"acidity" poems
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 3:39 AM UTC
Stupid mouth.
Shut it.
Tame my tongue.
Pure acid. Vapid from my lungs.
It cuts.
It stings.
Stings my soul.
The very thing I wish to cut.
The very thing I yearn to bleed.
Is my own.
My hands.
My feet.
My ears.
My nose.
My guts.
My guts...
My very core.
Tear my heart.
My acidity has made me numb.
Vile fluid flows in my veins.
Pray I should bleed.
Drained.
That love for my own be filled.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
1. the pH in my stomach has plummeted
to an all time low. as a defense mechanism,
my stomach clenches.
2. my jaw is extremely sore from grinding
my teeth while i was sleeping (and having
the regular nightmares.)
3. sometimes, my joints decide to act like they
are eighty years old instead of twenty.
4. that's what i get for burying the acidity of
the self loathing.
5. now i am a pinata except i'm hallow.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
A Solemn girl, in a red faded hoodie,
Sits outside the door of her classroom.
Crying by the hasty tapping of her foot,
Her head hangs low enough to kiss the ground
Her tongue as a net, fights to capture
Oxygen streaming the air.
But it descends a heavy weight
Into the core of her stomach,
Where the last of her exuberance
Awaits a dismal death of acidity.
Sentences habituate themselves
In the dark spaces between icy eyes.
Relentlessly reminding her ears of the reasons
Why she will never be like all the other
Fluffy cotton clouds
In the immeasurable crystal sky
Why she doesn’t gracefully float
With them, in packs of cloudy friendships.
What she cannot see,
Is the reason she cannot be a cloud,
Is because she is destined one day
To become the sun.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
Sick fluttering sullen imagination, I can call you a safe house no more,
You are a diseased heart, acidity burned into your beating flesh,
Tears heard as screams, from the mouths of tortured smiles grasping at the air,
As a sun, set still with jazzy oranges flying in every direction,
You are so still, but move as the twitches, of a silent shock treatment gone wrong,
Tick tock, I can not hear the time pass by, thunderstorms without rain, full of crimson fog,
With this electricity in my veins, I wonder if this is blood I hear, or acid and tar,
My legs move as weights upon tongues that can not speak truthful words, awake but so slowly asleep,
Burning and left black as night, the dripping blood of these eyes that have been open too long,
I am tied down to a chair where I see the same image upon every view, the lips that whisper,
These lips sting a sour poison to see the side of my ears, and tighten ropes,
My neck screeches, hands as squirming spiders flee but squish into armrests that are nothing but pain itself,
Dreams drift, not as monarch butterflies, but as insects upon a corpse, my lingering joy rots into the air,
This reality is but a nightmare, nothing as the films with kissed upon cheeks and moments with eyes that smile,
Grins that open wide through cheekbones and lips a light with amorous memories stained upon them,
What do I trust, the dreams with my mind open, or the reality with my eyes open, eyelashes scratching against me,
There is an itch upon the words, like matches that ignite these terror filled moments, an ivy twisted itch,
I fall into a hope, as deep as the warmth beneath the earth, a wish to keep sleeping,
To be dragged into an eternal heat of dreams that seem more normal than mobid reality, a sense of normalcy,
Sweat surrounds me, I am coated with a layer of fear, swung up against reality, awakened from a night terror,
Am I back, back to see and hear kind voices through unfaltered velvet lips, am I here again, not in paradise,
But am I back, to hear the touch upon my skin, the scratch of teeth tenderly with whispers of sunlit joy,
Here again, not paradise, but not a kin to hell, let me stay, and not fall my eyelids shut again,
Please, I could beg you, I live for these sights, of lilac, rose, and gladness, breaths sweet with candied wind,
Help keep these eyelashes from meeting and staying together, strangle this ungodly imagination, keep it from sleep, keep it awake, and don't let it breathe.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
My fingernails are ***** from the blackness of the graphite coated words
refusing to come to actualization.
My tongue chokes on the half formed sentences
swimming in the back of my throat.
They fill my mouth with a bitterness
coming only with the acidity known to unrequited thoughts.
Physiological markers of one who has simply too much to feel,
the penance for scar tissue of wounds who too quickly "healed."
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
i take my tea with sugar;
it curves the acidity, and
builds my validity ‘cause
a tea or a coffee taken in
without some saccharine
sweetener lends itself to
a world where tea and a
coffee can either be very
sweet or absolutely bitter.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
I woke up to my neighbors belting out an off-key tune. I tried to cover my aching ears with my pillow, but their discordant voices echoed in my head, so I finally got out of bed.
I stared at the unfinished painting I had worked on the night before. In just a few seconds, my stomach dropped. Even in its incomplete state, there was a sense of impending doom looming outside my door—hideous, and that was my first thought this morning.
Shadows ran through the waves of my curls—spiraling endlessly—as my fingers gently brushed away the exhaustion from last night. For the second time, I turned to look at the unfinished painting restlessly sitting at the end of my bed. If it had eyes, it would definitely not meet my somber, dark brown gaze. It would fear me, for I would cut it into pieces. I would let it bleed until it was no longer breathing.
It would forever be cherished as a beast—unfinished, freshly cut like a lemon. When poured into a deep wound, its acidity would seize the skin, leaving nothing but unfortunate agony.
I drank two liters of fresh lemonade, but nothing happened. It didn’t cut me into pieces. I was still unfinished.
And so I avoided its beastly eyes. Even an unfinished canvas resented my sorrowful presence. I sliced another lemon and added a teaspoon of sugar, hoping today would be different.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 5:08 AM UTC
Restless leg syndrome
A hindrance on my being
Retching foam dribbles out
the side of my mouth
South it goes, down
to the ground.
Wound tight with salvia my
self-hatred flows in unity with it
The acidity of the bite bursts to flames
as the earth hits it
Worth every penny, I chuckle as
I chuck a bottle of pills into the
billfold of my coat.
"Won't this hurt?"
That's the point.
Right, back to the top
Restless leg syndrome
Catching on?
My mind can't contain one thought at a time
I spin on a dime, fine dining is the drug of
the millennial nines.
Hi! I'm super high today.
Just kidding, I'll never smoke ****
see me judging you in the corner?
I'm a straight laced, even paced
large tempered feminist *****
Pitch me your best rich boy pitch
to get a date and maybe I won't chuck
your ***** into a ditch.
Hitch a ride down the road
Follow it now, down it goes!
Drop out quick!
Here comes the gun
run from it fast, till you reach the sun
Worship me or hate me, I don't really care.
Stare at me until you see who you wish
I actually was
t'was a sad story I read
when I found out you would be dead
by nine o'clock this evening
Did I tell you I plotted this reaping?
I peep in on your life from time to time
Crime is the center of my kind
Find me in the dark deep corners of
your mind, I'm always there
Seeing and watching but never debauching.
Have I mentioned I suffer from
restless leg syndrome?
It really is a hindrance on my being.
"Won't this hurt?", you ask
That's the point.
Right, back to the top
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Head pain and ugly,
World movement too,
The insatiable slug thee,
Manifests between two.
Lounge lay and eat,
The extent of the life,
Scrounge play and bleat,
You're not the only one,
So revel in this life,
A resplendent underclass,
Make bankers and beauracrats,
Pay it through the
Glass ?
Is one proud of this half life one lives ?
Radiation dwindling in 30 to 10,
To be in rain with freedom to squat,
Looking in strangers for compassion,
When all you deserve,
Is a sound good lashing.
Hide away from your responsibility,
No entry on response,
Forgotten all ability,
Ability all lost,
Based on acidity.
Face all edited,
The preservation of youth did not preserve your face,
The resignation of you,
Did not delay fate
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.
Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.
I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.
Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.
All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.
I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;
the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.
I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.
For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.
River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,
Lemon tea and lemonade.
~
Author Notes
*Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia*
(3-1-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
The moment he rejected you the first time
I saw a little part of you break
like the icicles in your eyes were melted with a self destructive hate fire
burning dangerously with the unrequited desire
for his love.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
On the times he moved closer to you at the lunch table
I saw the way your body stiffened
I could see the mental checklist being ticked
making sure you had the grocery list of the things that you wanted
the things you thought he needed.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
He fluttered your heart with his smile
making you realize that this spell he put you under isn't temporary
no matter how many times he knocks you down
you'll always go back for more.
I want to tell you you don't need him.
Where other girls want to undress him with their eyes
to see the chiseled swimmers body armor created from
years of waking up before sunlight
all you want is to strip the armor from his skin
to see if what lies underneath the charm
is really as soft and sweet as it is in your dreams.
I want to tell you he doesn't matter.
The day he asked out another girl in front of you
you tell me you need a friend
you say you don't even know how to stop crying
you say it hurt so bad
choking back tears is causing you to choke out that it's killing you
and it just kills me when you say that you feel so pointless
but you're infinitely perfect to me
so I make sure that you know how pointless he is too
and that if he can't even see through his glasses to realize how beautiful you are
then he might as well be as blind as a bat.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
even though you say your importance can be rationed out in teaspoons
I tell you that no amount of measuring cups could ever measure how much you mean to me
I want to tell you that your shine is like the one light in powerless city
gifting those in the dark with the wonders of your intelligence
and with the beauty of the way in which you look at the world
I want you to know that you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for not noticing all the times that your lip was white beneath your teeth
or the way your eyes stung from the acidity of rejection
causing tears to form around the red insides of your eyelids
I'm sorry I wasn't there to wipe those tears off your face like I always promised I'd be.
I'm sorry for the time that you had to ask for me to listen
because the invisible rules written by love
in the book of friendship in my mind
say that you shouldn't have to ask for me to uncover my ears
they should always be open
and so should my arms
because that's what friends are for.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I want you to know that putting layers of make up on your face
makes him fall in love with a copy of every unoriginal
girl he's ever dated but you
my friend
you are not a copy
you are not unoriginal
you are a story
you are amazing
and you should never let your self feel like any less.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
~
Sizzling summer evenings,
desires on tanned salsa skin,
pico de gallo pleasures
dripping of cayenne gazes
aromatic acidity
Heart beat quiverings swelter
‘neath ****** Mary secrets
waiting to be unleashed
in sultry illusions,
writhing silhouettes grinding
Drenched satin oasis,
shaping torrid mirages,
exposing trap doors
collecting rhythmic pulses,
spiced temptations,
blistering lips
Fingers crawl
across saturated skin,
black pepper scars
jagged delusions
melting desperate souls
in the heated wake
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
once you claim to not have not experienced
all the fooling with women in youth
and exhausted the libido...
you never really want to claim a need
for their company while ageing and
growing jealous when her stories emerge
over drunken conversations when her
friends get invited -
i mean, it's almost like you have a *****
stitched to your forehead that
is a reminiscence of youth not claimed -
indeed old age is hell for women...
and youth the hell for men -
in between there are children...
feminism is an odd-ball... it's this rebellion
against an ageing patriarchy...
men who sway power...
what a weird and wired fetish of thinking...
why would i claim companionship with a woman
if she experienced all the sensual freedoms
in her youth... while all i got is a freedom
of a range of professions? exertion of one muscle
here, exertion of another muscle there...
had i stuck to full-time industrial roofing i'd
probably write one poem a week...
oh please, let's not obstruct with too much consciousness
of how poetry is defined, that's for english teachers
to rekindle hopes of a Shakespeare resurfacing
while ignoring Milton in the curriculum ante-vitae...
no, when youth is not allowed mutual pleasures...
the following concerns for life suddenly disappear...
there's no acidity relevant to it, no abhorrence,
no need to testify a revenge...
it's all a matter of comfort... and it's more comfortable
to be without a woman than with one,
considering the pelvic-pivot-of-sex was not strained
well enough to settle down into a friendship
with women... since my own sensuality was barely
scraped to consider a friendship...
instilled in me, the idea of two potential flints
scratched for a spark... but nonetheless remaining
two rounded marble spheres
that dimmed the lights... i felt it too opposing
to consider a half measured sensuality forced into
a platonic love... i might as well have been born a homosexual.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
The shock and pop of thunder,
rain drops,
rolling down smooth skin like
peals of thunder,
broken lightning streaking through the sunshine.
Polarity bringing a smile to my face,
even while acidity burned and scrunched my face to conceal my eyes,
the swirl of twigs in puddling holes in the driveway making me
ponder,
soaked,
getting up to hear the sploosh and feel the wave of a full gutter.
To look at the leaves stuck between my toes.
Breezes raising goosebumps and giggles.
hair dripping and clinging,
eyelashes catching drops upon drops.
Light reflected off car windows and tree leaves,
gusts of wind causing intermittent rain
fall,
crack,
shudder,
I whip my hair
back and forth,
and wipe the water from my face.
I am the sky's lover, and it is mine.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
Many a song has been written about the girl
Stating how the sweet love of two will unfurl
How beautiful she is outside and under cover
She means the world to the one who loves her
There's a song,
That beautifully describes your cognitive thrill
It's by a band called Cypress Hill
And it goes,
*"Insane in the membrane
Insane in the brain"*
Because if you think I'm masquerading as two
There's something not quite right about you
Yes, there was a closeness of friendship new
But that didn't mean there was anything true
There was none of that other business mind
I think you'll see I'm not that way inclined
Your jealousy and spitefulness has to conclude
Your insanity is venomous and beyond rude
There's nothing, I repeat nothing, wise about you
When you present so many lies about you
You wouldn't know how to be a child of the Lord
You wouldn't know diddly about The Word
You can sit in church and praise all day long
It don't make you a Christian singing that song
Any less than sitting in a garden on my ****
Makes me blossom, I'm not the **** rosebush
You need to be locked away and kept an eye on
That acidity burning inside is what you'll die on
Your dissecting of the human soul by half
Now has me shaking my head
At how sad you are instead
It's not funny, but you gotta laugh
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
life gave me all of its lemons
some more bitter than the rest
yet somehow i forgot
how to make lemonade
and invited an unwelcome guest
they sit at my table well-dressed,
grab a lemon and pick at the zest
until they reach the core
and lose their appetite
at the acidity they try to ingest
then i served my lemons compressed
added sugar afloat at the crest
they sipped on the liquid
then got to the bottom
and expressed their aching distress
now we plant orange trees to contest
all the yellow lemons that possessed
my citrus Eden
with fruits and flowers
and now sweeter juices to digest
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 6:43 PM UTC
import: the northern tongue bespoke of the didgeridoo with the larynx as akin. północ ze mną... reszta gnije! a ja w twym oku jak dziób kruka wydłubie prawde raz - kraka - raz jeszcze na pokaz chociaż raz! bo ze mnie nie kura... jeno kruk! czemu? bo ty swym tłumaczeniem grzechu równasz gniew naprzeciw: w okolicy reprodukcji z tłumaczeniem orgnanizacji społeczenstwa jako wedle znaku (=) ktory też jest równaniem jako krzyż... a wiec jest naprawde wiarygodne to aby kontynuować wybaczanie niby grzechów i tak naprawde praw w rubryce niespełnionych pierw zamiarów?
why then peer into the past without imagination,
and try to peer within the present with memory,
surely the present will not conjure any memory
had the opaque past any imagination,
i’d swear the burnish bush be nothing more
than what could be imagined,
not excess of skin on my phallus
as the shaft known as the female circumcised bit...
but i guess truth sidewinds while lies have the fortune
of walking a straight path into nowhere...
if there is imagination in the past i find it hard
to conceive phonetic images, i.e. letters being allowed in there,
and if future forsee such circumstance
i find it hard to let the future project images
as recognisable without a - z being recognisable first...
in order that they might be used... in order
that they might be used for ignorance’s sake if only that...
man remembers skeletons easier in terms of usage
rather than fully embodied canves of a van gogh
to say **** all... as most men do,
dating their mistresses for the first time in art galleries;
the fault of the past is that in terms of imagination it
cannot be re-imagined... but the future can be twice
remembered... given holocaust deniers...
simple... it can be simply denied because
what imagination would have conjured
reality conjured too much iron acidity of what went on;
please be intelligent when you read this,
i don’t have many readers and it’s already insulting
to ask my readers for intelligence; sorry.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
Infectious wounded words, gargled grief,
ring leaders in foul filled filth,
door opening to the left of the blackened
wallpaper, stooping from its support
Floor, a waterlogged mess of yellowed
**** stabbing stink, suffocating, like flayed
corpses, acidity burning in the back alleys
of wounded worn out hearts on sick leave
Cowering in crumbled crevices, filmy outlines
of themselves, insides outgrown fulfillment,
faded, grasped their gasp and sold it,
folded into walls....gross with age
I would have cried but, energyless, I'd fallen
out of my body long ago, beat the light from
my eyes, layed down in yellowed tears of ****
alongside the ratted out corridors of squalor
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
my shoes scuff against the pavement
my head's in the basement
i need to learn to have patience
hiding in my safe haven
i get the news clearer
she's not the one for you
i look in the mirror
and hold my pills nearer
i get the news clearer
i'm not the one for you
recalling my ex-girl
written these songs full of acidity
when i lost her bitterly, no
oh no i see these feelings twisting up inside me
like a double helix
i'm a realist
but my dreams are poetic
i might've made mistakes but sometimes you gotta let it
happen
tragic
hanging with slum kids
illusionary magic
i'm an addict
eyes red
cooped up in the hotel
i'm that dude
that's passion, obsession
my gift
my curse and my blessing
different's infinite,
living in open emotions and poems
my life is filled with
"i used to know her and know him"
but now i'm that kid
thinking that i'll just
fall off the wrong side of the sky
but after all, all i wanna do hold you tight
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
1, young friends, this is not enough. Of course, if the body's soap accuracy
is the whey's stain on Jones, it's another form of salt in the acid. And what color does God's wisdom know? "This developer wants to marry a poor girl, but if you get married with beautiful young adolescent microbes, electrons, acids, cocktails, corn, amino acids & amino acids, big fish does not have the true religion. Home improvement, etc., shows that wisdom is not poverty,
1 my friend is going to go. Amino acids and amino acids are packed with the next grandmother of corn and grain, the tablet - the entire system."Soldiers and more polluted with acidic amino acids; amino acids, amino acids and color, more people are in fish, fish are spread out, more likely to be true religion. "It is a pity because it was weak if the young man sees young amino acids, amino acids in amino acids and amino acids, if small fish are too small for true service, BART or board, 1 patient if the child is married to his poor friend For the sake of his life, the true religion lives because it is all good, because it is not a fish from the war, and amino acids, however, are the most beautiful places. The acidity of amino acids and amino acids, the restoration of God's worship all the days not just on earth, color wedded 1 young enough and loyal friend. Jones and the Egyptian and everything connected with the oxygen supply to the body that will create a great deal of e-mail if the salt of amino acids and what color God's wisdom is. "This developer wants to marry a poor girl, but if you get your teenager married to a beautiful younger micro-climber, electronic acids, acids, cocktails, corn, amino acids, and amino acids
are not so good, so true religion. Better home in "Benin"
and so on showed wisdom," and the poor does not exist.
"1, my friend is going to go with the next grandmother
of the corn and garnet packed with amino acids and amino
acids, the tablet and, therefore, the entire system and wisdom."
soldiers and more infected crab amino acids, acidic amino
acids, amino acids and color, more popular fish, fish spread,
the more likely it is a true religion. "The girl wanted to get married,
poor and weak ... If the baby is enough to look for a fresh potion
of amino acids, amino acids turn into amino acids, amino acids,
if small fish are very true to the religion, BART or board members - 1 patient, but if the child is married, it is a true voice of religion
with a poor friend. They cannot live in disco's idiom with Ringer Acids,
gaseous Hasidim fish acids, amino acids and the ground of marriage,
but not just behind the wisdom of the poor.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC