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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

To relatives.

The entire series, was almost a decade ago. You expect me to sit here, and be passive as my name and effort is slandered – I watch my own parade sunshine, your escapades are for others to deem interest worthy, or note scurvy. I stand by what I write, how I write, and for whom. Anyone, questions always welcome. You stare at the cover and wonder what the words mean, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Then again, more than likely, I could give a fuq to hear it. *jar rattles*

Enthusiasm is relative. Not a relative. Make the mistake of thinking that you are married to some kind of blood kin, that is supposed to come rushing out of you like unbridled enthusiasm, and deep breath – and you are cooked.

Some like to take things to a point, and then are willing to walk away from them, even when there is residual value in them, they have become so exasperated by the struggle, but the effort, by the cause that may or may not have been treated with the fair and right regal attention it deserved, but then again, that is what has allowed us today to capitalize on the failures of the past.

The lessons they learned, from succeeding to move the bar, or the ones that were failures inspiring a new line of thinking, all the way to the one’s that have allowed us to see man truly flying on his own. In the air, on a prayer.

For the thrill, for the purpose.

To not be away from it. To peer at the thrill of it all, and know that life is worth living only when the seize of insomnia ask for no permission they know will never be granted.

Life is precious, in any regard.
Wake the fuck up and live it.
Today.
Now.

You are in a position that is “close to the edge”?

This is where success, separates from “them” who stand on the edge and don’t jump for the thrill.

Fucking pussies.
I was there.
Once.

Many times actually, but that is a collective once now.

The Man in the Arena, “if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I will not stop daring.
I will not stop trying.
I will not allow someone to just smirk at the sand.
I will not abide.
I will not try.

(licks pin on brine grenade, filled with belief every morning upon awakening, I carry it on me at all times, and reloads are always near by)

Each particle, each fragment – united, it becomes a greater force. A clearer image, filled with the pixels of purpose and the thorns to be rested on the weary head that must shield their eyes, their orifices, their very souls from the cerebral tsunami before them.

That is ok sunshine, stay in the concrete tent.
That is where your God has asked to stay, serve the rebar.

If you mix your effort with cloak, it will go awry He said, and still you decided to press. Remove the caramel and sugar coated textile from the tin, and dance with the sure grin on the fluoride tainted taste provide by the Machine.

Follow at your own will, and under your prowess.

Blessings, once aboden, become surety.

Bounties on the soul, with actions and flaming fuqtardation to espouse matrimony with mental mavericks or midgets.

Listen, to the call of the loon.

Disturbance or peace, is a reflection which remains, and always shall be – relative.

To health, happiness and prosperity – the last of which, is fully defined by ourselves. The old chicken, has the juice.

What kind of side dish you want served with that corn bread, ma’am.

*abide*

By

Catch. Up?

“Something is happening. Not really being heard, just passing through. As we all do, each and every moment.”
Gus

Please, allow me.

[pulls chair, beckons, a lovely smirk filled with loving, tender embraces]

Prepared for you, these bowls. A fine selection of dareneedling herbs. Our tea’s are not bagged. They are here for your pleasure, do stay a while. Total viewing time of the clips below, 00:08:10. It is meant to be an orderly experience after all, kind of like, determining if you are experienced in the lost art of understanding, awareness, discretion – shall I continue, or would you care to…*cough, cough*…consider some fictionus feta verite?

Humility does not bow, it obliges as an is.

Buy the ticket, get the abide.

  1. Feta Moons – lunar significance? truth? Garcia & Kaufman? big wheels? original soundtrack? 
  2. 6 Million Dollar Brine – rebuild? miracle? documented? shards? alive more? chronic?
  3. Kurtz Understands Orders – terminate? angst? water? orange everywhere. is this the acid part?
  4. Gus’s Overture – composition? high Q? another dimension? cerebral anarchy? brine grenades?

If you think you know, you are right – how expensive it?

Willing to take that risk? What if I told you it would not cost a penny…

I do believe the grass is orange. It is any colour you want to make it.

Gus knows, his grass is orange, so are the skies.

If you had a chance to do it all over again? To just walk away, unplug and truly find the joys in the orange grass…

Would you? Could you?

Should you?

*abide*