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

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.

By

Measurement of the counted

Looking in the mirror, and finding what you think you see is not easy. It requires one to look truthfully at the reflection. Count the ways that are important to measure your own worth.

Yes, society tells us over and over again, that wealth is related to the assets that you possess, the “ferrari” that you drive, or the “mansion” you live in, the wine drank in the crystal glasses, and the sun basking on the minds wanderings as you enjoy the cool air over perfect pores.

The danger of driving the car, the hardship and anger that reside within the walls, drunken sweeping of worthless shards tossed into the trash as a consumed commodity provided a chalice to drink with for a moment. These are all things that are possible, actuals for most that walk laughing at the menial pheasant that flies beneath them.

Easy to stand on Mt. Amazing and cast your shadow on those that seem to not be “blessed” with all the good things that are right – a big home, and a luxury car, the right channels to watch when you kick the feet up. Yes, this is living, you say – and wave the arms across the expanse of the horizon.

Some can see that wave. They are hidden in the gulch near the mountain that you speak of, and they smile eating their meal of humility and observance in solace.

I do.

I do not need a paper framed on the wall to remind me of the years that have passed, my actions will speak louder than words.

One is not begging for smiles sought only when the eyes wander over a parchment stained with colour, unless he is busy freely painting the path he has chosen with fragments of the blessings that have been and now have become adjective sowings along the walkway.

All of these masterful declarations, and a butterfly net to catch them with.

The issue is complicated, and still so simple.

You will make time to be in the field and be alive. If it is important – you need not label it net utilization time if it is not the case.

Why do you need to “catch” the butterfly, and not enjoy it, and cherish that moment? No reflection and sharing, or the reflection you are sharing is one that will soon be different then the tasted wares of the liquid refractions?

Your life has become that important, on top that mountain. That life has become defined as the mountain, never to crumble to the sea. Never to see the world for what it is.

A giant stave, for music to be played.

You listen to your symphonies, and your black ties will bring you joyful recognition amongst the peers and peasants climbing the swinging ladder to Trump’s balls.

I will be hearing the harmony that comes from a small blade of orange grass, held between the minds eye and the soul.

When the wind cry’s out with a sigh after the meadow performs, the orange sings.

I promise I will always wave, hoping one day those that I knew on the mountains I have travelled, those that have walked on a way, will choose to follow the sound.

The sweet sound of orange grass.

The sweet sound of life.

Orange is the colour of life, and grass is any colour you want it to be.

As long as it is measured, as something that counts.

*abide*