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

By

Clam room.

Clam. Fermented, dried, stale and shaled like shelled clams. All over the place, and still, there was never any shame. No regret, no hate. No disdain. No misfired seed, no negative looking for the positive to feed. Scared money does not win.

In the corner stood some of the shames. Forgotten, lame in the blame laid upon the stains and the names fallen after such games without frontiers; war without tears. It can be proven, from said surroundings, that light, or combinations of the lack thereof, with the right fungi and just about anything may seem logical.

Humans. Creatures of habit that fall to the side of the road like a rolling donut off the truck that carts the cooked carcasses of processed gluten towards the fields that the greenest of grass, the fastest of lines, seek. Hearing the stories of bullshit twenty dollar jobs, lines and credit that still shaded shame and hardship in the bedrooms of a nation that to this day still sanctions silence, sees abuse morph into the wails and sirens of the sorrow laced dreams parents shall carry, wary, well into the nights they only wish were not so lonely.

Once met a fucking sloth. Came from a village of stupidity, and then blamed the world.

Happy to see, listen, hear nothing from that rancid cunt of a fool – hate is little compared to the word I would carry forth to the genius publishers from Oxford. He wasted the time of a dying man, counted hours. Life blackened by the nape, the extortion of rings levitating over the padded landing areas that promised medals of bronze, silver and gold.

Vape.

He was a master gardener. Where the malts and the ales set sail, he came to claim the fever. It was gold, and these hills lay barren but for the ill, eh, lads…names, monikers from vigils that are tales that may be remembered between the swishing of the fluoride, a civil poison wrapped in a till foiled shat, smitten reminder of the crumpled cup that now served no purpose but another foul ball upon the yielded dreams.

I would imagine he smelled this. Late nights air, just a fishy shoreline and a desperate gasp at yesterday.

The crunch of the shitty shirt, crusted with 3 weeks of Bill Cosby approved ‘magic pudding juice God said we shall not spill on the ground’. Consent is only possible when two parties exist, could kiss to exist. A figment of a planted cookie, a stored backward arrow that can be seen as the token to the doorstep, hush…little baby? Don’t sigh, daddy is going to buy the memory that allows you to sing.

She was bloated. It was bloated. Of course if, she ate like that, consuming every living thing into her silver womb. It was another green chocolate feeding the ankles, dangling above the very demise of being reminded by the Grand Wizard of wasted life, to spay or neuter your pets. To those of you that still cry the word Plinko in your sleep, sure of where your pinky lays and the scent it conveys…

…buy more of the pipe dreams.

Consume more of the wax they spoke of as being pure and real. Made to help you deal with the madness, the sanctity of the sound oblivion parading towards the fast food chain straw dispenser. Perhaps this is the straw Bono spoke of in “Where the Straws Have No Name?”

Synthetic fibers were the best. They often allowed the fluids, the smelly liquids of sorts, aqueous stench vessels. One could argue that these all should have touched the floor. Torched the genetic fragrance such that it could not infest another embryotic companion with the wanton disregard for sanitation.

Then again, they were all too busy waiting for the 86 to come along.

*abide*

By

Bacon Masturbation, 31 days.

The Baconbate Experience (TBE)

It is hard today, with all of the traditional porn looking to stretch the limits and somehow engage the generation that was born to masturbate more.

It is what has helped quell wars, set nations back on the path of not burning ethnic people at the stake, so the condemned could be burned at the stake. It was a suffering that brought us to today, do you think heretics allowed you buy your bread fresh for at least 10 days if you keep the small plastic snap on the right way after the twist, as you wonder – should I jerk off, before of after this sandwich?

Sandwiches naturally produce the jerk off question.
Proven by the Gallop-Knuckle Pull, a pole by most other actions.

Please, let me cut to the chase.

Each of the following 31 moves were going to be used in a book, they may still be so, as I retain the right and the ownership of my content.

I had to prove that masturbating 31 times, in a single month (*easy by most standards, very actually) – but I had to do this with bacon, raw or cooked, in some manner.

It was the hardest $1,000 I had earned, but I figured. Few are actually given sperm donor wage, for chunking at home and taking the odd snapshot of bacon in Secret pantyhose. Don’t worry, there are 5 ways pantyhose are needed, and two involve boiling and cooling the bacon before jerking off with it.

Be warned.

This is not for the weekday horoscope crowd looking to justify a sad existence.
This is for those of us, the few, the bold, the pioneers.

The day someone defines how, when, what, where and why I am chunking the magic curtain in an epileptic fit of wax-on/wax-off…ko-knee-chi-wa.

  1. Marble ball; the bacon is pushed through an olive pitter, creating a creamier mix. The mash is pressed into 6 melon ball scoops that are dipped in liquid nitrogen to create small ben-wah balls threaded with floss. A flaming stick is inserted into the colon before the string is placed in, the Recipient needing to ask “why” it must be real may scream for help. This is religion for some.
  2. Salt Sponge; layers of coral sponge are sliced into equal size and strips of bacon, they are then woven together, and steamed in a dim-sum steam basket after they have been rolled in Judaic salt from the Dead Sea. It is critical that the fluid has tears from 6 virgins, 3 male/3 female, so that they remain blessed by the same God that allows them to think the sun rising on their corrupt factory is going to allow them to succeed. It is gently used over the sexual organs as various ancient languages are muttered by the practices of the freedom chosen.
  3. Squeezed Jam; in a crock pot, beer is allowed to be the primary Sea for the bacon to melt within. Doing so, allows the final jelly to be of a beautiful texture. Most tourists agree, or 7/10, that indeed the feeling is best described as “nutella in my soul” – please do not ask more about this, it is perhaps one of the worst ways to experience it, but it must be told. Thrice annually we speak of it, twice you have a choice to attend beyond vespers. Those are for the selected ones, and all have been pre-qualified with a medical exam.
  4. Bacon pads: large mounds of brisket are baked at varying temperatures to mimic the foam padding used in 1980’s high schools, hoping more machismo would fuel future generations of hope, Tom Cruise pre-Scientolichlamydius, and rancid NSA taps. *although dozens of other agencies need to be noted at STD inducing, and UCLA is expected to announce a Ghostbuster study about said bullshit, but only after the Cliff’s bar announcement is made. Arnold said he has more back now than ever, ola Pepe; By allowing small extensions in the corner of the pads, tickling items can cup the balls, or be wired for clit-action, and provide hands-free, public transit masturbation.
  5. Pork Swiffer; seriously, have to explain this? Put bacon on the bottom of the Swiffer, Mountain Scent is the best, and then proceed to mop the floor. Jizz, or squirt in front of you, then cook bacon when done. Give to neighbor you hate. Fucker needs to enjoy with alcohol free beer.
  6. Toes ‘n goes; using small origami folds, tiny Booklets of Bacon are left in the toes, during a shower. Not for the weak of heart, the water must be scalding and you can use Crisco or butter for the soap, but be liberal. In the Basque regions, scallops can be placed between the thicker toes, or the longer second/dominant toe that most men are said to own when they are fucking whipped, net weight not a factor. Deep Scottish roots claim, inhabitants of the moors used to bake bread in the sealed cracks of their asses, in ancient times, but Jacque Caruso did not find proof, although was deeply satisfied according to his handlers.
  7. Bacon Icecumber; the inner shaft of the cucumber is peeled to allow smooth (*can be skin on, but be aware of potential hemorrhoid implications if soothing balms are not available) interaction as the juice of the bacon wrap melts, along with the core. The key to making this “bacon baton” is the wrapping method, and either the Captain Morgan’s Spiced Bum method or the Tequila Meatworm approach work best.
  8. Giving the Cat Some ‘Tupper; a variation of the famed “Giving the Cat a Bath” sex move, it allows a small hole to be cut into a Tupperware bowl of appropriate size to fit the preferred piece of flesh be dipped, squeezed is just as important an adjective so use soft Tupperware, or Rubbermaid shit, you want to avoid cutting anything (*or choose to, but, fuck choice is a personal mandate) and have some fun with it. One note of interest, is that most people past certain ages fail to allocate enough space in the container for the SF (Sag Factor, or sulferus fuqnastiness) and should use the same system as paint, wallpaper, and upholstery by providing an extra 10-15% of their best estimate.
  9. OJ’s Bacon Coiler; another boiled approach. This one should involve a bacon bee-nest-bun approach for more effect. Think “I Love Lucy” hair, and Ricky ramba-Cuban. The only way to get sexy time in solitary, and do push ups, is to scream with each thrust, “This fit the bacon glove?” and push harder. White Bronco wallpaper would add for a wild trip on this approach, and not my thing, but fuck, no filter.
  10. Foreman Sear-it & Moan; a rather harsh approach to finding the line between different and bored, the participant wraps genitals in bacon and begins to gyrate to Wham, some going to the elaborate lengths of even going to the local discount grocer who has you take the garbage from the store for free instead of letting the Cardboard Monarchy charge ’em for the privilege so that you can create bathroom stalls in your kitchen or near a noted outlet. Closing in on the maximum temperature of the grill you desire, pre-squirt the hot plate – place genitals in Foreman. Slam it shut. Keeping in for long durations and being chained to the grease dish are all approaches you may want to discuss with your mistress/mister.
  11. Porky Klingon; using one of the dozens of pre-cut egg carton sections you have saved, hand painted, and dusted with Betty Crocker Frosting and candy bits, and using the thick blue elastic from the broccoli, thereby turning it into a Porky the Pig nose, gently sew bacon on to your ears in the form of a Klingon. Experience dictates you sew the first pieces on the counter, shape them, then use just a few piercings to minimize scaring and marking that may have you appear abnormal at the abattoir.
  12. Bacon Duster; using your favorite scent of Pine-sol, dip the bacon strips into the dilution after it has been tied firmly using fabric coated pipe cleaners. Note, some use color here, or go for the barbed style, decorate as you wish. Maids dress in relevant garb and dust the dirtiest parts first allowing any pieces that fall to be marinated in the sheets. Yes, plastic wrap was a good idea to mention heads up, but it may have prevented you from being so engrossed you can only now imagine that bacon being in a hollandaise lobster Benedicked.
  13. 007-F: *Classified*
  14. Bacon Battleship; floating barges of bacon, of various sizes and crispiness (*buoyancy, steerability, wave motion attributes that will come as close to plastic grids with holes on them, and a disposition to always think of masturbation conditions in das Boot) are in a bathtub. Bubble bath Islands can act as imaginary rock, or be tiny bubbles that can not stand the force of the shot from your “ballteship” or “haircraft carrier”.
  15. Oasis Sandpaper; adding some natural sand, if you wish, or simply using very crunchy bacon that has been Guerilla Glue(d) to cheesecloth. Various grits will be achieved based on size, temperature and duration of crisping the bacon. Purists of this technique cry at the “baconstardation” of those fucking bastards who do not cook the bacon naked. Camel noises are tribal, and various tones of them will denote if you should fear the faux cheese hump, or embrace it for the culture it contains. Creamy, dreamy culture.
  16. Princess Crown; good for either sex, this Crown can be pre-made and snap-deep fried, or can be baked around a mound made from tinfoil. Using various body parts of your self, or a 2nd knowing/unknowing party is ok, but make sure if you are moving beyond 1st person planning or involvement you have consent or a well soaked cloth from various dollar store solvents. Some say adding a pea under the mattress, pillow or cushion may add that extra royal diversion/dalliance.
  17. Pork Monk (Nun); a gown is prepared and dried in a constructed and blessed hut in the back yard. It is custom shaped, and although there are moments of elation, no official Rosary-gyrations are initiated until the first appearance of the full garb worn, usually on the first whole moon following the addition of the tassels. Often, this can be a swingers festival of sorts, and many different Monks and Nuns become possessed by the bacon, not inventing so much as incantationing some delicious uses for bacon few dare to examine. Some “nuns” enjoy crosses of sorts, and then send those off into the web, never sure where they end up – but the sweet, sweet details.
  18. Bacon Generals; one of my personal favorites because it allows me to pretend I worked for the NSA. Pre-record a series of direct commands that sound like you are in control of a series of flying documents that surround your current space, or the Air Tower Common Objective Control Zone (ARCOCZ). While showing a line up of bacon your Internet browser history, shout at them. As each begins to glaze over from your rage, insist they suck and should have found out more about Snowden before he left the Teflon coated fence perimeter.
  19. Bacon Keller; easy to say, hard to do. While desperately thumbing through a phone book, eyes covered in bacon and angrily stroking it, screaming – “Why did I have be born with the Keller-Bacon gene?”
  20. Da Tube; depending on experience, paper towel tubes can be used but you are cautioned to begin with toilet paper tubes. In a pair of black business socks, pulled to no lower than at least knee-cap, see how much bacon you can shove into the “cardboard” subway/tram along with your unit. In the case of orifice insertion, add some garlic and see how long you can “ride that tube” before dropping into a pre-greased muffin tin. Scoop pre-mixed okra/raisin muffin mix and clean up. Get to the recreation lounge before the opening Vanna wave. Remember the margarine and plastic knife for the TV tray in order to not miss vowel purchase tension as you hear their compliments. Fools.
  21. Sybian Pancetta; for the Robb Report masturbation aficionado, there can be very few holy pounds, and this custom machine not only has stainless steel tenderloin pans, pine tree/metallic/green/with round head bolt-screw things stained with eggnog, and variable convection wave prongs, but when flown to Spain in first class, and then transported as the only passenger in a Lamborghini driven by the sex of your choice, over 80% of purchases at this stage involve discrete interactions with the most famous drivers, Mario and Luigi. No coincidence, they have the same cocksmith as Ron Jeremy and Ron Burgundy. Ride at the tempo and duration of your choice.
  22. KBCO; Keep Boffin’, Chives On. Best timed with favorite posts on various Fuck-I-Wish-I-Was-21-Again websites, and various dairy product sales. Fresh chive/ettes are always preferred, but freeze dried, collagen infused or silicon injected/molded versions can be used for the lamer, or more remote followers of this cult like fascination.
  23. The Love Boat; a tribute to Isaac, the first globally loved, black, cruise bartender. Using black Secret pantyhose, thread the barbed end of the prepared curled bacon into the pre-shaped headpiece, create a glorious wig/fro and practice that wink. The same approach can be used for the more traditional crackers on the show, Julie, Doc and Captain Stabbing but with less glowing of soul.
  24. Bacon Receptionist; you can call the office, or the garage what you want – fuck, be an accountant for all I care. The essence of this is about making sure the Receptionist is dressed in the sweetest outfit you fetish for, and is made entirely of bacon. Various cuts, smoked varieties and even food color can make for the most surreal pork piñata you have left some extra spice in. Ability to handle dictation, or muffcrophone checks is a solid option.
  25. Baconboarding; a little bit of double on this one, and two groups posted the same word on the same day, at the same time, in what is argued to be the Prime Meridian Clock Adjustment case of the year. The first group insisted that is mimics the military style of abuse, and bacon that has been liquefied into contents that appear to have the texture of the stuff those girls had in the cup. Breathing becomes hard, and there is an aspect of hurried hope to climax at the right time, often the most riskier of the two, as it may involve a more immediate risk of death, or a desire to attend weekend porcelain doll festivals. Porkpaddles Inc, was incorporated on the day in question, and at the moment of releasing their entire online catalogue of bacon cured fetish paddles (*the Beavermelter, Brokeback Mount’em or Ojumba’s Big Saddam have become the top sellers) were greeted by a very odd Google result. The dispute remains open, but they agree to the Atlantic and Pacific Accord, a convention that allows Ocean’s to flow to their own pace.
  26. Crazy G. Lou; ‘Crazy’ Georgie Loukanikopoulos, CGL for short, was a big fan of John Belushi, known chronic masturbator in his father’s fleet of ice cream trucks, and even ended up having a move he was famous for being caught in, named after him. Lining the canal of a foe’s stolen sheep, or lamb, with convection oven moisture, he would sit back with a bacon/tinfoil hat on his head, singing old Greek village tales of lost loves, and lonely nights. To imagine how difficult this was, most normal sized males would have to strap on the equivalent of 32 lbs. of bacon.
  27. Puttin’ on da Bacon; squeezing into your old hockey uniforms, staring at old trophies and pucks from past glories, insert the Queen “We Are the Champions” cassette. Staring at your Slapshot poster, take on the roll of one of the players, or the coach, and proceed to strap bacon to your knuckles forming a CCM glove receptacle worthy of a Dr. Pepper and some late night sparks.
  28. Pin the Bacon on the Donkey; as easy as it sounds, just like the old birthday game we all remember, but this involves drawn shades, the bottom end of an old school cotton broom head with “x” amount of inches (*based on comfort, and desire for various textures) for inserting the mock tail, and then using bacon and as many clothes pins or hemming pins you are comfortable with using on the number of pieces you want to pin to yourself. In either, one of the two hands is going to be feeling like it is not yours, trust me.
  29. Mykonos Blunt; good for either, or any sides of the fence – a favorite for many hermaphrodites. Using a fine quality rolling paper (rice, hemp, bamboo) layer oregano, kush and bacon around the core of the “meat blunt”. Using suspender dental floss tied around the nipples if needed, load that smoke-ready rocket and pretend you are Survivorwo/man looking to make friction the heart and soul of your “OPA!”
  30. Beach Bacon Blanket; it is about rubbing that bacon blanket over the frosted glaze you placed on that beach of pubis. L’Oreal or Just for Men, frost to Annette or Frankie, but avoid the Brylcreem it can create a fungal infection. Women employing this technique on a beach have been reported to have cultivated pearls in various vaginal crevices, while men who have reported sensations similar to tooth sensitivity, but for the helmet of their unit.
  31. NASA Bacon; lay out the strips of bacon around the room of your choice, and light accordingly. Try to emulate the moon as close as you can, digital technology is more advanced than in 1969. Gluing multiple smart-phone boxes to the bottom of flip-flops in advance, with small tacks inserted to keep hold of the wax paper boot straps, which connect to an entire titanium* (*Reynold’s tinfoil, or a generic rip off you have pretended to smelt during episodes of any post-dinner time game show of choice) space suit. You can customize the suit with any stickers, or special prizes from the bottom of cereal boxes, even play some music. Care should be used with any of the Star Wars, Star Trek or Space Odyssey sound tracks.

Go on, hover over each day.

Just another small playlist of delights, sounds and small gigs.

Right?

*abide*

By

Andagram.

Kerouac said, “Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.” Although likely a great remix of thought from the past, his ability to bring it forward in a real way impacted many roads, for many miles, and many more to come. Truth is, he was smirking, and remains so in his grave, knowing of those who wish to start their own trend or fad, or be part of another one under another name for the sake of fame and glory, and some kind of worldly need. To be part of a machine, known or not – as oppressed as it sounds, I wonder if Animal Farm would agree?

Orwell argued, in his fantastic treatise that great things would only be accomplished through trends, and fads and fabrics that united the causes. Was he suggesting that this was contrary to what we believe as individuals is what make our jobs, and our pens whole, but in reality, we graze on the meadows of houndstooth walls and metallic lumber implanted with copper veins? Is the juice, that precious juice that travels with the nutrients fed back to the leaves that fall in the forest, and if so, does the NSA hear when they fall? Will my voice be heard, in the roar of all those united to occupy the malcontent of the minds and the masses before the Happy Hour at the ATM? Quick, trade the shirt for libations of conformity, but knock thrice – you won’t get in without the hair on the chin, unless o’er da ‘air a doig, um.

Syntax is supposed to be about pleasing another, and not the fury of your own mind. Correct it, move on. Enjoy, life is short. Of course, learn how long that life is based on the need to approve. They approve grammar now also, in most cases, unknowingly to lead the recipient to believe that logic can be induced from a non-comatose state, or a walking parish state. Prey.

Trust sharpened to the edge of a taint sickle. There once was a day I had more trust for the world that lay behind these screens, now filled with just another killer of time, with stars and search histories that will dictate what your divorce proceedings will look like. Fear not, divorces are like bad knees. We all get them, just in some cases, later or in different parts of our bodies. This is what age does, or creates. Like money and rust, it too never sleeps. I prefer time of the three but that is not something we can cook in a stew and sit around some Yorkshire pudding speaking of the great days your facade was not well masked, but few can know that. Keep me on the outside, I will only promise to look in when it is time for the knod. You will know. The tap will be faint, but the cards will not fade. They have been aware of the night as long as the days alchemy. Brother. Such a taint sickle.

Africa. The land of the madness, some kind of wild frontier. A land, where people have little of anything, and are grateful for it. I have a sense of calling there, perhaps as a final wish, it will be there I give myself over to helping in the only way that may seem just for a person who is of the cut I am. The line has taken a different angle, and the light dances in a new way, so I remain in a place to allow my hands to be but tools of a greater, selfless calling. Philanthropy does not require a black tie, or a tiny cocktail that has evaporated water. The water would have been consumed before it was given a chance to boil.

Nourishment. A small cafe you had to walk into hoping for the hamburger, or the fine salad. Looking to be able to satisfy the craving for the quick meal, something to pay over hunger with until the paving company came in to make it a more permanent mental decision. Then it becomes autonomous, like the lies. The proliferation of the manifestations that seem the entire dress together. Gown on a clown, send ’em in. We got to the show on the road. The left stage will enter first tonight, we have a Guyanese diplomat in the front row with a row of dates hoping he smiles at one of them. A diamond crusted box of McNugget’s is available for the winner, and she can choose whatever sauce of her fancy. The condition is easy. Sip or drip from the right box or straw, or keep your mind and remain a pauper in excise.

Tried, tested and laid to rest. Yes, I like that. It allows me the ability to sit like a modern Platonion. Layers peeling back the ability for you understand the context, the whole story, as I profess to but I have the right boards and can cast the magic spells with the cats, and the scammers and the delights. Yes, listen closely, or don’t listen and then come here one day, and see the “code” was just writing on the wall. The book. That is the tell all. That is where the real magic happens. It goes without saying, I have to thank all of those that have participated so far. The story is shaping up as nicely as the other houses, I just think my cards are little bit thicker, and I am well aware of math and origami. May I have the last brownie?

I really wonder what Umbrellahead is doing right now. Gus grabbed ’em. Fuck.

Nutella they said. It would stop the sun. You could blend in, look like a tourist that had moved there 17 years ago at least, trying to adopt to the island ways. It sounded like a good idea, and having read the book Black Like Me in grade 3, in French. Strangest part of the French classes were the curry smelling recorders we had to play. They floated in front of the curtain and you had to grab them quick, there was only one usually though. If more came they tended to taste and smell like socks. Odd. I was never good at the recorder. Hated it. Like having to put the Nutella back on every 5 minutes AND it has sand in it. Unless you are rich. I guess.

Oblectation. The enjoyment, the pleasure that came – was it worth it? Walk with a smirk. Bread. Wine. Fish fingers. Hear the lamentations of your weak geometry calculations before me. Clutch in. Grin. This is the path you take along the route of the festering cobblestone to profess a romantic love for the scratching, the plague and the dire times that seem so much better. Filled with the romance and flooded ways of the canals that are to bring the professed oars that break glass. Hydrogen twice, oxygen nice but puppy dog tails are not meant to be for amusement of spoiled or unattended domesticated apes.

*abide*

By

Tread abide, heavily.

“Tread lightly.” Walter White

“Resist much, obey little.” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I had the pleasure of meeting many great people as of late, some of them just happened to fall into the shadow of the ash that fell from the mushroom cloud. It was a long time coming, I knew it was in there – it was just a matter of the fuse being lite, and time being syphoned into a counterclockwise whore dancing as the rye flowed through the funnel and caught fire.

Flames licked the soul, feet burned on the coals and the voices in the head fought for some kind of space to come spinning out of the turnstile of profanity that came forth. Flesh was pressed for the sake of feeling a pulse, hoping it matched the beat in the blue vein on my cock. Beacons in the lonely night hoping there would be a reason to reach out and look at Pat Bentsofar, her ass a lonely heart in the night Yes might seek out backstage for a tuning of the right fork or the long neck.

Resting in the place of this fire, fighting to keep the words from rushing to every porous oracle in my body, oozing out no regard for the perimeter or the environment. Want of nothing but the ability to occupy the seconds that search for another way in, or out. Meaning in the motion of having to occupy the fire, halved for a period of time to move forth to another dimension, dementia the flavor of the sherbet. Lemons.

Ade?

No such word, looked it up.
Saw the picture of the black dude from Snatch.
Laughed.

“The grass is fucking orange.” Gus Xortopoulos

I am in the thirteen year of Hell.
There will not be a fourteenth.
It shall end now.
I shall end now.
Eyes dance.
I surrender – nothing.
Keeping it all.
Showing, but not surrendering.
Eyes sing.
2013.

I swear by my very life, this will be the case and yet am still not assured of you being here to listen.

The reasons, they will all be told.
Have been, now I have to edit.

Must I have to keep buying time from some of the queries, another weak offer that included a bottomless supply of Tabasco. I told them any good writer has salt and red blood to use for his Caesar.

Boils, zits, self inflicted cuts – accidents.

There is always a bloody, fuck you Mary somewhere.
Words cut.

All ways.
Always.

To doubt this is to not have soul, no passion. No life or love for the word.
The fight for it.
The feel of it as a sword, or a feather – but, in the arena possessed.

Held.
Measured by time, and then what?

Tired, and have been of so much – so wanting to just keep running and hiding in the busy days of repainting, or hoping there could be a call to vent about another fucking PTA event that would provide a fresh wheel for the cart. A way to keep the mask clean of the dust and the oblivion found on the road…so cold…so tired.

Can we sleep here?

Those that wish, may.
Discretion is their own, like mine.

I will sleep when I am dead.

I will live, when I can.
I will abide, heavily.

Informed consent is not something that is agreed upon in a moment of allowing a faulty argument to be made about consequences of actions, and doing the same thing. The risk and reward of many things come from one kind of action, and not another. Find the truth in the darkest of the spaces, wonder not why they hid them there. Wonder why you had to seek something in the space, and how you had planned to benefit from it – other than to simply give it life. Give it purpose.

My time on will change, you have seen it do so in the last year.
I yours, if.

It will continue to do so over the coming months.
Always does.

Fascination with meaningless numbers no longer binds the elements of sunshine and rain, joy and stain.

It is time for the beautiful grass.

So pretty, such a nice dream.
It must mean spring has sprung, and yes.
Yes, to your yes.

Such a very fine guess.

Wrong, but a fine guess.

Yes.
Yes to your yes.
I just have to write alone for the days and nights, but we can sit and talk.
I will speak, you will listen and praise me.
Tell me there is good in all that is done.
Hand me a buttered scone and provide a tea to warm the throat, now parched from lack of spirits.

Drunk on life again.
Mad on the intoxication of the words.
Treating me like the whore I am.
I have become.

A slave to the need to see them appear, and then leave.
Never satisfied, never aware.

Care.

Fucked by Rye, and left as the doorstep of another frat house of eternal brothers and tales to tell of the vulture that circles overhead.

Fucking birds.
Eat the meat, it is safe.

Just ash.

We all turn to dust anyway.
Even pages, words – will now change.

Find misery in the dark cinema, touching itself in the right places as the screen plays another black and white epilogue of Laurel proving his partner and he are characters.

Silver screens no longer functioning for what we thought, and you ask my why I simply do and see as I do, unaware of the rage that is chased on the tales.

Fucking beast, chasing his rage on the tail of a typewriter.

One mode, and much of it.

Get sum.

“All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman it is enough…the fact will prevail through the universe…but the gaggery and gilt of a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall so: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…” Leaves of Grass

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

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*