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


Stailing the open seize.

Digits flailing softly reminding us. Lest we forget. This is chum. Tower over it. Pulse.

Digits flailing softly reminding us. Lest we forget. This is chum. Tower over it. Pulse.

Stay lifted on life.
“The right one never comes off.”

Seeing it, embracing it.
Skin sailing on wind.

Bone stails.

Waves become whores wishing to drown
with you by the boundless sea.
Hide your gin, hydrogen.

Flesh gulls begin to peck at your cheek,
neck gristle shines.
Salted air.

Rotunda knuckles crash to the misted sheets.
Wood, resisting flesh.

Chalk, filaments and fibres melt in the heat.
Jaws cracking calcium peanuts.
Divine peanuts.
Banged big peanuts.

Oral peanuts.
Chomp the big heels of life.

Those stilettos will prevent your tongue.
It wishes to sail.
Expose your inner genius.

Have faith.
Few have the ability to do it.

To fully understand how to wield it.
The bone stail.

Hold it firmly.
Place your tongue on the table.
Drop the blunt.
Repeat into the tool as part of the whole.

Remove guts after the seizure has stopped.

Fluids are always.
Particles – to float, indeed.
Solid just stands.

Over the mess of chum.
Not possible.

It must be in the chum.
The chum must want sum.

But stand, and count.

Then let us dance.
Icarus is here tonight.
One night only.
It is a hot show.
Cannibals and witches,
stand up Stantastic’s,
genital mollusks, Zeiss flies.
Snowflake moths.

Look at the guts.
Make yourself happier, feel the prick.
The sting.
The leather whip tail of a radish,
bound and sutured to the sights you see.
Feel, read.
Up and ebbed, flown over a nest.

Shame they always think of cuckoo nests.
In that highway, that trove of concrete.

The books must be dry when we quote them.

That is what they want, so give in.

Painted the walls with olives,
my cave.
Gorgeous dolmadaglite.
Heavy as fuck.
Shiny, clean.
Scratch my back on that point there.
On this boat.
In the open seize.

Just you and me.
Where do you want to install your stail?
Quick, they are coming.

“Can we sail?”

I was hoping you would never ask.
I just don’t know.
We can try.

Poetry walked the moon first.



Disco pussy…

The beat comes hard like her calves.

Solid and walking, in the sun ahead of me and with some kind of purpose, I am aroused beyond just the point of fascination with her gorgeous form, I am mesmerized by her confidence and her ability to accept what is in front of her like some kind of thing that had to be.

She turns.

“Why are you following me?”

The gaze dances past a pattern, and approves of it. I did not wear it to be approved of, and somehow she feels this. It was not to have me know she did, she merely appreciated it, the same as a wave that passes in front of her. Dare to think she would remember this one.

The drop, settles into a look, that is not meant to touch the flesh as she sits on the cotton that makes her couch better. The drop, is to have the ride be what is should be, and when you get on it, and you think you might find someone to love, then you might want to need something else, or at least a different kind of love.

The kind, that involves the passing two strangers, and some kind of animal attraction causes it.

“What would make you think that?”

He walked by, not to hide the flower that was required to be stated, but to get to a point that it had not to be considered. Henceforth, there would be no mention of it. No need, the attraction was something else, of a kind you can only hope to find again, if you have found it once, consider yourself lucky.

The damnation that comes with the ability is not as much of a wish, as it is a wash, of the emotions that carry the soul on the tide to the next point, before it stops.

And another begins.

“I could sense it.”

There was no denying it, he had been following her.

It would have played out so much differently if he had worn the cork heels.

The children laughed, and he smiled at her.