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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

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*