Monday, June 30, 2014

The Wheel Take II


      The a-moral gone white rogue inner complaisant eye of apathy's storm centre cognitive piece storm, Where the eternal lounge silent grey twilight lullaby remains an unspeaking impeached partially bought pacifist bribe off blind, A memory shrapnel ache haemorrhaging witness playing a internal pretext mentally chess unstable match game set compassion lost love to a non black threat of a wolf sheep in the mail envelope containing the last recorded lungs breath of an uninvented she died a week ago image trapped in the conscience, Between the moral trench divide of empowering the action of what is... 'Right?'

In earnest anticipation of,

Unity Against Tragedy

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Moved by a Wheel

Found a song today,
There lyrics were...
From the original Track by SOHN: 
But if I...  Had my way.
They might end up

I died a week ago
There's nothing left
It's caught on video
The very last breath
My very last breath
The memory ache continues
Beyond your very last breath
So exist against the deficit
Expound the moral lullaby
A deluge against regret
Until the very last...
One breath...
At a time

Until the last...

All this fuss over nothing
Reinventing yourself in fire infused sand
The first light invention flash bulb: wheel
All this searching for something that's seemingly...
But fantastically real
All this fuss over everything
Reinventing the domestically abused wheel
All this searching for something that's not real.
The approximate intentions of reality…
Fill conviction with purpose…
But it isn’t…
So says the media wounded intel

She died a week ago
A linear seven unapologetic day cycle
There's nothing but memory ache shrapnel embed tears left
A red siren light deviant illuminated chalk sexual outline caught on video
The domestic caste masculine immoral bushido system hid the evidence
Of the violent intent finger army cob epidermis web cocoon siege
Covert tension confidence disguise hiding sexual aggression
A carnal intoxicated bargain of compliance
Gambling with the disguise of wolves
A one (k)night phantom or hero
Lead her to her last breath...
Her very last breath

In time a dementia avalanche
Will cave in all memory land nightmare mines
Covering the shrapnel of evidence
Caught on dreamscape relapse
Gallery of videos beyond detail
Every night's wishful thinking
To be the last time
The very last time...
She remembered
(His curse)

All this fuss over seemingly nothing
Reinventing the misogynistic nurtured cogs of the wheel
All the searching for something that's not possibly real
All this fuss over theological unproven theories
Reinventing the moral wheel
All this searching for something that's not real
The trenches of nature...
Something not even real
Not even real
I died a week ago
They say there's nothing left
Nothing but intentional drama left
As if I left by blade to skin f(r)iendship
I swear it wasn't bullet suicide
It's not as the deviant says…

So there's nothing left
It wasn't caught on video
My chalk modifying last breath
Mere memory outline
My very last breath

So continues...
The memory ache
Unreported global rape
All moral trenches reveal
Chivalry is a mask of misogyny
Lying silent in beautiful insecurities
That no man will ever again...
Set foot in them
And so I died
Was my last breath

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Dead Ocean Marionette

Shadowy depths
Tree of li(f)es equinox predator 
Gyrating palace of death figurine
Once posted to the throne room of gold
 Buried sea ochre obscene green for eternity
Under rolling nameless tidal hills without purpose
Sandcastle earth entitles the monsters waves
An oblivion communion of sky & ocean
Holding the harbinger's
Last echoes at bay

Shadowy depths,

     Tree of li(f)es equinox predator figurine, Buried sea obscene ochre green, Under the rolling nameless tidal hills of waves, An oblivion ocean grave, Holding their last echoes at bay.

In earnest anticipation of,

Friday, June 27, 2014

Malefic Condescension Myths at Play


     Never wardrobe reprised memory traded fantasy adage of eternal dream appeal, A fate wish designated realm where the mythical don't protest what's real! Trusting the imaginary company of the angelically mythical, Existing in the loneliest strangely dim position of abstaining faith just above neutral, Where a myriad of absolutely whole derelict of any choice heartedly consciously sedated algorithms of this inhumane everything is a-colour-moral grey generation, Seeking the dread endeavours of naught but carpe grace never descended anyway(s) diem.

In earnest anticipation of,

Thursday, June 26, 2014

The Little Things: Malefic Terrorised Secrets of Sadness


     Drowning their babes under silently terrorized mute attempting to cry out sleeves, Before drowning themselves in the karma sea.

In earnest anticipation of,
The End of War...

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Freedom of Double Speak

Why I,

    Always write, never justify and rarely speak... In person. Graphic is the content of the social poetic commentary novels inspired to be written by compassion's empathetic imagination engine within, for which it has taken years to hone to a place where it is equally content and disturbed of peace in each moment of ever present existence.

      The experiences written of herein are not from my own banked memory ache travels through life, not an exponent of cathartic realms expanding out from the depths to mend... Though the intent is possibly the healing of grievous, oft grotesque ill deviant conceived, wounds they are not, at present, my own; for it is ever an aim to inspire, hope, courage, perseverance, awareness and of course smiles, though from these works there is very little to be found that should expose said facial contortion.

     The defilement of vernacular intentions is brought forth upon the inspection of the mediocre Shakespearian poetry herein written by the reader, who is not reading through themselves, their experiences, emotions, awareness of present moment but from a realm idle of aforementioned conscious endeavours, which is to say, from a place of critique or opinion that is formed based on how they find their way to these works.

      Some have come by way of random miss click of a mouse pad hap, noticing something or nothing at all, only the natural G-d power of luck's own predecessor, fate, has brought them to read what herein is written. Others find their way, and subsequently divulge their judgement, based on trigger words and ignore entirely the message to be found within the content, presuming rather to neglect themselves within the metaphoric undulation of social poetic commentary of this very sad and faltering sandcastle earth and, pardon my nerd, troll the whole piece as something it is entirely not, but a presumptive assumption being expounded from who they are upon the work.

     But rather a poem, or whatever it is you desire to call anything herein written, as most certainly most of it is not categorized as poetry at all, is a mode of taking you into an experience, which like myself, may not be your own. This may allow you to identify with those who have suffered the vast array of traumas that are found within the poem. Thus providing a mode for opening minds and hearts, enabling the smallest minute possibility of equality to find its way into our lives in the future.

      So there is no need for an artist, such as even myself a villain, to justify their works unless their intent was of deviant origin, but very few artists create evil works for the sake of evil itself. Just as very very few folk of this world do evil for the sake of evil itself, oft the black side of the colour moral appears when something is desired and subsequently sought above all else, opening the doors to leaving consciousness in a quasi sedated state, much like ignorance or addiction, which allows the choice(s) of ill over equal to be chosen.

     An artist such as myself never seeks to expand the nature of evil, though the poetry herein written is rife with fishing hateful baited words that some might seek to blame as beyond contempt, from the mind of one who speaks naught but bile and I should seek not to correct them, for the time and energy it would take to render a personalized argument based on that specific interaction would be needlessly tiring and a waste, for the opinion of such a person that calls an artist a racist for portraying racism or a misogynistic pig for portraying sexual harassment, is stuck in a realm of thought no one but themselves can trench dig themselves out of.

     The best abilities used to craft this creative, heart of wounds, content are often on cool down, though the daily raid to write and project what is herein created upon the internet is content I would gladly solo, without gratitude, feedback or any support at all... From any living being, and so I have and shall continue to do so. 

     For the purpose is to awaken the ignorant to harmful covert intentions of so much of our society and the grievous wounds suffered upon people around them, without their knowledge for the most part, for who would want to share what needs mending with someone who has no desire to even comprehend the wound and thus adapt to heal at all...

      I was once wounded, by the silence that throttles my tragic memory of wolf bitten aches that nearly consumed to prevail a eulogy exposure upon my life no one would have ever admitted themselves to read... For I in my dying wrote with all inhumane contempt for the beings that openly stated they loved, the identity that was 'me,' in their minds. But never was the I, in me. And after surviving the same silence was inherited upon my poetic works, that you can find herein. Not one soul I  know aided me during my mental illness, but by a distant adaptation of psalms unto a G-d whose silence riddles the universe unto an impending death today! Nor has any arisen to stand... No, none have even made the slightest attempt to comprehend to understand who it is that I am.

    And so, there is no need to justify art whose intent is for the exposure of the individual reader to themselves, to their experiences to knowledge of other people's experiences for the sake of identifying the two into one reality, that sorrow exists so close to 'inside' your home. So the inhaler of the poetry must arise to equality in a dreary word, live the greatest law that's ever been; "love."

     Now before you slay the logic of this poem by jester's way judgement of a 'law,' let me tell you what love is to me, for it is written and is the core of every religion and the nature of our very beings... That love is this:

     To adapt oneself to show the most precious hospitality of compassion in every moment upon every single human being that lives in the depths of sandcastle earth's universe... And possibly beyond. 

      Becoming more aware of this realm and the needs of others until the individual's function is purely instinct and thusly do we pass upon every generation after the inheritance of equality and peace.

In earnest anticipation of,
Hope & Change

Malefic Condescension X VI

Hell's aggravated glass,

     Hand stained hour of a twilight labyrinth soul written pulsating collection story of prayer registered complaints against a benign, riddle threat of silence proves everything God, The uncurable atrophy evidence of dignity's pacifist chivalry truly is moral trench executed dead!

In earnest anticipation of,

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

What Patreon Could...

I savour this...

     The hope that one day the new metaphoric speak adages of double social commentary think poetry herein from compassion's empathetic imagination cogs ever turning metal thought wheel engine might be: Inspiring of conviction in the derelict moral trenches of our societies! Where more men need to stand, against inhumanity, depravity theft of another's dignity, looking down in illegitimate ancient caste unholy systems still defying equality today.

     That some might be swayed from the depths of experience's memory ache to mend, from the very blackest wells of their unforgivable swollen with a myriad of bruises recollection of a deviantly despicable acquaintance with exposure to a most painful image of the past, Not so long ago lived. The most sacred of amnesia prayers is strangely inaudible softly dim spoken over in every ounce of our ghost's strength to forget.

       That I might be able to travel and share, for the physical is oft more powerful than the digital, for a fantastic expanse of poetry have I written and shared via the web and yet, for all my endeavours... All that happens at the end of every day, is that I awaken in the realization that in the silence of response and appreciation from any source of existence, that I... Am daily becoming a better man.

      The chivalrous bushido heroes written of old, I am not. Only a tiny fraction of an algorithm's poetic radiant disavowed bliss am I. A fallen tangent acorn, that seems to napalm scorch any epidermis ground it touches! For however dark of verbal flight my words might seem, they are anchored in the conviction of my own actions, this is why I do not have the chance to perform much at all live, because I work, hard! To pay all the bills, treat the lady heroically in every grace filled moment right, imparting the hero I've always wanted to be upon another ghost trapped in a beautifully insecure shell.

      Some might say, it is beautifully important that poetry is written so strongly deep in wounds of the topic of misogyny and what sprouts from the darkness therein: Rape, assault, harassment, gender slander and the empowerment of an ill inheritance; stereotypes and preconceptions! That especially such a poetic war was written by a man, a feminist perhaps. I cannot say, no one pays any attention to anything I've written so there are no labels for what or who it is that I am.

     But maybe this Patreon  freelance artist crowd funding site might work, but alas there is again naught but silence, which I am content with, for I have written for years and shall continue to do so for there is much herein my works for people to find... Not truth's I have created, but sparks of themselves, for I give no description for my poetry, thusly leaving the experiences of the reader to take them however deep into the woven web of words as they might go.

     Beyond the text art for change, some might entitle 'poetry', that I write; There is a community interest company I am attempting to start as well in my rare form spare time, an online venue for spoken word, poetry, short story telling artists and their fans to gather and perform within. Something like Skype but on a TeamSpeak server, allowing hundreds of artists from around the world to log in from their computers or their smart phones, creating a community of inspiration! 

     The grounds for which will be bound my the guidelines of moral equality conviction, empowering artists to exist within and beyond their creativity for more than beauty or cathartic reasons, but for helping and inspiring others, when the time is right of course, for everyone's creative process is different and springs from a source not wholly comprehensible at the best of times.

      I would not call myself a starving artist, but I've lived off of less than 20,000.00 that's 20 Thousand or 20k or 20 Grand a year or less for most all of my adult life. Mostly because even from a young age I questioned authority's ladder, why I should climb it and who runs the proverbial 'show.' I discovered that I had no desire to play a part in the social disguise of confidence and ownership that pretends to cover the grievous wounds of our beautiful yet crooked path fading sandcastle earth.

     So what will Patreon do with 15 MILLION in funding for freelance artists? Will the majority of funds go to big projects or will some, enough to survive and create off of? How far would 15,000,000.00 go if individual artists that create every day for a whole year! I have no idea... I'm just tossing out jazz such as: Provided that artists meet some sort of criteria...? Like, being liked...?!

     Some people's art or projects will lead to self sustaining crowd funding or sponsorship of its members, hopefully mine makes it that far... Oh well, alas for time spent herein this post for whatever reason(s) may come to pass.

In earnest anticipation of,
Moar Hope

Ps. Yes, I am a massive seeping nerd!

The Little Things: Monitored Memories


      Displaying amnesty vital bullet slit no chalk wrist suicide eulogy outline signs, Monitor touring the world of memory ache, Life's shrapnel re-imagined... Alive on Death's bed abyss side inner screen eye.

In earnest anticipation of,

Monday, June 23, 2014

Obstructing Rape's Justice V

Visibly discriminating,

       Phantom memory ache, Incapacitated down facing emotion rake of terror wish, Exploding callous barrel of chivalry's adopted hate, Lying in abduction wait, Over sexual tone cat & kinky mouse heirloom phone voice under sexual toned shadows, Portraying erotic second choice logic tension themes in lewd woven language mouth, A disgusting mental imposed surreal image docking in the hive wreaking gaunt intimate carnal havoc mind of a smutty customer obscenely raunchy service 3rd wanton party representative,

      Witnessed by willingly idle blind covert lust practising condom ring never fiancĂ©e worn artists, Pacifists until avarice's pleasure grey moral party experience desire sets wholly in, Empowering a tone incoherent perplexing mute rape pass, A morally deaf aggressive sexual hate advance of a confident masculinity project built within a mobile inhumane generation of husks.

         Grit bearing sex anxious harm teeth down venomously upon victims, Who come to see sexual cobra vampire fangs in the mouth of every man... 

In earnest anticipation of,


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Tearing Down Heaven II

Karma's ten,

     Endlessly regaining momentum thousand star collection of nameless miracle forsaken lives, Exit into solitude, The steep breathless mountain, Sight of a waylaid heaven transcribed in earthly - not even half mythically acquitted divine - silence of a Darling... Mother of All Gods' says everything!

     Oh Sleeper, Queen of our ill carpe inherited diem nurture, why does cancer run amok? Holding ransom broken faith cross captive so many world sandcastle in ruins wide lives...? Do we not hold enough revival of belief to purchase the descending... Of Your touch, Why would You ever lower the Red Derelict of Righteousness Hand to abolish the conscious slavery to the misery of failed prayers and the curse of disappointments best f(r)iend; Shame Unfortunately Darling, Your silence says everything!

     The lives of the sickness impoverished are architects of worthlessness in the eternal eyes of a golden street God who can opt out of the current moment, Remote infinity televised control to wither the current day in a timeless vale of change... One viewing at a drowning time, Not even She can bulimic defiled stomach the loss of starving amputated nourishment lives who daily hold up their end of life's bargain, Waking in search of a deluge cause and trust shelter of effective strength to regain composure against the nothing! That is the silence You seem to be more than happy breathing... As they lay dying! 

     As a karma's re-genesis death adoring toll Mother watching Her new born baby drown in the sea... Wake up, Oh harbinger Queen haemorrhaging no suspension remarkable wish to affect time! Paradise in a blank miracle slate moment stopping the second hour sand infused glass phoenix destination fire hand of unguided fate over so many helpless white nameless hell abandoned lives...!?

      How could so many abandon all miracles in August ships be rehearsed so well in December, Shouldn't a plague of regret shatter your pathetic burnt scholarly recited offering scripture aspirations of a polished tastelessly narrow malefic condescension book of rich lessons inheritance learned, Watched countless lives reissued by Buddha whilst you prey upon the dying attitudes of bees, As if the appalling grace lectured pariah of children - for whom you claim to be responsible - meant no balance to You at all... Save for the reuse of an ever since genesis holocaust cast reincarnation system.

     Keeping the souls of forever's poverty in bankrupt cheque match eternally lost debt momentum line with the ghost issued curfew of their disposable shells, Generations of the same phantoms wondering in silence's eternal bargain with debt.

In earnest anticipation of,
Watching children starve to death from heaven...

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Disavowed Homeless Dust

Never knew G-d,

       Too keep a ransacked hope oath, Blissful white death funded inner tunnel eye promises of an after hell cauterized fire apocalypse, But Forever disavowed every affidavit of radiant star dust financed droplet of faith, Surrendering to the sidelines of eternity's vast out of disenchanted time encircling the inhuman depravity shrine of this... Our fading sandcastle universe.

In earnest anticipation of, 

Friday, June 20, 2014

Hive Mind: Seething Vocal Discord III

Holocaust seething,

     Speech vomited from a hate intoxicated mouth full of razor blades, Whose tongue is white nameless cross tattooed to empower the whisky bottom glass dreams to appear more than obscene, Diluted chess grudge ransom hope match forever lost jests, Right single digit fist granted deliberate access to the narrow broadcast media prayers of a golden sarcophagus heaven, Suicide slicing empathy's once authentic imagination equality eternal engine on behalf of avarice' reincarnated intolerance heirloom of a false Buddha's multiple profit gun arms, Marginalising bullet use on left nourishment over children, Existing in eternal karma poverty.

In earnest anticipation of,

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Unto God II

I swear, 

     The first mental clarity apocalypse hypnosis occurred as Christ stare down from the broken white zombie portrayal cross of disembowelled fear insults hurled at hope... The last faithful counter factual attendant of a death compensated crucified phantom, Ghost of the genesis supremacy birth, A modern bolshevik no parallels for compensation lives profit lost in a greed terrorism war on life.

In earnest anticipation of, 

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Being As An Ocean...

A 'Christian' of,

      The same mind...  "You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become... Dirty." Mahatma Gandhi Origin Genesis Source of Being As An Ocean's Status: Currently their name, how they as a band formidably entitle themselves in this inhuman, moral trench near whole chivalry dead sandcastle world.

     I don't need to ask Joel, Lead Singer for Being as an Ocean (B.A.A.O), what his beliefs are or what his projection within the band is... All I had to do to unearth the shrapnel wilderness of hope trapped his malcontent with the same G-d in the sky I believe in.

      It's majestic really, the variance in tone from one depths of lyrical connotation to another, it's one of the reasons why I could never listen to such 'epic bands' as Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Limp Bizkit or Metallica... I needed something that I could personally identify with, sure enough lots of metal and rock bands sung with anger and rage... But only RATM woke me up into the plausible cause of intellectual lyrics spun to some form of alternative new metal. 

      Not even Payable On Death held my attention across their myriad of albums and Rage Against the Machine died out way too early, sadly... Because P.O.D's songs were spun too positively about G-d in this world that (s)He is so half vacant hearted in, were too rap-core, alt-rock and never struck that nerve of solidarity between self, band and lyrical conviction. 

     I needed lyrics that flowed over the melodic current of Rock's Post Hardcore Alternative scene! Speaking as a torrential uproar of morally conscience libel words! Thank G-d, I've found them, at long last. Maybe it's because I myself am a spoken word poetic artist, that I find the latest album by Being as an Ocean so astoundingly inspiring and beautiful, not insecure for a moment, as some reviews have suggested... That the band is evolving too fast. 

     This is understandable, at least for me, I don't have time to go back and edit everything I create before I launch it, there is a perfection to art that, in part... Doesn't matter to the artist at a certain point. It simply must be let go and the message of the harmony-metal discord must be let out! Approximates on all sides retrieving their points of view to give review, but what matters is the fans and what the band themselves desires to confess upon the stage and the malefic condescension of post hardcore pathetically awesome psalms of a band of mediocre Shakespeare's Being as an Ocean are truly moving in a majestic way, even if your faith heart is numb.

     There is something that matters more in this world than belief, and that is something the band's latest album gets across, in several amazing lines. 'I've made mistakes, but mistakes haven't made me...'
'Your silence, says everything... Darling.' Referring to G-d, whose bargaining with the karma fateful soul chips of our lives. No matter what deity to dogma you believe in, we as humanity must agree... That something has gone terribly wrong, with morality. 

     Consciously were convicted within to live more fairly towards one another, but that doesn't happen, willingly we're too often consciously sedated, see System Divide's album for awakening reference. That is what, I believe, Joel, Tyler and the band get across quite clearly... 'what's the difference between addiction to truth and conviction... Reply ' The difference must lie, in the actions, spread across a persons life...' The compelling disagreement between all sectors of belief, even evolution, is the disavowing action of any moral trench conviction, that equality bound to love must thrive above all else... 

     This is one reason I detest Richard Dawkins, not because what he believes... But how he lives it, spending most of his time on this earth convincing people that G-d can't exist, rather than learning and subsequently teaching people how to live as equals, so that intolerance, prejudice and violence might shock to the broken heathen spine in us all end... Some time before the apocalypse.

      So if you haven't picked up the Post-Hard-Alternative-Core Rock album of Being As An Ocean's How We Both Wonderfully Perish, go do it! You won't be disappointed in the depths of lyrics, hard rock and beautiful melodies of a band that inspires, the little villain in me.

In earnest anticipation of,


Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Tearing Down Heaven IV


     The upside of heaven down, Is Invasion shining skyline through, Upon the impending ruins of sandcastle earth, If God is an out of time astronaut whose ageing this falling universe but reserving himself from the gift of white apocalyptic tunnel death, Then He isn't majestic at all and every pathetic saint David to child threatened psalm is but a beautiful insecurity spoken aloud... As a seed of lightning attempting to speak, Benignly in hope vain are the strangely dim prayer bolts of fire, A scoffing mime pariah attempting to mimic the voice of thunder!

    If The Buddha really does embrace the reincarnation algorithymns of Karma, Surely He malignantly hates the tragic poverty caste failed bushido reign of life's unfriendly blows, As if the no longer winged ashen creatures entitled demons, Who never sought atonement after their paper wing clip of fates clash of magical being, Were making every upside chess sunken down battle match board ship was but sticks to be thrashed in the wind and the reincarnated children of karma's malnourished eternal destiny were but marionette souls, Pawns trapped in the throws of a God's maleficent will.

     But... If She exists, The nature genesis source of all consciousness, Then compassion may one day arrive before the extinction of this every day holocaust derived prejudice sight inhumane world, But only... If we choose to live the cure, That something matters to love more than us.

In earnest anticipation of,

Monday, June 16, 2014

Malefic Condescension : Beginning of Black

If the world,

     Began with a thing... Surely it was an impressive spawn of Our Father outside of Time's linear appearance sworn diligence oath's reunion with power, Consciousness lingering in the forgetful void, Where all is obsidian no sheep's white pretend wool black for opaque is but a blotch of grey thoughts staining the jet caption of onyx smeared across His sedated conscience!

     Vast polar cosmos sleeping beyond our moments in the forever expanse outlined by the circular algorithm logic of every side of faith's greatest treasures and all their protests upon our sandcastle eternally peace extinction threatened universe, Because to some... Lives dedicated to a debate is more important than the unending Mother Dying Battle Earth Field's nearly all attention diverted unto loss of universal never yet found equality.

In earnest anticipation of,

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Rag Libel Doll I

Dearest Lover, 

     What a beautiful rag libel doll of conviction's aspiring hope we have made, Together under the tree of li(f)e's shame, Her double you & I gold self ever present marionette D.N.A heat of purposeful gold, A historical multiple slavery trafficked source pariah, Reincarnated is our Aggelos, She  Brings to the union of our slimy one night in forever's covert stand against darkness unto completion.

     She is the realization of all my life's intel, An amalgamation of the gorgeous overcoming will; set cerberus upon the beautiful insecurities that consume the sum of this black austerity cursed epidermis sheep's communion of vile holocaust reappearing ethereal saint fears!

     Counselling swollen haemorrhaging lines swirling inside the trapped contingency of doubt grotesquely protected within the trinity of self's faith lost head, To follow the heart off my chest's tattooed sleeve into inescapable, too much to say...Tears!

     For each cob droplet woven web one, Architect of her eulogy spoken, I have justification!

     For the pulsing adage palace of her few - joy of my life - faint hour dismay stained earthly memory ache glass realm of existence will never be published... 

     But by this unqualified poetic jest... 

In earnest anticipation of,

                                    Nothing is worse, I am living my own worst lost of life fears...

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Architect in Ruins I

Congealing intellectual,

Crystal hammer forged hand me down goddess arbiter of faith, Heart of fate replaced by toxic irrelevant every malignant day lethargic greed expressions, Nurtured by a terminally unsighted accepting cancerous vision of the swollen epidermis social cocoon belly of consent unto cost blind effective lies,Socially Evaporated! Displaying amnesty vital suicide eulogy signs to the world on Death's bed abyss side monitor, Root dropping unnaturally under pulse ground where the ghost worms of the white life theft tunnel dwell, At the edge of it all...

In earnest anticipation of,

Friday, June 13, 2014

If Your Masculinity Believes: A Spoken Word Podcast

Her... II

When the last,

     Toast of a recent hopeful fate discovered glass inner black cosmos in a bottle eye never human witnessed message is read by the ghosts of fireflies, Attempting to whole life heart of everything force translate the solitary apparition long vanished man's isolated mouldy paper pathetic love psalm event, An ode to a love infinite life distance blood lost.

     Then, at the edge of an oblivion ice shattered glass melted down apocalypse day like every beautiful moth insecurities other, the translated diction will speak of acceptance's grand conjuring, From a single wraith soul's dying functionality organ; compassion's empathetic imagination engine, How the Elysium stolen muse that inspired love's 'until the finality requiem do us part' unqualified mediocre artificially spell woven reincarnated Shakespeare, Her indefinite physical epidermis phantom imprint on his life exhilarated courage to pretend that anything he wrote... Mattered, even a minute wee bit.

      Thusly amidst the host of transformed yet allure still held in disfigured cyber mechanized demon shells, Once captivating mythical fire angelic flies whose paper clipped in prayer folded vane memory ache half swollen hands were fed to the augmented CPU human pyre at the end of the terminal conflict, The decoded Lord of Files articulately hell's fury unholy interpreted  the humanity equilibrium intent directive held in the holocaust post anorexic skeletal main hard frame hand wired drive attached via chains of life to the anti miscreant hero's bullet slit wrist, For in truthfulness not even the greatest of villains survived the entirety battle of sandcastle fallen war captured earth!
     The above was derived from a single line: Glass inner bottle eye discovered message, inspired by Her...

      And yet, as I close my eyes to dream this night, there is never a smidgen of complain on my well furrowed brow, Contemplating the universe and wrapping it in vernacular metaphor, For she... Her, I mean, is my muse! Expounding my creativity her awareness of the two once individuals known as us who've digitally nerd united to become one.

In earnest anticipation of,


 What comes of a protagonist in love?
 Let me show you, lest I die in the morrow,
So begins a weaving adventure of words,
Pictures of enthroned memories
from the heart of a malignant hero

Glass inner bottle eye discovered message,

    Ghost self appraised courage heart embedded underneath the defiant skin that is my sleeve, Written upon the walls of me! The momentum of this letter is for my other half, that walks beside me, sharing my shadow, down the strange lands of this beautiful sad falling sandcastle earth. You see, she is my best everything! How could I ever just say friend, there are scars in those misplaced words, she is the most significantly heroic circumferences of the coin that is I, the me that I am...

    What comes of a protagonist in love? Let me show you!

      So I write, but could never fathomably describe the contentment of my existence with the sea skin shores of her body lying, walking... Cycling next to mine in this most too often solitary life of mirror attempted atonement, we rarely ever achieve the courage to persuade ourselves to confidence, yet I... Found mine in just one, for she believes in the hymns flowing out misplaced from the depths of creativity. So I love... Her.

In earnest anticipation of,

Thursday, June 12, 2014

The Little Things : Vow

Only a handful,

     Of oaths ever make it... But the disavowed still retain their amnesty towards hope...

In earnest anticipation of,

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Architect in Ruins II

Congealing intellectual,

Arbiter of easily shot down & replaced faith, Strangled on comfort's thresh barbed hold wire, Her tortured grey swollen burdened epidermis cocoon belly of hope evaporated dry as avarice logic killed the natural li(f)e rarely considered alive inside. 

She is black pock spot marked with crimson bruises scar cauterized by the aspiring divinations of a phoenix's atonement for every single eternal karma poverty reborn soul lost in equal translation between worlds where ghosts collide!

But the fate of ghastly denounce every conscience habit nature instilled with a nurtured carpe saintly diem alignment of a defiled socially conceded greed destiny; Our infinite cognitive threat to sandcastle earth's harbinger of hope stolen every night in dreams commentary.

In earnest anticipation of,

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Hive Minded: A Red Light Passes IV

Justice's lost apology child,

     Waiting for a covert pig's false eye sexual masculine deviant f(r)iend witness gratification testimony to assign the gendercide clause over the noose suicide determined self mutilated cocoon epidermis virginity lost, What a horrifying document of putrid moral scathing unjust filth, Judgement of a disavowed nature's virtue template, Unwoven by obsidian seething prejudice black and unjustified hatred on behalf of the contagion of greed's supposed injustice white!

     Because grey... Is a kingdom of guiltless transgressions, Where lives of the infinite poverty stricken karma's avarice caste new bushido age system are taken on behalf of doubt in the trajectory of a single selfish life's impending death curfew. This is the illegitimate clean supposed break of strangers tearing upside of greed down the lives of others for the sake of an unfocused gluttony virtue clarity dream, Yet unbanished from this sandcastle bullet suicide realm of phantom epidermis beings: Inhumanity.

In earnest anticipation of,

Monday, June 9, 2014

Malefic Condescension: Wrought by You III

Drawing worthless diction as melodic fire,

    Iconoclastic mediocre Shakespearian pictures of hope written via inaudibly denouncing marionette adorned threat of silence augmented memory shrapnel ache crowns, Unholy blame choir riddles June with the pride song of demonic f(r)iendship whole intoxicated revelation ending sandcastle earth & nasty shadow rotten sky chess battle line fields of ghastly white cloud crosses of the nameless, Who've faded unto death for this greed condemned temperature jaded overture carved future, Where the screams of children are denounced as they die, But the demons are brought back to life!

In earnest anticipation of,