"correspond" poems
He was the ocean; handsome, but yet, Impulsively damaged. He had a sandy heart to correspond his sandy eyes, the moon dismantled that omitted pride he carried at a dead weight; shoveling and reshaping it, so people would see a sandcastle statue assembled in strength. But his washed-up soul and unannounced insecurities were aware of its genuine purpose,
this beach alongside his pupils;
quicksand, he'll sink so slowly in. Waves in his hair like ripples on his cheeks, skipping stones land at his defeat, he left notes in bottles for you, sank multiple ships for you, because he hasn't the heart to say he's desiccating with the arrival of the stars.. Retracting scars are not too far from gasps for air, foaming words of crisis by writing in the sand, signaling a light as the last one in him died. You wouldn't understand, the calm before the storm, as valve after valve puncture him. So intoxicating as it drains him, and from within, he's drying out. Sunburns stain him, a smile restrains him,
in an inescapable drought--
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
incorrect
something that should have
never been
incorrect
a being of disillusioned
experiences and truths
inaccurate
proportions and measurements which
define me as a logical fallacy
inaccurate
colors and hues which
do not correspond with my inner being
imprecise
ideas and beliefs spilled onto a canvas
with little to no direction
imprecise
translations of my true self
with no attempt to fix it
mistake
didn't think it through
because I didn't think I had to
mistake
didn't predict the real outcome
because I thought they'd understand
failure
with nothing more than a swift brush stroke
and some applied use of sense of self
failure
was the only thing I could think of
as I opened my eyes by the burning candle light
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
Profound, that he lost his sight.
He couldn't get the harmonies to blend quite right,
So he gave up seeing,
For music was the life and the fiber in his being.
He didn't need another soul
To change his note from half to whole,
For he had something else to hold,
And music couldn't make his spirit old.
So, he wed the chord, he played the piece,
And he dubbed musicality the worst disease.
Funny that a musical obsession
Would correspond with loneliness at life's discretion.
--Emily Rutledge
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
The door to your heart is a horrifying puzzle
Your Jigsaw pattern I can't put together
The pieces I hold don't correspond
So I take parts from you
Which is making me Leatherface
And giving you a flatter taste
And the ****** chain I saw placed
Was pressed to your door with haste
You're a killer doll like Chucky
How could I have been so unlucky?
I can't even cut through your curtains
I become a cold corpse before the movie can start
Like a careless Jamie Lee Curtis
How long can such a curted courtship last?
Before I contrive the courage to crush
The Killer Croc in your rib cage
But the corrosive corrections officer
That is your puzzle piece door
Impedes all progress to your horror heart
Because the improper placement of pieces
Will make me think you're The Witch
When you tell me Don't Breathe
As my theater's lights dim
I scramble for an exit
But my only escape from the cinema is through your door
I grow cynically situated to the pitch black pictures
How could I expect to solve the riddle
Now that I need to?
Doors that can't be opened are walls
Speaking softly turns to brawls
As your pieces scattered like change
Your door completely wrapped in chains
I feel stupid and ashamed
Your puzzled movie's to blame
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 4:16 AM UTC
The dermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified.
Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process.
Eye don't know what his eyes have seen.
He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble.
Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows:
"Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?"
"You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact."
Yes, eye know,
and each one is a tree ring notation
of my existence.
Each a different year,
each a different moment fearful,
a death and a birth,
a passing, a regaining.
No, not children or parents,
illusions.
Markers of our lives are the
birth and death of our illusionary,
our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe
what dug those furrows is now officially,
no more.
Until we start anew,
a different Pretense,
a channel commenced to commemorate.
Living the dream, they say,
aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him.
The doctor did not bill for this
visitation.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
people always say to have faith
how is one supposed to have faith
when they are inconspicuous to themselves?
people always say that time heals everything
how is one supposed to believe
that a plastic circular object is supposed to fill the holes in their heart?
people always say to stay calm
how is one supposed to stay calm
with thoughts scraping their internal skin surrounding their skull?
This world is all about believe what you want to believe.
Follow what you want to follow, even if it doesn't correspond with all beliefs, go for what might give you some satisfaction that you are an 'okay' human being.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Every year now, I note the differences:
the changes in the stones,
the retreating car park and what
is new to the waves.
It is slight. You try to hide it by
presenting the same places and
lacing them with memories that
all correspond.
But you are changing.
You take new beatings, and I can't
help but wonder if we are alike.
The process of erosion has caught
us both, and year by year,
cliff by cliff, it's wearing us down.
It was always supposed to happen,
but what if you change too much?
What will happen when you change
irreparably, irreconcilably?
Even now you are only an
imaginary home, so defamiliarized
from the dream I demand.
I know you promised me nothing.
But I had a deal you didn't know about
and you've ceased to make me happy.
I can't help but be a little angry
with you for letting the
storm break you down.
But is it really you, or is it me
who has done the changing?
Is it not my eyes and my erosion?
Is it not the attrition and abrasion
and the long shore drift
that has welled up inside my own soul?
Is it you or I?
How can we know?
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Les être, le cosmos, la terre et le vin
(Dédié à l’incomparable génie Charles Baudelaire)
Les ceps murissent longuement sous l’énigmatique lueur des cieux,
irisés par les ondes astrales du Cosmos et ses grands vents de feu.
Des gelées de janvier aux averses d’avril, le vigneron soigne ses vignes.
qui souffrent des fournaises de l’été jusqu’à la bouilloire dorée de l’automne.
Le vin est d’abord fruit des astres et des cieux, mais aussi de la patience et de l’art du vigneron.
Il y a une magie du vin qui vient sceller les noces mystiques de l’azur, de la terre, du cosmos et des graves.
Il existe dans le vin comme une consécration des noces d’or de la terre, des pierres et de l’azur,
Qui lui donne son caractère âpre ou velouté, son goût inimitable, sa vraie signature, son héraldique.
Un palais exercé saura toujours en déceler l’empreinte pour y trouver sa genèse et gouter ses merveilles.
Mais c’est le vigneron qui consacre ces noces avec son savoir, son doigté, sa manière d’opérer le grand œuvre des vendanges.
Le choix de la date des vendanges dépend de l’intuition humaine et correspond au sacre de l’automne.
Au moment où les grappes pèsent et ou les raisins sont gonflés comme de lourds pendentifs,
alors que les raisins mûrs sont prêts à sortir de leur enveloppe dorée pour se transformer en élixir.
Le vigneron prend la décision sacrale de celle dont dépend la qualité du vin à naître.
Et les vendanges vont se mener dans une atmosphère d’excitation et de sentiment de franchissement du danger.
Désormais le vin sorti du pressoir va murir dans des barriques de chêne
Le bois peut apporter sa chauffe méthodique afin que se mêlent au jus des arômes de bois et de forêts,
C’est sûr, cette année, les forces de la nature et de l’Homme nous préparent un grand vin.
Aussi quel honneur et quel rite magique que d’en boire les premières gorgées dans des coupes d’argent ou des verres de cristal,
avant même que le vin ne soit fait et tiré pour en détecter les grands traits et les failles.
Enfin, vient le moment de boire, comme une élévation des cœurs et des esprits.
L’on ne boit bien qu’en groupe, qu’avec de vrais amis, sa chérie ou des belles.
Boire c’est d’abord humer et découvrir par le nez les secrets d’un terroir et des pampres,
puis humecter ses lèvres afin de s’imprégner des sucs et des saveurs,
et puis boire surtout, c’est œuvre de finesse, d’expression de l’Esprit et de bonne humeur; qu’il y ait de l’ivresse, fort bien, mais jamais d’ivrognerie
Paul Arrighi ; Toulouse(France), le 3 novembre 2013
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
the freckles on your face correspond with the many invasions of emotions contracting one another like the plans spinning around,
day by day and us
humans
not showing much respect
we sit back worrying
trying to cover up our freckles
our insecurities
while we should be trying to preserve,
yet were so clueless with the results
that we love clueless
we love the outcome
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Corduroy Bucket Hat,
Correspond too that
The core to your heart
A pond
Stop skipping that
Shade around your
eyes
Keep in mind the light
in your optics
Know that the op-s-tic
Tock that got the sky
limiters chattin’ pishposh
Then pour your sun out
through the sourdough clouds
Imagine the bucket hat
Capturing all that
Static starch sound
•
My view of an old love song
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 9:12 PM UTC
all the envelopes in all the worlds
will never be enough to carry my love letters
letters with headers that would be better read
dear lover number 1,2, or 3
but the dears are really never suffixed by numbers
because the names that correspond to them
mean more than all of their sum
and fill up too many pages than I can count to
and some pages the number I can’t read at all
because I bare down too hard with my pen
and the ink seeps down onto the next letter I have to write
making page 76 look like page 48
and the periods at the end of sentences
look like misplaced and blurry hearts
it doesn’t help that I write in red
and that I only love a certain shade
it doesn’t help that I am broke
and I can’t afford ink
but rubber band are always on sale
and I can wrap them tight around my throbbing veins
to pump out the most velvet red hue
at the lowest price
but when my blood starts to bottom out I stop writing
and I start kissing the next boy who makes
my heart beat out more and more words
to write with.
Another number to start off a letter with.
Dear number 5, I’m sorry about your head but you shouldn’t
Have under judged my right hook
Dear number 7, don’t worry my body’s finally absorbed those bruises
Dear number 1, I wish you could have seen me naked I wish
It was still possible for you to see me naked.
To cut off all my rubber bands
And to burn all my stationary
Because you need to be greedy
And you need to use all the envelopes in all of the worlds
To write letters for me.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
Just thinking
of nothing really.
Just of how fog
can lay over grass
Correspondingly
and some things on earth
aren't even possible.
Like the fact that I can't even go
anywhere without thinking
of nothing really.
just of how you
correspond with me
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
1 vowel
lies
no constrictions indicating syllabic peaks
like a
dot.
1 consonant
is
basically nasally flowing
pronounced at the front of the
tongue.
Both,
equally,
refer to letters of the alphabet.
correspond to sounds made ******
all along our way.
but, all vowels and consonants
without hearing their relevance.
are
deaf
and
dumb.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
I wish I had flowers and gifts for you
A whole room full that was well arranged
But if you think that I've forgotten you
That thought is quite insane!
I may not have much money,
and all my credit cards are dead
You're partial to gifts of labor(not paid for with paper)
So I wrote you this instead:
If you could see inside myself,
My heart, My head, My soul
You would see the fear I have of you
of a burning love that's beyond my control.
If you could only hear my thoughts,
Morning,
night
and day
You'd see how much I love you,
no one on Earth could lead me astray!
For earth alone does not bound my love, if there're chicks on planets far beyond
You have no need to worry- I still would not Respond!
Even if they were hot and green, just like that Star Trek show,
And if they tried to correspond, my answer would still be "No"!
"Pack it in you skank-ass hoes," is what I would decree
"None of you even have a chance, Brenda's the only one for me!"
As we walked away, we would laugh and say,
(And I think you will agree)
"They gave Captain Kirk a mess of herps'
and Spock got Hepatitis B!"
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
You dropped me
like loose change into
a homeless man's
Burger King
cup.
I would have preferred
to be thrown,
to be
smashed
into a hundred
thousand shards of
broken cardiac muscle
- because at least
that would mean you had
made an
effort.
I wanted you to
push me away with
all of your strength,
leaving me to trip
and fall
right out of
love with you.
But you merely
nudged me aside
- too weak to break the
chewing-gum strands
which stretched
between my lips
and yours.
I was
stuck and
I was
craving,
maybe out of habit
rather than desire.
Too short to reach
the emergency exit
I was left
wishing you had made me
feel a little
taller.
There were twelve inches
worth of difference
between us,
everything that you
were and I
was not.
But I guess I got it
wrong.
You are not
six feet
two inches
of man
You are
six feet
two inches
of cowardice
and your
extra large
t-shirts correspond
to your
extra large
apathy.
Because you didn't
care.
You didn't care about
my five foot
inferiority complex
or the five feet
of reassurance
it would have taken
to make me
feel worth
something.
But I will not be
confined
to the gap between
your height
and mine.
I have the strength
to pull myself away
and snap
those chewing-gum
strands
I don't need you
to make the effort
I'll make it
myself.
And if you still feel
inclined
to drop me
like loose change,
that's a **** lucky
homeless man.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
The Torn Cartwheelers
“In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;- and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents.” -- The symposium, Plato
- Back when we were cart-wheelers;
we rolled in unison with braided spines.
A woven chain of muscular fibre;
our interlaced vertebrae
assembled a duality of one.
- Made of moon, we lived as stars.
Invincible wholes, we felt like Gods
Free-wheeling on our myriad limbs,
tumbling through clutching forests,
Basking in our lack of direction.
- We grew arrogant,
Toes tight in our four shoes.
We hungered for dominion, impregnable,
Never conceived of life apart;
how we might be broken.
So we were reckless; scorned Gods.
Bulging with trepidation, they conspired
to put us in place.
- Ripped down the middle, we bled
until roughly stitched with forlorn seams.
Our unfurled marrow now two in place of one;
Female, male, we were earth-scattered.
- Jumbled and lost, we torn cart-wheelers
Were compelled to walk.
- Inconsolable, we wilted,
Unable to function as halves,
we combed the earth for our whole;
Calling vainly on spindle limbs.
- A handful triumphed and united,
Only to drown in euphoria when
their entwined locked bodies, starved,
Yearning only for fusion.
- Now we are accustomed to solitude;
dissipated stitches left tougher skin.
- Until we meet a silhouette of our half
Imperfect but concurring
our jarring zips catch often;
some irreparably,
But we feel again the semblance of solitude,
Crave to be two halves of the moon.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:43 PM UTC
no more morning glory
the cells want to refuse,
purported pseudo-deniers
of the man's compulsion
not yet six am,
the old house,
the summering congregation of birds,
correspond with each other,
their words unintelligible to the man-ear,
no doubt talking about the interlopers,
the come-and-go humans,
or perhaps,
just the lousy weather
the sunroom's lace curtains,
a patterned flower filtering viewer,
another impediment to what is out of sight,
for the fog surrounds but can't suppress,
the exterior & interior
combo of noises,
birds uttering their morning prayers,
accompanied by the sabbath choir of chorusing
groans from the untrodden, creaky floorboards,
complaining of aged back pains
from forty years
of desert wandering
and over use
they confirm the man is not alone,
and perhaps, even,
among the living
the bay's water's color,
a small hint now comes visible,
colored from the same paint can
as the surround-sound from which the
fog's discoloration was morning-drawn,
wider brush strokes cover this,
the man's small world
the brains complains, not again!
how many times will you compose,
drawing from the molecules of
this view,
no one cares,
but composition compulsion,
****** for what makes
the man breathe,
denies the deniers,
praying in the loudest thought voices,
to the principle that best defines
the moment,
(him?)
human, give thanks,
on this, the seventh day,
for the feast of life provided,
(even the reasoning atheists go respectful, humble silent)
as the man-poet acknowledges here the
*One,
who remembers,
is faithful to,
fulfills the covenant and promise,
by making fresh daily,
the works of creation*
Silver Beach,
Shelter Island
5:30am,
June 4th, 2016
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Prolégomènes à un poème sur la disparition de notre Chienne cocker Laïka
Les Chiens et nous-mêmes
Je vous ferais parvenir le poème presque prémonitoire écrit, cet été à Letia en Corse , intitule «notre chien a onze ans» (en fait elle en avait dix ans et demi).
Ayant déjà eu, un chien cocker de couleur noire; lors mon enfance passée en Kabylie, répondant au nom de «Bambi» (le Faon de la bande dessinée de Walt Disney) j'ai appris à adorer nos meilleurs compagnons avec les chevaux et compte désormais les temps de la vie humaine en durées moyennes de vie passée en compagnie avec ce merveilleux et surtout si fidèle compagnon et ami de l'homme.
C'est à dire que pour une durée de vie moyenne de soixante-quinze ans, au mieux, je considère qu'elle correspond à cinq temps possibles de compagnonnages et d'histoire d'amitié avec un chien (d'un âge maximal au mieux de 15 ans)
Par conséquent, cinq longs temps de bonheurs nous sont donnés par la Nature pour que nous puissions bénéficier des bienfaits et de la compagnie de cet «animal», souvent bien plus «humain» et «gentil» ; hélas il faut bien l'avouer, que nombre de prétendus humains d'une cruauté inconnu dans la faune dite sauvage.
Nous allons demain et dans les jours qui viennent rechercher, un nouveau compagnon pour rester dans ce cycle de vie magique que je viens de vous révéler.
***
Notre chienne Cocker a déjà onze ans
Elle a parcouru onze ans de sa vie de Reine,
sans les soucis de l'étiquette et du labeur.
Notre chienne Laïka savoure sa quiétude,
mais se tient toujours près des valises et des sacs,
dès qu'elle observe un zéphyr de départ,
sa courte queue frétille devant sa laisse,
qu’elle prend dans sa gueule comme pour nous montrer le chemin,
car la « meute » doit se rendre ensemble sans jamais l'abandonner.
Ses deux pattes avec lesquelles elle se hisse sur les rebords de la table pour humer les plats.
Et son museau qu’elle love dans le coup de ta maîtresse pour lui signifier son amour.
Chère Laïka quand tes yeux attendrissants de cocker nous fixent je demande au Destin que tu puisses nous accompagner longtemps pour notre bonheur du présent et le demain de nos vies.
Seuls, ton museau blanchi et ta démarche moins vive, nous rappellent tes onze ans.
Paul Arrighi.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Ok. Before I go over the edge. Remember bed is over there.
Ok No what does modernisation really mean?
Can you utter a cause or a singlular theme?
Can you correspond with the elite
While they travail the armpit of luck
with money compete?
Is the totality of all modern hope
Just a pinch and a *****
At the mechanism that moves us forward?
Thought defunct.
Or really?
Is it completely
Debunked?
Have the affluent articulate contrived in their lair?
An image of hope that's been thought to declare
Constant reward
At the expense of a few
Whilst we stand in line waiting.
The snakes not the devil,
it's the queue.
Heaping on heartbreak
The causeless remiss
Seeking new nerves
Challenges this
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Yet the Great Best Thing to Learn about you
That despite this Silver lining your Board
To keep your Heart's Felt and Mind in Review
And survive Drops of Mercury on Hoard
And Horde - stubborn Noun pawn this sworn Beast,
Forges his Teeth to Consume our Praise
By Visions our Senses constrict at least
Forgetting the Truth of our Swollen Race
Yet Equations be Raw on your Bespoke
Of Questions our Party would correspond
Based on this, this Prime and Pertinent Bloke
Shimmer his Lightweights for Prospects abscond.
At best his Risk, offer the Crowd's compound
For Future Spares his Brighter Life resound.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
The love of a mother for her child
is not the same as the child's love for his mother.
The love of a man for a woman changes
after they are married
from what it was before,
and her love does not correspond in all points with his.
Love between man and woman
is different from the love of boy and girl.
Love can be permanent as the tides, regular, unquestioned,
with no end and no recognisable beginning.
It can come suddenly,
violently,
as a thunderstorm in summer breaks
upon the thirsty earth,
short-lived
except in the memory.
But under any one of these emotions
what is there for us to say?
Only, I love you.
Thoughts can be subdivided, classified, clothed with words.
Words fit feelings only approximately,
and our deepest feelings must often go unclothed.
So when I say I love you
I cannot analyse what I mean.
I only know that I do love you
and hope you understand.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
Vide World Wide Web at hand,
Working fast at finger tips,
Tab on table-top or lap-top,
Access thru windows tip-top.
Wise and wild web-sites host,
Millions of web-masters hoist.
Click mouse on cursor left or right,
Flood of information flows straight.
Once called cob-web of clumsy corner,
Assumed cozy-web of closed circuit,
World netted by the web of electrons,
Caught by wonders of wizard web.
All pervasive, populous and popular,
Globalized and glorious in daily life
Visible to none in bytes of zero and one
Countless websites encounter the day
Spins in speed and spurs out smart
Dabble or wobble; it helps you to win
Operate thru internet and intranet
It co-operates with the systems in net
Browse; it arouses what you wish
Surf; it brings to surface on screen
Press ‘Enter’ key to control and command
It churns out cheese you choose.
Work from home or humming air craft,
Mail in or mail out to bail out the day,
Respond or correspond; it carries brisk,
Transponder is miles above free from risk
Subject any subject to Google search,
Sure, objects bound abound and surround,
Web in and out not to be caught in wild web,
Key-Board is key to board your success.
Microsoft hits on monitor like macro shaft,
Prevail and avail link and avoid day’s void,
Let us harness aerobics of electrons,
And witness acrobatics of electronics.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC