"bifurcated" poems - Hello Poetry

Soft curdled interior now at its eutectic Holds a bifurcated square of gluten Equally carbonized together In an **** of ill-advised but sensual nutrition

0

Jul 25, 2014

Jul 25, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC

bob-sterrywt

May Is National Grilled Cheese Sandwich And Poetry Month

Soft curdled interior now at its eutectic Holds a bifurcated square of gluten Equally carbonized together In an **** of ill-advised but sensual nutrition

4

Living on borrowed time Decision at drop of a hat Down an empty vandalized street, I walk through the horror of silence and silence of serenity perdurable pathway of life The ghastly sights and the rustling gates scattered people with unknown tastes emptiness in their eyes, anger in their words void is profound down the perdurable pathway of life Bifurcated roads upfront my perception, one to hell and one to heaven the other end of roads, a mystery I stood there comprehending, while my mind harks back to before I came down the perdurable pathway of life Endurance of a toiler Stoicism, a rare trait, out of gratitude to employer pain and suffering he undergoes for common good loyalty to his master, inspire of hardships sincerity and humbleness of the bloke will inspire me, down the perdurable pathway of life Deprived of education desolated on streets laboring disparate from parental love, subject to father's fury fractious relations but still ignores himself, for family and domicile The kid's love and determination, will inspire me down the perdurable pathway of life Spurn love took her down Her heart wrenched and pushed her beyond limits killed herself, leaving her parents to sore reality not a wise choice, but courageous I ponder upon courage, rather than cowardly suicide Death is not an option down the perdurable pathway of life Happy faces around taunt me to do simplest Reality speaks otherwise Reckoning on past, the pathway is wrought conscious and hard choices right ahead The bifurcated roads to heaven and hell? I've seen it all, down the perdurable pathway of life

0

Aug 2, 2012

Aug 2, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC

parasuram-dora-hanumanthu

The Ghastly Choices

Living on borrowed time Decision at drop of a hat Down an empty vandalized street, I walk through the horror of silence and silence of serenity perdurable pathway of life The ghastly sights and the rustling gates scattered people with unknown tastes emptiness in their eyes, anger in their words void is profound down the perdurable pathway of life Bifurcated roads upfront my perception, one to hell and one to heaven the other end of roads, a mystery I stood there comprehending, while my mind harks back to before I came down the perdurable pathway of life Endurance of a toiler Stoicism, a rare trait, out of gratitude to employer pain and suffering he undergoes for common good loyalty to his master, inspire of hardships sincerity and humbleness of the bloke will inspire me, down the perdurable pathway of life Deprived of education desolated on streets laboring disparate from parental love, subject to father's fury fractious relations but still ignores himself, for family and domicile The kid's love and determination, will inspire me down the perdurable pathway of life Spurn love took her down Her heart wrenched and pushed her beyond limits killed herself, leaving her parents to sore reality not a wise choice, but courageous I ponder upon courage, rather than cowardly suicide Death is not an option down the perdurable pathway of life Happy faces around taunt me to do simplest Reality speaks otherwise Reckoning on past, the pathway is wrought conscious and hard choices right ahead The bifurcated roads to heaven and hell? I've seen it all, down the perdurable pathway of life

42

S3 Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm Somewhere in my body, A bifurcated clock ticks, Two clock faces, White on black, Vice versa. Mixed media messages, Crazy train station internal, Brain activity fevered, Arrive/depart according to Somebody else's schedule, Somebody else occupying, Every street of my body Lying asleep, Typing these words, It is the middle of the night, Bright daylight suffuses the room What part of my metaphysical schema, Ain't jet lagged legally, And poetically entitled to be Stockholm Syndrome Confused? Times have really changed, Oh my, when you propose, Let's go to Stockholm, Anything goes! So my schedule reordered In the land of either all Light or Dark, twenty hours four, I turn to my boon companion, Who soothes at any hour, My music, my Nano, And I find myself, musically, Shuffling in Stockholm. Meatloaf and Piazzolla, Muddy Waters and Purple Rain, Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini, Beethoven, Straight No Chaser, Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble, The lack of sleep a permanent fixture, Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture, So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist, Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city, In Ingmar Bergman fashion, Black and white erratic, Alternating, swaying and shuffling, No tongue clucking, Nah, he's not drunken, Just dancing while sight seeing, In a sleep deprived manner, Someday a movie to be, Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm A/K/A S3 June 30 ~ July 2, 2012 Stockholm, Sweden

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May 19, 2013

May 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

S3 - Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm

S3 Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm Somewhere in my body, A bifurcated clock ticks, Two clock faces, White on black, Vice versa. Mixed media messages, Crazy train station internal, Brain activity fevered, Arrive/depart according to Somebody else's schedule, Somebody else occupying, Every street of my body Lying asleep, Typing these words, It is the middle of the night, Bright daylight suffuses the room What part of my metaphysical schema, Ain't jet lagged legally, And poetically entitled to be Stockholm Syndrome Confused? Times have really changed, Oh my, when you propose, Let's go to Stockholm, Anything goes! So my schedule reordered In the land of either all Light or Dark, twenty hours four, I turn to my boon companion, Who soothes at any hour, My music, my Nano, And I find myself, musically, Shuffling in Stockholm. Meatloaf and Piazzolla, Muddy Waters and Purple Rain, Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini, Beethoven, Straight No Chaser, Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble, The lack of sleep a permanent fixture, Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture, So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist, Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city, In Ingmar Bergman fashion, Black and white erratic, Alternating, swaying and shuffling, No tongue clucking, Nah, he's not drunken, Just dancing while sight seeing, In a sleep deprived manner, Someday a movie to be, Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm A/K/A S3 June 30 ~ July 2, 2012 Stockholm, Sweden

56

To read or watch movies, that is the question. When tired at workday's end, depressed about death's certainty and my recent surgery unable to contribute purpose i.e., figure out whether to bomb Iran or worship Krshna and other gods such as Homer gives us in the Iliad I lack vision therefore I choose television. Chemistry text, bifurcated plant key esp. grasses, intro to calculus, physics unopened time slides by inexorably. That's the dilemma with no resolution, drooping rachis, striations on the lemma. Dying chooses you. You don't choose dying. So go slow as the day will allow. The cancer patient's real work is facing harsh realities and making adjustments: getting the most out of life, considering what his children will need after he's gone, preparing his wife, parents, colleagues and friends, and completing important professional tasks. Get the most out of life. That's all God asks. In Life of Pi the tiger is tiresome, short-sighted eating everything in sight today, no plan for tomorrow. The boy, however, is beautiful, reading the lifeboat manual, building a resting place on the ocean from oars and life vests, writing about his emotions, loneliness and observations. The tiger's obsession with killing keeps our boy alive with fear, an aphrodisiac, a distraction from any hint of hopelessness. And then there is the ultimate unknown, the boy's conversations with Krshna which explain the innumerable stars and their gentle glow.

0

Oct 20, 2015

Oct 20, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC

robert-ronnow

Get the Most Out of Life of Pi

To read or watch movies, that is the question. When tired at workday's end, depressed about death's certainty and my recent surgery unable to contribute purpose i.e., figure out whether to bomb Iran or worship Krshna and other gods such as Homer gives us in the Iliad I lack vision therefore I choose television. Chemistry text, bifurcated plant key esp. grasses, intro to calculus, physics unopened time slides by inexorably. That's the dilemma with no resolution, drooping rachis, striations on the lemma. Dying chooses you. You don't choose dying. So go slow as the day will allow. The cancer patient's real work is facing harsh realities and making adjustments: getting the most out of life, considering what his children will need after he's gone, preparing his wife, parents, colleagues and friends, and completing important professional tasks. Get the most out of life. That's all God asks. In Life of Pi the tiger is tiresome, short-sighted eating everything in sight today, no plan for tomorrow. The boy, however, is beautiful, reading the lifeboat manual, building a resting place on the ocean from oars and life vests, writing about his emotions, loneliness and observations. The tiger's obsession with killing keeps our boy alive with fear, an aphrodisiac, a distraction from any hint of hopelessness. And then there is the ultimate unknown, the boy's conversations with Krshna which explain the innumerable stars and their gentle glow.

33

pale shadows of flung anger fault towards your toothless call economy of silent fury shell your bones shell your bones crow feather ggarbled fflight plot by plot fall quiet spill the knell ossified brittle ruptures of foam pour take it out take it out take it out take it out speak in silence lacerated gaze **** or have killed bifurcated for your own good, possibility will be revoked the only choice blood on your hands or blood in your throat till all the internal haemorrhages resonate and spill the world to dust to dust to

0

Feb 19, 2017

Feb 19, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC

abloobloobloo

no excuse

pale shadows of flung anger fault towards your toothless call economy of silent fury shell your bones shell your bones crow feather ggarbled fflight plot by plot fall quiet spill the knell ossified brittle ruptures of foam pour take it out take it out take it out take it out speak in silence lacerated gaze **** or have killed bifurcated for your own good, possibility will be revoked the only choice blood on your hands or blood in your throat till all the internal haemorrhages resonate and spill the world to dust to dust to

29

I dare to feel, with searching fingers, a bifurcated wish to take the path to you or the one that leads to me. I dare to feel, asking only from you, my sweet, your thoughtful understanding. My naked vulnerability to your alluring charms, that I, that we, could be washed with rain, As if lust and sin Could be so easily entertained. I dare to feel, I dare to feel, the disappointment I know will come, will come, as our bridge decays with the vanity that is your way. Or is it MY WAY?

0

Dec 11, 2010

Dec 11, 2010 at 11:17 AM UTC

perig3e

Bifurcation my way

I dare to feel, with searching fingers, a bifurcated wish to take the path to you or the one that leads to me. I dare to feel, asking only from you, my sweet, your thoughtful understanding. My naked vulnerability to your alluring charms, that I, that we, could be washed with rain, As if lust and sin Could be so easily entertained. I dare to feel, I dare to feel, the disappointment I know will come, will come, as our bridge decays with the vanity that is your way. Or is it MY WAY?

24

There are small galaxies in salt grains And sandbags in superclusters. An arm extends from the minor and one punches from the major. In a light state of being both little and big, one hand tells me I'm major Another tells others they're minor. Both hands nontheless hit hard. One much like a thron bush The other like a lotus flower. Neither major, both minor.

0

Sep 8, 2014

Sep 8, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC

pugsmith

Bifurcated

There are small galaxies in salt grains And sandbags in superclusters. An arm extends from the minor and one punches from the major. In a light state of being both little and big, one hand tells me I'm major Another tells others they're minor. Both hands nontheless hit hard. One much like a thron bush The other like a lotus flower. Neither major, both minor.

10

Bifurcated, broken thing, longing to belong again, hangs with hangmen from a string along a wall of wallowing. Speak of pain, he speaks no more but rasps his voice against the door. Save me, sir, what is in-store? Salesmen smile and take the floor. Cauterized with spit 'til dry lies the spider with the fly. Of one, blood made two one-alike. Awry, awry, what's left is right. Lonesome at last what alone begins, ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten. The hunted, hungered will soon bends as all are lost as all will end.

0

Aug 13, 2018

Aug 13, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC

everiv

Millenial

Bifurcated, broken thing, longing to belong again, hangs with hangmen from a string along a wall of wallowing. Speak of pain, he speaks no more but rasps his voice against the door. Save me, sir, what is in-store? Salesmen smile and take the floor. Cauterized with spit 'til dry lies the spider with the fly. Of one, blood made two one-alike. Awry, awry, what's left is right. Lonesome at last what alone begins, ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten. The hunted, hungered will soon bends as all are lost as all will end.

16

It cannot go unspoken this time. Split in twixt, bifurcated, so one half couldn't recognize the whole. Blindfolded by rage, scarred by the ravages of what if's, the open metaphor for pain. Removing myself from the standards I began to set. Unrealistic, out of reach, unattainable. Blurring my vision, by bended elbow, making excuses faster than solutions; sinking slowly without a branch, only an empty bottle to adhere to. The calamity called for peace, and I've listened. Her hand innocuous at first, now radiant, strong, and sensual. Grasped hold of me, ripping me up from my rotting moorings. Providing proof there's still strength in my devices, my incentives, in my hopes lie my dreams. It will never again go unspoken through my action, it will be heard careening off foundations, piercing eyes, and lancing ears. Words conversed by glance, and through touch. Reformed, refined by the beautiful touch of the divine. It will never go unspoken again. Once broken picked up, and loved back together. It will never again be unspoken. The words, the elegance, the clarity, it all must be perfect, perfectly annunciated. In me I've found freedom. Through you I am once again welcomed into your kingdom.

0

Oct 18, 2018

Oct 18, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC

Pariah16

Rotting Moorings

It cannot go unspoken this time. Split in twixt, bifurcated, so one half couldn't recognize the whole. Blindfolded by rage, scarred by the ravages of what if's, the open metaphor for pain. Removing myself from the standards I began to set. Unrealistic, out of reach, unattainable. Blurring my vision, by bended elbow, making excuses faster than solutions; sinking slowly without a branch, only an empty bottle to adhere to. The calamity called for peace, and I've listened. Her hand innocuous at first, now radiant, strong, and sensual. Grasped hold of me, ripping me up from my rotting moorings. Providing proof there's still strength in my devices, my incentives, in my hopes lie my dreams. It will never again go unspoken through my action, it will be heard careening off foundations, piercing eyes, and lancing ears. Words conversed by glance, and through touch. Reformed, refined by the beautiful touch of the divine. It will never go unspoken again. Once broken picked up, and loved back together. It will never again be unspoken. The words, the elegance, the clarity, it all must be perfect, perfectly annunciated. In me I've found freedom. Through you I am once again welcomed into your kingdom.

43

I never realized How many birds There really are They seem to melt Into the landscape As they hop To and fro In the manicured Suburban shrubs And pepper the sky Floating in place Against some unfelt Wind current While walking I locked gazes with A slate colored dove And we stared I don't know how He felt about me Or what he felt About me I thought he was Elegant Even though he was The color of fresh tar While it bakes In the Pennsylvania sun In some hazy culdesac In the corner of some Replaceable Reproducible Childhood He hopped off his perch A rusty sign post That had been bifurcated By some unknown Bolt or hand And skittered behind some Sickly looking ferns In a dirt patch of an Unknown neighbors yard A gang of Robins Flittered over my head Landing down the street Passing a pinecone Between them Pecking and tearing at it I looked behind The sickly ferns And found the Unknown neighbors cat Doing the same thing To my slate colored dove I shooed it away It dropped the dove Hastily In the loose dirt And retreated I looked down at the dove And it laid there Its breast heaving Silent One eye cast into the dirt The other looking up Watching the same Robins Fly back to where They had come from And the slate slowly Turned sanguine As its down became Saturated with the Run off from the Puncture wounds The cat sat off A few yards away Flicking its tail Calico and smug And I stood by The dove as The heaving slowly Stopped Ground to a Halt really And then the eyes Weren't looking At the sky or the dirt I finally felt That unseen Wind And continued On my way

0

Jul 11, 2016

Jul 11, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC

saintlebowitz

Birds

I never realized How many birds There really are They seem to melt Into the landscape As they hop To and fro In the manicured Suburban shrubs And pepper the sky Floating in place Against some unfelt Wind current While walking I locked gazes with A slate colored dove And we stared I don't know how He felt about me Or what he felt About me I thought he was Elegant Even though he was The color of fresh tar While it bakes In the Pennsylvania sun In some hazy culdesac In the corner of some Replaceable Reproducible Childhood He hopped off his perch A rusty sign post That had been bifurcated By some unknown Bolt or hand And skittered behind some Sickly looking ferns In a dirt patch of an Unknown neighbors yard A gang of Robins Flittered over my head Landing down the street Passing a pinecone Between them Pecking and tearing at it I looked behind The sickly ferns And found the Unknown neighbors cat Doing the same thing To my slate colored dove I shooed it away It dropped the dove Hastily In the loose dirt And retreated I looked down at the dove And it laid there Its breast heaving Silent One eye cast into the dirt The other looking up Watching the same Robins Fly back to where They had come from And the slate slowly Turned sanguine As its down became Saturated with the Run off from the Puncture wounds The cat sat off A few yards away Flicking its tail Calico and smug And I stood by The dove as The heaving slowly Stopped Ground to a Halt really And then the eyes Weren't looking At the sky or the dirt I finally felt That unseen Wind And continued On my way

91

She and I, we lived completely different lives like night and day trying not to be afraid of being in between. I've seen a dark sky eclipse the brightest days, the highways drenched in complete silence a timeless space where no cars are passing by and you and I were forever destined to go separate ways, except we weren't really moving. I've lived through the Hellos and I've survived the goodbyes the wind might cry but I'm certain we were meant to part... Because she and I, we lived completely different lives like tangent lines, never meant to be together forever just an effort to prolong the possibility of being apart. Because she and I, we lived completely different lives...

0

Dec 23, 2016

Dec 23, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC

dissipate

Bifurcated Lives

She and I, we lived completely different lives like night and day trying not to be afraid of being in between. I've seen a dark sky eclipse the brightest days, the highways drenched in complete silence a timeless space where no cars are passing by and you and I were forever destined to go separate ways, except we weren't really moving. I've lived through the Hellos and I've survived the goodbyes the wind might cry but I'm certain we were meant to part... Because she and I, we lived completely different lives like tangent lines, never meant to be together forever just an effort to prolong the possibility of being apart. Because she and I, we lived completely different lives...

13

***These denizens of creation fall short in our bifurcated minds.. We render ourselves as the conscious ones find disfavor on those below.. Yet now with a quantum question we ask who is conscious and consulting our experience which is always at ready an answer returns: not dogs, not cats, not plants or rocks and amazingly not our divided selves.. The quantum question receives its answer: only consciousness is conscious.. This fearful response settles into freedom for all those dogs and cats and all...***

0

Sep 28, 2016

Sep 28, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC

charlesc

Dogs and Cats

***These denizens of creation fall short in our bifurcated minds.. We render ourselves as the conscious ones find disfavor on those below.. Yet now with a quantum question we ask who is conscious and consulting our experience which is always at ready an answer returns: not dogs, not cats, not plants or rocks and amazingly not our divided selves.. The quantum question receives its answer: only consciousness is conscious.. This fearful response settles into freedom for all those dogs and cats and all...***

17

♥V♥ Here, the bifurcated portal gateway of expanding life smiles rebirth – transcends the Mortal . . . splits the double you of wife. Hail the great democratizer; let us all salute the Queen – Mankind’s rosy equalizer: She Whose Splendor Reigns Unseen. Treasure trove of procreation, tunnel of love and fleshly muse, membrane of illumination, countryside’s exciting views . . . ***** played to heights celestial, bio-rhapsody exposed proving that our best is ******* and our earthly home foreclosed: Grant us now behold thy beauty, worship at thy humid throne. Let mankind discharge his duty in your sacred pleasure-zone. Though Somali blades despise you, though your maidenhood offends, Egypt’s night will not disguise you nor separate you from your friends.

0

Sep 12, 2015

Sep 12, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC

connecthook

Vaginalia

♥V♥ Here, the bifurcated portal gateway of expanding life smiles rebirth – transcends the Mortal . . . splits the double you of wife. Hail the great democratizer; let us all salute the Queen – Mankind’s rosy equalizer: She Whose Splendor Reigns Unseen. Treasure trove of procreation, tunnel of love and fleshly muse, membrane of illumination, countryside’s exciting views . . . ***** played to heights celestial, bio-rhapsody exposed proving that our best is ******* and our earthly home foreclosed: Grant us now behold thy beauty, worship at thy humid throne. Let mankind discharge his duty in your sacred pleasure-zone. Though Somali blades despise you, though your maidenhood offends, Egypt’s night will not disguise you nor separate you from your friends.

25

Were you well as sunlight's ascendancy left darkening footnotes everywhere? Their cerebral pitch and polish-- non compos mentis, were you well? Stalactited as Nostrefaru's leaking enamel...emergent, crooked shape of a shifting focal point overspread to no more of itself. Your sun hissed as it plumbed its depth...covert feelers circumscribed the injunction of tongue caught at speak, bifurcated and serpentine. Wherefrom runnels of india ink ran, corresponded with stones to their haphazard period, numb with duplication...broken down nervously.

0

Feb 16, 2017

Feb 16, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC

Onoma

Haphazard Period

Were you well as sunlight's ascendancy left darkening footnotes everywhere? Their cerebral pitch and polish-- non compos mentis, were you well? Stalactited as Nostrefaru's leaking enamel...emergent, crooked shape of a shifting focal point overspread to no more of itself. Your sun hissed as it plumbed its depth...covert feelers circumscribed the injunction of tongue caught at speak, bifurcated and serpentine. Wherefrom runnels of india ink ran, corresponded with stones to their haphazard period, numb with duplication...broken down nervously.

6

bifurcated breath condensed on cold window two little lungs hung there respirating palettes for your fingerling muse

0

Jan 9, 2016

Jan 9, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC

mike-dm

finger the fog

bifurcated breath condensed on cold window two little lungs hung there respirating palettes for your fingerling muse

3

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

0

Jul 9, 2018

Jul 9, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Mental Illness...Inherent Since Birth

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

57