fetaman.com

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

By

Into the Void

Rocket engines burning fuel so fast
Up into the night sky they blast
Through the universe the engines whine
Could it be the end of man and time
Back on earth the flame of life burns low
Everywhere is misery and woe
Pollution kills the air, the land and sea
Man prepares to meet his destiny

Rocket engines burning fuel so fast
Up into the night sky so vast
Burning metal through the atmosphere
Earth remains in worry, hate and fear
With the hateful battles raging on
rockets flying to the glowing sun
Through the empires of eternal void
Freedom from the final suicide

Freedom fighters sent out to the sun
escape from brainwashed minds and pollution.
Leave the earth to all its sin and hate
find another world where freedom waits.
Past the stars in fields of ancient void
Through the shields of darkness where they find
Love upon a land a world unknown
where the sons of freedom make their home

Leave the earth to Satan and his slaves
leave them to their future in the grave
Make a home where love is there to stay
July 21, 1971

The fury to be cut into a mask, is made from leadership. Today, the masks are digital impressions and accomplishments masked by hard drive walls.

The paths are etched not by the soul that took it on a journey as great as the void it crossed, but by the tips of something calling for a wanton attention in the mass metallic hysteria of today. The need to generate more grunge with a new rebellious atmosphere that seems to want to forget the past, and not embrace the historic epitaph of walking legends.

There is too much going on they say, I have to remain connected to today, where the relevance is deemed necessary by the media lollipop I want to suck on.

I can’t break free, and do my own thing – that might separate me from the school.

That would be bad.

As a sardine, my sea of brine is made of brainwashed pollution.

If I get too close to the sun, I will be burned to a crisp.

Besides, i want to join some of my cousins, the lemmings for the moon walk anniversary. They are giving away hot dogs that have some kind of magic on them. If you lick them first, before you eat them, you get to see bright, vivid hallucinations of social grandeur.

A land where tales wag the tides.

The tides, move you.

If you are lucky you will find, behind this void – a gulch.

There will be no fuq given for you in that way, but that which you give.

Buy the ticket, take the ride and then...just...

*abide*

 

By

Slaves.

“how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out.”

David Foster Wallace

Slaves.

Salvo and sauce
diminutive munitions in charge
colon pesto
lobe olives for the peace.

Bricks of hope surmise
scanning horizons
for paper mines
claws break earth to find triggers.

Hairs.
Softly blowing years away.

Odious skin peels
tears hard to come by
we all age and crack
in some way. So do ensure
that you dry the heels
on the ledge with sun
dried tomato a cousin
but never so wise
as the heel skin
that has walked
days
months
years
a lifetime to be
here.

Bring the peppercorn grinder.
Quick.

The noodle is soft, cooling
micturition approaches
if we are not obliged.

Awareness can not be undone.
Hope can not last forever.
It too will fade.
Replaced by knowledge.
They are different.
Real.

One dies at the expanse.
So grand, and aware.
Calm even.
Reflecting still.

Wills.
Wills, and fields of them.
Flowing in the wind, it too, willed.

There is not any thrill left.

Surely, lacking surety
so close.
No need to press.

Just on.
Ink on to paper
thoughts on to neural
identified fabricated objects
to skin and bone
dredging.

Finding, hope.
Not dead.

(90s)

*abide*