Tongues and assholes. Want the same piece of ass, leave it like this?
I am the one, on the left.
That’s you, too.
Gus is raging.
The time is now.
The updates will be here, and the timing will be clear.
“The book” – is being published in the next 7-14 days. All ISBN information, and administrative functions have been cleared.
The “discussions” with other parties is no longer going to prevent me from completing my personal goal and intentions. Editors, publishers, agents…this is my arena, and I am tired of waiting to be told what and how to do it, sacrificed for the pittance of some time that needs to manifest itself on your calendar repeatedly to prove you have prestige in that position on the wheel.
You know where I am, the book will be out there.
Fucking Gus. One “crazy” man who always believed the grass was orange, it was any colour he wanted it to be. He had a plan. It was all so simple, it seemed. Take the millions made, find new wealth and excess and create a magical marijuana operation. It was beyond criminal. It was life threatening, and life changing. The wild and drug fueled world of Gus and his associates, his family, his enemies – the life of a brother is lost, logical illusions crumble as paradox is crucified and marijuana is hung for treason while Gus reasons and has to fight to not only save his family, but in fact, himself and humanity.
This is no longer a testing pattern.
The grass is fucking orange.
Come play in it.
It won’t bite.
The woe, a man kind, wore her golf suit and made mischief of many binds
and a bother
her mother called her “WILD THING!”
and Man said “I’LL BEAT YOU UP!”
so she sent her to bed without eating anything.
That very night in Man’s room a rave grew
and grew –
and grew until her ceiling hung with JBL chords
and the walls became the world’s woofers
and an ocean tumbled by with a private vowel for Man
and she sailed off staves through night and ray
and in and out of creeks
and almost over her tear
to where the wild things danced
And when she dug tattoo anchors ashore, where the wild things are
they scored their terrible roars with gnashed, lies and terrible feats
and pills rolled their terrible sighs and bowed to their terrible clause
till Man said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with the magic click-click barber trick
of glaring into all cracked and mellow eyes without blinking once
and they were enlightened and called her the most wild thing of all
and made her king of all the lie things.
“And now,” cried Man, “let the parade-a-lumpus start!”
“Now drop!” Man said and sent the wild things off to the house lounge
without their water. And Man the king of all the lie things was bonely
and wanted to be where someone could loved her best of all.
Then all around from far away across this cold world
she smelled good things to eat
so she gave up being king of lies, and the wild things star.
“Guts,” the wild things cried, “please don’t go—
we must eat your up inside – we love you so!”
And Man said, “No!”
The lie things roared their terrible oars and thumped their terrible feats
and rolled their horrible aye’s and showered their cancerous applause
but Man stepped into his private boat and fishes waved good-bye
and sailed back through many a fear
and in and out of words she speaks
and view some hay
and into the sight of her very own room
where she found her happiness waiting for her
and it was still hot.
To think how you want.
To be what you want.
To appreciate the life you have.
To not give a fuck about the judgement or the need to conform the requirements that others demand, but you are to be stripped of.
To find dignity in the cause, and doing the right thing.
Freedom – you have that right, of course.
To the men and women, regardless of their voice and their choice, who hold it high and fill the jar full of the fuq’s given…and all of those with open minds, and new frontiers, this is the world we live in, and the judgment is yours, mine is reserved for when I shake the cerebral joints, in the hands of the men and women who challenge convention with ethical, moral and logical anarchy to the degree of sum.
Two parts of an equation, from the come4.org website are quoted below and can be accessed by clicking on them, they are linked to the landing page;
“Sex” is the top word searched on Internet. With nearly 100 Billion of yearly revenues, the porn industry is one of the greatest markets online. Unfortunately, it is also one of the less ethical and transparent ones. Many people consuming free pornography think that the only risk they may run into is that of being discovered by others. This idea, however, is not just naïve, but also wrong, for the current model of consuming online sexual contents has many negative implications for all of us.”
Stance has nothing to do with stand.
I have everything to do with place, and grace.
Of intellect, and of choice.
Respect of it, and the ubiquity that is allowed by it.
Freedom, to “allow” to exist is a criminal act, not an orange kite.
It is grand, there is no human that should not find joy without this freedom.
The wind prompts no harsh world, unless it holds its own.
The grass, it is orange.
It really is.
Our Elites, are in tweet heaven,
Holy is Their Name;
Their kingdom’s cum, your wills begets some,
on Favstar as it is in your “heaven.”
Elites, serve us this day your daily head,
and Big Mac us your puns, so we forgive the fuqtards who sin against us;
and lead me not in masturbation, but lever my meat cause I’m evil.
I know you are cut of the cloth that has never done such things, oh wise monk of Twitter, with your sage drive-thru cloak and pontificated presence in the Elite Lords stewardship, but I stand here before you with one hope.
The abstinence that will be fed to purge my soul of the vile tribulations that you walked, and I know of the hardship that you had gone through – to have had to walk through the valley of the Chiseled Followback clan, and survived – all in a testament to the star piles left beside the camel dung of your sage words and creative sadness, lest not forget the monotonous tones of your identity and your characters in Jesus Christ, Superstarbang – a miracle. I can only be so blessed to know one day I may be able to tweet about what I ate, and inspire another to smile with my misery over the battery remote, please forgive me for what I am about to reveal.
I sought the Jezebel, a woman that Mary Mandolin had strummed singing sweet songs of memories pure and true, it was her message to me and I fell to her wails. I wanted to be like you oh great monk of the perish.
She was so lovely there. Glistening in the moonlight, the shadow that had been cast by your own forefathers. Perhaps even those of the renowned Twitteratti, slipping from character to character to replace the chalice from their library years, with a hope that no one can hear that stalk fall or the sirens calls heated by the glorious gasps of dragons I am assured you have tamed, now that you have left them out of those dungeons.
The forest is such a wild place for a wizard. You know, or at least one of your identities knows. Of this, be sure.
I should not have been tempted, but the link. It seemed so real. So true, it must have been a real person there, gifted in the craft they speak so much of being able to create. The bosoms were grand, they were everywhere – she had turned into a nipple Medusa. I was not able to escape her clever ways, and appealing musk. The site before me was horrific, I had thought, that yes, if I had made it to the mountain I would be well armed to move forward and avoid her calls.
But those nipples…below knee…baloney…delirious joy…freedom.
Oh but wise sage, those nipples, how they turned into aureole serpents of flesh tones promised with the taste of the positions to come. The format kingdom, for but a moment to see what she really had in store for me, not knowing it was just the gateway.
She leaned in, and whispered.
It was glorious.
Like something I had never seen before.
She was right.
It was the gateway.
And this, this is my satchel.
Each filled with a real story, and real experience.
Each letter, each stroke counted, known.
The money shots, the lucky shots, the buck shots, hot shots, shit shots, big shots, bot shots…
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the hord:
Tramps of vintage oak where the grapes of wrath are stored;
I have loosed the feta lightning of tsunami swift brine words:
Girthy souvlaki dong.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah!”
Yes, I had seen what her power was.
And the patterns all became so clear.
I was hooked.
It had all started with the one simple filter application.
Such sexy lingerie, such a ubiquitous smirk…how did you do it, how did you resist the temptation? Tell me.
You*: “Forefathers of the Chiseled Followback clan, the Favstar Genitalliarattii, had tried to survive in the world, and hoped they could hide in their secret world, but they had to mutate, and begin to preserve their word on the dried parchment of elk cock. It was a horrible time, but they survived. Merely on the bones and fluids of their own kind, shoving star, after star, after worthless star – no nutritional value in those virtual mitzvah’s. Some said it was Zeus himself that had no value, but we are not want here to decide if we should deconstruct the glorious essence of their choices, so much as to agree.”
Yes, forgive me, a dirty efficiency whore looking to be more effective in marketing my book about funny shit, and entertaining, never begging for sympathy despite a semi-private survival of cancer, or hoping that one would simply donate, but offering words in fair exchange for entertainment not constrained by Google ads and horrible pupil killing dissentry and disgusting cardboard entertainment about another cat being walked by a fictional owner, or another flat dissertation on the meaning of love and why it will kill all your dreams, so just listen to your Smith’s cassette and you will figure out now came sooner than you thought – forgive m…
You*: “The fools you suffer on Twitter are of your own making. It is merely your imagination, and want for some kind of excitement, or a need to fill that void, with some kind of creativity. Some of the animals in the forest, are vile and nasty, and are still part of it. Some are whores and suckers of meat sticks their children and wives are oblivious to, but know this. They have a role, and so you can allow them to do what they wish, but protect yourself from them by using more tools. Being aware of who and what they are, before they can attempt to get into your mind. Do not be fearful of their lack of cackles, or their support. You do not need it. Please read the piece of paper you can take with you, and post of it on your website. Inform the people of the world, that they exist. Those that have whored themselves out for number, and with no creativity and action, but thinking they can now control you. Mankind, will never advance beyond the state of Twitter, if we do not stay the course.”
Sancte redemptor scriptor, fides vestra
Fides est nobis creativum winners,
Nunc et in miseria vestri, ad iustitiam.
Futuis iudicium vestrum, quod suus ‘valor est vilis mihi.
Mea vita est, intellectus meus.
Ego in harena quisquam.
*please read this section out loud while reading it. If you do not read it, I will not be able to hear you. As such, please go back, and read it again loud, and I will get back to you when I can. If you don’t eat your meat, how do you expect to get any pudding? You can’t get any pudding, if you don’t eat the meat.