Bitter Remix XIX

Sudden Portals,

    Cocoon sleeping conscience emotion terror awakening hearse entombed nightmares taking no pity where the immortal flames dwell, Sun of a solar fading out star sandcastle universe, Empire of soon to be twilight subconsciously sedated by chose swollen pride head landscape the falling ruins of earth, Time sunken mountain tops cascade a blind eruption fire towards the mortal plains as they die, Crashing hour broken down hope glass, Shattered by the faith in a queen who stood idly by, Avarice! Empress of greed.

In earnest anticipation of,

Malefic Condescension VI

Satan exogenesis,

     Guiltless marionette whoracle contortionist ownership evolutionary wish palace of pathetic amputated thought prostituted psalms' requiem ode to a killjoy sandcastle earth displaced ethereal pariah casting cold spells to chill the bone tombs enshrouding the amputee exit war shed wound crying tears for the world left ungrieving behind, Cautiously pretending to have taken bereave number never used to call your unmentionable egg bullet shell scattered held ransom to silence name at all.

In earnest anticipation of,

Untimely Poetic Guilt for Silence

Graphic finite time,

     Wasting emotion terror night toxic dream stampeding mares masquerading as vermilion red tidal waves upon non-disclosure inaudible vernacular artistic unread digitally rendered submission shores, Every nine to a thousand times five days spent wishing they weren't a plague of derelict moments miss given to another's ungrateful avarice marginalized profit, The cost of my every no second take back memories stolen haven't mattered less than gestured hour my debt to live shattered glass... This.

     An invisible ordinary pirate dream sinking relapse ship are my unsymbolic metaphoric vernacular some kind of equality activist poetic ways, How many days slaving away ungratified can I perpetuate the storm inside cascading as I disappear into the democratic capitalist unfree world breaking every meagre portion of my forlorn yet hopeful heart.

In earnest anticipation of,

Symphony to Darkness

I've said it before,

    Live to write your dream empty from within, so that when you meet the grave there's nothing left to regret. So why this post, why tonight? Does a black as the crow flies unmovable cloud hover over my head...? No, I'm simply fed up with the unmendable response of that is silence; An every day glass realm shadow cast.

     Looking down upon the matrix green over black screen pages of text that are the significant unexplainable vernacular signatures left, embed upon no living soul, behind; ransom unatoneable as a statue illegitimately designed pregnancy born from the poison that is stagnates the well of my... Emotion terrorized consciousness, sworn oath to the moral trenches of conviction for acceptance.

       Nearly a quarter million 250,000 poetic written spoken words, yet no one would call me an artist or say that I am a writer. I accept my black invisible sheep status, a quota all families must fill; I am mine. But must all my messages bow before a silent oblivion death, never to impact anyone? The poetic journey that healed me, is it all meaningless?

     So what then? Do I write this tonight out of bitterness or resentment at the past? No, I write this because I cannot change the future with all that which I have written or who I have become as a person... And I am not talking about merely about what the written spoken word poetry might do if it touched the soul of another or who I am as I write or how I exist  with authentic conviction and positivity empowered by a smile for the future of acceptance, and thus love, in our world today.

       I mean, that despite what I write, the world around me continues to take one massive dump upon my head. Watching hashtags on twitter go viral about selfie pictures with homeless people in the background, makes me sick! A future with derelict moral fibreless children leading us, even if they 'swore they've changed,' is a glass shatter hour future I don't really want to see. Our current state of the world is hard enough to bare. Reading the news every day to write about the hope and tragedy found therein.

      Working never 9:00 to 5:00 in my life I find everywhere I go, that system's corruption in the consciousness or lack thereof awareness beyond the mirror's pride imagery. Leaders who should never be given the opportunity to be in charge are given the reins of control over proletariat people and you can almost see them daily become more disheartened... Watch the world of debt drown in between walls filled with avarice sickness, how long till sandcastle earth turns completely grey?

    Even so, maybe I write this post upon this invisible digital page as part of the ongoing poetic timeline that is my black poetic echo of a sheep's life. Whatever it is, the reason I write, I know this. That the Algorithymns Poetry² Spoken Word Universe(ity) Project will empower the poets who write in service to the moral conviction clause of acceptance the world over. 

      We will give them a community to stand within, peers to support, mentor and inspire them to bring about social change, even just so in their own lives. From the remote areas of Africa to France, Belgium, Germany and beyond into Brazil and Mexico, where the silence of the poets has fallen. Community of caring, authentically inspiring: Hope!

In earnest anticipation of,

       

Malefic Condescension V

Lord,

    Internal glamorized deadly god of seven embraced sins proclaimed virtues against stigma by a clandestine psalm hosted preyer gathering society thriving beyond the dark portal of your front deficit owned door where scheduled street violent harbinger messages are proclaimed as meaningful instead of as mayhem, There is no obstructing the emotion terror of obstructed grace against back society stabbing injustice, Throttling the debt tension noose around our silent freedom seeking throats.

In earnest anticipation of,

Obstructing Justice IV

Conflicted bully,

     Abandoned unshackable rogue shelter abandoned wishful hope thinking bone lightning fist struck under blind marionette paranoid shadows catering to the nightly intoxicated poison black chess bruise match raining bloody slugs isolated to a monster's deviant will moral hatred trench defiled by disloyal harm calculated arm unto flesh of son's devastated shallow dark vermilion stained breath coughing second violence generation language vouchers school untested yard up via the contortion of a restless barrel of a tongue.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things XI

Stab,

    The tumour white mutagen paedophile sexual predator degenerate incest second adopted generation handed grotesquely inherited down inner dysfunctional eye...

In earnest anticipation of,

Obstructing Justice III

Suit reject background,

    Devil's solitary astutely loyal bar law unabiding none but the numb cold the mirror's lessons of shadow hold for one whose poisonous self manifest lies are never ice image cold inaudible conscience awoken after dreadful shouldn't wish to know better willingly bound unremovable blind witness fold unable to render the cancer told as a subconscious enemy dagger bleed amputee heart out thrust.

In earnest anticipation of,

Scotland, David Cameron's Backyard Mordor

The North,

     Oh Canad... No wait, I mean, all hail the power of Jes... uh, nope! Wrong again, alas for the unbidden, yet written and rarely witnessed, poetic dialogue of an advocate dreamer...

Dear Scots,

      I propose that the future for ya'll is more than the prospective Oil Barren Wasteland of a real life Mordor that David Cameron has mapped out for you. Now, first off, if you don't know what or where Mordor is, let me show you a few parallels to give you perspective on the land you'd be living in a future of fracking for oil.

One of the following places is real. It is a desolate realm in Alberta, Canada

the other is that of a mythical dark kingdom in J.R.R Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

Can you spot the difference? One is a most majestic work of fiction that exists in the far plague lands east of Middle Earth, whilst the other is a land gone corrupt rogue, in the centre of a once great and beautiful land known as Canada, eaten away by acid infused water for the sake of oil, by the process of fracking.

 This is what David Cameron desires for the North, for Scotland on behalf of London's 'bright future,' free from the reliance on Russian oil, as he said just this past week in a push for fracking.


So what then will happen to Scotland, what will you choose when it comes to your future? Collective Federations of States, Republics and Islands are voting for independence all over this beautiful, falling... Sandcastle Earth, for a future they won't be afraid of! Defying their fear of the unknown on behalf of a more balance existence for the coming generations.

     So what drives your vote this fall?

And now! For what I really do... Poetry

Written Spoken Word Social Commentary Poems

Bizarre Circumstance Death 

Part I

Nocturnal mass grave

 Corpuscular last amends

Pest liable profitable conquest

Moth's bizarre colourful final entry

A cocoon journal request
Against the black tide

Oil assisted suicide

Planetary meltdown
Inhuman hand catalyst
Bee swollen amnesty sting
Hive world of protected profits

Drowning grasshopper string hymns
Under acid sky falling river water

A beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Preparing our last entry

An open coffin act

Of inhumanity
A pesticide

Nocturnal mass graves

Defiled exhumed cocoons

Gestating scientific resurrection
Evolutionary death amnesty event

Pupal silk corpse brood nest 

Lab white mourning rebirth

Grey rogue moral world
Gone honourably numb
In honour to avarice
Harbinger of profit
Queen of Earth

Exiled matriarch 

War synonym for progress

 Shogun of sandcastle Babylon

Artificial butterfly drone operations
Imaginary enemy intelligence legacy
Amputating opaque larvae from homes

Napalm breath terror upon civilians

A beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Preparing our last entry

An open coffin act

Of inhumanity

A pesticide

In earnest anticipation of,

Pictures Powered by Google

The Little Things X

Methodical vernacular,

     Unspoken killjoy gangrene apathy tongue word extortion, Illicit unrequested third extraction unheroic salvation antagonist requisition party attempted to explain the unholy ochre husk within our invisible hidden fine never witnessed inside mental repented after reading the clause incurring no title but a thousand verbal mechanism queues for timeless: soul.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things IX

Burlesque gasoline,

Ambulance night's shelter objective lost silver unwoven phoenix oblivion fire, Crash of hope's man swallowed paramedic down whole cataclysmic world nation fear kingdom lost to convictions internal conversation to avarice's willingly digested fuel worm cell toxic sees, An alien site in the mirror's bones unseen.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Mind L VI

Hereditary epidermis,

     Land gene mine   sequence obligation of pock skin mark reaction explosive story catastrophe judgement's stranger eye willingly obliges itself to inhumane stigma perception statutory read, Blaming the bearer for her husk no shelter hide away lonely residence she cannot live but to escape.

In earnest anticipation of

Destitute Guitar: Sunday Report

Rarity,

    A post like this: Normally I reserve all opinion, in current human form, and thus bestow upon the world naught but my endless banter of poetic vernacular, but today...! Oh, today I must give report of the circumstances as to why I wrote the Destitute Guitar Poem and began The Obstructing Justice Poetry Series. It all started last week whilst on vacation, for the first time ever at age... *insert really old age here* for the first time in my life, in the wonderfully unique and inspiring city of Berlin.

    Sadly the instance for inspiration was not hopeful, as one might hope from such an amazing, liberally equal city. Coming down from the trains in Alexanderplatz Station, right across from the dry cleaners it all occurred and it made my heart wrench and gut ache. Myself and my Partner in Crime were physically sick for the remainder of the afternoon due to the sorrow we both witnessed.

     We were on our way to Kruezburg for a walk before the rain hit, coming down from the trains headed towards the subway, when we say a young lad propped up against a pillar... Crying. His tears were those of one forlorn, devoid of all hope, eyes nearly destitute grey with mourning for the loss of hope.

     Beside the young man with long brown hair, a quasi clean shaven face, who wore a green jumper and ratty blue jeans, there was placed a black soft shell guitar case, but there was no beautiful overture instrument within. It was in his hands, but he was not playing it, weeping for our woes as we passed, his depth of consciousness and intellectual prowess looking down from side walk heaven in heart felt ache, no. However amazingly skilled at his craft and pleasant of being and IQ the lad was, was lost.

     For in his hands was the guitar, as I said, in a night terror alive, two.

     The head had been broken off, away from him walked several youth, sneering and whispering as if they knew the plot that destroyed the young destitute man's hopes for a better off not alone tomorrow and for any sort of, not on the street sleep tonight dreams. From what I gathered, through perceptive ever presence and assumption, not being fluent in German, that they may or may not have destroyed the object of the young man's heart. I was too heart emotion sick to stop or ask my other half to piece together, herself rough around the translation edges with German, what it was that they had been sniggering at saying about the iris tidal swollen cocoon of tears lad. 

      Since I know not German well enough I did not stop and do more for the lad, performing my poetry to raise funds on the corner for him, as that might have caused a much more traumatic and worse scenario for him.

    I am a not quite starving artist, working full time besides doing all the content art that you see and working on a novel series, on top of trying to be... Yes, well. Trying to be, let's just leave it at that for now. So I wrote poetry on the subway, hoping it would one day find its way back to the broken man. But this, now is not enough. I will sell a guitar I won last year, that I cannot play well enough to validate keeping. Thusly will I procure a small amount of funds to 'give' to a friend in Berlin in hopes that the guitar they buy, might reach this young man and restore... Well, whatever it does, I prey it allow him to play it in the future.

In earnest anticipation of,
J The Villain

Ps. I challenge the morality in you, discover the truth, care, share this most hidden gem of a virtue: Equality in daily repair, thriving inside of you.

PPs. The Plan is to email the poems, along with this post off to several contacts, a few German magazines and news papers in Berlin in hopes they might 'help,' whatever that means today, in this derelict moral trench age, along with the funds raised from the selling of my guitar, when it sells.

The Destitute Guitar (Broken Face) Obstructing Injustice II

A response to intolerance

A public display of violence

Subway broken heart

Guitar strings...

Begin!

Public social distortion 

Invalid unhumorous behaviour

Physical mic speaking threat action

Breaking marionette guitar wooden necks

Institutionalised social destitute stigmas
Voiced by disguised antagonists
Blowing intolerance steam
Addicted to applauds
Is the drunk hero
Throwing verbal
Fists

Home lost
Attention to violence
Hostile domestic deficits
Abrupt scattered dedication
Broken protagonist flight traffic
Destitute drunk blame pattern wings
Child of the clenched rosary fist religion
Standing awake on the edge of our globe
Dialling karma god's unanswered number
Memorized like the unhealed bruise pattern
Side lonely brown box shelter society opt out attempt
At touch humanity from a cardboard longitude
Trying to persuade the memory dust to leave
Erupting conscience avoided by pills
 Social outcast life sacrifice
Hiding in tombs of regret
Destitute of dreams
Broken Subway Guitar
By a lightning vulture bug
Villain of verbal mortar fire
Intolerance consumed
Laughter's expense
Was he...

 Public distortion
Invalid hate speaking
Illicit bad intent behaviour

Physical mic speaking threat action

Breaking marionette guitar wooden necks

Institutionalised social destitute stigmas

Swelling lungs of apathetic laughter

Inspired by blind peer eyes

Supporting 

Was he...

Crying from the heart

Of his destitute hope

The melting glacier of his guts

Wishing inhumanity would disappear

Until then, they'll be drowned invisibly out

In the toxic gas swelling chamber

Of liquor acid tear rain

A wish string bone

Always picked

Until...

The destitute guitar

Met a violent curtain curfew

Now he sits forever drunk

Before an empty tin...

Idle silent can

Public social adrenaline

Invalid voluntary hate action

Physical mordor black speech threat

Breaking underground destitute wooden necks
Marionette guitar misery over hope's neglect strings

Institutionalised stigma peer abducted laughter

Supported moral derelict clause humour

Subway future labyrinth passage

Broken homeless faith shore

Gagging on the beach of tears

An unholy hallway noose

Bestowed by manifest evil

A blind eye group turn

About face the mirror

Oh handsome heathen

A dapper social satan supported devil

Never death solemn regret waking

Time has stolen all obligation

Bitter is fairness' child
Equality the disease

So be it in darkness

Upon Sandcastle Earth

Hand palmed rosary karma beads held too lightly, Dilutes Buddha's cross apparition of cost into a ghastly Christ figurine lowing sinister wink kisses, Woe is the magnitude of my vengeance, 
Upon the intolerant heart of greed

Obstructing Injustice II

Tonight I hang,

     Myself yoga doppelgänger prayer paper folded clip hand pose over, Triple poison word fed edge of illusion dose left us in the shadows of contempt's vermilion sea of regret where the shores of the obsidian unexplanitory obsidian self explosion hole take the heart in a silent righteous choke noose rope hold, Never letting go... Save for the brink of truth or death.

In earnest anticipation of,

Moth Suicide II

Nocturnal mass grave

Corpuscular last amends

Pest liable profitable conquest

Moth's bizarre colourful last entry

A cocoon journal request
Against the black tide

Oil assisted suicide

Planetary meltdown
Inhuman hand catalyst
Bee swollen amnesty sting
Hive world of protected profits

Drowning grasshopper string hymns
Under acid sky falling river water

A beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Preparing our last entry

An open coffin act

Of inhumanity

A pesticide

Nocturnal mass graves

Defiled exhumed cocoons

Gestating scientific resurrection
Evolutionary death amnesty event

Pupal silk corpse brood nest 

Lab white mourning rebirth

Grey rogue moral world
Gone honourably numb
In honour to avarice
Harbinger of profit
Queen of Earth

Exiled matriarch 

War synonym for progress

 Shogun of sandcastle Babylon

Artificial butterfly drone operations
Imaginary enemy intelligence legacy
Amputating opaque larvae from homes

Napalm breath terror upon civilians
A beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Preparing our last entry

An open coffin act
Of inhumanity
A pesticide

Dark matter conscience

Inhumanity's meltdown

A second act hymn

Planetary meltdown

Second hymn

Beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Prepared last act entry

Journal of the coffin

Butterfly mass grave

Monarchs last amends

Pledge of a bizarre suicide

Beautiful corrosive mélange

Globe absolved conscience

Prepared last act entry

Journal of the coffin

Crows final notice

Black liability murder

Unavoidable sky mirror

Seppuku against humanity

The dead are untamable

Butterfly Slow suicide

Evolutionary toxic skin

Harakiri epidermis rebirth

Rebirth to wear a death trap

Genetically modified food cocoon

All predator's white over black signs

Appealing warning tag of suicide target

Butterfly genocide appears a ritual suicide,Evolutionary death trap epidermis,Harakiri rebirth from genetically modified unbreakable cocoons

Emotionally sates hearts

Ruining all earth's kingdom homes

God lies a promise absolve your crimes

Humanity watches world(s) people die

Prepare a coffin for multiples of two

Imaginary oil Christ & all of you

The Little Things: IX

The possibility of power in poetry: One epic short!

Vagabond status 

Post waif secondary detention refugee centre of the final act lucid fantasy world moral trench war never won.

In earnest anticipation of

Obstructing Injustice

The following was written in tears,

After baring witness to meaningless violence

In a subway a homeless man played his destitute guitar

Until a deviant inhumane citizen broke stepped on it

Breaking the hopelessness plagued man's prize

His only great hope in dreams possession

Swollen iris crying fathoms as I write

Seeing the world's tears relived

Falling from his eyes

Alas I am am but a poet

Starving my wrists to death artist

Bleeding words the length of a skyscraper

Just to change the world for nature

Back to the moral trenches

So acceptance can linger

As the smoke of greed

It clears forever from,

Every single scene

Upon this...

Our sandcastle paper mache glue unfurling earth

Here we go: Discharge One

I hereby discharge the threat of my woe filled vernacular

Upon the fatigue of hope's uncleansed misunderstanding

To disturb your condescending social mindsets

I prey upon your comfortable witless attention 

On derelict of moral duty behalf of apathy

As she, Avarice has doused our hearts

With doubt's intolerant behaviours

A plague walked willingly blind

Parting aspiration of dreams

To a vermilion lethargy sea

Wherein lies Lilith

Satan's karma

Buddha's Queen

Nurturing our conviction

By mending tolerance

Harbouring pretentious eyes

 Dousing prejudice hate gasoline

Adoring the tidal waves of ignorance' rage

Bringing us social stigma salvation

Via the vermilion stained hand

Righteous be contempt

Live and forget

Never learn

Rise... And

Obstruct injustice

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things: VIII

Sinister blind,

Batted eye black world view hole wink,A beyond the skeletal dead life regurgitation attempt at saying 'hi there.'

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things: VII

Post 

Never haste ending abysmal moral fate trench obsidian sea of slavery depths ruining compassion via nurture's lethargic intuition.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things: VI

 Historical cancerous,

     Memories periodically reported as darkness intervention damaged beyond recognition on behalf of the donor.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things V : Opinion's Metaphor

Literally figurative hyperbole impact,

     I could post blog articles and prose post adventures that boast an intellectual myriad of well structured hierarchy vernacular rebuttals based on my opinion(s), but this isn't about me, this is about you; finding your beliefs and opinions rife amongst the metaphor.

In earnest anticipation of,

     Creating double event deterrent horizon cemetery think shark speak battle word field tank cremation fire vocal off media stage war accord of dark corner malady plot deviant constructed avarice margin lie sheltering the cost of life's tomb less 3rd refuge world remorse.

   

Villainous Times: Driving a Stigma

Three drives of a stigma,

     There are three main areas of society and human psychology which drive a Stigma. They are Generalizing people into categories; Comparison between two different entities, either human or broad spectrum, such as a culture or society as a whole, and the third is our very own human experience being brought into an interaction without our awareness of it.

     For instance, when you first see someone on the street, lets say a young African American man handing out news papers early in the morning by the bus stop outside the subway station; or perhaps a homeless man whose sitting on the corner beside him. Do you treat each of them uniquely? Are you aware of the preconceptions within you that have been formed by: The media, News broadcasts, Past experiences and the society you dwell in?

     If you are aware of these, you may be able to treat the people you meet every day as unique. This takes time to come to it's full magnitude within someone. For there are many key factors:

     Do you harbour resentment and carry it with you... Possibly wherever you go from your past? This will empower comparison if you let it and allow you to brush off the uniqueness of humanity via generalizations or categorization as to avoid... An interaction?

     We are so full of trauma, fear and misunderstanding of ourselves and the people who are around us that we hide ourselves. Just watch others when you are out in public. Hiding in a book or magazine, headphones or text messaging.

     I will admit this, to be aware in each moment, from not being aware much at all is a lot to take in for the psyche, it almost hurts at times. Even I must 'hide' in my music at times, though I am fully aware of the words spoken, the sound and the way it makes my body sway, even in public. I would run home from work, when hope was still strong, with my music blaring in the streets of down town Toronto. Aware of the road, of the eyes upon me, but it didn't matter, I had a place to go and a reason to be there.

     There are other factors as well in the background, though they can be massive as well, like resentment which builds hatred and prejudice. Gossip is another key element in the spreading and control of stigmas and categorizing.

     So I'll leave you with some questions for next time: Do you generalize? If you do, where does it stem from? The media, or possibly family(how you were raised) or is it from a hidden resentment from the past.

Do you believe we are all equal? That every life is worth... A unique experience each and every day?

Do you generalize the opposite sex or people with a different sexual orientation than yourself?

Are you conformed to society or do you conform it around you by the way you live each moment?

     Do you care about the earth, the animals and possibly another human being, now or sometime in the past or future to come? If you do, then the change starts within you, nothing can happen unless we change ourselves, one small step and one small day at a time.

     Lastly, there is no method to the madness of living a Moral life, or an aware life. Sure there are 'don't do this or that' But when you are in the moment, there is nothing that tells you "Juton, tell her this it will save your relationship" after hearing of certain things. Everything like everyone, is a worthy life in progress.

     I accept that have magnified harm upon others in the past, that I am a villain, that conformed my life to the silence which empowered equality's death. But tomorrow, like today and every breath, is a moment for a new encounter! With a pen, or keyboard or the human sitting behind you as you read this. Or maybe they're on the way home, give em something unique, give em who you are! Inspire one another and love will be...

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things: V

Hype system addiction,

Kick radar drum blip gone cold numb sweat rogue towards the bottom unlevel realms of deepest denial sleep.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Mind L VIII

Creating double,

      Event deterrent horizon cemetery think shark speak battle word field tank cremation fire vocal off media stage war accord of dark corner malady plot deviant constructed avarice margin lie sheltering the cost of life's tomb less 3rd refuge world remorse.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Mind L VII

Over diagnosed,

     Fail code safe white medical evac tunnel ride between worlds, Persecuted chrono acute trigger gene malfunction compact thrives evading deaf tone digital harbinger off pariah grid malignant servants of the DNA mandatory imprint: Death.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Mind L V

Technical radar,

     Marked X spot the civilians mind field running as hounds from the stench of plague, micro heart phone bleeps a monitors deaf tone as the runner's gone numb, limbs violent contortion extorted appendage torn messenger cause distorted final flesh from shattered born cry, watching the world of sandcastle inhuman earth decay before the tide of war, synonym for profit, twin sibling of avarice, empress of greed, may all death be sworn in judgement to her fantasy story of endless gain.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things: Train Transit Poems

What happens on the tube,

Goes live before your eyes: Addictive any substance buzz abuse self prescribed slavery mood elegies swing the endorsement of no profit traded for potential over red post never haste ending abysmal moral fate trench obsidian sea of slavery depths ruining compassion via nurture's lethargic intuition, Wherein resides a historical cancerous memories periodically reported as darkness intervention damaged beyond recognition on behalf of the donor's heart sleeve tattoo gangrene broken appendage swollen land karma mine Buddha forgotten battle seething fields of war, Taken too many countless... As Avarice' margin hidden life cost.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things IV: Party

I'm silent,

     Reflecting I survey the atmosphere that is my surroundings, Learning better how to respond out from compassion's empathetic imagination engine that drives the very heart of me. That's Jay, over there in the corner, not upon a wooden stool raised above the crowd upon an open no mic necessary stage, no epic stories to fascinatingly drawn people in tell them all to build my faded, no confidence but courage, ego in a broken self mirror savannah dry oasis internal mirage image.

     Raining myself harbour in, Fatal knock hook out mouth event speak plunged,  Vocal anchor chord remittance unto a sandcastle spoken world poetry earth I shan't ever take part in, Adopting a relinquished heart murmur back shadowy corner invisible vernacular consciousness predator.

      This blog and the poetry, or whatever one might call my broken prose, is no longer about me. Once it was rife with the traumatic healing of an 'artist' with mental illness. Now it is about... Metaphoric language and the rise of your conviction(s). For found haunting amidst the torrential double metal helix D.N.A of poetic written spoken words, are your own opinions, which are founded in beliefs and long moral derelict trenches, that were never wholly abandoned, for the thought guise of fairness lingered forever within you.

     So welcome, now read, listen and thrive!

In earnest anticipation of,

A Bitter Remix XIX

Witlessly Honest,

     Berated by a deluge of hymns, Mirror translucent in-comparison self broadcast far cry distant relic empathy algorithm floundering in history's compliance, Unprepared condescended wilted in mid cocoon apocalypse opening bloom, Aspirations lost amidst tantrum spread lethargy toxins no psalmist's pathetic prose altered poetic jest inhaled could purge past the incoherent point of automatic hyper internal conscious active control awakening schematics under cursed pressure to combine the what you think with the way you think...

     Therein find the malefic grievance between the fire infused sand half imaginary harbinger portrayed in the oasis glass mirage baring illegitimate witness to the inner eye and the ghastly emotion sick gaunt echo of a self mechanized equinox heart chant disposure aching description lacking anywhere in life acceptance to build the continuum everlasting code of courage on one's own behalf.

In earnest anticipation of,

Roulette Oppression Russian Dice II

Made derelict,

     Redundant master hand peace craft hand call zen sign of duty gone roulette Russian hemisphere control rogue aftermath of autonomy's reform gauntlet down challenge over crimson board throw of saved civilised face conviction, lived by witnesses no less than a muzzle ashen empire flash longer under threat of emotion silence terror  thumb of the horseman war, riding the mechanical white plague mare of the final book's sandcastle redemption earth protagonist, Devil's skeletal haunt deranged harbinger being; Death.

In earnest anticipation of,

S.W.U Brings Us A Creative 'Unblock' Storm Project(s)

Weather,

     Whether or not you develop your own creative mode under the beautiful ominous threat of silence or betwixt the eternal sound scape overture pressures of malady and melody, there is method in the subconscious madness that marionette string self pull persuades your creativity to come alive.

      The storm is often harsh of criticism, whether from the external society that 'just doesn't get it' or from the self, where doubt lingers for lack of a confident foundation. This is what the Algorithymns Poetry² Project Spoken Word Universe(ity), is all about; instilling courage upon conviction in artists, so that they might overcome and utilize the life stage threat of silence to their advantage, whether that be whilst performing or in every day to day social 9 to lonely 5 irregular artistic interval existence interaction.

     Don't let the master-peace hand dramaturgy craft fate key into dreams go redundant to everyday survival epiphanies drumming lullaby comfort shallow aspirations into the depths of your imaginations wonderful creative tide.

In earnest anticipation of,

 

Roulette Oppression Russian Dice I

Hospitable probe of hostilities,

     Failed dystopian conduit of guilt, benign of remorse amidst civilian voted half blood oppression cash torture suffering conduct in Ukraine's anonymous occupation cotton slavery field's distorting willingly opaque lies conquering knees paper clip seated upon calf ash gang cloven green foot remains; hands nailed to the throne of compassion's erupting pain, the ground before Putin's white holocaust Hilter's artistic iron distorted fist canvas perforated eye failure has adopted a second hate tongue language of control's second cold chance winning rogue hand war sequel as penance is ghastly broken string pretend marionette string performed behind a secret shade vale of twilight dim internal grey cloud bleeding under an invisible guise of inner heart never skeletal X  marks belief's dying swollen cycle sky spotted vulture belly of dictatorship's nether spawn cemetery minor chord over major threat  lies.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things III

Roulette die,

     Tank civilian steam press roll freedom call dystopian failure of Mother hole Earth's upheaval rebellion event of continual shattering jolts amidst terrestrial revenge entitled war of the world III, Detestable last society stand conduit of guilt benign of remorse conduct.

In earnest anticipation of,

Social Voice Commentary Poems at Dawn

The following,

Is what flows at dawn, upon waking as the sun is yet low under the brimming mountain shadows, where it hides, lingering in wait for a moment when the pressing algorithm of eternity's cycle protests the light from it's realm of strangely dim island of invisible hope.

Write, yes, right! Whatever type of artist you find yourself to be, what you project via the creativity that resides within, find that expounding image, however grand or minute, and take courage that the work you are and have made, is... Is more than simply, as some people might say, 'just art.'

It is you upon a stage, hidden in the closet of your room or trapped inside your head, yet awaiting a medium to expand out from yourself upon paper, canvas or instrument and entreat upon the rest of humanity the great gift that births forth from within you.

Greed and fame are not the ways of creativity, though they may be thrown upon the titles of 'art' and other such labels, I say, create, simply because it is who you are, it is what you enjoy or possibly it is because of the great conviction that lies within, impeaching your very existence to create on behalf of those who have yet to rise.

Live off,

Faltering wire diagnosis side tap step the hallowed vale of lies condemning holocaust profit castle Narnia Earth as the terrestrial synopsis orchestra crescendo arrangement of guilt conceding help to war the prostitute of prophet named Avarice Queen of the Russian quarantine block army invading roulette shell casings shock citizen's ashen dust breathe from swollen tension chests!

In earnest anticipation of,

Obstructing Justice VIII

Hang the witness,

     Every dawning day hour I prescribe my intolerance to the guillotine of knowledge and the pathetic wasp ideology hate psalms crescendoing disguised as hymns  so that the conscious every second adaptation of wisdom shall imbibe consent of compassion to thrive in understanding as acceptance drives the li(f)e pledge of regret, Happy false salutations apathy stated the conviction of no longer derelict moral trench lost conscience once an open lie case never so willingly closed unless to concious comfort sedation.

In earnest anticipation of,

The Little Things III : 767 Charles Bonnet Syndrom

Charles Bonnet Syndrome

       Mainly Affects Elderly or Sight Lost, visual synapse loss syndrome chapter of, 'for the most part,'mild off mental ill social health stigma target quota let down reality's guard to blindness organized enjoyment hallucination merry unexpected entertainment break from the dreary on kilter edge of normality.

In earnest anticipation of,

Hive Mind L IV

To your fangs,

     I consent silence extolling hideous dark obligation matter of conscious deranged sedation occurring marionette stage of strings left detached long ago to self mechanised addiction worship illusion hypnotised puppets freedom is life's unknown A.I at the world' send participant.

In earnest anticipation of,