Your pin was on the back of your first debit card.

Security still leaves much to be desired.

Isn't it amazing how things have changed and been rearranged?

Now we blame everything and everyone for what the worlds become.

Banks, governments, people, wars, money, websites, businesses...

even the last time we lost.





Greed?

To tell the story of my love for you, I would have to write a book without words...

A book full of white pages,
a book without numbers in its corners...
a book that can speak without ink.

Only you will be able to read and understand my white page love.

I would go out every day and sit under a lost tree next to our silence.
Without ink I would sit there and write to you...
without a word.

The sunset would serve as my dictionary
and memories of you would play music in the background.
"It happened while we weren't looking."
"I'll go with you."
If I wrote something like that somewhere in my book without ink or words, would you write back?

Can a man make a fool of himself writing books without words or ink, laced with irregular white page love?

Words aside ...

The thought of your smile while you browse through my book of white page love -
enough reason to write another page for you tomorrow.

It's been a long time
Since I've written anything
Feels good to be back.

Quiet and uneasy.  
The voiceless breeze at my back was thickly draped with irregular design.
There I was... staring at my warped reflection in the remoteness ahead of me.
A  revelation violated my over crowded mind and before I could even fathom my displacement,
the moon started melting.

As if calling out to werewolves,  the hypnotizing moon started dripping moonlight.
Glowing moon drops crashed to the ground and I found myself surrounded by the dreams of a thousand  kings.
Beyond the limitations of clockwork, I found myself surrounded and under siege by the visions of a thousand visionaries.

There I was.
A captive to crowns of light.
Taken.

A hostage to a deserted kaleidoscope of angelic halos...
So many blinding halos, all riddled with hidden wisdom and rare moon drop truth.
Halos infected with unfound secrets handed over to the chosen...
Secrets handed over by the masters of celestial emptiness themselves.

Like euphoric dreams within our nightmares...  
the same nightmares  found within our lost dreams...
The same lost and misunderstood dreams that dwell within a moon drops angelic halo.
Rare truth and untouched wisdom were  just too pure for reality.

It would take the hallucinations of a thousand truth serums for us to conceive thier virtue.

*Gene

I am a writer
I never was a fighter
words are my weapon

Somewhere within the silence of sound...
Somewhere within the distance of eternity...
Somewhere beyond the borders of the next universe...
lies a darksome note.

A darksome note laced with supernatural black ice.
A note hidden in a darkroom.
A sacred cryptex gaurded by ancient entities...
the same ancient entities that witnessed the inception of illumination.

We are all doomed.

*Gene

Like a fist full of steel it needs no introduction.
swaying violently...  
swaying brutal.
a pit of madness awaits its adversary.

It bleeds in colour.
  Psychedelic colour, forthwith a hazy trance.
Producing a rapture of spiral descent, into a blackness unknown
and then...  
it bleeds in black.

Its a blood drunk that drinks spirits of the human kind through a straw.
A fear monger provokes phantasmagoria.
It holds no mercy, no sympathy, no alliance
only self discovery.

Face your fear monger
live your dream.

*Gene

My poetry and I poisoned and misunderstood each other again last night.
Uncertainty has always been the love chemistry that my poetry and I would get lost in together.
Not this time.
Tonight I'll be getting lost in your silence, without love...
Our silence.

My poetry and I polluted and betrayed each other again last night.
Dangerous romance has always been the oxygen that's kept my poetry and I alive.
Not this time.
Tonight I'll be suffocating in the truth.
Better to be suffocated by truth than murdered by our silence.

last night, my poetry and I looked deep into each others eyes.
I became angry and without warning my poetry began to cry in purple.
Please stop.

*Gene

We buy and sell ourselves short of the same ideal world we all imagine...
The same free world we all claim to protect.
Like rabid beasts, we trade away our ideals and humanity at the sight of blank images.
Images of greed and seduction...
Images of power and lust.

How many of our children will we sacrifice to the money Gods before we see the blood on our hands?
How many lost souls will have to cry out together, that we might listen?
How many human slaves will it take to carry the weight of our absent minds?
When will time become internal again, instead of something we stare at on walls.

Brothers and sisters...
When will we break bread?

*Gene