fetaman.com

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

By

Thai sticks a right

The levels of imminent death to freedom, the demise of true liberty, civil or private, are about to be forever higher than the stones gathered around the bones of the entrusting fools who believed rain would always be rain, and stones would never be revealed for the pain that would be gotten from the begotten suns and sirens.

At the Global level, we have a collection, a united set of nations no longer blue caps, but drones, invisible to the naked pretense. Here the groups demand, to hear from such nations as Canada, such things as, but not limited to:

“The people who work at CSIS collect information in Canada and abroad and use it as the basis for providing advice to the Government of Canada in the form of intelligence reports about activities that may constitute a threat to the security of Canada. This information is collected from many sources, including:

In planning and conducting an investigation, care is taken to ensure an appropriate balance between the degree of intrusiveness of an investigation and the rights and freedoms of those being investigated. Investigations that require use of more intrusive techniques, such as the interception of telecommunications, are subject to a rigorous process of challenge and controls, including the use of a Federal Court warrant.”

At first reading, no one is going to break out a Locke reference. They Kant.

*sigh*

Eyes would glance across the structure, and not even absorb the shear, vast and uncompromising inclusion of every facet of life. This must be true; this is to defend a nation. A League of which is now much further along the chosen path to One World Order, but none the less, is granted the substance to provide the gruel and the tools for the planning and conduction of junctions that do more than just function.

From the State, to the Plates that make up the table we all sit and pay taxes, homage upon the daze and flaccid night. Time is heaped with wreaths of deceit, and then the man grabs bread from the mouth of the woman or child, black or white, kindred Gods or foreign bogs have not forsaken womb for the indignity of intrusions. Rights shall be guarded, moves but techniques to provide the pawn more than a hope, forward and straight, unless cruel interceptions mandate jugulars to triangulate.

Control.

Add the snake, and controls are more.

More is better.

Use; dispose.

Life is a privilege, and to think otherwise is criminal.

Foreign.

The conclusion as easy as the flick of a finger upon the sealed silicates that jest with the innocence of a fragile mind, sounds too complicated to understand but present enough, fighting the fiercest of senses, visual eviscerations.

A clock shall become the flint rock.

Progression is a sacrifice, and we must collect reward miles somewhere for this sled of atrocities along the way.

Vote now and forever hold another’s piece.

Take the snapshot, buy into the initial profile offerings of the moment.

Sticks that tied, Thai sticks of days enlisted as gone by.

Crueller?

The slow, linear degradation of a mind meandering; vapid memories that have filled the grey void with jewels and gems defensive in their position. Allowing but a singular perspective to encompass the whole of the experience, no longer covered by each precise and minute circumference of the moment. Burst into the geometric shape of some sort, it is filed in the membrane. Just allow the punchcard to dictate the journey and enjoy the taste of pulp fictions as you celebrate life among so many, tied.

Right.

*abide*

By

Asshole’s Hindsight

“Misery does not love company ‘traditionally’. It yokes, trammels and contains vassalage through deceitful choice masked as emotion.” – Gus

Two red darts, two girls in blue.

Seclusion, and the promise of sobriety.

Standard fair for the Ferris wheels in Leningrad, fog lifting the sanity from the perspective that shone the light of a lift, before the drop came and the masses followed suit with children born of a liturgy founded in mad beats, rapid change and seclusion within the music of the mind.

Sanity seems to have been formed by the balloon blown, covered by the asymmetric mean averages puked by an algorithm that snaps tomorrow today, before yesterday has been given the time to ferment and crate the illusions of an illustrious past. Seems as though this is not the cloak by which love is forecast to shave the balls of Fate, stroking the chalice and tasting the chocolate and corn with such flare the media seeks interviews.

Canadian? No problem, we want to keep raping your resources, claim we dig you, then fuck you in the ass when The Interview is played on the eve with which some think of Mary, a whore, taking a flaming flesh souvlaki in the hole that shall bring forth a majestic, white, male. Destined through the clouds to provide the bliss that all cultures must follow. I am the racist though, perhaps one trying to inform the world of just how truly ignorant it is when considered soberly.

Fuck your tradition and simple manipulation of a past.

The details that were left in the footsteps of fools and flounders in the fields are just that; indentations of history caressed by the free minds of those that had the fortune to control all moves upon the chess board.

It is but a grain of rice, and those are but 64 squares. I stand by my decision and my kingdoms shall suffer the fate of stupidity I am about to exhibit. This is why I am King, the hindsight. As my Queen, she is sight. Follow our deleveraging of a regulation within this utopian sanity deemed a market. Justify 18,000 points as a heated manipulation of the economic strength that is flexed daily, as the masses buy magazines and bury time in the sand like the head it was to be by the choices they chose to oblige.

Looking back at the year, a snarl greats the first thirsty reflections; crowns upon the Crown Royal, salutations to the nights of frenzy and rage. Syphoned medications sit idly in the cupboard for days until their ghost gasps, push buttons and call upon Gus’s of the world to throw gasoline upon the pyres. Rubber tires, and vile language to bring a sobering reflection back from the mundane passive.

Chants of freedom, and the ability to speak are the pillars by which the temples of knowledge are shared, so many unseen and forgotten – doomed to be repeated in the passed negligence that was intentional, smitten, and of spawn. The horrors of racial profiles, and gun violence – spoken of years ago in one voice (*link to my piece), seemed to be lost in the Billboard 1000 Charts. I stand by them, still saddened by the ignorance that persists as governments allow the tires to be soaked. Recycled with fire.

Shit has to go somewhere, and when touched by fire every asshole will clamp shut. It is an autonomous reaction, like taking a piss when you shit. Just happens. The problem is, when the asshole is clamped shut, and it continues to feed off the fossilized sanitations of a global conscience, it will explode. Fuck, if it were anything but an asshole, it may have had the foresight to avoid taking in whatever would, or could cause such a problem. If it were anything other than an asshole, it might not be sitting here reflecting on the hindsight of an asshole.

I mean, upon presentation of the concept, or the ability to create a parody of the Nutcracker filled with all the madness you could imagine, I first was angered, then flattered to be able to given the opportunity to show that two cheeks could make life an entire universe, from the perspective of an asshole. It has a fixed position this asshole, it seems, as though all assholes do. If they did not, then they would have be referred to as ‘x’hole, where ‘x’ represents the infinite range of locations that can occupy the body of a living being, to expunge shit. Bile, refuse, piss. The excrement most often associated with political press releases, big ticket philanthropy, and manufactured poisons of all ilk.

Fucking awesome, right?

Well, wait.

It even gets better.

Turns out, the real twist on this story is that the asshole whose hindsight I was going to be reporting on, actually was a speaking asshole. A limited audience, and his impact is not so great as to truly matter, I mean, seriously – who the fuck is going to give any credibility to a talking asshole? Laughs? Sure. Impossible not to laugh at anything an asshole has to say, poor bastard has had a lifetime of assholes before him representing just about every facet of shit possible. Life is a remix.

How does an asshole stay relevant in the information, and mind occupation race?

Are you aware of the shit that is coming out of your mouth?

Does the taste of corn and peanuts bother you during any of your deliberations, arguments, or daily wishes of good-anything from day to night and all in between?

What is the ingredient in rye alcohol that makes all assholes rage?

The one thing that was required of me was to read Wolff’s ‘In Defense of Anarchism’, as well as appreciate the fact that most refined assholes, or those that believe that they are smarter than the average assholes, tend to take a lot of tangents, and the one I was going to be discussing hindsight with was particularly intrigued with Wolff’s IDOA work in 2014. This was likely a profound reaction to some serious of events, or a collection of them in totality from a broader delta of data points over time I was told, and I had to run with that. I was now considering how much of a challenge this was going to be, and was I going to be any better of a person for being able to be the furthest thing from this kind of asshole I could be?

Well it appears as though 2-15 provides the man in the mirror with an opportunity to pass the relish. Spread it and weep, fuck it. In the grand scheme of the universe, it has math to fuck hardily. Reach around, full on fuck. Screw the silence and the security, for the naive and the naive. Do you think you can tell, heaved and a mighty swell? A file from a nail, a walk on part in the scar, or the lead foil in a sage brush?

You think you can tell?

The real anger, the frustration is in listening to the water tell us it had nothing to do with the rounded edges of the rocks. The shores, they were craved from the carvings of the actions each rock took, the stance and the lack of action. That, that indeed is what shaped the oceans and the spleens.

Ne’er one fret to the pace, it is all but a relative.
Capsule, capped fool; tricks were for kids.
Still, into the night said the perfect knight.
Shame, it was a lie.
Forbidden into the lair, high.
Scared.
So it bursts, capitulation with a side of bravado.

Fuck, the walk is nowhere near as long as the song that is sung.

Starving people but a headline on the pages.

The man walks into the clinic for a nut sack tuck.

The trauma is equaled only by the drama.

Of the ride, but one promised by a llama.

Fuck this magic carpet ride is gonna abide; you can tell by the other side.

Fetaman's Abide - Miracle of Life Ehknew

*abide*

By

Committed. Abide.

Just another day, and to be sure, it is.

One that I am grateful for having lived, in fact, there is more to that “statement” than meets the naked eye; fawn too a meadow of imagined vines climbing towards the love of frothy hope. Gates to a heaven, taxed with sins.

Heaven is spelt with a silent capital U.

Think about it.

Upon a wooded row, there stood a small insect that appeared. It asking for directions on how to reach the road he asked for. He would not accept my answer, nor the call to my trusted best friend over and over again.

Funny how so many fools suffer the Websters-WebMD Fuqtard misconception that Abide is a passive state, simply.

Fondue logic dripping down the spine, usually is a bad sign about the quality of the company you keep.

Feel your spine.

Do not move, no scratching.

Feel.

Alive.

Now close your eyes.
Forever, ok?

Yes, if I was asked to, but my truest love and companion would be there in all of the trillions of seconds I sense she is, and yes.

Yes, I would.
I will.

Wood, you…will do, and I am grateful for you. I have walked across a plane fertilized, stones committing to Semedori and trees remain grateful for the glancing winds of antique trails. Time, the tyrant who is mute, ability surrendered by a will Kings of Kings profess, serpents to the works that all fall, never as mighty as a despair. (*oz link)

Visage, voyage, voussoir castings left for those still eager to find a meaning litter the sacred corners of the cortex and dolomite steeples.

Strike for a match,
strike for a game.
Strike for the rights,
professed by the sane.

Sure, you provide the back, I will strike the purple tip, cuticle of a circumcision reefed with sulfur. The deeper the lick, the deeper the depth of each vertebrae lodged.

Where?

Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you Tomorrow.

You know, just a day away.

*abide*

hbdf.c18mtPi

By

The Cost of the Corn on my Cob has Gone up.

Time, more than a magazine. Smart apes, and strainers with transmissions.

Time, more than a magazine. Smart apes, and strainers with transmissions. It was just a photo that spoke of an age when there was a scent of change. It smelled so clean, and wonderful. The programs had told us so, this was how one would wake up and live. This was emancipation from slavery. They believed. Duplicity, delicious in this proLean (c) smoothie. *changes channel, opinion sound, dilates pupils, gulps senses*

I recently had to undergo some review of my health and my diet as of late, as some of the resulting issues post cancer(s) are non-terminal. Sure, they also mean they cannot be considered “life ending” – but that is all about how you define life, and the quality of it. Consider the loss of your vision, devoid of the current “life” you see. Is that a loss of life? A disability? Something you think you can overcome?

I have made that mistake in the past, and realize people (a) have limited intelligence to be able to comprehend context unless it is spelled out to them explicitly, and (b) most are fucking gossip cunts, that have to feed off the bullshit they create, and then spread it so their field can creep what they flow.

Feel free to look around, in fact, please do. Then make sure you inquire or inspire, but light the fire and bask in the glow of whatever flame is before you, hot or cold.

I know one thing, that the cost of “shit” is just fucking unreal when you consider a whole bunch of the most common elements, and somehow people continue to think they are “rich” and “have” more than in the past, and I have to smirk, I really do.

So I made a list, of some of the most common items I remember as a child and then created a table which listed them, my memory of them as a “cost” (*for the soon to be haters, please fuck off if you expect full blown reference back tracks to what the actuals were, fuck. I remember getting 2 dozen corncob in my rural “hood” or thereabouts, and that shit was a buck. If you can’t remember that, or never experienced it, well whatever, make your own table) and what that means per unit.

So, as an example let us consider a corn example. Back in the 70’s, as children travelling to the 8 tracks the old man wanted to turn up, we would stop roadside and get this massive paper bag of them for $1.00. The means, there were 24 cobs/ears (*yes, often more with the quick hands of a slick parent I am sure) or about $0.04/each. There was not marketed “ethanol” back then, unless it involved some kind of fermented inebriant that fuelled a hard days work trying to feed people who really did not appreciate how much more complex food, the politics of it, the inclusion of the “machine policy” within the profit margins and of course, the overall devastating changes that would come to occur with humankind and the world we occupy.

A snap of the Google fingers, and www.usinflationcalculator.com allows us to calculate that over the course of a number of years, backwards or forwards. Nice. Simple, and I do not want to get into the debate of how they calculate that rate, and if they are appropriately illustrating a cumulative rate of inflation or not. If you got the picture about the rate of inflation is not really discussing the type of clouds some may thing of cumulusly or humilisly.

*sip

Simply put, if you look at the cumulative inflation over two periods, there are going to be a variety of factors, but just create your own list like I had referenced above and play with some shit you remembered as a child. You will be fucking amazed. If I had shown you a list, you would not be able to emotionally relate to the findings on your own. If you brain functions in a visual, and empirical manner – the math is just astounding.

But the machine says there is a different math, so I insist.

I bought, 3 ears of corn the other day for $1.99 at an Asian grocery/vegetable store. They are known to have the lowest prices, and perhaps not the best decor and stuff at times, but other times and in season, great options relative to the $3.99 price I would pay at the super premium locations that demand certain auxiliary and complimentary assets allow entrance.

*no comment*

Here is where it gets confusing for most.

If I simply multiply the current cost of the low end, with $2/3 ears of corn, so $8 for a dozen? Or if it is the Uber-Corn, that is $16 for the dozen – right? Or $16/$32 for that same two dozen. So pull off to the side of the road, and now hand that dude a cool $35 bucks, cause you got to make sure the farmer is tipped.

But, no – you have tax now – so please factor that in accordingly in life, but here, let’s just keep it flat for right now.

How does that $16.00 not look anywhere near the same 4:1 ratio that www.usinflationcalculator.com put in for a 1974-2013 spread? When we plugged $1.00 into the calculator, it quickly burped that we would pay $4.72 for the same product, and the cumulative rate of inflation amounted to 371.1%.

Someone pass some more alcohol intelligence to the folks chirping about the use of marijuana, ’cause I can pretty much assure you most of the abiders or the gliders are in the full effect of understanding right about now.

I wonder if it has anything to do with math?

Don’t ask me – cheese can’t do math. Or spell. Or care.

*context smirk* Gus is around, maybe this is Gus. There are going to be a handful of people that read the site, and keep in touch via Twitter, and that believe, that are going to get a sneak peak at an inside tip for the book, likely within this week. Send out an email to me here at the site, or you can T/RT this posting with a #GusAbides tag, and consider that a belief grenade, you know, an abide flare of sorts. *shakes Fetaglobe*

But it seems to me, that $0.04 is what got an ear back then. Now, that same ear can cost as much as $1.33, or thereabouts. Is that how they got 371.7%? Missing something.

*headscratch*

Pretty sure I am not, but play along – it can get even “funner”.

Like remembering a drunk father who made sure to insist that $20 was used to buy his carton of smokes and a 24 of Molson. Yeah, hope they serve beer in hell old man.

I know one thing. When you plug in $20, there is no fucking way that $94.33 is going to cover the cost of a carton of smokes, let alone the case of beer with it. What is interesting is the rate of inflation there, the “slower” crawl that seems to jump out at me.

I mean, over those same years the cost to purchase has not gone as ballistic as food or groceries, but whenever we begin to discuss food, and how families can survive, or the quality of the food they are trying to survive on, some rich asshole comes wandering in and insists anyone can eat well.

All they have to know is what inflation means, and ensure the trust fund is handled by the right accountants, at the right time – right?

After all, intergenerational wealth is just not worth what it used to be.

Unless you still collect the stamps, and not use them, or their new forms.

This message sponsored by some complex origami for most.

For others, it is just another series of folds on the way.

*abide*

By

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.

Home was not safe anymore.

When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.

Fuck us all.

The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.

It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.

We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.

So I did.

We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.

My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.

Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.

You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.

Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.

Too hot.

No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.

I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.

I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.

You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.

Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.

My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.

It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.

A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.

More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.

You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*abide*

By

Here, the reign.

You hear the train a comin’
Just round the bend,
You know you won’t be sleeping,
When the IRS steps in.
Stuck in Fulsom Fed,
Euros or fine Yen.
But these papers keeps a-rollin’,
Down to Variance.

When I was just a new curd,
My Momma told me, “Feta,
Abide as a good cheese,
Don’t ever play with olives,”
But I shot a man in Athens,
Just cause I heard ‘em lie.
Since I hear that thistle howlin’,
Gus’s alibi.

I get there’s rich folks cheatin’,
Prestige kontiki bars,
Probably dunkin’ choda,
Troughin’ meat cigars.
But I know they had it comin’,
I know they can’t be me.
Still those people keep a-cheatin’,
It’s what tortures thee.

Greed freed me from a prison,
Road tracks made of brine,
So I check bet just a Skittle,
Satan shoves all in. Blind.
Leavin’ Fulsom Fed,
Got my papers today.
Said abide’s not a lonesome whistle,
It blows their blues away.

*abide*

 

By

Die. Cot. Ah, me.

The wonderful world of alliteration.

The pageantry of being able to see the defining moments of the world that is seen to be so clear, and crisp to some, but clouded to others.

Some by choice have had this path thrust upon them, as a reward for the vengeance that they sought to take on anything that was to control them. The parrot speaking to the wooden dummy, a host of the outcast misfortunes that led him along the seizure, a salted taste on the good days when there was a river of it on his tongue, hydrated for a moment as a man should be walking the piles.

Around we see the badges of accomplishment, flare that is presented to stress our importance and want for an acceptance or a call. We see people that will lie and cheat, not to preserve some kind of mental challenges they may face or the hardships of their lives, but more so to flee the horror of their own choices. Leaving a path of almost undetectable traces to the naked eh, to another – it is a clear presentation of the fraud that they presented, and in time they will get to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

Bitter or sweet is not only a sub routine of the season alone.

It is a parcel of the package that was delivered to the senses, and then tasted with the intent of the day.

My heart bleeds for the challenges here, and the reality is much different than anyone could imagine – unless they had walked a mile in my shoes. It would be a slow walk, for many reasons. I would hope we could pause a little, and gather some thoughts from the fields beside us. It is hard to believe, but I am going to prove that the grass is orange, and that is the truth.

Whether other’s want to see it or not, will not matter to those of us that do.

The site is not dedicated to selling anyone anything.

There is no beggar here that is pleading for some kind of hand out, or screaming that there is a way for you to make those lovely pumps shine with so much love if you lose 10 lbs. or wear this floral print propaganda.

I am more than happy to hoist an ale, or smoke a smile or two with you.

I really don’t care who you are, just know who you are.

Stand and take pride in that, regardless of the adversity that you made it through.

The complexity of philanthropy is not an easy one to understand for ourselves, let alone for others.

It is always your choice, and you can smile knowing you did what and how for a reason.

But that reason, is all mine.

These, are just the spilling syllables of the tales I tell, and the life I have lived.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

Listen, and you can hear the fuq’s given.

Understand if it was a fuck that was important enough to be saved, or one that was entered in the alliterative form of modern day gladiators entering their own arena of stupidity to do battle with the legions of the fucks that will pander to the machine for want of being accepted.

Stand tall, and know when one is proven to be real – not some fictional picture, or some false prophet on radio speaking the words of his kind.

Real – then you can get more than the nickel.

But those dollars you took, they have another toll that has to be paid.

If you listen closely to the complex symphony, the overture – you can hear the sound of the timpany drum in the forest.

Here it was, thinking that no one would listen.

No one cared enough.

It was not the cost of the beer, or the flavour of the weeds. It was not the gester that would be seen as anticipatory, earning one the right to get a pre-release of the book he was penning on that corner. He was a broken man, broke by the standards of the society that many thought were just to judge him. There his riches were of another kind, here the multiplied in force. In purpose, in a tense capacity moving naturally.

They had come from the heart, because they had been touched. Like walking around the corner and touching the pavement, anxious to see the man who had a story for every day.

Many days, there was no day without his stories. It was merely a stretch of the same composite construction of lame office humour and a desperate hiding spot until Ollie has had enough time to ponder his weak mule as an ox. It was a sad circus, and the man knew it. But he had to find something in his day that mattered, and so he came and listened. He thought no one else would.

You did, and that – has made all the difference.

*abide*

By

This is how flying was invented.

Naked honesty.

When reflected upon and in a retroactive basis, is wild.

Beautiful and mesmerizing. Shanked by the sharpened edges of the social norm, restricted from being provided in the state of nature man was born into, for it would drag us back to the cave to be beaten.

Suffering fools, chained to the anomaly of convention sold as a bill of goods by the piper.

I wish that experience on so many, but alas – for a variety of reasons, and some within their control with others not so much so, they will never get to feel the rush of creating something so real and passionate that taking it down would be the sin, not posting it in the first place.

Sorry is the man that has never felt the rush of a solid sequence of syllables in a wave of emotion that brings him to tears, listening to the darkest of the memories tell him of the night hell broke loose and decided to bend your ear and hold your hand.

You held it back.
It was a wild night.
Do it again, I would.

Hollow is a life that is posted on a “timeline” and never reflected on again, wondering how the tree is worshipped and the memories that have made it so are forgotten to the fruits seen to be able to be harvested each year from a branch that would melt minds if it could reach into a garden of another kind.

But it can.
We can.
It does.

Gus does.

I am so unbelievably, fantastically, and cosmically stoked it is not even funny what a surreal trip this is. I am shaking with joy and emotion, at a level that is magical.

That is no lie.
That is alive.

That is fuck cancer, fuck cowards, wake up and live – alive.

No machine, no cubicle, no green grass only – orange grass.
Alive.

Where other’s see misery, and pain, and misfortune…I see opportunity.
To live, and be free from the thoughts and the illness, and ailments that want to consume me.

They shall not, but I offer them my soul and my life selflessly at the will of Abide.
If that is what it sees fit for me, then so be what I see fit for me.

To the ages of ages.

Reciprocity in piece, and being.

If you had made millions, and wanted to pursue a dream – would you?

Really?

Good, nice to meet you.

Me too.

*sip

Get ready, ’cause if you want the ticket I got one.

Enjoy the ride.

Υγεία, Φιλία kai θρησκεία
Egia, Filia kai Thriskia. 

“Health. Friendship. Faith.” is what many would get from a dictionary.

What I get out of that, well…it may not be as interesting as what Gus does.

The grass. It is orange.

*abide*

By

A wild thing, choice.


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.

*an invisible brown acid re-write, of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

By

Forgive me. I have sinned.

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.
Amen.

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.

Revile me.

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.

I had to kiss her, Tweetadder. Her twitter strategy…so…flawless. Fair. So just. So “elite”.

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.

“See who is not following you.”

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.

*abide*

*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.

**contact is imminent as a matter of choice, not fate.