"catchers" poems
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
You say I am the backbone of the family.
Not because I am the youngest,
But because I never showed my emotions.
But I think it's time to let go.
Because when she died,
I was the only one who didn't cry.
But i cried on the inside.
And, when they buried her 6 feet under,
My heart skipped 6 beats and I was choking.
Yes, it's time for me to let go of my emotions.
Because you say I am the backbone.
But, I am not strong enough to support 3 sisters,
1 brother, 2 aunts, 1 uncle, and 3 cousins with this,
Skinny backbone.
Arthritis can't help because I am still afraid to break down.
"You have always been the backbone, no matter what."
But,
I am tired of being Miss Motivation.
You are breaking me down form my,
Coccyx to my,
Sacral to my,
Lumber to my,
Thorracic and,
You're giving me Cervical Cancer.
And instead of being a backbone,
I feel more like a ligament.
Connecting your tears to her tears and,
Her tears to his tears and,
And that tears me apart.
You're swelling up my heart from all your pain and,
Right now it's about the size of a catchers mit.
I don't want to be the backbone.
I am not strong enough to suppport the whole family.
Why can't you see that you're exhausting me?
Kiaren, Kirsten, Kaye, Lloyd, Aunt Atheda,Aunt Regina,
Uncle Tony,Chris,Oliver, Aaron...
I am tired of being your backbone.
I am not that strong.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
A bee here
another there
the bee catchers busily chase
enjoy every bit
hit and miss
miss and hit
the urge to live is the sugar
sweetens the grind
keeps death out of mind.
If you keep death in mind
high is the cost
in the momentary dying
life is lost.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
She laughs as I tell her how
The way she devours her stadium dog
Is so *******
I can’t concentrate
Only we are interrupted by
The crack of gunshot over an open plain
It is followed by a hoorah hurricane
So unison I stop trying to make her laugh
Think about the car ride later
And being stuck in traffic
And sliding gently into home
I want to tell her about years from now
Ninth inning deathbed passion
When my red seems finally begin to burst their cotton
About the splinters living inside of my hands
I was living with them inside of my hands
That’s why I was so rough sometimes
How the scotch guard kept the **** off of my knees
I loved to trace the outline of her ***** diamond
Until there were grooves in there
And my initials in her catchers mound
We are so much hoarse voices
Lost in the noise of ***** hands clapping
How I imagine
As I am sliding into home
In our shower
The soft patter of water on the curtain is stadium applause
Let me run grooves in your shapely pattern
Your laughter is a full circle homerun from heartache
Save me again sweet music
Open plain gunshot buildup
And then a noise so booming it is silence
And us
Ninth inning deathbed lovers
Gently sliding into home
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Dream Catchers, egg hatchers, baby Snatchers, **** wackers, lip smackers, online hackers, ***** slappers, hand clappers, exotic flappers, lazy slackers, suitcase packers, & back stabbers.
Hate & defeated, cheat & feel the heat. Too weak & petite. Tales of hell, wishes on a well, thoughts are things you can't always sell. Sometimes words can be lies liars tell. One day to your death to you fell.
Pass it on. I don't belong. Some people are wrong. Die. I won't cry.
Pakrat hoarders, pro choice aborters, two faced home wreckers, voodoo curses, retired lazy old nurses.
Deaf & Blind, racist & unkind, poor & unemployed. Broke & exploited. Dumb, old, ugly, & fat. ***** stinking rat. Piles & piles of crap.
College professors, real estate investors, coaches, cockaroaches, poachers, perverts & ****** meat eatting caravores. Bums & addicts drunks & fanatics, obsessive compulsive, stalkers too possessive, insane aggressive.
Author Notes :
Partially true, could be your family.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
CRAZED through much child-bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
Glances of her wandering eye
We ***** and ***** in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
First trod on the mountain's head
What stir ran through the countryside
Where every foot obeyed her glance!
What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
But slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that malicious dream
They are spread wide that each
May rend what comes in reach.
3k
Psychopath, questioned and played with, complex mind games with
Paper fortune tellers and crystal ***** utilized by con artists.
Chrome decorated room filled with trippy, grippy, grabby men
With blue cats swimming around their head. Coherent words do not exist to them.
Sucrose breaks you down, sweet creature, and thieves the antimatter in your empty scull.
Your favorite song no longer passes through your hollow ears.
Notes and the beats... A heartbeat. The thrum of a low piano key in a house supposed
To be isolated and abandoned. You are not alone here, child.
The demons summoned her because of the lettered board between a mattress
And box spring. The springs are broken from too much activity,
Don't jump on the soiled mattress. That's how you receive punishment.
But one without two does not match the storybook your mother read to you.
The nauseating tale of role,play and ********** Everyone knows the story, seen the Disney.
You can run, but you can't hide from the memories of horrible visions
Given to you by the gods. Hold on, child. You will grow to be a man one day
Despite the nightmare of being a wolf child who clawed his way out of his mothers womb.
Jolt and sweat, forgotten top bunk , and a concussion;
The dreams are back. The recurring realities of a twin long lost, but somehow inside.
Dream catchers don't make the callback list, can't act for the life of them, but
They are beautiful against the scenery.
A porcelain doll holds the demon that hacked my system and took controll of my history,
And once again, she takes my place, fooling everyone into thinking I am here
When, in reality, I am buried six feet under.
Blood dribbles from the letters chilled into my stone, I curl and let them add more letters into
My back to symbolize the life I led. The collection of poems I wrote about you are the ones they
Cut into the skin on my legs, permanent reminders of what I have felt.
"What have you felt?"
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
When sweet morning dawns
giving dreamcatcher sight,
the bad dreams flee
unable to survive in light
Dream catchers are the magic trick to capturing your nightmares or so they say
Caught like flies in a spindly web, guiding you to the morning when you've lost your way
Hope it's gone for good
Not to return in the coming nights
Setting them free, never to return to that fight
They never say how to empty them or release the dreams, so I make a mosaic or poem out of it to set them free
Dream catchers attempt to make you feel better to sleep
Don’t hesitate to worry if you try and peek
No matter how long
No matter how short
Your beautiful nightmare
Will get trapped and restored
Waking up slightly confused
But yet wanting more
Let the cobwebs do its job
For when you fall asleep at night
Your dreams will be caught, and not lost
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:37 AM UTC
I want to be a hippie,
join a small commune,
set up my camp
way out in the woods,
near the back forty
& the railroad tracks.
I want to swim naked
with them pretty chicks,
braid natty dreads,
go tubing on the river,
make beeswax candles
& tie dyes.
I want weave dream catchers,
paint glitter on Venetian beads,
sing happy songs,
create new stars,
eat whole wheat bread
& make Tabouili salads.
I wanna dance,
circle the blazing fire,
shout out at the moon,
splash myself in patchouli,
smell weed-smoke in the air
& indulge in tantric things.
I don’t wanna
hurt anybody,
break any laws,
just wanna spread love,
blow kisses to butterflies,
ride double-rainbows
on magic carpets
& be a hippie.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Handprints I left on the window of the homemade bread factory
When I was thirteen years of age.
That was my time of adolescent memory,mixed with moral decay.
My father had left me, mother was sold out to *** pills, and her grave.
I was a fiber bug to the world of technology,
Just trying to escape.
The homemade bread factory was Nana's. My daddy's mother.
Me and Nana cooked real Mexicali dishes, made butterfly catches, and dream catchers to go with my teen wishes.
Nana's house was the bread factory.
The factory no longer up and runs.
How I miss Nana, her cooking, her being momma and daddy both.
I miss Nana's love the most,
How our Nana's can be daddy and mother at the same time.
Gods gift to any grandbaby.
Rest
Peacefully sweet Nana
R.I.p
Maria boudega conshito.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
*you're haunting me still
why?
vibrations from your exit still lingering in my bones
they crack and quake
grating against themselves
why aren't they healing?
these wounds that I have been so persistently nursing
why can I not mend myself of this?
the needle is too dull
the thread is fraying
alone in this room
with your ghost still sitting next to me
gently touching my hand, laying its head in my lap to play with its hair
smiling
laughing
a perception
not the reality
I keep my heart in a box under the bed
next to treasured memories of a memory
I want to burn it all
I want to give it back to you
I want to keep it
it makes me sick
when its dark I wish to travel to far away mystical places
dance among the stars on cotton candy roller skates
yet all I get is you
your face
fetal position, clenched jaws, toss and turn
tortured still
in a state meant for rest
dream catchers strategically placed
they're meant to save me from you
ward off and expel YOU
yet my soldiers of the night
my dream wardens
they're no match for the slyness of you
you slip through as if made of air and elegance
replaying all your proudest moments of my misery
ive never felt such indifference toward someone
I want you gone
out of my head
I wish I could peel you from my skin
wring you from my marrow
shed the skin of this serpent's memory
wake to a new day
finally feeling good
finally feeling anything
finally feeling*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Before I breathed
A young man held my mother
coaxed her with unpracticed grace
from Irish Catholic garments between
rough sheets that smelled
like carpentry and dirt.
In photographs from back then
we have the same wrinkled eyebrows,
the same reddish beards,
but different creases
kissing the corners of our eyes.
There are canyons in my knuckles
carved out by cold.
Not New Mexico cracks
in too-hot soil,
but staff-lines of the song
New England skin sings—
I cannot deny I was born here.
My father wears gloves now when he works outside
Says he never used to, but
the pain maybe got too much
Too many winters laying palms flat
against elm, ash, sycamore,
feeling for a pulse
counting on his wrist,
waiting for a murmur, subtle hush
in the rhythm;
telling symptom
of a faulty valve.
I work weekends at a veterinary clinic
and the doctor there does this, too,
though sometimes, being held,
cats purr too loud to listen
and I must reach across the room
and turn the handle on the faucet;
Most cats fear water.
Well Father, I cannot drink from the soil
and I do not always land on my feet
But father, listen to my heartbeat
Put your hand on my chest
and don’t fear as my body
creaks in the wind—
Hear it?
Father
My boughs, my winter-catchers
are thin, but
it is not root-rot, moth, parasite;
I am not felled
like the beard you hacked from your chin
the day you decided to love, to suffer
the rest of your life
with that Irish Catholic girl—
This is merely my first season.
Brush the snow from my shoulders.
Please
comfort me
quietly,
like skin,
cracking:
*“My son
my sapling
you’ll grow.”*
Walker Staples 15 March 2013
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
The ice cream van
Has today reached
The melancholic realisation
That the only kids who
Chase clocks for Mr Whippy
And lick the exhaust fumes
In nostalgia
Are the kids who are not kids
But who prematurely aged themselves
With lipstick kisses
And cigarettes
Lowered themselves into nooses
Of sweet-sixteenths
From the age of six
We are a generation of
Peter Pan inversions
We ran ashore
And beached ourselves
Beyond the lure
Of Neverland
We are a generation of
Failed cloud-catchers
Aspiring rainbow-clinchers
Secretly slipping our hands
Back into a dead air
Of former innocence
In the hope we’ll be able to
Retrieve the pieces we left there
We queue and scramble
Like gulls for
Inches we can claw back
Preserving our age in
Wafer cones
And bleeding snows
That glue between our fingers
Each 99 flake
Is a time machine
Which we spin like a music box
And wait for the rewind
Copper coins and sea stains
And we hope we’ll find
Some of the things we lost
But we cannot predict or realign
The atoms or twist ourselves
Back into them
So we sit and watch
The incorruptibility we once possessed
Perished
Sexualised
Corrupted
Pool in the March drizzle
Someone once said
That youth was a process
Of being torn in half
By the past that pulls you back
And the future that tempts you
Being too big and yet too small
Longing but fearing
But an ice cream van tells me
That youth is a process
Of trying not to drown yourself
In what you’ve never had
And when that ice cream van tells me to
MIND THAT CHILD
I can’t help projecting echoes
Of its wisdom
On to all who pass me by
Mind that childhood
Before there’s nothing left to mind
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
High school nightmares
of
being everybody's spit catcher.
A real life
idiot
magnet
that attracts
nothing,
but,
negative
forces.
If you've ever felt like everything good repels away from you
& that you can only attract the bad.
Welcome to The Love Cult.
We are:
The kids that ate
their brown-bag
lunches
in one stall
then
purged
in the next.
Cause we were afraid of being labeled with bad brand names.
If you were the
kid in gym class,
that
no one wanted on
their team.
If you have ever felt
alone,
tortured,
abused
and abandoned.
When the only thing you can
do
to
suppress those suicide dreams
is
to use your body
as a make shift
punching bag.
Just remember,
There is a
big *** & beautiful
cuddle
puddle
that will hug you
& love you.
No matter
what anybody has said
about you.
We know that
you're something special.
I believe you're going to be okay,
someday sooner
than you think.
It's a nice thought you need to
Dig
Dig
Dig it, deep into your brain.
Hello.
I'm Bandit & I'd like to invite you to
my family of passionate & loving friends.
We go by
The
Love
Cult.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 1:49 PM UTC
The rockabilly Rock Doves are here
Along with the sensational singing Tree Sparrows
The Geese are getting it on
With the screeching Gulls
The Cockerels popped the cork hours ago
And the Starlings keep it going all day
Too many to mention names of the backing singers
But here we try Curlew Oyster catchers.....
And the chorus goes on.....and...on....
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
Your back is numb and cold
From hours of lying on the wet grass
In the dark,
The sky is clear,
Just like your mind
As your glazed eyes trace the
Constellations that swim
In the eccentric vastness of the night sky,
An aching feeling captures your heart
As you realise that all of the wishes you made
Were lost in the universe,
Slowly disintegrating and burning,
The stars were not meant to be dream catchers,
You feel lied to that this horrible cliché has
Become existential by a hopeless romantic
Or a child who yearned for hope
Somewhere in the farthest reaches of the Earth.
Like many you still wait with your
Grass stained and dew soaked back
Firmly planted to the ground,
Not caring that the force of gravity
Is rolling beneath you,
Anchoring you so you're not able
To follow each and every thought
That escapes your mind into
Oblivion,
You just hope that there is a miracle,
Some explicit and fiery moment of realisation
That will shift you from anguish and into
Happiness
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
We had Tie Dye hopes,
and hash laced dreams,
Smoke covers up,
Our heartfelt screams.
I was in pain,
and so were you,
That's the only thing,
I feel is true.
Numb me,
Numb me,
Numb me more,
I would smile,
as you'd implore.
My Fingers covered,
in the lightest green,
as I packed the bowl,
for my hippy queen.
Foot thongs,
and dream catchers,
little things,
That ease pressure.
Black leather,
a Devilish smile,
We were happy,
for a while.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
*I’m a healer; not a feeler,
a traveler with loss of passion.
Pipe dreams are clear when day is gone,
then I spawn stories you can’t imagine.
I’m a wanderer; but I am not lost,
burn the human manufactures.
The sky is bleeding poor man’s gold,
drowning lunatic dream-catchers.
I’m a winter child; but my heart is fire,
it's a roaring black hole of ancient lullabies.
Follow the zebra through the midnight woods,
I saw glimpse of amnesia in its eyes.*
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
If only they could understand were I've been and how far I've come, this smile on my face is a Polarod Picture full of fun.
With love and cuddles there’s always a shoulder for you to cry on, it’s amazing because The Last Piece to my puzzle has been found.
I love my x-box the adventure in this game has just begun, got the keys to the Bat Mobile Gotham City here I come.
See the Joker thinks his funny until Robin comes along, my heart is like a diamond it sparkles all day long.
My smile is a memory that catchers you when you fall, I'm strong and I'm a leader and I’ll always be there when you need me.
My I-pad has an app that’s so relaxing when I need it, I'm **** and I'm Naughty I love teasing as you please me.
Hears the key to my heart love it as you become part of my destiny.
This poem I wrote for my friend “K J Phillips”
Jidos Reality 1.11.12
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
The street was dark and so too were my eyes
I walked down the cobble under darkened skies
I walked down the stone, ankle breakers sets
Gamblers in the alleys watching on, making bets
The buildings stand guard on the night for their lords
keeping them safe, open their mouths; in filth pours
Light poles, with dim candles, give hope for safe journey
Dark alley ways steal eyes, make nervous muscles in our sides
Window light, guardian ports, fly catchers, laundry holes
Shines on the street, waiting for me, with it meet
Footsteps creep around edges avoiding sight
But it’s easy to see, all this going on in the night
Out of law exchangers making changes in pocket stuff
50 for the things, that make pigs squeal, illegal deal
Children's eyes are shut, in bed, not here with us
Tucked in warm and tight, not here with the people of the night
Street sweepers weep, we drink, bottles broken at our feet
Bar tab one too many, stumble, mumble, home on the street
Pickpockets delight, puts up no fight, pockets empty when drunk
Bourgeoisie snobs make prison demands! Lock them away tight!
The street, is ***** I know, I do
But this is o.k, with wary watch
For indeed
In the absence of the light
Come the People of the night
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
On some mornings
mom would ask
if Kyle and I wanted waffles
these were no ordinary syrup catchers
marbled by deep purple
stuffed with blueberries
When I was born
I was born a blueberry
due to the blue pigmentation
resulting from lack of oxygen
because of my mother’s smaller stature
that day a screaming smurf was brought into the world
and I’ve been getting redder ever since
Above the sink in my dad’s home
is a small purple bowl
handmade with a ceramic stem that broke off years ago
on the inside bottom is an engraving
that simply reads
‘Blue Berries’
but no longer carries fruit
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
perfect girl
in reverse she moves like the minute-hand of the watch wound
up down through
pilot all in leather crash into the steel
ocean and eat the seaweed until
emerge looking like hubcap trash
fifty tons of water weight you move home
covered in barnacles and
flotsam out of the driftwood
you built your house
where the dogs come to eat dirt &
grasshoppers
beneath the foundations lie the
carcasses of chewedupspitout cockroaches
you killed when you were young enough to think that
racing greyhounds meant
chasing them across state borders
you and the peeling paint reading the tea leaves they say time to rip the
oil pastel wrappers off so you can't tell which color is
which and then draw draw everywhere until
you cover the world in color that can't be washed out up
off things are no longer crayola clear
in the sun you turn on natural lights to **** the
wolftooth glare of photophobia
sun sneezing out into the porch do you dare
doubleyou dee forty these hinges someday man, do you really
want this house to have the last word?
so that when you cover the fire pit (no stone unturned)
and roll over to the
cold side of the bed you realize
that the pipes are only leaking in your head
that the dresser did not collapse
that the broken glass & the ants on the floor are not the cause of the
blood on your heels
cracked like brazil nut shells all along the
corridor
(perfect girl runs
skirt flies up in the back hair whips neck turns
hips like a rose in the honeyed dew
melancholy untuned viola strings improve the flavor like
hints of saffron in her eyes--
she is taller than you remember)
the bats
(moths between teeth)
watch you curiously
as though you were standing
right-side up
cacophony caused by
one too few chairs at the
dining table.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
I've scheduled an appointment about 3 different times but, cancelled for each.
I didn't think there was any purpose in laying down the voices in my head for a stranger
When I've spent so much time building cement walls of silence between anyone who has ever gotten too close to me.
I have spent this lifetime creating sound proof dream catchers of my screams.
I am not known to grab hold of clingy hearts
Because, it's hard to hold on to things that are trying to do more than grasp me.
I say goodbye or pass them along as often as the tide comes into the shore.
But, I do not come back as it does.
But, the voices in my head do.
The doubts they hit me like teeth to concrete
The anxiety hits me like 10 ft deep waters with no air to breathe in
And I am not the swimming kind.
I am a runner, so it is hard for me to live in water deep enough to drown in.
I have created water deep enough to drown in.
I have become so controlled that I am numb to hands
And I fall to words so easily.
I scare me
My voice scares me
My thoughts scare me .
Night hits like the sun after a storm
And I can't figure out which one I am or which I want to be.
I have created a tornado of this mind
A wildfire of this heart
And a tomb of this body
And I don't know if I have self-shattered too profusely
And too quietly to fix it.
So I am here now,
You ask me why,
And I am here because now
The broken pieces can't be ignored anymore,
It's not getting easier in the morning anymore.
It's getting harder to wake
And I don't know how many more days I can be here
Like this...
This is my last chance to fix it
fix her
fix me.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Was it so long ago
Under the old oak we built our dreams?
So tiny, we were,
The world seemed like such a big place
For two dream chasers, like us.
Was it a thousand years ago
When you in all your innocence
Said that you'd check under the bed
In all your childish valor, and clear me of my fears?
Do you remember,
When we sat by the cold stream
With the water running through our feet,
How you picked up a few daisies
And crowned me as the queen?
And how I picked up a stick
And made you my knight of honor?
Remember running back home,
When it got too late,
Scared your old man, a drunk,
Will beat your Ma and make you cry?
How when I waved good bye from the next door,
All I hoped was that you'll make it out alive
The next day.
Was it so long back,
When we lay in green fields
And looked up to the blue skies,
Dreaming one day, we'll make it up there
And never have to look back in tears?
Flying paper planes and trying to catch our dreams
Doesn't seem so long now,
That you said goodbye
And made it first to what lay beyond the blue skies.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC