"aluminium" poems
Crew cut kiss curl stood
above the goose steeping generals
with empty heads and olive green
jackets
dangling aluminium war medals
for shooting ducks across the border
flying over Seoul
“Nfeuirok2fmdfiwe384194u3ujriwejm"
crew-cut kiss curl yelled.
“I told you 091874874814729”
( his swedish education was now showing!)
The train pulled out of pyongyang
with two thousand dead
that fed the famine. Only the driver
was alive clutching a loaf of bread.
stacked with cardboard cutout missiles
atop 1920s tanks and
painted with bloodred honesty
the entire nation goose stepped
to crew cuts orders.
He was as nutty as a fruitcake
but nobody laughed when he loaded
his only nuclear missile to bring down
the last remaining duck heading to Siberia.
Ha ha!
Author Notes
This is not a joke. Or is it?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Dark branches dance against an aluminium sky
as dusk taints the edges with blue.
The last crow warns of death as it passes,
it's cry echoing along the shoeless streets
and down to the brook where once laughter played.
Storm clouds gather in furious array
shaking thunderous fists at the earth below,
their forked tongues tearing the atmosphere
as the first droplets spew forth from their ragged mouths.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
mini
[=small car]
mal
[=preface
as in 'malformed']
minim
[=musical note]
al
[=aluminium]
minimalism
is
art
in
its
simplest
form
its
fundamental
features
in
words
[start again from the top]
[read beckett]
in
art
[look at stella]
[look at judd]
in
music
[listen]
[hear]
[each]
[note]
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
After a lot to negotiate
toing and froing
you exchanged your teeny heart
for my bag of 18-something stones
I carried it home in a hurry
much lighter than I expected
for what looked like a big cherry
it was shaking when I checked it
I worried at its odd little quivering
a bit timid and nervy
like a leaf blown from its tree
but happy to have a new owner in me
I nestled it carefully
in my mother's best white sheets
but was scared to see
it start to bleed quite a bit
not that it might die
but about what my mother would say
about the red in the laundry
and what she might tell her mother
if she got it back needing a doctor
I decided to pat it
with a towel to keep it dry
no even better
shower it each day
keep it a bit moist
sprinkle it with Eau de Toilette
every morning blow it a kiss
like having a sweet pet
to greet after I shave
I wanted to rub my hands with glee
but it needed treating with kid gloves
and exercised in carefree handling
but first I had to squeeze it
not hard in case it burst
just in the middle bit
around its plumped up waist
it felt soft and squidgy
and beat quite quickly
not like my stones
I wrapped it up in a cooler
using styrofoam
aluminium foil
and a brown paper bag...
Styrofoam is a good insulator
and will keep the love from oozing out
the aluminium foil is a heat reflector
and the paper bag I am not sure about
but grocery stores offer them
to put your ice cream in
so it doesn't melt as fast
I had a meal of cheese on toast
then returned to check my box
your heart was not there to be seen
isolated in polystyrene
O dear I wished I'd cut a window
giving it room to see it grow
but then I spied you in the garden
painting stones to a wondrous glow
so lovely I traded back my carton
and your heart lit up inside for me
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
It was 3:30 in the morning
The aunt died, heart attack they said.
I only have a pale memory of her
The pink-house, protest and abuse.
Grandfather plucked us from there
the next day
The pink hibiscus my mother planted
did not depart.
She is dead today
I went to see her in black clothes,
The house, an empty aluminium box-
With kids playing ‘ring around the roses’,
Uncles debated politics and aunts gossiped
And some moaned inside.
I waited outside with few strange women,
They asked me questions
plenty of them
The anti-social me smiled.
The morning was usual
Mother made noises in the kitchen
with her steel plates and old radio,
Father forgot the fish on his
green kinetic honda,
Cats had a feast that evening
I did yoga, read newspaper and did-
not take a wash.
The dead body arrived late noon
in an ambulance with her expatriate son.
There was a sudden burst of cry-
inside- her daughter and grandchildren.
She looked like the fish to me,
The fish my father brought that morning
from the market, cold and dead.
Her daughter’s cry reminded me of-
an elapsed day in my pink house.
My father kept pink flowers on her feet
and prayed
I did not move, sat with the same chitchatting
women
The chanting became loud and it reverberated.
The body was finally taken to the fire
My mother came late, she wept.
The body burned down in minutes,
Dear relatives decamped.
I sat on the same chair
with my cousins
drawing the family tree, locating stories
and laughed over family jokes.
Then we sat tight lipped with brandy fumes
and cashews.
I came back home with my father
in the green kinetic honda,
I looked for the fish and the cat
I could not find both.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Spiralling downwards,
Bitter taste of coke slipping in between the bumps on your tongue
And months from now when I try to think about you
I will remember the way you looked at me
And how time stood still
So it felt just like you were standing across from me
Throwing your unsaid medals at my throat
I let them slide down to my chest
It burns
Like the acid streams of coke surfacing my lungs
And I cannot breathe
All I can think about is why do I cross paths with people I am not supposed to fall in love with
Coke sliding down your throat
Swallow your golden apologies you never were brave enough to say
Crackling fizzling drink
I have been in love with you since May
And every look out has been a habit, I still try to find you in a crowd
I still try to swallow the bitter fizzy only slightly sweet taste of coke down my throat
The same way I choke
On every apology I never said to you and how I almost but never did tell you how much your cheekbones remind me of the sunset.
Timeless
This drink will never age and neither will your eyes
Visceral bubbling youthful
I have been waiting on nothing
I feel the acid burn in my throat in my chest and it erupts as I ***** every scent I’ve had of you, every gaze we have exchanged while she looks at you and smiles
Electric
Like the fizz that touches the insides of my stomach
I want to look at you and smile
And all you do is watch me
Sipping through your straw
I am drinking coke
And your eyes say it has been a while and look at me, look at what I do I want to show you what I do because it has been far too long
Child
I am not a child I am a hazy incense drifting through hollow walls, corridors and people infested places
Everywhere I turn I cannot breathe
I need something to quench this thirst of longing
I have collected from every instance I never get to see you, every moment you look at me and she is with you
I want to keep these aluminium tabs
I want to push the bubbles down your throat, tell you this is how I feel every time I look at you and you look at me and we say nothing
I want to tell you I have been doing just fine
And that you are wearing the same shade of red I’ve been feeling and this coke can shares the red we are crying
I want to say I am sorry I looked back and I wished so very hard
Sohrab
You are between these lines the coke can holds, every droplet that condenses on this metal surface, cool
I have something to hold and I don’t know what to feel
Only the acid taste of coke
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
The displays
Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;
Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;
Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;
Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;
Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;
Foreground
Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
bitterness of iron:
remove the milk
in bate of oxen blood spills
a bovine scent coagulates --
two membranes,
five and nine in aluminium
warp the boiling point --
two hundred, ninety degrees Celsius,
left standing, half a day:
cardboard instruction sets carbon constriction
imprinting
burnt hair, burnt hooves --
the taste of not eating
a liver, raw --
Where is the nameless face
carrying cups of coffee, bought
on a journey
somewhere, and nowhere et al . . .
kindreds, wrapped in the smell of decay:
the uncured hide around his hips,
or was it his wrists, never touching?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
I choose not to be defensive under constructive criticism offered by good counsel
I also choose to believe that what drove me then remains what I'm about still
But...
Maybe my idea is aluminium and they're talking about steel
I choose to realize that as talented as I happen to be, I still...
Need guidance around skill
Medicinal advice to take me higher than a drug
Capsule or a round pill
But then again I also choose...
To be realistic
Sever certain loyalties and lose...
Those that are pessimistic
I choose to see the bigger picture painted in a snow storm
Cold and artistic
Bring about a new wave of doing things... futuristic
Reflecting back... I should have seen the message on the mirror written in red lipstick
'REDRUM!'
But I was disillusioned, detached back then, I was dead... numb
Then I heard a voice tell me to accept the guidance...
I needed to get out of this maze, follow the bread crumbs
While still swaying to my own tune, moving to my dance
And start anew
So, to an impoverished way of thinking I say 'adieu'.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 6:09 AM UTC
1 simple set of instructions
4 heavy flatpack boxes
5 square aluminium legs
27 painted pieces of wood
100 ridged wooden dowels
101 white plastic ***** covers
102 blister-causing screws of various sizes.
Assumption that no unter or ober
Equals drunken waves of shelves
Sadly means finished is unfinished
Reworked masterpiece complete at last
Male ego boosted by admiring plaudits
Value enhanced by effort expended
Flatpack frustration in 4 easy pieces.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
Undo my buttons
and let the soul breathe
for the body to freeze
or scorch! I am done
with each attempt to see
with wistful bras
and weeping knickers
Sulked by sore heads
that lay on pvc pillows
And aluminium beds
Mouths that drink blood
chew mud
Lips that never kissed the moonlight
Eyes that never waved to the sunbeam
All talk of love to redeem
this mass of jagged insanity
“La vie est un sommeil,
l'amour en est le rêve."
Undo my buttons
and caress all the scars
it took to believe
I am as dead
as my cigars.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Swift punt to the soda pop tin
Littering the low lit path before me
Flash back to kick the can
And hopscotch jumping rope
To wittled cans from which to smoke
And losing family to knotted rope
Years pile on tense shoulders
Bearing zirconium smiling teeth
Finding diamonds in my grief
But always pacing forward
To flash back on bronze days
Glowing like bonfire embers
Finishing the last of the thirty rack
Never realizing I was drowning
Just sad and aloof and smiling
Smoking bad **** from a PBR can
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 2:35 AM UTC
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
There may have been a time I was soft
There may have been a time I cared
But that time is over.
You say if I don't start caring again I'm going to loose you
They say if I don't start feeling again their going to leave
But no one sees
No one sees that I do care just not in the open anymore
No one sees that I do feel just not as easily as before
Not many know that to fix a broken heart you have to mend it with iron but iron melts , so I tried aluminium
But its shiny appearance attracts to many theives, so I tried steel but its weak ability left me open than I remembered what I was once told , what the hardest metal can hold so I covered my heart with titanium.
Once you've been hurt by love its hard going back, and once your trust in love has been broken its hard to trust it again , I was once forced to play a game where I lost everything and a man who lost everything has nothing left to loose so leave or stay but my attitude will remain and my Titanium heart will never again feel all that pain of love.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
tired autonomies, days keep on flailin', seizin'; darlin', I'd
be bolder if only I'd tried. makin' plans to abandon 'em,
the dark reach and tenements of those towers of regret for
all of my inactivity or self-targeted hostility, and those dreams
meant everything to me until awakening into morning hours
or afternoon, more likely, with the dull grip of uncertainty
shudderin' all the windowpanes back and forth lightly, oh
so **** delicately, and I think about you as soon as I've
drawn up ambition to make any kind of move, the pieces of
the vast puzzle I've called your mind for the better part of
the calendar dates I've drawn up into fifteen gauge shells of
the ghosts of my past, those that follow my footprints in evenings,
the pools of aluminium meltings and lemon extractions
to constrict the summer hours, convictions that bleach out
all other chances of hope.
so relinquish your grip on my red and unfolding heart I've
been beating the syllables of your name with, and abusing
the page width of headspace, serving only to alienate the
froth on the shoreline of daring chances: I'd have given
my all at the sight of romance, but I sit here with no
glimpse of intention from you; the crestfalls I subject myself
to, not for the sake of lack of want, but full lack of what
I'd do if I called and asked where you wanted to go at
three a.m. or five p.m., or any other canonical time of
the day; I'd spend any of 'em with you, and I'd
ask, but I'm somewhat sure you're not that into whatever I
could mean, or whatever my words do seem to transcribe themselves
upon contact with your mind, so keep on existing and I
will do the same.
[or, anyway, at least I'll try]
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
I sit here in the local laundromat
on a aluminium park bench
amongst the fish eyed dryers
and icberg washing machines
that rumble with never siated
coin fed hunger, the smell of
artificial spring and wet dog
swelling on the humid breeze
In the corner an o.d lady sits
reading a mills and boon love story
two young men stand
leaning against the door frame,
smoking cigarettes, they look
like casual warrior guards, on their day off
all surfer dude tan and body buff
guarding the inner sanctum of local cleanliness
Another mother, you can, tell by the handbag
is playing a game on her tablet, some tinny music
wafts over, and she glances at me with apology in her eyes
I have brought nothing except my phone
on which I am writing this, and carkeys and wallet
I watch the tumble dryers tumble, and am mesmerized
by the kaleidoscope of linens,playing at being acrobats
it is warm and cozy in the evening light, a world apart
Out side on the still warm sidewalk and old dog lounges
his eyes focused on old Mrs Mills and Boon, her load finishes
and as she gets up, so does the dog, both slow and methodical
as she folds her washing the dog noses the air, comes to the doorway, where one of the young blokes offers his hand
for a pat, the dog allows the contact, but his eyes remain on the old lady as she packs her wasing into a wheeled bag,
the pair then leave, walking down the street into the dusk,
the dog's nose mere inches from the old ladies gnarled hand
and his tail wagging furiously. I fell I have witnessed something
beautiful and intimate, as they wander away...
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
The sunset was tainted
In it's orange glowly faint
as skies billowy loaded
clouded with chemtrails
the balium and aluminium
fed as streaks of ******
as strontium is ingested
Injected in our soils
as our oils turn sour
to drool our brains
of thought and ambition
Projected to our souls
as we ache and ail
in trials and fails
that drill our veins
with fraught and draught
as skies billowy loaded
In it's crescent lowly paint
The moon was sainted
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
the city's moon
fixated in its peoples tics and behaviour
crass and mentally fractured
traction acts
the loony satellite makes sway for rude construction
padding our ego psychology
nothing simple allowed
we are all a manic reference of each other
the city weather is steered
by currents of gossip
withhold your info
culture clutches
misguiding alliances
treasure your details
it is your only insurance
this city
it's a view to thrill
but it odors me til ill
****** privacy and get undressed
too much time here harbouring thirst
quibbling hurt feelings
signals ; Life Emitting Distress
so
lock up the night city stars
mar-glaring bulbs of pity-me
staring about for vagrancy
i flip up my hood
lucent pandery eyes span the communal routes
search us out merchandise and mood
i turn down an alleyway
and am confronted
a vain and voyeuristic fan tail
varieties cocktail of sales and entertainment
ad lights send out sonar 'pings'
wing-ed ; fencing judgement
i wear pricy contacts to veil my retinas
and my hood is lined with aluminium
i cough and concentrate on breath
commemorate each step undertaken
weaponize my walk
eyes low
my being is voided into guise
heading further from the city centre
i can straighten from my defensive pose
in amongst the dwellings
the urban effect dwindles
kindled instead by the dosey soup wash of streetlights
delights; the holy crop of them
webbing outward retching past our boundaries
shored back upon natures breath
(so i imagine)
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 9:03 PM UTC
Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
love is like a fungus
beautiful like an umbrella mushroom
and sticky like mould on bread
and nefarious mad like psilobycin
and scary like an aluminium cage .conditions apply.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
thread hangs dewy bright
oxidized aluminium contrasts
grey glassy grey
crumpled in doorway a song
through whiskers licked
yellow and smoke flecked
black ash.
notes
float
coats the space
between a boy
silver bits
(remnants of magic cards move
moving Mother)
from pocket to pocket
"silver linings, eh "
scaffolding reached a little higher
and somehow mucus trails
had a musical movement
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC
I am Marhteena
I come from a small village in southern Cameroon where people use kerosene lamps at night and store drinking water in large aluminium pots.
where neighbors share kitchen utensils on a daily basis and eat from the same bowls of soup with one another.
where children go to the streams in the morning to fetch some water for cooking and rake the woods for some firewood.
where women go to their farms to plant corn, yams and vegetables while the men tap fresh palm wine and tend the goats and pigs.
where children play under the scorching sun and eat roasted grasshoppers for lunch.
where children make their own toys from rafiagrass and abandoned wires
where children climb trees and hunt birds with their catapults
where children go fishing with small bowls and learn how to swim by themselves
where children sat around fireplaces at night to tell folktales and ancient stories
I am Marhteena, i come from a very small clan but these experiences have shaped me into who i am today
I AM PROUDLY AFRICAN!!!
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Through the glaze of snow falling from ninety-nine cent aluminium, we'd taken the remains of a novel formulation to remove the stars from the sky and plant them in a field. I took crushing endlessness and the heat of leaves growing in moments to make the autumn of a town I hadn't yet seen. This is how I escaped from the sealed-elevator flight plan the first time; talking had failed me, pinned against the face of a fleeing infant. His mother could never find a way to paint him as a forgery, a skeleton, and make it stick, so he coughed rough and eloped from the schematic with his brother as their father remained on the ground, paying out the parking lot tower fees, unaware that he, himself, was only a figment.
and I, just another figment, ventured off into the village, the leaves cascading and trembling, the gold of their hues dissipating as the flight crew shook a lifeless husk, spent lives ago, now, with the clamour of shells dividing, each split or junction or birth yielding arcs of light as my sister tells me how the strings she pulls around her wrists tell metric time whilst I brush my hand against concrete and glass, leaving traces of skin within the grain, sloughing away finally in the small moments as I float through an antique dealership: mahogany gods, carved tall as redwoods, and bathed in mist like the western coast at dawn.
and I, indifferent to the television sets implanted between memories, broadcasting coffee-stain eyes lost midsummer years ago, still indifferent.
as I finally reach the elevator, the last level, the depth below, struck me. I am the test subject, my irrealities are just trying to get out, to survive this feigned life, to be born into the world I frequent. They are abstractions and know it. I have not said a word as I step out onto that plane, amidst the rising roar of engines and the row of the crowds and the swell of my emptiness.
I breathe in and become the field, at last.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Believe it or not,
I come from a conservative Islamic family,
My Life is based on Islamic principles,
But,I don't feel caged,
In fact, I feel at peace,calm and safe.
Home is where you live,
Home life is on the principles of Faith in Allah,
And its two arms patience and gratitude to HIM.
Trust, kindness and above all respect for each other is a must,
A visitor who knocks on your door is as good as an angel,
He should be greeted and treated with courtesy,
Greetings create a bond in the name of Allah,
Parents are our peers and given utmost respect,
We never speak out of context to them.
Breakfast,lunch and dinner is a family affair,
We all sit on the floor in a circle with a big aluminium thaal (plate) in the middle,
And partake our portion of food from there,
Before eating we begin with Bismillah and a pinch of salt.
Women cover their heads all the time with a dupatta,
When they go out they wear a hijab.
Women are prohibited to talk loudly but some do,
What goes behind close doors between a husband and wife should remain between them,
Not to wash the ***** linens in public.
Music is not allowed in islam but most of us do,
A Muslim must pay part of his earnings as zakat (charity).
From birth till death our lives depend on the sound advise of our Spritual Leader,
I am delighted I have somebody to guide me,
He makes sure each and every community member is provided with lunch,
So no one goes to sleep hungry,
Most of all festivals are community based gatherings so no one is alone,
I am the lucky one,not imprisoned.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
If death did not wear black would he be taken so seriously?
If one literally wore one's heart on one's sleeve what would be the medical implications and would your friends still take you seriously?
If it is true that 'the beat goes on', is it any wonder that 'the rhythm is gonna get ya'?
When Dana sang 'All kinds of everything remind me of you', did she include rubella and death metal in this?
If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one to hear it fall does it make a sound? If a man plays cello in a forest do the trees mark him out of ten?
If the simulacra is real then surely all one needs to do is to pay more attention? If one pays more attention, how much should one tip?
Descartes stated "I think therefore I am". What on earth was he thinking?
Mans awareness of his mortality created the need for a divine being in order to facilitate the concept that there is life after death. No one can say definitively if there is life after death. Does this paradox create a dizzying confusion? Is this confusion a lot like spending too much money in a carnival?
Britain's Got Talent: in a population of approximately 60 million, one would certainly hope so.
Is the concept of the omnipotence of god applicable if priests are unavailable for confession?
Is this a question?
Is the presence of a question mark the only thing required to ensure that something is a question? Seven cherubs aluminium? Is that a question!
The concept of 'keeping ones feet on the ground', by which we mean to not get carried away with success, for example, can never be difficult if one accepts the laws of gravity.
What sounds lie in the spaces between keys on a piano?
Any identifiable stimuli?
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 6:01 AM UTC