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

By

Help, My Snowman’s Burning Down (1964, Carson Davidson)

An image of the world, as advertised.

The soundtrack is your own mind man, woman, or child.

Enable it.

Talk to the meece, mais oui?

*abide*

By

One small step…?

It is a small step?

It was a small undertaking, unimportant.

iGus peers from the shadows of “fiction”.

I abide.

Oh, how the truth does set one free.

Cowards need not apply, liars lay in thine grass.

No issue, I own my miles, in my gulch.

The grass is orange.

Fuck you cancer, we win…again.

μάνα, για πάντα στην καρδιά μου.

*abide*

02-16-2013 

By

Context Smirk

The bi-directional highway between anger and happiness is a walk on a road you choose, and prepare accordingly. Answer to knowing keys played alone, within eye the comfort that comes haunting.

This is what your life has become, theatre of the mind, allusions of friends manifested upon your stave by the calling of the notes. Reflections of successful, and talented people, busy with their own lives. Time is a shallow knowing of the trauma it flicks, seconds hardship creates the smirk, tilting with the chords.

Your song demands no audience through an obligation any longer. When no one is obligated, remnants of the capable caring and compassionate, at will shall bring the respite on the way.

Judging, importune willingness not demanded, but earned in your practice. Choices own lifetimes, shared, becoming the lifeline tracing tides and the magic carpet ride. A line that may not be the shape, or the direction, or the magnitude of what you seek, but you have the choice to walk that line also sunshine, so spread those wings and make like an illusion we can all bring into context.

Time and the weather pediments at the call of an elixir, dancing soul barometer measuring the metronome of the terrain, in fragmented quantifications of the sociopathic tendencies, affirmed as logical reason and sound judgment by the most vicious adjudicator in the universe. The one constant, controlled only by the mind of men, that claim very control of figments and dried sweets.

Time.

Objects must conform to our cognition argued Kant. Cerebral manifestations now occur in bit cursives in all shapes and senses that are pivot points.

If the hell begins to creep more and more into the shadows your sun they basked in, be assured few reflections wish it to appear, and somehow, they do. Sepia smiles from the geometric form risen to be seen in passing circumstance.

Only then will you begin to see the beauty in the song that has been played, and choose to play the songs that you were blessed to count as the one’s that touched you the most, that make the pages of the mind want in connection to the harmony that seems to play so soundly in the senses. Seen and spoken, but reflected only by the experiences lived.

Balls that were but toys, amusing and fascinating to the wooden work horse capable of carrying the importance of the task at hand. Little to have, he held his world in high esteem, and the weight of imagination held no place within the bags that held the ransom time demanded. Invested and paid for with such a cost, the value of it growing a fond return to the simpler days.

Melancholy and somber, the sounds and the choices seem so distant to the moment at hand. So grand, and all knowing of the ability to be, and allow the universe to provide the wealth that you so deserve, for in youth, there is nothing that is not an entitlement. Ravenous to consume and conquer, walls that you believe provide shelter are stationary against the actions of men that leap from behind them. Leaving their safety, aware of what lays on the other side.

The end is not as it will seem, for anyone.

Least, me.
For now is the time my fingers dance.

The darkness you hear, is just the passing of the keys smirking.
Contextually.

*abide*

By

Frost – November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Robert Frost

By

I am feta…man…*headscratch*

I am here, and I am not a freak.

I a man, trapped inside the body of a piece of cheese, that is now looking to the forum of the world, to be the place where I reveal.

Do not think of me as a freak, think of me as an eccentric.
A man, who has been blessed to be educated by life, hiding rolls of scripts from a conformity that blessed me with some kind of personae gratis.

Thank you for the stories, but the record has spun and the needle will lift aff the track like the mad anarchy of the beating minds that focus on nothing but Calvin Harris. The lights splashing the delight of the moment, fascinating the mind with the Kreskinesque pinnacles of wonder. The excitement of childhood, and youth.

Plugged in, and living through the umbilical chord fed directly into the mind.

This is not some rogue termination, or a battle of epic proportions that involve good and evil. Right and wrong, or young and old.

This is the life of a man that is crying out for some of the world to allow him to express what is required, to just be. To just abide, to just live in the moment and experience the wonder of the things that you can not change.

Always, fascinated by the ability to have that which is forbidden. Just out of reach, the desire to reach for the ball as it rolls, not because you must have it, but because you need it. From the moment you say it, there was something fascinating about it. Something innate and internal that is can not be described.

Bodies moving and crammed, thoughts that dance to the beat of the heart that allows the chasm to be crossed in matrix defined sequences leading you on the journey of the mind.

Hypnotized by life.

Not on the grand scale, but by the individual moments.

In that moment, realizing what the essence of how you are and what you are, is what you want to do, at that moment. At the moment when you are going to save the world tonight, and bring it back to life. We are going to save the world tonight. Rinse, rage, and repeat. Jump, jump up motherfucker.

This is your life.

Do you feel the drop coming? Do you realize the elusive feeling you seek after it in life has nothing to do with the pure ecstasy that you will experience when the next note comes and the next light flashes.

It feels good, but what is happening is not what you are in, unless it remains relative to the overall look and interest in what you want to accomplish in life. How you want to actually achieve the greater set of interests in your life.

It is not the days and months spent in front of the lights and the words, for the sake of being accepted by others – is it? This is what you seek, to be “known” as the cool one walking down the hall, so you will conform with the cerebral fashion and interests of those that claim you can not like that kind of music. You are too wise, you are too old, you are too straight, you are – what? You?

No, I am me, and like you I stand here declaring it. The purposes however will be different, period. We may both be doing this for “ourselves” and so we stand on the same alter of abide, and smile.

The wise ones, have the smile in their eyes and in their hearts also. Not because the gowns and the intention are the same, but because they are so beautiful in their differences. Each strand of the robe different than the next, and in each moment, moving, creating a new mathematical DNA of the circumstance that is our life, and this, this is beautiful thing.

So I smile, and know – no matter where you are, and what you do, and in fact, even what you have done, still makes you beautiful I will embrace the differenc, and acknowledge that even in my need to ensure I am never in that state of hatred and disgust that the lowest of the low may be in, I will learn from them, as I have from my hardships. From my life.

A wild one, and ride that I swear, on all that is holy, and to the best of my ability, will be reflected in ways and with wide-eyed wonder that will bring the drop, and I know the notes are coming, and I will embrace them whatever they may be.

For I am here, and I am real.
I am not a freak, I am not an asshole or an evil person.

But I will defend my brine, as I defend my mind, and stand happily in front of any judge.

In my robe, smiling throughout.

Never thought you would picture a piece of feta smiling.
Standing in front of you, as a man.
Smiling, and abiding.
Being.

In your mind, and in your thoughts, because I have only written, and what I will write is the vision you see in your own mind.

Your own.

*abide*

By

Sofuckingwut.com/fuck-enclosed

Has language, and the choice of large, banging foul directions are meant to bring more vivid emotion, and in all cases, a context that is more subtle than dropping the f-bomb itself.

You are the kind that likes to punctuate.
So fucking what.

*pause*

Yeah, that is right.
I am one of those fucking idiots.
You know the kind, the two by four, that is about an inch and a half short of two….not me asshole.
I got more than a two by…
Seriously, so fucking what?

Using colorful language, and completely obscure references, could cause a complete train wreck for some, and for others, the blessings of the intellectual anarchy are based on a self satisfying, self devoted quest to push an envelope and entertain, while at the same time stretch the boundaries of conversation to include amusement, and the sarcastic splendor of a magic candy fucking mountain.

This cold bowl of ass soup that common media have you eating is not one that all of us enjoy. I am not a fan of ass as a food, as a notional urban slang phrase for delicious booty on a great lady, amen…as a principle ingredient in a cold soup…not for me thanks.

I like to speak the way I want, and basically enjoy the ability to draw very large, tangent launch pads of absolute statements, that often have more than just a basic interpretation. I like to combine them, with other parts, and create this Tron like maze of flashing lights, and machines in motion. Rather than wooden blocks, brain cells forming the slides and ladders, with small buckets that inspire even the most die hard Mousetrap fan.

Yes, it won’t take too long to get the real meaning.

*abide*

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I love you momma

My life is not real it seems without you in it.

Guardian angel – a living one right now.

Would not be alive in the first place

Would not be who I am.

Would not be where I am, or in fact alive after the first battle with cancer, if not for this lady.

The strength of mothers is a miracle, and there is no love, no matter what, than the love a mother.

You are my miracle.

You are magic.

I love you momma.

*abide*

 

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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*

By

The sight you seek

What would you choose to be the last thing in your life, you would like to see before you go blind?

How would that feel for all of your senses…last taste, last sound, last smell, last feel?

Think about it…or not…me, I choose the last letter.

*abide*

By

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