Angel ● Demon ● Dylshkibab

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I wonder how many other people’s playlist to how they process life would sound like a mixtape of clumsy-cool, chillout-cheese, trashy-Tarantino or both boss and ohmygawdblind! at the same time?

Mine’s always been like that. Informed no doubt by an evergreen fascination with flying cars and mermaid tails. Pirate enemies to pretty fairies. Love. Heartache. How the hounded become heroes…


I know.

So I can’t be surprised when people respond to my contributions – personal, professional, polite or poppycock – with the conclusion that I may be a few pork chops short of a picnic. Thankfully, it’s generally more kind than killjoy. I think people are genuinely delighted by the opposite of dishwater.

However, every now and then, that which looks to be endearing turns out to be evil. And then, no matter how disproportioned the ratio is, or how topped-up my confidence was, I’m crippled by caustic’s cut.

It seem so conspired. That they lie, waiting. And then rather than nudge or jibe, they go for the jugular.

…it has been an uphill struggle of one disaster after another with him since the start…

…I strongly believe he is in need of professional help…

I have to consider that this dismissive, Dulluminati do genuinely believe – from behind eyes on screensaver – that I am not all right. And to be fair, it could be argued that anyone given a hall pass to wander among the corrugations of consciousness inside my head – may quite possibly need theirs read afterwards.

The extremes are likely to enflame.

And then I remind myself that, although each time may hurt like the first, none of this is news to me.

Conflict is par for the course when your mind works in ways that won’t let you marry mainstream mentality.

This is not a bad thing.

It means that you are here.

In the moment.

And each one is yours to manage, which you should be able to do in a way that celebrates the opportunity of that moment for you to add value.

To make a difference.

Because of your magic – which is unique to you – because of how you celebrate the inimitable possibility of your presence in the here-and-now.

But not everybody knows– or wants to know this.

And not everybody takes kindly to those who do.

That’s life, right?

Come to think of it… maybe I do sound like a mad man?!  :mrgreen:

Ergo… There is light and dark in all of us.

Angel. Demon. Dylshkibab.

The one we feed is the one that lives.

I don’t always win in trying to defend myself against the delinquent, destructive dalliances of the demon. But I do try… with audio as the armory of my angel.

So we push play, and persevere.


#KeepPlaying #WritingStoriesDifferently


1st look cover

Imagine that big scary thing that cripples your core, walked in to wherever you are right now, sat down across from you and began to speak.

A spider? Snake? Debt? Your boss? The darkest low? The highest heights? HIV?

Mine would be HIV. So I imagined what it would say, if given the chance to present its case. What would I hear as it hauled forth its howl? And theeeen, I get to what I must admit is the consideration that maybe the Bible and its bully wasn’t far off after all… Because I will put everything I own and everything I’m worth on it, that the Mark of the Beast is here: it is our intolerance of that which scares us.


It ends there — I promise. The rest is just your anybody-everybody’s, any-day-any-way, and in the many both mindless and mad ways…

And whether with the courage to salute a secret and set it free — because of how stifling the sanctioning of it is across every silhouette you see… Or with the war cries we walk, waddle or writhe to when we wake up and walk out on worry (for an appointment with wonderful!)…

…our owned magnifying is magic!

Because it is only the owned moments that matter.

Whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, looking back is your back-row-all-to-yourself, magical moment — between both the cringing and courage — to bask in how beautiful you are.

I’m a writer by profession, so it’s not always how I want to profess after a day of paid-for-professing. Ergo, I do this #WritingStoriesDifferently thing. And with a Love that is Alive, I thank my Light, everyday, that people like Larissa, Catherine, Gillian, Nundi, Niki, Thato, Gerhard, Kyara, PamLindsay, Linda, Bonnie, Dave, GlynnisMel, Natasha, Caddie, Fay, Hayley ‘Ellis’ and Hayley who, when they can – and whether they do or don’t get what I’m ‘saying’ – say something when they see me in it.

So what if no one is listening?! Tell the world – or even just a wall – the story of who you are.

All any of us has is what is in our heart.

And whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, whenever you slide through them sludge-moments of feeling small (and you will), just look at what has touched every. single. jostle. you’ve. journeyed – ever!

Your fingerprint.


Compressed Compassions │ 1st Look






Punctuality and I have never been playground pals, no.

I don’t list it as a skill on LinkedIn and it would never be volunteered by people who know me as something I should sing about.

My body clock, my brain, and that beating in my chest seem to have an agreement going though. They must do. Because I go back to the smells, the smiles or the sads I’ve savoured or suffered through – and changed gear up and down for – come the anniversary of all things heartful / hurtful – without fail.

It’s like they will not tardy their annual agenda (which I was too late to get a copy of, see?).

April’s always arresting.

Being my birth month, I call it My New Year. And like some reincarnation rally, I almost-always go through some scorched-earth-policy strip-down before some seriously scheduled sulking (which I’m always on time for, obviously).

As per every year before, I’m gobsmacked that no one gives a shit about the level supreme my sulks are set at. So each year – like it’s a surprise – I come to terms with the signs:

I must stop.



And soldier on.


I did, and proceeded punctually to the precipice of my most recent New Year’s reinvention bash. There however, to my surprise, I was unceremoniously booted from Jackie Burger’s Butch Barnyard Bliksem. And to make matter’s worse, while I went back to ‘stop’ – to mend my ego’s misery – I had no time to love the ±15 other sudden-failures who boldly failed where no man had failed before.

Each one, sadly, and obviously, had to be booted too.

What struck me before, during and after my sulking was the sly albeit very very thin collective who sang soprano about us – the sinners’ shortcomings. But when mine sampled the same soprano song in serving a response, I failed terribly. I was simply:

  • counter-cultural
  • prickly
  • in need of professional help
  • a numpty

Adding hurdles to hurt must be the sorting hat life uses to identify the barnyard bliksems from the brave, because only as the barely-finished fingerprints had formed anew on them barnyard-burnt tips ‘o mine, and as I was leaving new office place, I suddenly rounded on that face.

The one that I found in that fellow.

The fellow I forgot all sense for.

The fellow I fell for.

Is it okay then that I cried all the way home? Finally.


Your vulnerability is what makes you valid.

Knowing yours makes clear the coordinates of how you compass your complexities.

Ergo, realising that punctuality is not yours shouldn’t paralyse you – trust me.

The truth of yours is 24 carat perfection.

You don’t win or lose at History. Once it is, it is. His story. Her story. Your story.

Revisiting yours isn’t always by request. Sometimes things from yours will re-visit you. Just.

Given the patterning of my New Year’s Bliksems, I feel like I am my own Hadron Collider. And then the bang happens, and I collapse. Catatonic. And conspire with hope that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men will come galloping to be genial.

This is stupid. I am not an egg.

Somewhere underneath the obvious of these obstacles, I knew that this – Let the Light In, September 10, 2014 – was causing a commotion for a comeback.

Beats Like Bukowski.

Doesn’t life just?!

The pride-parade that says fine thanks when you’re really just fucked up.


I’m not sure if it’s because I’m much more mature now than anyone I know (or could ever possibly come to know), or if it’s just a serendipitous surprise, but when I saw this quote, this time, I got so much more relevance from its rondure.

Whether by steering or by suffering, we are all a part of unrequited love in a way, some way.

Everyday and always.


Between the quantities of the meekly-pedestrian versus them masters of poison, the impulse to quantify your vulnerability is no surprise.

But it’s also no excuse.

You cannot veneer vulnerability. Its authenticity is all-seeing.

So sit back. Or step up. You decide. Because your boat is yours to float.

Your vulnerability is everything that’s happened to you.

You have the right to turn that into something you voice, or something you vice.



© Dylan Balkind



My Birthday Wish

It’s a strange time in the world.

As far as the species’ CV goes, we’re undeniably more advanced and innovative than ever. But, as a breed? A class? A kind? We seem to have steered ourselves into more of a classist and kind-less way of life than anything demonstrated through any Century and civilisation gone before.

Social Media means we’re more ‘connected’ than ever – but that’s just pressing a button, right? If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve never been more disconnected. Somewhere along the line, fear outmaneuvered freedom, which is the most dangerous decorum to endure for any man among many. It is however – conspiracy theories aside – the perfect place to position the numbers, if you are the one/s seeking to proclaim power over them.

Why the topic?

Because it is alive and well rife and rampant.

Just recently, Indiana filled my radar with their confident Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which essentially means that any business can refuse to serve homosexual customers on the basis of their rights (within the religious context).

This kind of primitive posturing is the ominous wet-ink on the post-mortem of mankind.

I don’t say primitive because I’m looking to stoke the religiously loyal. I say primitive because, if being religiously loyal grants those who are, an entitlement to reverse humanity’s strides of acceptance, then the religiously loyal are stupid.

The Bible is not a bag of liquorice all sorts. You don’t get to pick just the parts you like, and plug-and-play them for a lifestyle you believe is ‘enough’ for a God-fearing follower.

Thankfully, most religious people I know aren’t like this – but the fanatics are out there, en masse.

The repercussions are relevant to me, as would gender bias or racial profiling be to those affected in times gone by … and still.

Because of the relevance, I got to wading through some of the hundreds of the most hesitant, humble and sacredly solemn confessions of nothing more than whom each one is…

Coming Out Stories.


Only because our ‘civilised’ custom decided it so.

It got me thinking about my journey, my coming to terms with my truth, and my coming out.

I know, I know… a complete shocker to all – me and my bad-ass brut self. But! Jokes aside, the familiarity of family (and some friends too) means that there are those, so close to the candelabra, that connecting the otherwise obviously-dancing dots, can be more foreign than forthright.

So it’s important.

It’s important to me.

Being able to was important, and I’d insist on the same privilege for every other LGBT person yet to cross their ravine.

If living was just natural in its nudges, our species’ CV would be filled with credentials of kindness, referenced relief, and profusions of philanthropy, weaving just wondrous histories layered with love from the lives lived.

Wouldn’t that be rad?

It’s My Birthday 

I am without doubt, an imposter among the 37 club. I don’t know what this age is supposed to feel like – and I definitely don’t act it. Still, in my lifetime to date, thank Jesus, Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, the Light – wherever you go when you close your eyes – the space to express one’s right to equality and therein live the same legit freedoms afforded most, hasn’t been completely conscripted into the crazy coop.


These notable assertions come with being aware of one’s own humanity – and then everybody else’s too.

That’s how respect works.

And perhaps the hardest part is in learning to own your own, so that where you can’t grant it to others, you may at least give yourself – and them – the space to collect and kiss with the kindred of theirs.

That’s brave. And bravery is beautiful.

It takes courage. And courage is compassion alive.

Living together is about sharing. And sharing what you have is how we glimpse what the soul looks like.

Yours isn’t supposed to resemble anyone else’s – because there is no common denominator when it comes to that.

So keep questioning your ‘unfairs’ for as long as you have to, because questioning is the only way to measure nerves.

Testing your own is about self-respect…

…and it’s out there where I’ll meet you and kiss yours with mine.

And so, this is My Birthday Wish:

Whoever and wherever you are, know that growing up doesn’t mean you have to let go of who you were when you wore smaller clothes.

Step off the landing.

Don’t wait to wear your wonderful.

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© Dylan Balkind

If you’re interested, these are the videos the clips came from:

Coming Out Video LIVE

Coming out to Homophobic Parents

Coming out to Mom LIVE

Twins coming out LIVE

Interview with Indiana’s Governor

The Pizza Pilava

Joel Osteen on Piers Morgan

Real Men Talk

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There is always someone with something to say about something that someone else is doing.

Negative feedback.

The redundant review.

I have a big mouth.

I’m trying to be conscientious about choosing my moments.

Context is consideration.

A stake is sincerity.

Simply adding to the no-end-of noise and the no-end-to nausea is just needless.

And needless is nasty.

I don’t mean humour or jovial-jeering. I mean the destructive, dysfunction of over-confident dorks who will always choose to sit rather than surmount.

Problems are plenty. Our political landscape is proof ~ and that’s just as a collective. So? What are you going to do about it? And if not for us, then at least for you? What are you going to do about those uniquely intimate problems on your path?

If you aren’t going to get up – shut up.

Dignity. Respect. Tolerance. These are only on loan to you while you market the moments that matter enough to have lifted a love within you – enough to commit to caring about any one- or many things – and so adding value.

Even if how you reverberate is in the conscientious choice to steer clear of the clash.

That’s still sincere.

That’s still something.

And something doesn’t just sit.


Bet | Part 2


Part 1

© Dylan Balkind



Zakanaka: to mean go well, quite fine or good.

Sounds to be very much in the active voice, which, most of what we speak is.

Not talk, discuss or dialogue mind you – but speak.

To staccato-sermon at people rather than with them.

But there’s nothing Zakanaka about that…

Interesting times we’ve transited Jason.

To have had the forum for your sacred to be saluted, your hurting heard, and your darkness given its den to breathe in, to then unwind with such upfront umbrage when asked to give back in the same way… And not because you were unable – but simply because you were unwilling.

And then you flexed your fury and vehemence with violence. Because to hit it must stop it, right?


It hasn’t ever.


So, I’ll say it again: there is nothing Zakanaka about it.

Consider this, if you will:

If what you know is only some of the facts,
and what you’ve heard is only one side in all of this…
If what you’ve seen gave you just some of the gist,
…well, then… it’s really only some of your business. 


© Dylan Balkind

Canned Silence

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Stories ┈ steered ┈ by the soul ┈

What we store ┈
What we sad ┈
What we sing ┈
What we sieve ┈

┈ stories ┈ shape ┈ the soul ┈



Some of it sound.
Some of it to sounds.
Some of it strident.
Some of it silent.

┈ stories ┈ sting ┈ the soul ┈

to collect.

A sadness stored will sieve itself silently…

┈ over ┈ and over ┈ and over again ┈

Sometimes stubborn.
Sometimes stoical.
In song.
Sung silently.

Capable ┈
or crestfallen…


Canned Silence ┈ is not always capitulation.

…and when courageous…

That’s freedom.

What does freedom mean to you?


Pssst… click on the header image… 


© Dylan Balkind

Vitamin DKB

IMG_1376There is nothing new under the sun.

It’s a saying that comes from a book called Ecclesiastes 1.9, out of a bigger book that has moved more copies than any other book every printed.

Many call it prophecy.

I call it heresy.

Think about the last story you heard or told… minimised or magnified for its audience, right?

Same thing.

So I have a problem with the claim that there is nothing new under the sun.

I’m not sure that it is wrong… but I almost am, because it would take all of me to unthinkingly agree, that yes — it must be right.

It certainly doesn’t have to be believed and assimilated just because of where it came from, right? Those blokes trusted to retell and retell and retell those stories may have been marred by a case of the ol broken telephone, which means His marketing campaign no longer makes sense.

This ‘theory’ is tepid simply because it contradicts its origin.

Isn’t any new angle on anything specific, new?

In terms of IQ? Probably not. In terms of EQ? Definitely.

Nine years ago – Condolesa Rice became the first female African-American secretary of state and was President Bush’s National Security Advisor during his first term, making her the first woman to serve in that position. But… there is nothing new under the sun?

In 2012, Felix Baumgartner got into a machine and went 39 kilometres up, where no ground is granted but for to jump toward it. He lingered — for what must have been a lifetime to him — and then stepped off the edge and jumped back to Earth. He set the altitude record for a manned balloon flight, parachute jump from the highest altitude, and greatest free fall velocity. But… there is nothing new under the sun…

So how does love work?

We hurt. We hate. We hide. We heal. And then one day, we say one hello… and then, maybe… possibly even… “…lie down next to me, and look into my eyes…”

And anyone who knows what love or the absence of it is, will know all about new – because of it.

Sure, love has been here before… and will be here again…

But this love?


Or yours.



In you.

No, it has not been here before. Not like this.

Nine years ago I made a mixtape-CD for my ilk. I called it VITAMIN DKB. It went down like a homesick mole.

Here, revisited, I’d like to offer you something more under the sun.

Go live it.

Be new. Be well. Keep walking.  

VITAMIN DKB – revisited.


“Sometimes you have to go up really high to understand
how small you really are.”
– Felix Baumgartner


© Dylan Balkind


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“Paying rent in hell.” That longsuffering we all do so much of – because we’re just absolute suckers for punishment. We’re habitually quick in reminding ourselves how bad we’re supposed to feel about our shortcomings. And celebrating the successes? Not on your life.

The New Year brings ‘new’ lists by legions of people who promise to be better, lose weight, give more and work harder. So, what a list like this is really saying is that you are not good enough, your body isn’t (someone else’s idea of) perfect, you’re selfish and lazy. Nice. And it’s from there that you expect to take over the world?


That whole it’s always darkest before the dawn thing is really real though. Things have to get worse before they get better (otherwise they’re just staying the same, right?). You have to hurt before you heal and can move on. But to move on, you have to Move. On. You can’t stew on a list of shortcomings (that someone else compiled, anyway).


Coming out of TheFourteenthSunset, I said: New Year’s Resolutions? None, but to remember that good things can still come from dark spaces, big things from small places and loveliness will surprise from the most unexpected faces. I said no resolutions, because maybe we should rather take stock of what we learned, and therein what could do with a little remodeling so that I become the remake – of me. So there, with that spirit, I listed 14 of them.

1 | I am not just a drop in the ocean. I am the ocean. You are yours. And terrible or terrific – those are tides, and they will. Each tide’s value is tantamount to what you take from it. Transience is the only constant.

2 | There are autopilot-assholes everywhere. And they’ll be saying the same when they look at you or me. Here’s the deal: one man’s delusional is another man’s deity… That’s all good. These are the days of our lives.

3 | Who’s to say how many cooks should be in the kitchen? Who cares? Insist rather that cooks be accountable for their cerebral contributions. Add value or don’t offer to cook.

4 | Armchair activists will only offer opinions they can enter into a status bar on Facebook. The confidence to commit to confrontation when it matters will always show the courageous from the cowards. Fickle futility is rife.

5 | Consistency is crap. And anyone who tells you to be consistent is crap. It is just another manipulative tactic used to make you feel bad about things you do or have done that weren’t what someone else wanted from their exchange with you. You are not a catalogue. You shouldn’t allow yourself to be catalogued. Don’t give anyone credit who wants you to believe that inconsistency is a flaw.

6 | Living by other people’s lists makes me feel like a loser. Must stop doing it.

7 | Fearless fucking-up is not a stain on your soul – no matter the scale. Its sincerity is its silver lining. The ratio of people whose fear-fuelled inertia versus those who refuse it, is probably the only fear that’s worth anything. Dispassionate dorkism is unforgivable.

8 | Salute sunsets with a conscious conscience that you didn’t treadmill time. That yours was spent accelerating your heartbeat because you used it to get: To get happy. To get angry. To get loved. To get hated. To get admired. To get ignored. To get fucked. To get asked out. To get stood up. To get broke but get rich because you got it – and you get it. Your heart is a happening. Let it.

9 | There is only the moment – and then the moment is gone.

10 | The value in learning to domesticate your darkness comes from how you value your Light.

11 | The difference between your Sacred Duality and a Duality you’re scared of is sacred in itself – but is a) a journey you should journey on your own or b) someone else’s you can’t get involved in. Some leaves live to be lost in the wind. Choose the journeys you choose to join – wisely.

12 | The unholy war is the tug between who you are and who the world wants you to be. You can recognise a war is on without having to commit to its carnage.

13 | Never don’t-care. Even when the sweat from passions-persisted seems never offset by the returns. And then still care enough to find better places / people whose passions persist closer to the ways yours do.

14 | The real volume in loving the wrong ones will only be heard when you eventually find the right.

Sun up! It’s TheFifteenthSunrise. Be unprepared for anything.

Picture courtesy of Dave Luis.



© Dylan Balkind



Coming Out


NewNowNext covered Connor Franta’s coming out vlog.

Didn’t know who Connor Franta was?


He’s a YouTube star, and he just came out on… well, YouTube.

This is important to (almost) everyone.

It is important to every gay man or woman; to every brother or sister of every gay man or woman. It is important to every father, mother, son, daughter, cousin, aunt, teacher, friend, boss, colleague and, and, and – of every gay man or woman.

I can’t speak for gay women, but as a guy, I will say this:

It is the most intimate experience that a gay man will trip, in his lifetime, ever.

Yes… including that.

I wasn’t 30 seconds into Connor’s video before the Universe reminded me how momentous that rite of passage was.

Goosebumpcoveredbodywithalumpinyourthroatyounoticeonlyafterwetcheeks will do that to you.

It’s a rite of passage only some human beings have to do, but do – we have to.

Watching Connor’s vlog – 12 years after my pursuant of peace (and forgetting too quickly, clearly) – I was inclined to fake-stifle that ‘really?’ giggle…

Jejune. And vapid, I know.

To Connor, this is his moment.

Like mine was then: a mountainous monotony of perdition, immovable before me.

The ultimate tollgate.

And there is no alternate route to where you must arrive.

You can picnic where you are or pretend you’d actually wanted to veer off and go on some other trail… Whatever! When you’re ready, you must turn yours through the tollgate.

It really is a big deal

It is. So we mark-time while we figure– or try to figure it all out.

As a mature teen an insolate brat, I settled into the following theory:

Why should I have to sit my parents down and tell them that I am gay when my sister doesn’t have to do the same – just because she’s not? She doesn’t have to gather herself before them, hands in lap, chin on chest and clear her throat before murmuring: ‘Mom… Dad… I like boys.’

So? What’s the big deal? Why should I have to?

For the record – it was no surprise. Obviously. But that’s not the point, because it didn’t negate the need for the occasion from either/all sides.

So here’s the thing: I did have to. We do have to.

A hundred years from now, society’s evolution may make this topic a complete nonentity.

I hope so. But we’re not there.

The world my parents grew up in was different to mine. Radically. And thankfully so.

We amortize that gap as we evolve, but that is as gradual as the days are long, so I am living inside of it – still. As is my Mom. As is my Dad. And although I felt like a lone ranger, I now know that I never was.

Everyone close enough to see enough lived/s inside of it too.

So I did have to.

We do have to.

That’s how family works.

Your journey may feel like your own, but you are the best-supporting actor in somebody else’s (and in that role because of how they rate you as a human being). And inside of themselves, they’re going as mad wanting to hear what you are wanting to say ~ and mostly just because they love you so.

That’s how family works.

Sidebar: If your reality involved reactions of the very grave and desperately sad opposite, then know this – they were going as mad wanting to hear what you were wanting to say, only to grant release of the cowardice they cannot command themselves.

Still, you have to.

We have to.

That’s why it’s such a big deal

Everything before it makes Galileo look like a lazy lout and Columbus’ sojourn seem casual by comparison… But it’s all perspective, right?

Ergo… thank you Connor.

Twelve years on and I can safely say: I needed that.

“You can’t not think about it…” he says.


You can’t. I still can’t – even now.

It’s what’s called ‘identity’ – and is proof that each of ours is unique to us.

Everything pre– was rooted in isolation, depression and obsession.

Everything after has been varying scales of exhalation, anticipation and obsession.

(Yes. Some things just change shape.)

Connor’s video – brought to his global audience with speed because of the digital devices we’ve embraced, and, whether self-serving or journey – is his intricate installation and to date, the ultimate cultural coup.

Cultural, whether seen by 1 or one billion, because it will motivate, move and magnify emotions – whichever way they may lean…

And for what it’s worth, it is one more story for the very beautiful, isolated and obsessed pre-tollgate human beings to hang hope upon.

G-d knows… I needed stories like that.

And there will never be enough.

So to every out gay man or woman – and to the brothers and sisters of out gay men and women; to the fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, cousins, aunts, teachers, friends, bosses, colleagues – and, and, and – reach out.

We have to. Not because we ‘have to’ …

…but because we have it, to.

My looking back gives me the gut-great grasp of this:

There is a profoundly infinite difference between define and confine.

“At some point, you have to make a decision. Boundaries don’t keep other people out.
They fence you in.
Life is messy. That’s how we’re made.
So, you can waste your lives drawing lines.
Or you can live your life crossing them.”

― Shonda Rhimes

© Dylan Balkind

39 million

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39 million people are gone.

Because of a virus our divisions have allowed to ascend.

If the Holy Bible is to be believed and 2014 is the number of AD years we’ve existed, we’ve had plenty more than that to learn just one thing: united we stand, divided we fall.

Through thickness and thin.

In sickness, and in health…

But we haven’t united, have we?

Holy Bible – or bland book of bullshit –  either way: we divide habitually and without fail.

We ridicule. We shun. We spit at. We turn our backs on… to the point that, that which takes aim to divide us – can win.

Like HIV.

So I wondered… what words this combative cultivator of cunctation would say if it could… It’s our selfish spite and stupidity that gives ‘it’ such a convincing case.

I am where fear is trumped in the search from love’s lost
I am where mortal humiliates the humiliated-already – them men who look like ghosts
There you go like ants before the queen, ordered to safeguard secrets…
– all your advances are flushed as expendable by your gathering greed’s digress

How there goes your distance with untouching, formidable feast?
Something your rioting righteousness won’t see as Mark of the Beast
You did it. You do it. You are it – at best
But blindly convinced of your stay deserving on God’s floating nest

You handwrote my invite and put me on your VIP list
Now that door is one you can’t close for that never-would-leave guest
I’ll wither. I’ll weaken. I’ve galloped in here on Trojan Horse
To humiliate the humiliated-already, them women who look like ghosts

Pharmaceutical. Untactical. Expendable. Digressed.
Incubated by fear within islands between love’s lost
It always was, has … and always will be –
Those you call rebels who teach posthumously

Your Bible brought stories from around campfires at day’s rest
All you had to was listen to pass the soul’s Truth-North test
Compassion by connection is all you have left
But you’ve shunned it to gun it and bowed deep in greed’s feast

I’ve withered. I’ve weakened. Arrived welcome on Trojan Horse
I am the fears you discarded – I am the Mark of the Beast
Not something physical nor mineral that you can touch
But because you turned on each other, denying love from love’s lost…

Helen of Troy – I am not female nor boy
My gender grotesques through my dodging and ploy
I sirened as I weakened and withered your rebel-best
So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast 

It always was, has and always will be –
Those you call rebels who teach posthumously
You say idols are bad, goats interrupt goading piously
Your gadgets are 666 that underpin your Boxsciety

I’ve felt my backbone bend before I mix and contort
I’m running out of islands as you defend last resort
I too searched the darkness for compassionate companion
I found none in your nest, so here I am: your Armageddon

Your cavalier disconnection from your neighbours in the nest
Is what your mirrors – though full – have failed to reflect
I sirened as I weakened and withered your rebel-best
So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast

So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast




© Dylan Balkind

FLOODBACK\You, again


The lookout deck is just a hand dealt with distance.
The inevitable win or lose can only come when all the cards have been played.

This deck is not deliverance…
It is where you dine on credit at airport prices.
Its safety is by distance, not by deity.
Because lessons are only learned when we live them.

We know this.
But we tardy this traction with (denial-driven) hope that we won’t need to at all.
Willing… that maybe… somehow… our delaying might deal a different turn of truths that suit our what-ifs more.

My delaying has – just this week – walked into the FLOODBACK.

Yes I (am) have started thinking about you again.
Yes I (wish) feel the days of that fireball dynamo as if they were today’s yesterday.
Yes I (ceiling-stare) wonder the alternate outcomes –– and then buckle at the butterflies born to burst in my belly.

FLOODBACK feeds the powerlessness-pangs that I’d pain privately in the departure lounge of purgatory.

The board’s update is one-word smug: “Delayed”

I can’t certificate survival as successful with this carnival of skeletons I cohabit with.

Procrastinate honouring your heart’s hopes to heal, and hell will surround with scorn that reads “Delayed”.

In theory, we know that every step forward is a step in the right direction.

In practise, we don’t take those steps for a long, long time.

We prefer to triage the punishment… to trump it for what-ifs, while we secretly tap the door we’d professed to close and hope it opens to let us back in.

Courting cannibalistic-carnival…
…that’s not overall strength come from a place of sadness:
That’s sadness lacking strength because it is all over the place.
But don’t turn toward the tempt to frown upon it. That blinding bide is beautiful on its own – as and when it must… and as and when it must… and as and when it must…


Foreign as a feeling when it does.
Fluke, even.
But with flint in fist, and tinder tiding its time…

…this fluke will conscript a courage lit like a fire from underneath.

© Dylan Balkind

If you like the mix, you can download it here.


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