Hive Mind XxxX IX

Crash addiction landing,

       Survival of the manipulative fittest champions of vacant profit no street but endless dollar bound derelict righteous abusive hand swing above the sinking line Lisa whose captain laced the hook to sink every opposing stance but the submissive mimes of greed, who revolted in the so over moral trench play war ground of debt's  noose unto anchor thrown over the unforecasted side of Medusa; inhumanity's avarice harpoon sinking heart enthroned with apathy ship that swore an oath to turn a blind over the shoulder never eye plead the degree of five times the losses no paper falsify shredded trail ever witnessed half a raised eye spectacle down to render inept at sight glance down an evil nose at the  last civilian never raises a voice but to protest death casualties.

In earnest anticipation of,

767 Fallen Down Blue in the Face Syndrome Apple

The following poem was inspired by Blue Apple Theatre Company's

BBC Video of Hamlet Production can be found:

Hamlet, by Blue Apple Theatre

The content below is not wholly endowed with positivity

Some of it is inspired by initial reactions to a beautiful life discovery

That a child born into this world might be less than 'the status-quo healthy norm'

But that is not the whole story, the heart grows with the blossoming diagnosis

Warm scars cover the wounds of once cold looking down eyes

So that the achievement of acceptance and hope can happen

The following rings true 

In this, as in every tale...

How can we love someone, if we don't accept them?

How can we accept someone, if we don't understand them?

How can we understand someone, if we spend no quality time with them?

So it is with love, oft it grows upon us with time

With trials, smiles and understanding

That hope is absolutely...

Necessary

Without Further Ado

Blue Apple Syndrome Seed

Blue rose seed

Prey of great trials
Psalms of grief in harmony

Frail light child song awakening

Prolific doubt can rest easy

Hope rescues shapes

A future at stake

On life's stage

Theatrical rise

Awakened senses

A singing bell defeat

Threat of silence ended

No womb fragile abnormality

Courageous life stage protagonist

Vibrant chiselled portrayed smile

Adversity sculpted honest hero

Waking a family's acceptance

Dramatic acting achievement

Shakespeare's flag to raise

Banner of Hamlets loss

Waking the blue apple

In a mother's eye

From depression

 and nightmares

Of a life lost

Degenerate 21

Hereditary altercation

Would be parents fallacy

Acting on life's diagnostic stage

Narrow view of our god's image redefined

Failed regulated right to life's health check up

Cleansing our Father in heaven chromosome prayer

Genetic disorderly prenatal screening opted misconduct

Fallen blue face struggling to breath face down apple syndrome

Cure for an unavoidably daily wounded mother's heart sick detour of thought

Vocal no more than a singularity moment's never answered thank God wish

Umbilical chords strangling prayers of children by blood's own hands

Academy of cursed angels voice boxes singing holy fire spells

Casting oracle seer's no future for kid killer's incantations

Invoked upon selfish unspoken hive greedy mind psalms

Vomited spiritually defining juncture of spoken words

Gesture messages in a bottle to heaven minted sent

Eternal habitat ran out of hallowed supplies

Bearing the metallic titanium bone weight

Of amputated womb prayer attempts

At selling a child's untested soul

Into hell's unending traffic

Or a divine purgatory

Ghost town colony

A forever prison

Press enter...

To continue?

Blue apple embryo

Seed of immense trials

Prey of narrow God Psalms

Poems wrought of comfort wishes

Where hope lay isolated from joy in chains

Caught between depression and madness

Frail child's life misinterpretation

Weary faith diary unfolded

A Mother's understanding

And love's acceptance

Journal of compassion

She writes now

Nature's dramaturgy 

Teleporting selfish dreams

Disrespectful comfort sickness

Ineffective security wound clots

Weakness ailment  avails no smile

Beauty of dismantling points of view

Transmission of a young life's aspirations 

Hope's cure lingers behind grey clouds

Characters of a hive mind disapproval

Inner cultural norm breakdown

Tempting malady depression

Bad thought habit kick

Invoke a feeble smile

Awe's testimony

Amidst hope's turbulence

Rearranging the illicit sadness tide

Fallen wonder re-established

Wounds peace cauterized

Acceptance discovery

Understanding is...
Sanguine's smile

Eternal

Blue life seed

Stage ever presence

Glittering edged sword

Smile of a newborn combatant

Gene besieged tiny heroic vessel

Malady champion assaulting life's plot

Braving the social intolerant stigma

Tireless faithful smile harbinger

Imposing wondrous charm

From an endless source

A joyous family scene 

Embodying equality

This is acceptance

Expounding

Hope

767 Fallen Down Blue in the Face Syndrome (Apple Preview I)

Degenerate 21

Hereditary altercation

Would be parents fallacy

Acting on life's diagnostic stage

Narrow view of our god's image redefined

Failed regulated right to life's health check up

Cleansing our Father in heaven chromosome prayer

Genetic disorderly prenatal screening opted misconduct

Fallen blue face struggling to breath face down apple syndrome

Cure for an unavoidably daily wounded mother's heart sick detour of thought

Vocal no more than a singularity moment's never answered thank God wish

Umbilical chords strangling prayers of children by blood's own hands

Academy of cursed angels voice boxes singing holy fire spells

Casting oracle seer's no future for kid killer's incantations

Invoked upon selfish unspoken hive greedy mind psalms

Vomited spiritually defining juncture of spoken words

Gesture messages in a bottle to heaven minted sent

Eternal habitat ran out of hallowed supplies

Bearing the metallic titanium bone weight

Of amputated womb prayer attempts

At selling a child's untested soul

Into hell's unending traffic

Or a divine purgatory

Ghost town colony

A forever prison

Press enter...

To continue?

War's Synonym: Profit I

A Poem Inspired on the Film: Out of the Fire: Into the Furnace and Beyond.
From a City Slicking Canadian in Glasgow.

Sleepy mill fire vacant town,

     Hollow tired expressionless facial contortions pierce the furnace's funeral pyre inner death final synapse toll of final white tumour eye blind roll battle flag dread ship naught back into a lingering quagmire of apathy's regret million word marsh sketch of fallen amputated phantom lives on foreign mine stolen burnt oil surface surface of the tide stealing sandcastle earth via an ocean never ending trench deep operation removed appendix of oblique field of crosses never witnessed life beyond a single apparatus parent still in silent reflection born nine months into the war; Synonym for progress.

     Clause hosted blank ledger statement of lost retribution rabbit down a six foot stomach plunge whole Buddha's pregnant swollen doublethink paradox loss is swallowed by profit's every life by a chosen algorithm's profitable ancient sun: Manifest grotesque destiny of America's everywhere dream, Idolized by anorexic Arabian to amputee string marionette Syrian faithless Greek debt stolen future children at ease protesting in central everything square.

In earnest anticipation of,

Beta Test the Isolation Solution!

Mic test,

      Sleep in the silence of the ghost fog over your vocal white tumour eye chords no more, visit Spoken Word University's 'The Auditorium,' a beta testing Research and Development arena for the voice. Its a 32 human cognitive engine holding universally aligned digital linear guidance of the creative synapse fire inside, online; 32 person TeamSpeak 3 Server: Spoken Word University. Searchable once online within TeamSpeak 3.  

                                   The Auditorium on Spoken Word University's Website

     In the future, if interest and funding in the project is procured there will hopefully be a three hundred person TeamSpeak 3 Auditorium online at all times.

      Because we all know there are creatives out there who can't afford to attend a major slam competition to gain recognition or develop their voice and stage presence. Spoken Word University hopes to give birth to a new realm of creativity, where everyone is equal; the only difference between artists (Speakers) will be how you yourself perceive them.

      Let go the false manifest eye never witness destiny unless via the preconception of illegitimate skeptic flame frozen glass mirror fire melting all reflections like the plague that infests our consciousness, teacher and pupil are the same, both human beings and we are all the apprentices of The Spoken Word.

      Because not even I can tell you how you should write to speak Spoken Word. There are countless word slinging algorithymns that alter the parameters of how one should speak, we haven't even really got into language weaving in the evolution of spoken word yet. Exciting times in creativity!


In earnest anticipation of,

Villainous Times: Music Movement Theory

     Join the musical experience and not simply by tuning your ear to listen in. If you don't think people want to be a part of the process of music, just look at Guitar Hero or Rock Band. If you give people the right interface, that they not only support but can thrive in, then you will find that people really do want to be a part of the creative process of music.

     Music can change your heart, stir your soul, alter the dynamic of how you interact with others. It can also raise awareness, being present in the moment is a fascinating skill few really utilize, especially for virtue... And if you think that once you become a moralist you have to give up metal, because it is in some way 'unsanitary' think again. My best friend is a pastor and one of his favourite activities is the mosh pit at a metal show. That man is also one of the most dedicated to the moment living his values human beings I've ever met.

     The landscape of music, in my case Trance Infused Metal or TiM, can stir us. Resounding in our lives as an ever constant flicker behind our eyes and about our lips, as they begin to twinge as if a smile could burst forth at any moment. Lets step back for a moment, look around at your life, is there an interface available to you that would allow you to interact with the process of music in the creation, rather than just the listening to?

     For me I can do it on my laptop connected to a $12.00 second hand midi keyboard. Maybe it's singing in the shower for you... Or whistling or a myriad of other adventures with noise! If you should find your interface, I will ask you a second question to ponder... Could you ever see yourself enthralled enough in the creative process of music, assaulting ears with a crescendo of profound sounds creative emotional transactions for the benefit of all. Which makes the whole experience more powerful, so much so that you would be willing to lose sleep to create?

In earnest anticipation of,

Villainous Times: Intro Guardian Wings

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 everlong saga of nearly all starving to not so struggling artists, the woeful longsuffering life of perseverance despite... Well, hereafter you shall have it.

　Nearly all journeys,

      Into the creative side of writing are uniquely besieged by dark tides. Some adventures are riddled with writer's block which can send your dreams down a porcelain throne if you're not diligent to continue writing; this is also true of those who finish a first or third draft of a work they deem 'magnificent' or 'a game changer in their creative realm' and thus give up their dedication to their craft in order to persuade others to produce or sponsor their project.

      There are countless instances of artists being plagued by external avenues of time theft. Whether that be f(r)iend or arch nemesis if your ever presence fails and you delay ever long, there may come a time when you walk back to the door of your dreams... You find it locked, thus you begin knocking, no one responds. Therein is silence, the pattern of creative beauty is no longer at home in any landscape of your mind.

      The achievement at the quest's end, to make merely enough to continue writing, unhindered. Mine began with an accident, well two to be exact. The first was that of my body being damaged beyond diagnosis. I was twenty three years old when, at work, a fork lift came round the bend of pallets. In a fright the driver lurched and I was struck by the tusks and sent falling into said stacks of pallets. All would have been well if the young lad had merely looked ahead, as I did, slowing in the tight bend.

      No diagnostic tool, from bone to cat of scans, conjured results of my injury and for nearly a year I was overcome with pain and the mental haze of pain killers. Finally I simply began stretching and holding yoga poses at home from a book I got second hand at a charity shop.

      Out of money and no where to live, having no f(r)iends from a bullied lonely youth and subsequent useless young adulthood I began to write. Words streamed out of me as poetically infused prose journal entries. What I read was imaginative empathy trapped in the horrors of the rage inside. At the hand of chance's fate I ended up across the country working for a massive corporation and quickly began moving up the ladder, though not so swiftly of pay grade and the writing all but came to a screeching halt.

      Then the second accident happened, I believed a lie. A creature unimaginable floated by as butterfly, beauty on one side but decrepit on the other. Sadly everyone that knew her believed she was at very least, normal, thus so did I. In the presence of a therapist/counsellor years down the road I heard her say 'I hid things from him and lived that way because I never trusted him.'

      What I had to offer, she wanted, the comfortable life of a sedated pacifist. But my creative rage instilled words would not be quelled by the offer of sex; after all I had barely touched her realized her deviant ploy the day after she moved in and we weren't physical before that... Alas for the deadly mask of lies that came off immediately in betrayal. The line was clear 'If you weren't even interesting in meeting my needs, so I had someone else do it.'

      Now I write endlessly, after recognition and a lengthy recovery of multiple mental illnesses rebuilding my body from injury and the plague of dead confidence, deadly self loathing esteem and an eating disorder, the too thin of shell kind, I am now nearly 'normal.'

Prescription's Decline

Vivid delirium nonsense

Conquest of a protagonist

Salient infantry private in uniform

Regular patient of the bomb shelter

Cold sirens dilute all daylight

Distress method of destiny

Integrate lucid anomalies

Gas ruined breathing

Lobotomy's silence

Failure of strategy

Mend in death

     What is this malarky, 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...

Medication on notice

Paranoia attention decline

Deficit lost profit disorder

Monetary guilt trip up in arms

Toxins under forced recovery sheets

Prevail against peaceful sleep

Sinking in a red tide of sweat

Ocean of beads skin fallen

Pills bleeding prescription

Sedated in overdose

Pills will prevail... 

The first half a poem, one of many thousands.

      At least I'm stable and carry only the baggage that helps mend others through spoken word, lyrics, podcasts and prose poetry. I live to write and write to die, empty. In hopes that the journeys I craft will help others in some way. Through social issues read from various online news sources to the hearing of a tragic story first hand, I write about what seems to matter; equality, domestic violence, mental illness, prejudice, injustice, love, mother earth, father time and artificial intelligence, a cyborg holding the last human's hand in the end.

      For one it might be realizing and confronting a grievous wound or explicit deep scar 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 pacifist way after being stolen away on a journey through tragedy, loss or mourning or the realization that they are or have indeed suffered and confront that reality, possibly for the first time... Hope is the prescribed outcome, that is my only hope.

Bipolar Beauty

Paralysed bipolar look up scene

Beauty trapped in fire infused sand

Mirror amplifies the psychosis

Derangement not by choice

Furniture inside deforms

Despite the prescription

Still hallucinating

Abnormal scientific referral

Accepted terms for testing

Abrasive codex of dignity

Accidental manic prey

Bipolar schizophrenic shallow breathing

Darkness of the mind depressive

Sworn to psychosis secrets

Trapped in her own head

Yet she is defined...

By illness instead of beauty

      Where does your mending begin? On a train home from work after Baring Witness to an audacious conversation between two gossiping quacks? In a school 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, there is just being stuck. Persevere, write on and 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 creating before you've started just because someone informed you or some media state of ill propaganda fed to you throughout you life instilled a belief that 'you cannot... because.' Unlearn such non-sense and begin mending, healing, scoping out your own wounds to scar them over, cauterize them and slowly heal.

      We can never be perfect for ourselves or our partners, but we can be complete in our selves. They can help the mending process, but only we can find contentment in who we exist as, projecting the ball and not always healthy chains of our past with us as we travel towards the escapees 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 fingered 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,