fetaman.com

Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Smoke signal reflections

My grandfather always said to me – “you can never turn a donkey into a racehorse”.  Many different ways of iterating this for sure, but the racehorse, can race, be a horse, and even do what most donkey’s will not do, in being that horse and carrying that pack across the barren terrain.  He takes pride in that, and will make sure, that he holds his head high.  He welcomes the competition of other horses, even welcomes the donkeys.

These racehorses are really quite unique in two regards; firstly, they know they are simple horses, but maintain such stature and abilities they take pride in, and secondly, they always try to win, or improve, that is the essence of their lives.

They are competitive, and living champions.
Each a work of art.

Living a life, in some way, in some form, to ensure they get to be seen.
Running free, strong, hard towards their next goal.

Smiling almost as they chomp the bridle and turn a blackened eye towards each small detail they pass.

Winking at the right ones, and taking in another gulp of air.

This, is not Sparta.
This is life.

No illness, no time, no weather, no issue.
Nothing is going to stop you today.

Nothing.

All you have to do, is believe in your way to the gulch.

You know you do, and now the choice is, what do you want to not try today?

No matter what it is, always there.
Just like the words.

The medium, the conduit, from which you create today is your choice. Paintbrush, pen, pixels or passions.  It’s all fucking awesome.

Because fuck, I am horse made of cheese.

How fucking cool is that?

*abide*

By

I am feta…man…*headscratch*

I am here, and I am not a freak.

I a man, trapped inside the body of a piece of cheese, that is now looking to the forum of the world, to be the place where I reveal.

Do not think of me as a freak, think of me as an eccentric.
A man, who has been blessed to be educated by life, hiding rolls of scripts from a conformity that blessed me with some kind of personae gratis.

Thank you for the stories, but the record has spun and the needle will lift aff the track like the mad anarchy of the beating minds that focus on nothing but Calvin Harris. The lights splashing the delight of the moment, fascinating the mind with the Kreskinesque pinnacles of wonder. The excitement of childhood, and youth.

Plugged in, and living through the umbilical chord fed directly into the mind.

This is not some rogue termination, or a battle of epic proportions that involve good and evil. Right and wrong, or young and old.

This is the life of a man that is crying out for some of the world to allow him to express what is required, to just be. To just abide, to just live in the moment and experience the wonder of the things that you can not change.

Always, fascinated by the ability to have that which is forbidden. Just out of reach, the desire to reach for the ball as it rolls, not because you must have it, but because you need it. From the moment you say it, there was something fascinating about it. Something innate and internal that is can not be described.

Bodies moving and crammed, thoughts that dance to the beat of the heart that allows the chasm to be crossed in matrix defined sequences leading you on the journey of the mind.

Hypnotized by life.

Not on the grand scale, but by the individual moments.

In that moment, realizing what the essence of how you are and what you are, is what you want to do, at that moment. At the moment when you are going to save the world tonight, and bring it back to life. We are going to save the world tonight. Rinse, rage, and repeat. Jump, jump up motherfucker.

This is your life.

Do you feel the drop coming? Do you realize the elusive feeling you seek after it in life has nothing to do with the pure ecstasy that you will experience when the next note comes and the next light flashes.

It feels good, but what is happening is not what you are in, unless it remains relative to the overall look and interest in what you want to accomplish in life. How you want to actually achieve the greater set of interests in your life.

It is not the days and months spent in front of the lights and the words, for the sake of being accepted by others – is it? This is what you seek, to be “known” as the cool one walking down the hall, so you will conform with the cerebral fashion and interests of those that claim you can not like that kind of music. You are too wise, you are too old, you are too straight, you are – what? You?

No, I am me, and like you I stand here declaring it. The purposes however will be different, period. We may both be doing this for “ourselves” and so we stand on the same alter of abide, and smile.

The wise ones, have the smile in their eyes and in their hearts also. Not because the gowns and the intention are the same, but because they are so beautiful in their differences. Each strand of the robe different than the next, and in each moment, moving, creating a new mathematical DNA of the circumstance that is our life, and this, this is beautiful thing.

So I smile, and know – no matter where you are, and what you do, and in fact, even what you have done, still makes you beautiful I will embrace the differenc, and acknowledge that even in my need to ensure I am never in that state of hatred and disgust that the lowest of the low may be in, I will learn from them, as I have from my hardships. From my life.

A wild one, and ride that I swear, on all that is holy, and to the best of my ability, will be reflected in ways and with wide-eyed wonder that will bring the drop, and I know the notes are coming, and I will embrace them whatever they may be.

For I am here, and I am real.
I am not a freak, I am not an asshole or an evil person.

But I will defend my brine, as I defend my mind, and stand happily in front of any judge.

In my robe, smiling throughout.

Never thought you would picture a piece of feta smiling.
Standing in front of you, as a man.
Smiling, and abiding.
Being.

In your mind, and in your thoughts, because I have only written, and what I will write is the vision you see in your own mind.

Your own.

*abide*

By

Modern ISP Hallucinogens

“We are all wired into a survival trip now. No more of the speed that fueled that 60’s. That was the fatal flaw in Tim Leary’s trip. He crashed around America selling “consciousness expansion” without ever giving a thought to the grim meat-hook realities that were lying in wait for all the people who took him seriously… All those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit. But their loss and failure is ours too. What Leary took down with him was the central illusion of a whole life-style that he helped create… a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody… or at least some force – is tending the light at the end of the tunnel.”

Hunter S. Thompson

By

Jesuit angry raccoon.

“If you’re going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you’re going to be locked up.”

Hunter S. Thompson

By

Surety

fetaman, feta, abide, believe, brinesanity

You are very sure of why you are there.
You just don’t know how you can get to another surety.

wrinkles age, advice sage
templates move, winds on page
sensing danger, chilling rage
placing fuck, in a cage
cold steel on the forehead
fur on the back
licking the juice off satan’s crack
green bin monsters, full attack
back to the tack like daddy mack
thessaloniki, fat stack
bring it back, hell no, that, flack
bullets don’t evade the echo of the mind
shadows don’t hide when they looking to find
the light casting doubt on their essence
who the fuck, what you see
pain, angst, weathered storms misery
motherfuckeryouthinkibe dying
christ still sits here lying
‘bout crucifying
romans and jews
big spliffs, and homebrews
who am I gonna sue, papparazi or you
ingest your mind, in time, on the dime
prescribe the wine, so fine that line
landing strip, nipple slip, feather tip
drip, drip
chlamydia fool, cancer for the tool
living life, shots and booze, so cool
logic went out the window when the bitch came

i am today’s anarchist
brinesane.

*for the savings on coupons at the grocery store, when I go with my wife, and she says not to wear my hoodie, she only wants me gangster at home, out there I have to make sure I don’t like te cucumbers…they are so long, and green and slender and have bumps…fucking fuckity fuck fuck, is the mic still on…oh fuck…

*abide*

By

The Laughing Heart – Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

*link to a www.culturalweekly.com, with a nice little summary on why Charles Bukowski is indeed an incredible inspiration, and writer. Don’t try. *humble bow*

By

albedo fingertips

if when were orange, and her smiles made the cold not sit with me
diffusion reflecting the tangerine skin, a mind covering the inside rind
reflecting only what is seen on the flash of the question asked, a glance away
a door shut, with a will that is not of the making from the harvest to be
fired blood orange, citrus sting of an appeal in the cornea of the mind
Fuch’s tears to be saved for an arid desert, a way that is far, a wind that is near
catchpoll servitude that was in debt, default in her eyes
her albedo fingertips tracing an understanding that beneath the skin is so much more
still, we shame in the white that sits, a ruse for the muse
cruel temptress, no choice but to be comforted in the exhileration
the simple orange, smiled to bid the cold away, she sat with me
an angel, and her albedo fingertips saved my soul.

*abide*

*circa 2001, fetascape:mediterrainian
**enhanced, edited 2011-03 d

By

Orwell – emotional sincerity

“For a creative writer possession of the ‘truth’ is less important than emotional sincerity.”

George Orwell

By

Sutra, turns to Bacon igloo

A long walk

Amazing how the time flies, and the seasons change along the sandy stave of an abide camel.  The way of this toe seeking creature. Filling up along the orange glory of the seens and the acts. Tracks made of a music, spinning wax from the glands.

Dancing in the dusk, was just the way we got to make sure that we got the last minutes of freedom in, before the streetlights made the rounds of the windows it peered in. Captive dreams would now be the playing grounds, and we never thought of the confinement of those hours as such, until we woke and passed to years where the panes were now cells we peered out from the concrete cell, relishing the contempt the generations of those streetlights basked so humbly in.

Self-serving taxation for the vision it provides.

Well I give no fuck about the artificial lights, and the fallacies of the clock on the wall catching a sundial sepia photograph in it’s hands, wondering how it lost to a set of numbers, formatted to glow wisdom to the souls who measure their time, binary gates of flashing seconds, and mbps lint in the dryer of the mind.

Fucking brilliant the orange, the scope of it.

Untouchable, out there in the sky.
Just fucking, is.

The brinesanity of the sands, the small texture of summer lingering after befriending a foolish spring once again, into hoping it would all at least be good.

It is, and then, you wake one morning, and it is time.

You know the heat is about to be replaced by the cold, cold winter ahead. the hushes in the street, the shuffling of feet, scurrying to find the best of the bacon branches, and bacon snow. Bacon ice, needed to provide shelter for the ex-wifes antlers, fucking hell what a moose ass that bitch had, and you don’t even want to know about the hair bell this moose had under her guntrils, yes, her gunt had nostrils, it was back in the daze post university, drugs…oh there are stories, and they are being told, the audience however…but I digress.

The time of the year for the bacon igloo preparations have begun, and all of Canada is buzzing. Per chance your assumption of said buzz becoming a function of the fine fall harvest of the glorious hoser tobacco, or as us native’s commonly refer to it on the street as fuqyeahus high’der eh. Fuqyeahus husks and leaves are often used to create the floor of the bacon igloo. they can then be trampled, and remaining pollen and sections are boiled into hangover tea post Fuckin-Leafs-Lost-Again binges as the ice melts, and native hosers of the ice region known as GTA are heard with the battle cries screeching like the seals slaughtered each morning for Tim Horton’s Blubberbits “Pa look luk cuup Stanskimo” (“this is our year“, a tradition since Zeus gave eskimos a hockey puck on his visit).

Beaver tails are brought out from behind the notched bed-posts, and given a wash with “50” or “Ex” to give them a sheen, as we bullshit each other drunkenly trying to lace up to play some entry way hockey, with cafeteria trays (*not seen in picture, used outside of igloo, and not identified to prevent Rogers from realizing plastic cafeteria trays have tin-foil-hat strength to draw the interwebz and boobtube shit from wires underground up to 74,000 km away, and 4 times that distance into space. Don’t say reading this site has never given you any “free” stuff of value…wake up North Carolina, ask HKMP5, he knows and been doing this for years…) as pads, and one of the bed posts.

Crueller mattresses allow for the ultimate in sweet, drunken dreams and beneath them the upward karma of the summer’s harvest.

Carried on the back of an abide camel.

Oh how lovely the days, that have turned to years.
Oh how grand, to know the bacon igloo is near.

Canada I take pride in your bacontude, the embrace of me, as a humble piece of cheese.

Allowed in this culture, to be the cheese I am.
Yes, Mr. Locke, this blank slate you have so proudly affirmed with the wise, this ability to paint anything you want…I accept the challenge, and I give you bacon oil, color and canvas.

From the mind of a man, made of feta – the fetaman, who could barely contain his joy for the coming bacon igloo season. Christmas commercials are almost here, and I just could not wait – down with the haters, free love, free your mind – embrace the bacon igloo season for what it is.

Magic, and fall harvest Unicorn sausage with mint and hemp.

FetaChop, Fetaman, #brinesanity, abide

*abide*

By

Babe Ruth t-shirt ok?

wanna see how fucked this is, click this – read about a TEACHER just making an ass of herself, and making a young girl pay for the ignorance of union’s, fuqtarded teachers, and the guacamole IQ of the world’s “super-power” being erroded by the “common man/woman/thing/uniontard” *puke*

The machine is asking nicely, for you to drop the coins into the slot, and just hope, that the thought you want to come off the coiled spring, with no spring, but a grand and lofty purpose, is going to be that giant Babe Ruth bar.

Raise your hand, like you head, and wait for the shit to hit your face.

It is such a grand pleasure for the like minded.

*abide*