Hive Minded xXx I

Extraterrestrial,

     Outstretched bionic tips reaching forlorn nearly eclipsed of hope fingers whose loss of range equates to reading holy deluge water Braille with sunken ever grey twilight melted cloudy eyes, pressed by the clause's hand against the ochre blood orange stained pages of no less than disdain's honourable ransom hate method  book of half a life's freeman tale that exiles appeal, save to the man who created the great lie that is the cake...

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded xXx

Last,

     Sun exiled dawn motion never attempted capture as twilight set in mourning's regret on the last day a lonely eagle's golden wing expanse blotted the skies like one ominous cloud determined to eclipse the sun on behalf of the only one left breathing, standing over the dust of his own grave, holding mechanical  hands with the A.I core a hologram fed this historical reconciliation between man and machine as one perished into extinction forever.

In earnest anticipation of,

If I could Meet... Whole Foods!

If I arranged a meeting with Mackey,

     Hopefully I wouldn't have to answer a billion no less than time's worth a dollar amount of questions, possibly I wouldn't have to say much at all for him to see the depth of passion my heart has to utilize the empathetic imagination engine within to inspire hope in others who suffer as I once suffered.

    Not only that, but to reach out positively and interact, whether that be face to face with customers in Whole Foods at store level or a broader scope; for instance blogging, social media, 'poetically hope infused motivational speaking,' telling a story of how Whole Foods Market altered my perception of both food and my body or at least played a massive part in it. I say 'motivational' because that is the term used for public speaking on behalf of an issue or to raise awareness of or even to grant a little bit of hope via smiles.
  
     But of course the audience varies and so to must the verbiage. One cannot speak to a high school, in class or auditorium, in the same manner as unto young adults or parents. Parents and university students will want a more focused plan of a session, knowing what they can take out of it and apply at home, while students must adhere to the dialogue with a laugh as to make light of hope shine about very dismal and oft deadly subject; Mental Illness, of which Eating Disorders has the deadliest rates.

     How to become a professional 'motivational poetic hope speaker;' really there isn't a way. I don't have the funds nor will I ever, to go back to school and come out with a myriad of papers that say 'Juton can now officially help people within the landscape of Mental Illness, in its personal association known as Eating Disorder(s) both Anorexia, Bulimia and EDNOS.

    Most everyone who suffers from eating disorders is misunderstood, lonely and has all their self worth attached to a physical appearance within their mind that they may never ever be, this is of course the Eating Disorders inclined for weight lose, there are those of which cause weight gain tied in with depression, though that is not uncommon with those who suffer from the landscape of Eating Disorders, Mental Ill Health. They don't want 'treatment' because that is goal oriented, just like their desire to appear one way (thin) in order to be accepted it is merely the reversal by a medical practice.

     This is a massive problem as its goal is measurements of reverse origin the Mentally Ill desire via the Eating Disorder. Getting them to put on weight and then discharging them at a certain level is not responsible. For in most cases the desire and acceptance association is still linked to physical appearance and thus they will merely drop the weight once out of 'treatment.'

     What people need is someone they trust... To eventually ask them, personally, 'what's happened to you...?' The empowerment of the conundrum that is the illness itself is, at its very core, the lack of acceptance, understanding and thus their own self esteem and mental health. The system is set up to discovery, diagnose and treat, finding out 'what's wrong with them,' so that an applicable treatment, in patient or out patient, program can be prescribed to their 'what's wrong with you diagnosis scenario.'

     But the ultimate goal should not be to solve a physical appearance, for it cannot disguise the hurt within, at least not in the long run of life's oh so dreary, oft not happy, road.

     So I would call it 'stage support,' a poetic hope inspiring summit at the plateau of sorrow.' Sounds catchy, but really it's just the poetry bursting forth in an awkward manner as to tear down the walls of 'what one expects' from a 'motivational speech' given from a stage unto an audience, so that a personalized experience with said audience that brings them into themselves and the moment. For in a moment can a smile of hope be born, relationships unbeknownst are created and are empowered to carry into the future.

    For a smile given unto another is like a pin dropping into the pond of another's face, it ripples down stream with them throughout the day, touching those in their workplace and eventually that tiny ripple, better analogy than the butter fly effect, reaches the sea; the ocean that is their home! Therein is where much of the mending takes place, for more often than not 'what's happened to you,' started within the walls we call 'home.'

      If we can heal the ancient woes and tragedies within ourselves that abide the function of place entitled 'home,' then it becomes us. Our hearts become 'home,' and we can be content where ever on this earth we roam.

     Not that life shall ever be any applicable function of the word 'perfect,' but that never really was tied to our happiness in the first place; Acceptance was, and in accepting ourselves through mending in the aftermath of hope's survival rate of that illness or any other sorrow in life, we can at the very least be content.

     Just as I am to write and perform poetry whilst working full time as nothing more than a Grocery Clerk, despite my qualifications; inspiring hope, smiles and peer support via the social media to stage story telling in a style that best suites the sight is all that I long for in life.

     I once attempted to climb the corporate ladder, I also tried to live outside the grid on my own sailboat I lived for two years but I could not escape that which I have been called to do with my life. I exist to utilize the compassionate empathetic imagination engine that drive my unique words for the betterment of this planet, Sandcastle Earth.

    Whether doing social commentary podcast poetry on social stigma, debt, mental health, domestic violence or quirky cute nerd poetry about spreadsheets and mathematics blogged simply to inspire laughter, I live to write and write to so that I might die empty and devoid of regret knowing that with  every second of my existence I attempted to achieve my silly aspirations, to lead by example, cheer other people on or inspire dreams to be followed. Chivalry is not yet quite dead!

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton

Ps. Got a little off track there, but  that's what happens when you can write endlessly and don't know what will spark your audience (you my good sir, Mr. Mackey) to give a gander in your direction. Yes, you are correct, I have no idea who you are, as a person, but I know the core values you've created that wrap your company in a bundle of 'my hopes and joys,' so it is that I reach out.

   

    

    

   

Hive Minded XIX

Socially placid,

   Torn up pin droplet of violence into the lake of inept responses, Victim all to oft begotten of blame, Siding our derelict half logical selves with the offender, Unweaving empathy to become perpetrators of sexual never spoken of hidden deep in the acid memory raining ashes of heartache is the mirrors reply to shame wounds of an unspeakable double self lead think into woes of tragic sexual every day the world over on repeatable don't move a muscle on behalf of compassion channel we should desire to change more than this abusive history we don't even hold in contempt of logic empowered by the rage of a family's hate wish for vengeance.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XXVIII

Aptitude violent course,

    Life not overly long test, Kids will be bullies growing in the mould of passive neglect the fate of their child parents who desire nothing more than sedated pill addiction wherein lies the comforts of heaven in a hell on sandcastle earth ruining song of solace found in a bleak moment on a death all to oft clause of regret bound to the contract of the last X no longer leaves a mark of compassion on the heart where the magnificent treasure has been replace by deficiency code of maleficent conduct of avarice's matrix neo gothic injection of a greed apex doctrine.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XXVII

Linear,

            Displacement of time’s nebula into realms of universal disorder where lying conduct bequeaths dereliction of moral no family loyal crest for guidance to duty gone natural gene spawning pool order rogue for the sake of Avarice’ trenched in our skin plague children who’re fallen but half atonement seeking angels doing not a single lift a finger motion to aid or abet the destruction of Earth, That’s inhumanity’s land of decay entitled ‘our only sandcastle lies in ruin.’

            Choreography of intertwining shadow held the stare of altruism’s sonnet bound the deep magic of a physics to elements creator who let  the algorithm of fate at the world’s end where the well of the last maiden dwells, thrive as they were manifest upon Sandcastle Earth, Lilith, Queen of Vampire sat upon the immortal throne of the undead legions woven by the siblings of Ungoliant the first Dracula Spider who served the dread lord of truth whose name is unmentionable after the laws of Cerberus, hound bred to seek out the master of there never was a land entitled hell, were passed by Raphael assistant dopplerganger of Michael the Fallen Archangel of Lies, this is the future and the past at the very beginning or so it would seem, of the forever fantasy.

            Treasure of the heart’s distinctive assignment to propose that the graph of luck about the mental epidermis is a contagion, spreading chance by indirect brush of a high five tap contact is more fathomable that a not so divine purpose that seems too often convened early due to the disembowelment of ‘God’s will’ upon us mortals, no… The algorithms of the deep magic of chance derived from fate by luck’s not so random destiny of elements and physics should be recognized as something more than an apathetic cause to whim a vocal one choir chord syllable towards, proposing as a jest that it mattered but only for the landscape of a moment… Whatever we are, nature or nurture, Created or Randomly Generated, we’re more than meets the eye, So transform your heart to the keen endeavours of hope, which are bound to empathy and them to ethics and awareness the social scape of equality.

In earnest anticipation of,

           

Storage Cloud

Digital facility,

     Store my heart on google drive in triplicate, unfortunate server break green over lack streaming text edit, down went my tri-force soul after the maleficent  experiment of the emotional core malfunction. Am I the only one affected...?

In earnest anticipation of,

767 Whelp Prodigy

Whelp prodigy

Golum in the mirror

Dual audio dialogue box

Personality swap paranoia

Schizophrenic shallow breath

Anticipating the incarnation

Of player versus player

Self monologue

In the mirror

Undone

Black oath son

Sheperdless vow child

Intoxicated plot unfolding

Causality of heart reminiscence

Murmuring through violence

Under a bully lord's throne

Father's game unplayed

A Chess surrender

Match of size

Never wit

Loss

Whelp prodigy

Holocaust skeleton

Sideways view holigram
Incapacited half life illness
Mental anorexic measurements
Decapitated epidermis layer
Daily pound shed or else
Wishing for acceptance

Scale reflected mirror
Tragedy of tomrrow
Suicide time loss
Shoulder weight
Of the world
Alone...

Hive Minded XXVI

Garage sale,

     Expose of pastures of distant memories dredged up half complaisantly to alter the secondary mentions of a plot inside your head twisted in an attempt to conjure a magic that might sate the conundrum of painful lop nearly always more than one half sided night terrors where you're reliving the satisfactory glances of a bully titled 'dad.'

In earnest anticipation of,

Why...

Why write,

      When not even the ones that 'care' take notice.

In earnest anticipation of,
The Anti-Silence

What Stays... Hides

Self Loathing,

     Outskirts of Vegas, Degeneration realm of lights never wanted to visit any place in the world less, Where the pornography of everything runs flesh exposure rogue of distinction signals to every sense that doesn't matter informing consciousness that lust above all else must be performed orally upon Averice, A monetary green text over black systems flag digitally rendered wet hand job dream for endless sunny death day after Sandcastle Earth has fallen into disarray from the pollution of choice made on behalf of profit; synonym for war and victim blaming sending adult derivatives of children to rehabilitation no help from either wing or their family centres on the edge of a neighbouring could give less a damn  town already run off filled to the brim immoral trenches...

What stays in your head... Hides in your head.

     Expanding internal false monologue flex of a comfortable conscience of one universe emitting a nebula of take... Take, Take... Show no empathy, never give until in death you surrender and your life shall you have neglected to forecast the unholy nether storm exposure of frozen will numbing fingers upon your awareness... The misery signals you took every trench warfare upon your own soul step, avoided until... Regret upon death's only payable debt bed, for all the pornography in life you ingested without regard for fairy tale story of a partner and wife neglected; Oh greedy fly.

In earnest anticipation of,

767 Online World Addict Complex I

Storm Trooper online

Laser evil twitching finger

Crime scene of bullet comets 

Laser single file hidden number blasts

Social tragedy life ending imprints

Comments of depression buried 

Open beta idle battle field realm 

Outsourced test child dummy

Readings between bullies

Lines of a complex

Hiding their hate

Altitude adjustment

Cancerous derelict attitude

Surviving under-bridge denial
Socially accepting stigma bully

Vapid paper mache persona

Playing online pretend

That hate can't win

Hasn't already...

Sunken seeds

Deep within

Paradox shadowtrooper

Laser sabotaged pendulum

Synthetic li(f)e force sith crystals

Imperial randomly blasted comments

Dregs open pariah ambition beta hate test

Online miserable targets of malevolence

Casualties of a cyber star distant war

Darth no skywalker buried complex

Midichlorian virgin messiah birth 

Masked struggle with fate

Fire rebirthed f(r)iend

Thriving on pain

Attitude convulsion

Derelict anarchist twitch

Thriving on digital agitation

Imbiber of online troll clamor

Social bully mirror stigma denial

Vapid paper mache persona

Playing online to pretend

Hiding animus discord

That hate hasn't won

Hasn't already...

Planted seeds

Deep within

Digital Sith Lord 

Lightsabre anarchy

Dark Jedi Knight online

Laser evil twitch death sword

Random elegance single file blasts

Hidden number social life tragedy

Darth wish of a Vader imprint

Chaos burying depression

Open beta idle battle field

Ronin bounty realm
Complex of hate

Dregs admiration
Needless seriousness

Self victimization complex

Entitlement of every moment

Spending funds bashing pacifists

A dialogue of hatred dispensed

Carpe Diem symbiote of rage

Gaming to sate depression

Hidden history of violence

Playing online pretend

That hate can't win

Hasn't already...

Sunken seeds

Deep within

Death: On the Snow Fields (Waking to Hope)

Every morning,

     I start the day off with a song, in the living room. There I do yoga to this classical music infused amazing track and meditate on my life or sit quietly reflecting on nothing but how my body feels in the stretch. When it ends, I get up and receive myself into writing. Even if I haven't completed the pose or thought, why...?

     Because then I know, without a doubt that there was more contentment, joy and hope left to reflect upon and it can be found throughout the day or in the morrow.

In earnest anticipation of,

Pendulum of Greed

Day by undying day

May your heart change

From sick of apathy's ache

To storm trooper of above par hope

Amidst the endless plague distance

Of the last great social gesture
Unfathomable acceptance
Not denying the cost
Of Avarice alive
Rampant today

Apathy & sorrow

Doppelgängers of hate

Enemy onset against hope

Speaking to the mirror in stigmas

Social reformation sickness of pacifism

The star dust falling over Sandcastle Earth is finished

Last dying star completed its distant no cylinder effect cycle

Put your arms up to invisible cuffs of comfort's lethargy

Unwatch the mirror yet stay tuned to criticise 

Pacifism empowering the death architect

With stones throne in gossip prose

Behind the backs of friend & foe

Not uncommon suicide eulogy

Unfriendly fire's damage

We trade hope in

When we lie

In wait...

Pick & choose

You're the arbiter

Hopeless arch nemesis

Inhuman being in the mirror

Never lift a partial printed finger

To save anything but comfort

Glutton has soul taken over

Selfish architect of zero

Will of a wasted li(f)e

Spend on seeking

The pendulum

Of greed

Poetic Responsibility (Dubbler Art)

While it's true...

Poetry can take you on a journey

Hoping that the words craft move the soul

It's nearly impossible for a poet to know

Where the skin consciousness graph

Will take you, for everyone...

Everyone is different

We all have our own

Story of woes

Unimaginable

Misery Signals

Expounding on hope

That we survived

Against the names

We're once called

Poetic Responsibility: Ode of Shadows

In earnest anticipation of,

J

Hive Minded XXIV

Not a second,

    All too oft discovered late chance strike of luck to find not all is forlorn, You were malignantly caught up in a circus of dark where the shadows of a trigger's breathe of violence lay heavy in a half the pieces left chess equation should the match of life go on despite the phantom lingering no mirror reflection but the inner gone rogue with mental ill health eye's ability to render the image of a limb complete even though it's playing an amputee disappearing act stage side left curtain of a scar drawn where an arm without force gave itself over to the wounds of invisible mechanisms of war; synonym of greed the sibling of profit daughter of avarice, Sandcastle lands of earth carved appallingly for mines and drone fly-bies under cover of night where visions of green text over matrix black screens bring unimaginable terrors upon children.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XXIII

Censored programming,

    Methods behind the occupy case for conviction of conscience on historical display behind prison noose sentences of citizens challenging the adulteration that is the monetary new age bushido class no morality for the coast of greed political to profit system. This is the society we dwell in, a harsh reality of a symptom impregnating by the spore of Averice, sister of the troll gluttony, mother of the dredge wolves of ever hungry debt seeking mouths for the sake of abating the venom in their fangs as it stings prey into conscious sedation, apathy the mother of Averice would say 'well done my good and faithful daughter! Your atonement unto hell that lies waiting to rule heaven is accomplished.'

In earnest anticipation of,

Quirk II

It's really no different,

     If you text message and drive, just like the rude bus driver who 'think being on time is more important than life,' so to do you, think that that conversation that you're having is as well... But it's not is it, not really, not in any sense of logic (which powers science to discover the plausible) or reality, will a single dimension conversation hold more weight on the road than the lives of those you share the road with, from child hand in hand beside a stroller with his mother or the driver next to you.

     Let me ask you what this, how aware are you when you are driving? What matters to your eyes and mind when the lives of people around you are just a fraction of a wheel tip away from injury or worse...

     Let me give you an example of what a cyclist is and must be conscious of in order to be safe, not only for themselves but for those they share the road with.

    Firstly, drivers. Most cars drive as if the cyclist is a mere nuisance upon the road. As they pass they rarely signal, even if they are passing you near a left turn and thus cut you off as they round the corner. The same thing happens at stop lights, people neglect turn vouch for the fact they are turning, presuming everyone around should just know their intent without having to be notified, they don't signal... The light goes green, they begin the procedure of turning the corner and nearly hit the cyclist that was right beside them, usually at eye level, all along.

     Next is the random generation of pedestrians, whom I like to describe as 'lemmings' who like to turn abruptly and begin crossing the street from off the pavement (side walk) without so much as looking over their shoulders to check if they might just be walking off a cliff into a sea of traffic like the little rodent into the ocean, as the tale goes.

      Often the lemming will yell some slander at the cyclist as if it were their fault, without realizing that it was them who put both in harms way, after all no one would walk out in front of a car and then yell at the car, you'd be too scared, heart racing, after the experience of nearly dying.

     Then there is the parked cars, watching in the mirrors to see if someone is sitting idly inside. Why you ask? Well it is because people in parked cars like to open their doors without checking their mirrors, 'dooring' the cyclist, nearly decapitating them... Well not quite but often being doored leads to serious injury and the lemming who doored the cyclist leaves as if nothing ever happened.

     Road, the asphalt itself can be a hazard, especially in Glasgow, as there are massive pot holes, divots and storm drains that may cause cyclists a head over heels crash or worse. The conditions are made worse with the weather, from frost during chill winters to wind, that we try to compensate for, which blows us about at its leisure, for it is the power of our sandcastle earth and we are but the cyclists attempting to brave the roads on our way to and from work.

      So once again I ask you, how much are you aware of as you drive the by-ways, high-ways, streets and roads of the world we are ruining?

In earnest anticipation of,

Quirk

     While cycling last night at 10:39, with fully lights and reflectors, I was rudely cut of by a bus at a pedestrian crossing. This is not the first time I have had my safety held captive by the bus drivers who represent the City of Glasgow to the world as it happens nearly every day. 

     I can't believe the brazen disregard for life that some of them have as they pass through red lights at pedestrian crossings or cut me off for to arrive at their next stop just a few seconds early than otherwise if they had not.

     Getting to a stop at a specific time is NOT, I cannot stress this enough so I repeat, NOT more important than the safety and subsequent lives of people.

     If Glasgow Wants to be a World Class City it needs to conform its transit systems to be safe and make sense to people. No passenger on a bus wants to witness a cyclist being cut off or put in harms way on behalf of a few seconds delay; whether they are visiting the city or it is their home.

No thank you.

J

Hive Minded XXII

Docile

    Once peaceful regime of parents who raise bullies, Pass a fist carrying a flag of purple bruises and submissive no less than 100% detrimental images of a mother... Son taught by a drunken police no PTSD relief from the stress brought home by an off duty officer on every occasion the drink met his lips that spent too much decrepit time vomiting up a vile sonnet craft in passive yet overly physically aggressive mechanisms of verbal not even for a second idle but terrorizing banter that was the prelude of his stagger, out of the lazy hate boy leather before a televised program of ethical oil destroying the earth underneath the family falling into ruins upon sandcastle earth, how could he not justify the abuse as an chivalrous attempt to bring a unit in line, as he stammer and stuttered up out from the chair just like every other incident never reported before where he started swinging at her, he made hints after the end of every glance over his shoulder at his family's seconds of peril as they waited for  nights of throwing a post mellow post violent dramatic passive overly covert aggressive stress never tested but upon spousal epidermis disorder.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XXI

Epidermis swollen,

     Glands wishing for memory woes loss infraction after a black no contraception or pull out a six inch trigger untimely injection of a nine month periodic damage over time spell of a rough gauge it pain's sexual organ spread wide open threshold, collapsing after birth.

In earnest anticipation of.

Poetic Dubbler iOS App III

A Phone Infused Poetic Word

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/villain-of-truth-on-dubbler_1

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XX

Contemplating the nature of crows,


      Feeding the tears of wolves as daylight fades, the drones of x marked the hardest sadness of angelic passing heaven's shadowy apparition of bliss by, content in atonement's long suffering breath trapped behind the North wind where dwells the patience of all who once thrived on the clamour of an ancient lament entitled fear of loathing all reason to exist; Especially loyalty to compassion.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XXI

Cover of darkness,

      A loneliness sway of white atonement from baggage carried during a jackets attempt to cure whilst wishing sheets above the skin were a shelter from the past where attunement with the last exile in the mirror's tragic overly relived in the pariah of refunded memories on nightly display amidst shadows of the distance... Where situations unchangable lie.

In earnest anticipation of,

   

A Moustache Movember

If it's not for you...

    It's not for you...

Look every's body, it's Juton's Mo Space!

Check it...

http://uk.movember.com/mospace/9453297

Movember 2013!

I really don't like it, but I do it for the cause!

Look, I'm afraid of the mirror on my phone!

Trying to hold the contempt for face in...

Embracing it...

In earnest anticipation of,

Poetic Dubbler iOS App II

A Phone Infused Poetic Word

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/sandcastle-dubbler

Gates of Metal... I Mean: Algorithymns' Radio

Edition one of Algorithymns' Music Radio Podast

By Juton

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/gates-of-algorithymns-17th-nov

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XVI

Burial placid untimely avenue

     Tracing the fear chalk outline of a pacifist's complainant out of place in the darkness of an alley known as an obsidian television only thing on living room crime scene descrying a December lifeline call for mercy from the end of a watching a murder of birds fall in bad weathered the illicit storm of unmentionable clarity of an eternal voice.

In earnest anticipation of,

Artist's Story Board Mother's Sorrow Workshop on Creativity

No one has written,

     Maybe the standard for 'the first submission' is very high and as of yet to be anywhere near met via said works of the citizens of the Witness Guardian. I know not, though that is my only guess.

     So what to write...? Certainly nearly anyone who exists has a story to tell that might be found worthy of being broadcast under the witness guardian protection digital media program of this here little website, but what shall this tale stagnantly tell? Possibly it is not derelict, as an ancient nothing but rusted out holds long looted by pirates about to run aground on a shoreline where no tourists, nor natives, have ever dwelt. It shall be an odyssey of a grand undiluted saga of win! Yes, win, for all your basis are belong to us.

     How bout a telling of an ever long saga of nearly all starving to not so struggling artists, the woeful long suffering life of perseverance despite... Well, hereafter you shall have it.

Nearly all journeys,

      Into the creative side of ones consciousness are uniquely besieged by dark tides. Rife is the realm of sorrow, pain and mourning within us all today. One doesn't have to be a clinical trial 'cough' victim 'cough' subject afar 3rd world field filled with the prospective threat of land-mines to feel the effects of world that our Sandcastle Earth grievously wounded and might soon be compared to the ruins of Mars...

      Some artist's adventures are riddled with what we call 'writer's block' which can send your dreams spiralling down the tubes beyond the porcelain throne if you're not diligent to persevere in your medium of creativity. Most do not question said imaginary complexion, 'writer's block,' when its sword of symbolism crosses shields with a deviant in armour, whose sitting upon the not so valiant stead of the artist we merely shake our heads and say 'that's a true shame that.'

      Not even for a moment do we begin to propose that said statement is merely an over spoken malignant line that empowers the tumour killing the aspirations of creativity within the artist... No, we accept that such a predicament has arisen, allowing the persistence of the artists to go unchecked and thus the aforementioned device of 'death to creative drive' remains pent up within someone who could be... No, that is not for us to judge, it is only up to us to question, the answer must, or should nearly always, remain inaudible and hidden as to keep secure the dreams of the creativity starved oft under appreciated and always questioned, 'why are you pursuing this in the first place,' artist.

      The landscape of 'creatively stagnant due to blockage' exists in many forms from that of the external, being social or antisocial to internal such as lack of perseverance, drive, patience or will. An example is that of one who finishes a first or final draft of a work they deem 'magnificent' or 'a game changer in their creative medium' and thus put aside creativity and dedication to their craft in order to persuade others to produce or sponsor their project. Sadly if the said contract to continue as a paid artist doesn't happen, the dream of creativity often dies with the hope of funds for further works.

       There are countless instances of artists being plagued by external avenues of time theft. Whether that be f(r)iend or arch father stressful life nemesis, if your ever-presence to persevere in creativity despite set backs, horrid creations or failures, if it fails and you delay over long, there may come a time when you walk back to the door of your dreams... You might find it locked at the end of a labyrinth with a Minotaur in the middle, a devil inadvertently self created. Thus you begin knocking upon the portal betwixt the threshold. Alas no one responds therein is naught but silence, the pattern of creative beauty is no longer at home in any landscape of your reality; heart, mind and consciousness, synonym for will, soul, spirit or bones!

My Rubbish Harbour

        Too far out on the barren oil plagued seas as a black patterned no one after sheep in a dingy with no oar or life preserver the shores of distant lands dreamt of achievement at quest's creative realm's end, no where in sight. No home to walk back to, even if one could walk on holy water or turn it to wine... Or ice for all intensive failure of a miracle wished for prayer purposes to walk across. My dreams began with an accident.

   Two of them to be exact. The first was that of my body being damaged beyond diagnosis, for an aching period of pain more than two years long when I was twenty three years oldish. On site, a fork lift came round the bend of pallets and in a fright the driver lurched and I was struck by the tusks of the mammoth beast recently harvested from melting permafrost in the far Eastern Realms of Russia, ivory sold to the evil engineers I was once submissive to.

     But greed no longer plays a roll in my life after being struck in the chest and sent falling into said stacks of pallets. All would have been well if I had been taken care of by the insurance company that covered work place injuries, which happened to be sponsored by the government. Sadly my faith and trust in both corporations and politics died when I was abandoned to much sorrow.

     No diagnostic unutilized tool did I find myself under until my doctor finally got approval from the insurance board after watching me suffer for six months of constant pain and prescription over-the-top pain killers hadn't even begun to dull the constant sharp twinges and searing agony.

     A flat line down bone to howling cat scans and injections of serum conjured up some results. A deeply routed injury and for nearly a year I continued to be overcome with pain and the mental haze of pain killers, sedating any desire or creativity. Finally I simply began stretching and holding yoga poses at home from a book I got second hand at a charity shop or thrift store, something of either the sort.

      Out of money and no where to live, having no f(r)iends, due to a lack of desire to socialize from being brought up by bullies on all fronts. Everywhere was a battlefield of verbal sticks and banter stones. The sad existence of a bullied lonely youth and subsequent useless online repressive nerd to geek driven adulthood, eventually, however, the writing began. How and when... I dread to remember the juggler of my hazy memory naught.

    Words streamed out as poetically infused prose journal entries. An existence of imaginative empathy trapped in the horrors of painful rage inside. At the hand of chance's fate I ended up across the country working for a massive, once again no trust was placed, corporation and quickly began moving up the ladder, though not so swiftly of pay grade and the writing all but came to a screeching, I was so daft to stop, halt.

     Then the second accident happened, I believed a lie. A creature unimaginable floating as butterfly, cocoon wrapped beauty on a the exoskeleton side flipped in a decrepit genesis of hate into a maleficent demon who lay dormant inside, waiting for prey. Sadly everyone that had ever known the butterfly, decomposing before my eyes into a moth, believed she was at very least, normal; a placid little adorkable creature, thus so did I.

      What I had to offer, the demon wanted, a comfortable life of easy conscious sedation, I would never raise my finger before my voice in anger at anything in life, pacifist. But my creative rage instilled words that would not be quelled by any offer... Even that of sexual, you'll have to do all the work no matter what position, pleasure.

      After all I had barely any inclination to touch the evil one in the first place, being a massive role playing nerd, I found my escape from reality not in the fate of epidermis infused pleasures but in a digital realm entitled World of Warcraft, by Blizzard Entertainment, (clause)All rights reserved to return to said world will be held not in contempt herein after this paragraph ends(clause).

   Have all the perils passed? No, certainly every moment is a contagion for another catastrophe unimagined, but with pain and consciousness comes patience and wisdom. In fact the more poetry that spews forth the more that is learned about self and thus the mending of life continues in contentment. Herein is part of a Spoken Word Poem.
      

When Maureen was an innocent child

She used to spend convulsive intervals wondering

Stim packing her bipolar no second chances personalities
Wherever she traversed, Upheld by whose kidding juxtapose idiom voices
They didn't believe in her, just like her derelict space odyssey mother

Just like her mother's cold she wanted a boy off in the distance stare...

Backyard toxic screen check language chasing her out the door

Escape the fear bomb story of one heavy handed conversation

Polygraph video kaleidoscope memory gland held it all in

Mourning after journal entries of hidden treasure

Found herself in another predator's video

No it was her merely mum's brother

An uncle's vigilant paedophilia
The vile reality of a hunter
Yet she rose amidst pain
Locking away misery
Spasms of ache

What is this malarkey, stop the swelling vermilion red's kindred tide of anti-sedation upon the shores of consciousness! We are comfortable here, but alas the poem goes on...

When my mum was innocent and beautiful
She used to spend convulsive intervals of time

Trapped shivering behind manifested parental prejudice

Willing herself to believe she could reclaim her withered smile

If only she could reach her backyard sandcastle universe

Beyond the screen toxic language closed door

Patiently tolerating the tirade amidst tears

Liberation came as the fist was raised

Besieged child of pain's dialect
Swollen eyes can't escape

Auditory multiple voices

Valid sanity response

To insane
Circumstances 

Alas for the tragic, not so unique yet too often reprised roll of nightly wish it were her death bed victim(less) crime they described her life as... Something she grew accustomed to, yet never once asked nor challenged the putrid will of a vile creature times two, parents gone missing in a never ending curfew of no one wins but wounds child abuse!

When Maureen was a tormented youth

Forgettable no family table disgraced scraps

She used to spend convulsive intervals sedated

Bed sex payment riddled packing her bipolar personalities

Into no second no one's ever kidding juxtapose idiom chances
Where schizophrenic dualities of disorderly personality misconduct spoke
Derelict multiple sinking voice over the side ships that didn't even believe in her

Just like her cold no hearted drunken mother wish she was a boy mother
Even the scrimmage of personalities within didn't dare perceive value
Just a distant half periodic mirror's loathing reflection stare

Backyard tox-memorandum-screen to check her baggage
Always hateful language chased her out the back door
Vengeful wish she was never born insighted hatred

She never could escape the fear bomb story
Of every nights red one righteous handed
Down from a father's mismanagement
Illicit kaleidoscope face paint
Phantom bruises never recorded
Never recorded Phantom shades
Unlimited resource of bruises
Police line up aspirations
Conviction left unproven
Falsified detective work
Polygraph darkness test
Child falsely incriminated
Trapped in an idle rime
Pain endowed shiver
Frozen happiness
Permafrost exposure
Balloons never drifted away
Freedom like hope
Lost

Could it just end now, with less ounces of infringement enamouring our conscience with the sorrow of truth too often hidden behind pictures of victims left blank, no one took the time or care to listen, to ask not what was wrong with them... But what...

Father's betraying fingers
Like daggers to the heart of shame
Nightly mirror polygraph diagnosis
Test she failed twitching in a stigma
Holocaust thin on high accident metabolism
Hands reaching for enlightenment stardust brings
Acceptance despite the horrid word sticks
Painful fists of stone work ran amok
Penetration rampart skin walls
Damaged by derelict waives
Beaten black and red tide
Bruises mingled in blood
Kaleidoscope epidermis
Shore lines of woe
The shame of rust

    At least baggage carried now is stable, in toe is only that which helps mend others through whatever, highly ignored, adventures in poetry that come forth in what seems to be 'writer's block' in reverse. Living to write and writing to die empty, in hopes that the journeys craft will endure long enough in a digital shadow to aid others in some meagre more than a mirage, yet hopefully inspiring and validating into realms of conscious acceptance, way. 

           Writing about what seems to matter; equality,mental illness, victim blaming, prejudice, injustice, love, domestic violence, mother earth, father time and artificial intelligence, a cyborg holding the last human's hand in the end.

         For one, other than my vapid self, it might be realizing and confronting a grievous wound or explicit deeply set off conspiring scar which may or may not be a constant burden of a long, but never forgotten, trauma. For others it might be witnessing in their minds the sorrows of others, unable to change the node on the dial or alter the channel to escape the imaginary landscape adventure.

      Whether it's being able to identify with others in a new and beautiful, empathetic to non pass the fist around the room, hand shaking the issue at hand from self down the unsolicited line, after being stolen away on a journey through tragedy, loss or mourning into revelations that are or have indeed suffered confrontation with coming to the surface of reality, possibly for the first time... Spoken out loud or written down. Hope is the prescribed outcome, that is my only hope.
         Where does your mending begin? On a train home from work after Baring Witness to an audacious conversation between two gossiping behind the back adoring quacks? In a school aftermath class of ignorance effectively prioritizing the classification of the masquerade called life other people give you with verbal sticks and vapid stone thrown at you room after taking in the impact of a lesson spoken by some random workshop poet scheduled in for the day? After some traumatic misery signal that was the sign you prayed or hoped for that would spark you to change... But sadly you didn't until it was too late?

         There is no such thing as writer's block, a not so mild proposal, there is just being stuck, possibly... Persevere, endeavour on in your creative medium, create despite the lack of inspiration, you'll never know what you might craft if you believe you're stuck and don't make a move forward in your creative endeavours.

         There is no such thing as being tone deaf, when your mother calls you over the phone, you know who it is... You can instantly tell by her tone whether or not she is happy, upset, sad or frustrated. Slowly apply this to your own voice and you too can learn to sing in beautiful tones of melody.

       The point is, don't stop being creative before you've really delved into the realm by which your dreamscape is taking you, especially just because someone informed you or some media state of ill propaganda fed to you throughout a masquerade they're attempting to fulfil a lie of disassociated labelling called 'your life' instilled a belief that 'you cannot... because.' Unlearn such non-sense as to disbelieve in yourself because the vapid bullies of our dregs society, whose parents adored them too or cared too little to scold them in any capacity until their pariah nature was all too clear in a prison cemetery brick six feet under cell. 

       Begin mending before the kaleidoscope grey skin to red blood clot swollen bruises of your own wounds to scar over, cauterized by the flames of sand, the mirror's intoxication with an unpleasurable self denial of acceptance.

       We can never be perfect for ourselves or our partners, often times we can barely preserve the best essence of ourselves for others. Though they may help the mending process, only we can find contentment in who we exist as from one derelict space time continuum ship moment unto the next, projecting the snow filled oceanic crystal whoracle ball image from one dreary station of our human condition unto another. Not always in healthy chains does our past hold a noose of shame around our hearts that, carried as we travel towards the next stop in our escapism of conscience, acceptance and compassion.

      I leave you with a poem written while witnessing, which seems appropriate given the content herein is written for a guardian proposing that life's witnesses view, digest and reassemble to share a tale with would be clicky pointed back dagger finger viewers.

Baring Witness

Crows gossip beside me, murder stains their beaks, vermilion scales of painted red dance like pawns cursing a game they never meant to play, sinisterly calm in year long trenches of venomous speech, paper wire tapping idle of response unstable personalities bounding ridicule against f(r)iends through parasitic liquid revenge sworn unto death seething from the mouth of hate...

In earnest anticipation of,

iOS Dubbler App Take 1

Hive Minded XVI

Laminated,

     No moral contract fibre clause on the back onyx fire never solves the pretentious complex question of the soul, Through the worms of shadow delved exist the dregs of a pariah ethereal realm where exists the sacred dark numb version of hades we entitle the lowest form of life is hell half bent forever twisted by the vacant bones toss as vermilion bleeding out word sticks thrown after the verbal battering rams of stones cascading down upon the nearly hollow victim without solace.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Minded XV

Thorn prick contractual non-agreement,

       Mercy lost to roses handed down threat of life stealing inability to adapt to the forever dark, posing arbitration via fleeting networks of toxic colourless c(l)auses on artism's creativity  fed into an open no other source but bed of death grave!

In earnest anticipation of,

767 Stim Pack Youth (Someone's Wounded Mum) II Podcast

 Have all the perils passed? No, certainly every moment is a contagion for another catastrophe unimagined, but with pain and consciousness comes patience and wisdom. In fact the more poetry that spews forth the more that is learned about self and thus the mending of life continues in contentment. Herein is part of a Spoken Word Poem.

      

When Maureen was an innocent child

She used to spend convulsive intervals wondering

Stim packing her bipolar no second chances personalities
Wherever she traversed, Upheld by whose kidding juxtapose idiom voices
They didn't believe in her, just like her derelict space odyssey mother

Just like her mother's cold she wanted a boy off in the distance stare...

Backyard toxic screen check language chasing her out the door

Escape the fear bomb story of one heavy handed conversation

Polygraph video kaleidoscope memory gland held it all in

Mourning after journal entries of hidden treasure

Found herself in another predator's video

No it was her merely mum's brother

An uncle's vigilant paedophilia
The vile reality of a hunter
Yet she rose amidst pain
Locking away misery
Spasms of ache

What is this malarkey, stop the swelling vermilion red's kindred tide of anti-sedation upon the shores of consciousness! We are comfortable here, but alas the poem goes on...

When my mum was innocent and beautiful
She used to spend convulsive intervals of time

Trapped shivering behind manifested parental prejudice

Willing herself to believe she could reclaim her withered smile

If only she could reach her backyard sandcastle universe

Beyond the screen toxic language closed door

Patiently tolerating the tirade amidst tears

Liberation came as the fist was raised

Besieged child of pain's dialect
Swollen eyes can't escape

Auditory multiple voices

Valid sanity response

To insane
Circumstances 

Alas for the tragic, not so unique yet too often reprised roll of nightly wish it were her death bed victim(less) crime they described her life as... Something she grew accustomed to, yet never once asked nor challenged the putrid will of a vile creature times two, parents gone missing in a never ending curfew of no one wins but wounds child abuse!

http://www.spreaker.com/user/juton/767_stim_pack_youth

When Maureen was a tormented youth

Forgettable no family table disgraced scraps

She used to spend convulsive intervals sedated

Bed sex payment riddled packing her bipolar personalities

Into no second no one's ever kidding juxtapose idiom chances
Where schizophrenic dualities of disorderly personality misconduct spoke
Derelict multiple sinking voice over the side ships that didn't even believe in her

Just like her cold no hearted drunken mother wish she was a boy mother
Even the scrimmage of personalities within didn't dare perceive value
Just a distant half periodic mirror's loathing reflection stare

Backyard tox-memorandum-screen to check her baggage
Always hateful language chased her out the back door
Vengeful wish she was never born insighted hatred

She never could escape the fear bomb story
Of every nights red one righteous handed
Down from a father's mismanagement
Illicit kaleidoscope made up face paint
Phantom bruises never recorded
Unlimited resource of bruises
Police line up aspirations
Conviction left unproven
Falsified detective work
Polygraph darkness test
Child falsely incriminated
Trapped in an idle rime
Pain endowed shiver
Frozen happiness
Permafrost exposure
Balloons never drifted away
Freedom like hope
Lost

Could it just end now, with less ounces of infringement enamouring our conscience with the sorrow of truth too often hidden behind pictures of victims left blank, no one took the time or care to listen, to ask not what was wrong with them... But what...

Father's betraying fingers
Like daggers to the heart of shame
Nightly mirror polygraph diagnosis
Test she failed twitching in a stigma
Holocaust thin on high accident metabolism
Hands reaching for enlightenment stardust brings
Acceptance despite the horrid word sticks
Painful fists of stone work ran amok
Penetration rampart skin walls
Damaged by derelict waives
Beaten black and red tide
Bruises mingled in blood
Kaleidoscope epidermis
Shore lines of woe
The shame of rust

Spoken Nerd(ity(

The Conscious Streaming of Poetry as a SUPER Nerdy podcast!

http://villainoftruth.tumblr.com/post/66974781179/spokenword-spokennerd-worldofwarcraft

In Faith & Hate

Blame isn't a Game

     A prose poem 

Written as a social commentary 

Against the dereliction of duties in regards to victims

The association of blame and corruption

Court of injustice,

      Hearing her name horribly contradicted half desiring to impeach the police to give testimony to his willing in front of the court room defiling her identity house spoke her name wrong on purpose, An absurd derivative of the false equations of ethics math's logical premise for equality doesn't find the sum of anymore...

     Apex officer code of moral hygiene never tested but in easily deniable moments or in dark allies where succubus lie in way to seduce seemingly alright men into a transformation from c(r)op of a sworn oath academy to pig... Burying inconveniences behind a badge like a British half Columbian farmer hid sexual corner of once your favourite street workers, times eleven.

     Unofficially paperwork is signed that commissions a dreary life configuration for someone else's children not so far from the ruins we call home, Hope lies in angst, Frustrated by the blame we're passing no longer behind backs with gossip but in front of judges with bull horns... Screaming 'I just gave you an account by my own lips of the grudge predatory sex match in my own bed that I was violated in happened and now you're telling me it didn't happen that way at all...'

     'By all my inhuman rights sold into sexually trafficked before all the witnesses of this courtroom for a single pint of beer, that may or may not have been laced with unmandatory pills to get me into bed, maybe it might have happened some other way... But it didn't, I was raped and now this official document entitled falsified  public criticism transcripts you're all selling my life away.'

    What society is this... No wonder Maureen forgot what happened on Friday, bringing the shame amidst sexual pill marionette in a filthy puppet's bed once called her own but auctioned off in a back yard bonafide she started it to scorch cauterise the scars of the black and bruised locked door fire she watched that night until the vermilion shade of red's malignant clot of her memory set in, that mourning, she'll never remember again just to forget the pain all over and over and over he violated her and now I'm just a bygone of the same sexual odyssey of this disgusting historical no less than every future generation will look back and say this was but a rogue history we lived, Rife with the plague of blame, greed and corruption of every codex doctrine of ethics sandcastle earth's ruins once imbibed us all upon birth with... Just so we could throw them over easily away.

     Nothing irrelevant ever continued to happen save by our allowance, by standard lateral effective crime watched endlessly in the dreamscape of mirrors no one ever mentioned... Because we're a society built in a web of blame, siding with the abuser more oft than the sitting on the side of every line the jury past by to convict her guilty of being only for a brief half of a second no chance but this moment of submissive nature, thus she was sentenced to eternal but no less than mandatory shame.

This is our society today...

In faith & hate