"abstracting" poems
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.
Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.
“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.
A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.
What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.
A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.
I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
Cataracts in this woven cavity
abstracting any possibilities for those what if stories.
chasing pavements of a burning after glow
you seem to love me better when I expect from you the worst.
Textile appeal becomes a reluctant approval
of what your eyes profess and what your lips have sealed.
Salt on the wounds that resist to heal;
barbarous attempts to suppress those skipping heartbeats.
I do not ask much in return for your favor
not much but a clean look in my eye;
purge out what you **** in
and with all the stories, mercy me-
-Mercy me for irrevocably admiring
your intense appeal and your pretentious heart;
which to whom you play roles of Ares
to only discover Aphrodite's mark.
Mercy me softly and do you not destroy me
far beyond subliminal repair;
Do not bewilder me a wanderer
but mostly, do not condemn my heart to clutter.
Mercy me if your words have any meaning
and your eyes are not of all deceiving; mercy me.
Profess what your eyes confess but your lips have sealed
and mercy my poor heart for loving you so.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:55 PM UTC
the languid liquidity of linseed-eased pigment
as the bow of brush stroke sweeps a new hue
over the layer of vermilion,
this feel of silken resistance,
this quality of vividity,
this aroma that countless painters encounter
whilst abstracting sunflower or sunset
is what gives pleasure to my paint.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 3:20 AM UTC
I remember that day
by the orange glow
you sat next to me
head on my shoulder
I never felt so content
so connected
as I had that night with you
both infected
The ecstasy of that moment
we shared
blinded us to the truth
woven by our teenage feelings
I don't remember why
I refused to listen
or why even now I
go back to that moment
I don't understand why
your smile stills haunts me
your laugh infests my dreams
your touch locks me in place
your presence
penetrates my thoughts
abstracting
adolescent love
such petty insignificant things
that keep me wide awake in the dark
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
Like the swell of the screaming sea
That drowns the awaiting sands,
Unpredictability overthrows reasoning-
Abstracting me from all that still waits.
Unreachable, surreal-
As though life’s seams have been divided
By a tongue, rendering me voiceless
Amidst a thousand voices.
Words are devious; deceptive like the silent tears
That soaks my cold sheets at night.
Thoughts are a curse, merciless and unforgiving,
Plaguing honest judgements,
It is only within childhood innocence
That I find safe solitude.
In duty and in contract I’ am bound,
Though my heart is onboard ship
To familiar English shores.
Unceasingly my mind seeks out the shadows,
Torturing my affections with their poison
Of the one who holds my barely beating heart-
So carelessly in his hands.
Anna Elizabeth Rose ©
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
Can this be my candy kingdom?
Solipistic modifier
Confectionery sweets make my teeth feebler
Weaker
the confines of my mind let me linger
Why can't I stop Abstracting
Is that a bad thing?
What is real and what isn't
Catch me navel-gazing
introspective nonsense
ruminating.
Can it be illuminating?
My mind feels fuzzy
I'll tell you one thing
...
Could this be my candy kingdom?
pondering.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 7:23 PM UTC
*The timer on the bomb,
the digits strutting to the outer parts of the atmosphere.
Crippled balance,
tangential distractions abstracting the parallel walk, the way they interfere.
The ache right below a sharp collar bone,
Mistaken for the invisibility it's shying behind.
The small shadow in the afternoon sun,
And the absence of stir in the dumpsters of local satellites.
The way the small hellos obscure
the newborn volcanoes tossing venom on the riverside.
Telepathic interventions to the moon,
A friend indeed, when aspiration super-saturates the earth borderlines.
So what if each arm desires to embrace both corners of the sky,
to publish each entry of the dreamy cerebral residents.
So what if I'm dying to learn of every curve of the universe,
and finally decide if I could finally land in a dimension of interest.*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
.*it's not like i couldn't pay my bills at Edinburgh university, we didn't have internet access in our third year at home, but we had it, when visiting the library... so what? paying the gas and electricity bills is rocket science these days? the two of us paid them... so now it's supposedly, "hard"? mobile phone... what?! roaming internet access.... what?! car... what?! not a pair of legs?! oh yeah, i have a choice... either where i'm at... or the roof of star constellations in a forest... BIG LOSER... biggest loser of them all... the one that manages to fix up his grandparents' kitchen, and doesn't "think" his parents are lepers, or something to be ashamed of, basically a non-sperm-bank donor's... attache of ******* egoism; your turn.*
such a random array of people,
abstracting themselves
on the grounds of love...
or whatever love is...
i said once:
buy a dog first, before having
a child...
you can pet a dog for five years,
and then you can father / mother
a child...
love... seems everyone's
love is just dandy, oh so pristine...
i drink...
you probably watch t.v.,
match-made in heaven,
or Cerberus' ****
i make sandwiches that do not
resemble napkins...
i drink... **** i said that already...
so basically as perfect as
an avocado on toast...
who does this sort of ********
is that crap even edible?!
i don't want to know...
i go to a bar,
i turn into a pseudo-Santa...
some smurf, some elf sits on my lap...
'is this the part where i get
a hard on?'
obviously i don't say
those words, i just insinuate
the Christmas metaphor...
what the hell am i writing...
it's not even like i want
to look my best,
like i want to lie "hoping"
for a date...
i did speed dating once,
back in Edinburgh...
let's just say...
stroking a cat's head
amounts to the classification
of the more...
fruitful endeavors...
dating... is that a western
"thing"? you know,
when people find thinking claustrophobic?
is that the point they start dating?
when a blank space is no longer
a redeemable "friend"?
that time?
what other time?
let me guess...
never walked a cemetery alone
at night...
that's one of them, right?
can't help you there...
you're supposed to be on your
own at those crux coordinates.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
*no, she isn't the desired conquest... but the institutions of her forefathers are - for mere proof of failure; or at least that's what i minded, given the facts of her promiscuity and all the brown-nosing that went with it - you almost thought of **** *** but instead received oral-anal *** dynamics like a dog and a ***** man and a blotch of de-colouring... man did that, ensured the world was de-coloured with encoding sounds, and left all the colours intact, instantly deciphered and parallel... so that no twin be matched apart... man said one thing, the world said another... not even fame could grapple with the world's interpretation of it... no fame outside the 1 square mile; hope not for fame, but hope for myth - a logic attached will assure you a status god-worthy - thus claimed by others preceding you as demigods.*
her boom boom bara boom... something fire,
something ***** dough...
something her boom boom baritone
um ah... um ah... oh... ****** wasn't intoned for...
export all the smithies to china and import all
the porn-stars here... so we can be jealous
of a one child policy, as actually having one...
i knew of contraception on the reproductive organs...
i never knew it could be applied to the mental organs
that the brain fetters over abstracting kidney
and the narrative of urinating like
the Hoover dam of prostate... hangman mm...
the oesophagus, the stomach and intestines
and the **** with taking a ****
the lungs with breathing... never occurred to me,
but then the brain has two eyes to
deal with ensuring 2 make 1 or 3;
what a gimmick for dating expectations;
i was reduced to wearing two
condoms, the other on my head to ensure
political coercion rather than correctness,
correctness for the slaves, coercion for
the masters... but still... rubber on my ******* head?
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
These days, I spend my lazy days coming up with phrases to say.
A delay is to wait.
So what am I waiting for?
A torn deliverer departs saying life is an art form.
Sworn to protect his endeavors.
Swift and as light as a feather.
The blue embarks to make his mark on this world
in
due
time.
So I wait, and I wait out the hate this country has torn into.
Pandora's box locks from the outside.
I'm not hiding, I'm living in plain sight.
In
due
time.
We all wait until the day turns bright enough to ponder more.
We have all fought the night enough in excellent form.
In
due
time.
We will rise as a nation guided by unspoken voices.
Verses and choices.
In due time.
We stay alive till the coming of dawn.
That's just fine.
In due time.
Generations wait belated unto their fate.
This is our time.
We rise up.
Uncriticized this is our time.
We rise up.
One as a nation.
Two as a people.
Three as a crazed individual on a soapbox.
Four as the children with smallpox.
Five as the ones who just try to stay alive every night when the light shines too dim.
Six as the individuals who act on a whim.
Seven as those who pray to get to heaven but work all their days at a seven-eleven.
Eight.
Those
who
wait.
Well wait no more.
We are the infinity score.
The war torn worlds go down when they sleep and so as not to make a peep we plan in silence. Abstracting violence with peace. We sit in hollowed out churches without verses because if we speak the truth the worlds seams will undo, that's power.
One day will speak for hours for us.
Those of us who are meek and delirious.
Still stand proud.
Yes I'm loud.
Say into the light signs.
Stay until the night time.
Weigh it all and that's mine.
Yes I'm loud.
Take the voices. Reiterate the choices. Learn it through osmosis until we're comatosis.
Gleam what we mean when you read all these words.
Your life is better for it.
Just a phrase as it turns.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
The painter in Me
By Otuogbodor, Okeibunor
I paint not with brush strokes
On weary canvas
Nor with mesh colors
Darkening my concepts.
I paint using no tattered Coates
Expressing my pains
Nor with mute abstracting mixtures
Contradicting my designs.
I paint with words straighten in lines
Juxtaposing my world in humournic gospel.
I paint with lyrics n rhymes
Soothing the souls of my clime
Positing joy n laughter.
I paint with literally candor
Subjecting pains n sorrows
Mirroring my world in truth
My rhythms of love n peace
The only colors I know.
My language is succinct
Rendering sounds of blue n bliss
Greasing humanity crave to live.
I plaint not with staled oil Coates
Staining the muse of creation.
I orchestrate my colours in word vibes
Thrusting my Visual syncs to heal
For I cream my onions with ease
Printing my ego on black n white.
--------------------------------------------
Oh God bless this painter in me!
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
i'm ready to misspell your name
and ready to write a poem, and weep,
and drink: no sight of Saturn's meteor rings
to quench all lunar orbits could ever equal
you: whether in painting,
or in mirror, or in ghostly glass of an atlas....
god.... i'm abstracting you
by way of erasing memory!
in acronym s.t.a.y.
i'll give you my bog shelf of time,
the stinking pit of worthy portrait;
but then the canvas of constellations
is too unfathomable,
and even if i succeed at a body bound to
defeat, even if my thought rises
to a Martian soul of constant warring,
i am but
death's defeat,
on the consistency of repeated life;
for the Hindu credo speaks of the death
of death as the tongue lap dancing to the tune
of reincarnation, where nihilism is necessary,
to gather the self within the canvas of
knowing nothing, and yet painting something;
absolved on the banishment of signature with caricature.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Sometimes it hits me
Like one to many shots of whiskey after a late night binge the taste of tequila and regret stuck to the back of the throat like some nasty film
Vaguely reminiscent overly ripe peachs
When the world goes dark and all you can do is hope to wake to something better
The kind of sudden drag that seems to smack you so hard you drool
Like the brain can't comprehend what it's thinking, feeling, or even what God **** planet it's on anymore
Some sick lingering psychotic paranoia that can only be dreamt up from the bowels of some deranged lunatic
The kind of thoughts that would if spoken give you one straight ticket to crazy town
Where the good ones fall into the sanctity of drugs and the wack jobs play in their bird cages tweeting insanity
Those moments when the brain goes quiet like some old tv buzzing it's electric static
Hmmmm hmmmm hmmmmmmm
Rhythmically ringing the fuzzing sharp inhalation
Cotten wrapping the ears, eyes at the tantamount and hands on auto
The brain checks into where the person checks out and it takes control
Those 80 mile hour thoughts where driving off the road and not stopping meets the white knuckle grip
I could do it there is no stopping the lurching slow tilting wheel
Nor is there anyone to breath me back into control
To take the knife off the steady sturdy rhythm, to stop the ****** up intermingling of sickend morbidity
It is unlike the calm and even character clicking past the blinking static
Blipping from the slack jawed intensity like some victim of PTSD
Still teeming in the aftermath like some sick puppy waiting on the ride to end
It's terrible and equally ****** up this abstracting feeling is like never waking up
Strung out on some mental drug causing the heart tripping hazard of frequency
Like falling in a dream only to realize you had never slept
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
that's nice, mm, that's nice,
cover it up, keeping up appearances,
let's smooth it over, butter it up,
mm, slimy pistons moving
easily greased? indeed, for someone
who is to master the names of
many things, you seem overly
concerned over-using pronouns,
so you can't get coordinates,
you're abstracting basically,
smoothing things out, you're the easiest
to spot abstracting via a censor methodology,
i know you're not a philosopher
a snake eating its own tail with verbiage
of having thought out so much you
could claim to be a miner, but buckling
to a pancaked face when told to do rhetoric...
they really really do want to steal that
page from your hands, it's not a set-list,
you're supposed to be a trained monkey,
white paper and stages don't work
unless they're hidden...
but **** me, eroding your memory like that,
you must really love your work
to remember it like prayers...
i don't get it, politicians get away with it,
it's not heartfelt, it's autocued...
poetics promo... but why is it promo (reveal),
so abstracting means revealing?
i thought it was more like hiding something
and getting caught ************
poetics occulto? so which is it, abstracting
is a way of revealing something or hiding something?
i mean, overusing pronouns and not engaging
in proper noun usage seems a bit futile
in a multicultural scenario of cubists using
african face masks for inspiration, excessive bloom
of lips and nose sharpened by the artists's eyes
into needle thin contorts - africans don't like
things being bouncy and bubbly... they like sticks
it would seem.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Landscape painted black
Foliage drowned in shadows
Everything swallowed.
Ocean of blindness
Inhibiting all vision
Abstracting the world.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
drawing nigh near emptying
the well, sometimes I feel
like lying
saying hi fear come nearer
my soul, sometimes
I do
making truth abstracting
feel, like I am dying
with chattering teeth
my whole, at times
shivers
my mind fabricating
a soul, everlasting
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said
Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art
A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.
and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.
A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then
Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.
Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 12:13 PM UTC
“Any future plan?”, she asked
I told,
“To grow, taller than the height
Heavier than the weight.”
“haha”, her surficial response
I was abstracting my dream.
She thought it is fun,
Nah ! it’s my life.
Let it be.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
zyklon: ficken ratten!
we called them: Swabians... sh-v'ab-b' and then the hollowing out either Y or I... szwaby... schwabian... you call one germ the other: something to be rid of.
have you noticed
how the multicultural
factions of "nation"
begin a rare
migration wave of invetment
in Darwinism
i.e. less primate
and more vermin...
how they... run away...
how they...
retain: scuttling like rats?!
who's the vermin now?
ficken ratten!
i still said that sour-kraut made
sense with a kebab!
the acidity would have cut through
the fat!
ficken ratten!
who's the vermin now?
no matter...
gas 'em out.
- and they better speak
proper Bedfordshire accenting
on their way out!
******* vermin.
for someone who doesn't reach much journalism
if one "they" read the story in
the english newspapers,
once upon a time not too long ago...
there is much more spite in
calling an ethnicity vermin
then being lazy phonetically
and not invoking the suffix
-stani...
what, provoked by prickly
word shortening via
a mere prefix ****
no one budges when
Afghanistani is shortened to
afghan-...
do i even need to make that
a prefix i.e. with a hyphen invoked?
obviously being misinformed
is the new: being "informed",
notably in a global world combating
local media, local affairs,
local grievances...
but no! word on the moon
counts as more than the word on
the street...
and if you don't walk
the same streets as the person who walks,
breathes, speaks them,
what word of a citizen half way around
the world, actually differs from
the word of the politician
to the local?
apparently a private citizen half way
around the world has as much
power over a local citizen as
the local politician has over him...
populism at its vaguest,
solitary confinement populism,
populism without a cause other than
the cause for individualism,
and the soon to impede claustrophobia
of the ultra-individuated "self"...
yes, that's "self", for sooner or later,
individuation will creep upon
abstracting into insignificance
the point of a self to speak of.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Water falls the cascading rythm shadowing the back of my thought
As I watch the school tide flow
The lonely fountain bench becomes my muse
Where I exist outside of time
Staring into the listless movement of tree leaves
Stuck once more to the own cadence of thought
Echoing in the silent recess that has become my mood
While I cannot turn my eyes away
I am not really seeing
Not feeling
Abstracting from reality
Pulling back away from the conscious buzzing back and forth between necessity
and possibility.
In my delirium I focus unexpectedly
On one thing
The only thing sticking its green leaved beauty against the harsh brick facing
Tickling the crevices with its agelessness
A solid magnolia tree
Reaching for blooming glory
As if plucked out of some Georgian Southern tale
Ripe with the splendor of health
It seemed so out of place next to the young tree bushes that surrounded it
A solid reminder of lasting strength
I wondered
That should my roots become so in love with the ground they could not falter
Could I mimic this sleepy giant, whose solid trunk is gnarled with the abuse of centuries.
If I could let the wind of time and horror of burning pain pass me by?
Could I so love the sun that I reach with wide open arms to celebrate the dawning of a new day?
More over could I laugh at children as they attempt to climb my limbs, or read over the shoulder of some student who finds shade beneath my leaves.
Metaphor after metaphor meet my poets mind
I wonder about love and I wonder about time
I worry about school and take a deep breath
Deciding at once that there was nothing left
Nothing to worry nothing to cry
My emotions had run its course all in due time
And as I set waiting and thinking away I realized it was past noon
I had thought away the day
But all this time spent in my own head
I came to realize what the tree had truly said
Stop worrying
Stop thinking
And making yourself sick
Come what may
The only important thing is to persist.
Make living your goal, no fretting over something old.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
The forms of things
Are ever in flux
On their margins,
But once in a long while,
Solid turns to liquid,
And there is a small window
To act,
To change
The boundaries,
As former things pass away,
And new ones come into being.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
...is like accounting.
Is more abstracting of the brain than calculus.
What's missing from it are the visualizations of what is being mentioned.
Like working with a space in the mind that can only make one or two changes at a time - giving logic but not seeing the big picture.
Unless the big picture is really only those one or two changes in the symbology and equalities.
But these only tell relations of 1-2 changes connecting and spreading like a web.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC