me it helped in a gradual acceptance of food, though I was surrounded by it every hour of every day at work, even when I was off, I'd run or cycle by the store to see how things were doing and if I was needed as 'back up' if the front end was short staffed.

     I was always into recycling, even in a small town growing up where policy didn't reflect environmental compassion. Healthy eating, I tried, but usually I just cooked salads with tons of avocado, oh my goodness I love that fruit! Yes, it is a fruit, dig it. There's been so much I've learned since starting with Whole Foods about health and body, I always knew the soul (or will for those that prefer a logical landscape to said realms of humanity, some call it awareness or intellect as well) needed attention, healing and peace, but I really have learned to take care of the shell it's stuck in and it's been a blessing.

     The policies and code of conduct on the team level of Whole Foods empower me, to be who I am without hindrance. When I want to help a customer do this, that or any other thing I can. No questions asked, because Whole Foods is about positivity and helpfulness, charming and pleasant, respectful without hesitation. I can't count the times I've helped a customer carry their goods out to their car or down through the underground parkade, once I got a tip that I politely declined. I remember the woman dropped the bill and never looked back as she got in her car and drove off. It was donated to the Whole Planet Foundation that does micro financing around the world!

     Yet another aspect of Whole Foods I adore, the not for profit side, stuff doesn't get pulled to be put on a one day before expiry sale, no it comes off the shelf and goes to charity. I really do believe in micro finance, it is a powerful tool when used properly and all too often it is! Rather than aid which stabilizes what already exists, often perpetuating toxic situations, micro finance empowers people, most usually women, who lead their families and communities into a brighter future.

     While other Whole Foods employees enjoy their days off with adventures of what most would determine as 'normal,' I spend my time writing to empower equality. Even now I write in hopes that a brighter future may come of the discovery of these words. Thousands of poems, hundreds of blog posts, all I want to do is fight for a future I shan't ever see. Where all men stand equal side by side and the women mingled amidst the hand holding chain that'll span the world over.

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton

World's Over Journal II Time & Place

     So Charles and I had been attempting to work out where we were headed. Mostly we rambled back and forth in the silence until our voices were harsh or we one of us fell asleep, head upon the other’s shoulder. One night after a few hours of what could only be described as banter Charles blanked out, I looked at him and he was as white as a sheet with his jaw hanging wide open like a cod fish, and his eyes we lamp in the darkness. He stirred suddenly saying “Antioch, we’re supposed to meet the mobile fleet there. But we won’t make it, resistance at Three Rivers, tell command.

     He believes we are now just south of a place called Three Rivers along something called the I-Five, and that we were on our way to a place called Antioch. Before being hit, or falling asleep whichever came first, we were on our way to join the massive mobile core for a flanking assault upon our enemy’s rear guard. Along with Bahumat there were three other Ghost XI model mobile tanks, six single man and dual operator Crab II model quadruped tanks. A total of thirty seven well trained soldiers and seven stole away civilian family members in the Bahumat.

     Supplies of water are getting short, the silence haunts our dreams, soon we will have to move the others to see if there are any liquid rations in the crates they are slumped up against. I hope Charles can get the power core back online, every day he spends countless hours in the darkness underneath the commanders console where the fusion reactor resides.

In earnest anticipation of,
Jane
With Charles

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Access of Arms

No intentions,

     Sister Alice on a spike, Conviction of a judicial system's prejudice against would be death on a birth bed mothers to be, Repentance call from the single digit phone of hell, Life with lines attached missing in a pool of blood spent at being born.

     'Dearest loved one, wish I were alive to hold you, even just one time... But I shan't ever be near, forced by a system to declare notice on either you or I in a moment's notice of choice, The loneliness of the obsidian dream of hell allows too much time for the soul's unison with sorrow. Don't ever draw near to the gates, that is my greatest fear.'

Mum