"cupboard" poems
Jack and Jill ran up the hill,
To perv on miss muffin
Getting her fill,
She was getting it hard boiled
From Humpy Dumpty,
Who fell of the wall,
Yolk sprayed up her back,
Her screaming she wanted more.
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary...
How did you make it grow,
You played with the bells,
And my cockle shells and it did grow,
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary
Not much words to show,
A mouth your good at what you do,
Mary my sweet little bike I like to ride so.
Old Mother Hubbard
Liked it up the back cupboard,
From the younger gents
She knows,
She liked to **** meat till the marrow
Did flow swallowed the lot in one go,
Now empty is the bone.
Who thought a lady in years,
Had all this energy on the go...
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Set the alarm
Lock the doors
Lock the windows
Lock the shutters
Find the cricket bat – “put it by your bed”
Say goodnight to mom and dad
Although young, not naïve
I knew every night had the possibility of being my last
A routine that is now muscle memory.
Fear –
You may think
But life –
Normal for me.
Wake up
Turn off the alarm
Unlock the doors
Open the windows
Open the shutters
Put the cricket bat in the cupboard
Never being able to be left alone at home. Unwillingly dragged from store to store.
But – that’s the thing –
People don’t know the real Her,
They know the exquisite scenery, the unforgettable wildlife
They don’t know… But I do.
Because She is my home
Because being in constant fear for my life –
is normal.
Confused –
What do I tell people about Mother when they ask?
The person who raised me, taught me how to be grateful, how to ride a bike, how to love.
Do I tell them? Will I scare them?
Although hidden beneath the tyranny – I would say –
the bloodshed
the faces of malnourished children left for dead on the side of the road the poverty struck soil the corruption the greed the hunger the death the separation of class and race
Although a place feared –
Africa.
My Africa –
Whose sunshine you feel ignited in your soul
My Africa –
Whose smile is irresistibly contagious
My Africa –
Whose heart lies in the grassy terrain
The golden dunes of sand
The never-ending mountain tops
My Africa –
Who is the heart of various people
cultures
languages
All who call Her home.
She is –
Where my heart lies even if I am thousands of miles away
Where my mind wanders from day to day.
Her air, instantly calls you
Her smell, instantly smelt
Welcoming you ever so dearly –
Home.
Like all good mothers,
She is the one who can handle both the tranquil and turmoil,
the love and war.
She is my home. She is who I fear of disappointing.
My Africa –
is beautiful.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
What day is it where we at, where is
the **** were you trying to smoke
my cat??
I see things through glassed eyes,
my mouth has the hunger, but I'm
to ****** to drive, Whats in the fridge
in the cupboard, f*ck it i can make a
munchie feast out of that.
I smoke with friends or when alone, i,ll
smoke in the dark room the spliff my
only light I see "wow look at those trails...
I have speed dial on my phone 1 is my
frindly dealer who delivers to my home,
2,3,4 take away pardise they no what I
want when ever I phone.
I,m a stoner there is no mistake, I will
always be happy unless my **** does
get braked, and if my phone battery dies
no mucnchies, no smoke, I couldn't deal
with that, "wow look at the pretty lights,
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
home isn’t just a structure -
brick and water aren’t symbols,
they don’t reflect trust or
Love.
I can wash -
the grease from my hair
the dirt from my skin
and uncomfortably sleep
when my inner monologue is louder than ever,
with your songs ringing in my ears,
and bad thoughts longing to be heard
but it’s love
your love
that keeps me warm
and makes me feel safe,
not the white walls
or the bread in the cupboard
I consume the fibre
Anyway
and glare at the walls.
home could leave
unannounced, brutally
I'll get warmth from the radiator
now you're gone
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.
A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,
A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,
Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******
South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,
A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,
Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,
"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"
Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!
Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,
Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;
“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”
In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;
“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.
"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
9.4k
_1981_
They came in like diseased eagles; mutated
forms of those they wore on their chest and
with the change once again in the weather,
the ZOMO swooped in to quell what was
‘wrong’, what would bring them down. They
run in the streets as well as the miners,
running for different reasons and different
aims. I look down, out my window and see
the army helmets littering the street like rats.
Police. Rats.
I could no longer see a difference. My father
went to work that morning. I clutch my doll
knowing the chance of seeing him again is
Miniscule. Poor.
There is no more cereal in the cupboard;
there is no more cereal in the shop; there is
no more shop. The ZOMO set it on fire when the word
Solidarity
appeared in the window.
“We are closing the border for the safety of the People”
Incorrect. Unjustified.
For the safety of You, the Elite.
“Nine killed in mine shooting”
Which side?
Only the ZOMO carry guns.
Fascism. Communism.
I could no longer see a difference
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
evening loneliness arrives at dawn
and knocks on the dusty windowpane
in the kitchen, i lie — with threadbare arms —
against the shabby wooden cupboard frame
this house is void of all electricity
except for the light bulbs, the fridge, the T.V.
and my steady-beating heart of rhythmic defeat
lying naked across the tear-stained sheets
if you come home and find that i am dead,
perhaps some ***** dishes fell on my head
but most likely, i'll be, in the living room gloom
with a half-drunk bottle of wine to consume
with emergency flares tied to both wrists,
i'll leave you a smile, a sigh, and a kiss
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
Before the gate has been closed,
before the last question is posed,
before I am transposed.
Before the weeds fill the gardens,
before there are no pardons,
before the concrete hardens.
Before all the flute-holes are covered,
before things are locked in then cupboard,
before the rules are discovered.
Before the conclusion is planned,
before God closes his hand,
before we have nowhere to stand.
7.7k
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
6.2k
I stand on the scale
I look at the number
I'm fat
I way over 140lbs
What am I doing wrong?
I barely eat anything
She steps off the scale
Walks over to the counter
And opens the cupboard
Peanut butter
She untwists the twisty ties
Grabs two pieces of white bread
Places them in the toaster slots
Pulls down the lever
For ten seconds
Pulls it up
Pulls it down
Waits ten more seconds
Pulls it up
Takes it out
Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges
Starts eating it
Nom nom nom
Her dog moves close to the counter
And begs
She walks away
Drops a few crumbs
And the dog eats it up
And follows her into the living room
And looks up
Nom nom nom nom
She just looks at the dog
Puts her bare foot against his nose
Which is cold
And the dog doesn't even move
Sticks his tongue outside his mouth
And breathes quickly
Stupid
She puts her foot back down
And moves it against the rug a few times
Then walks into the kitchen
And opens a bag
Of salt and vinegar chips
Starts eating them
Nom nom nom nom
Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor
She walks back upstairs
And the dog follows her
To her room
She shuts the door
And the dog starts scratching through the bottom
And barks
She just lays in her bed
Eating
The dog barks again
She opens the door
And pushes him
With her right foot
Down the stairs
He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor
He races back up
Gets pushed back down
Dog runs away
She walks towards the bathroom
And uses the other scale
And she sees that it says 141 lbs
I've only been eating for a few minutes
Errrr
She closes the bag of chips
And stomps downstairs
And places the bag on the counter
Dog waits in the living room
Right next to the kitchen
His food bowl is empty
No water
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
The cupboard
Could not hold his dreams,
So the green dish fled his home.
He traveled the entire world, sailed the
Seven seas, and even went
Into outer space.
What a life!
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Tuesday night and it’s Baked Beans AGAIN! Does she ever stop talking.
I used to fool myself that her snore was musical like a sweet sounding flute,
Now it’s just a snore. Too loud, all too familiar.
What would happen I wonder if I took that tin of Baked Beans on the table
And battered her to death with it.
They found the ****** weapon in the cupboard on the top shelf,
Next to a quivering can of rice pudding.
It didn’t look overly angry or guilty, it looked (for what it’s worth)
Like any other tin of beans.
However it had blood and hair around the rim.
“BAKED BEANS **** the front page of The Sun would say,
Amnesty on all tinned goods called for, as the masses
Started taking ‘tin(g)s” into their own hands.
All over the country, partners dying at the hands of Heinz,
Or possibly cans of spam or pear slices.
The Army may catch on, a major new part of SAS training,
Close quarter baked bean tactics.
The wail of sirens as Police arrive at an incident
“Put down the weapon or we shall be forced to fire… tinned pineapple”.
A can of alphabetti spaghetti could spell death.
“Let’s not have Baked Beans tonight my love… Chinese?”
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:09 AM UTC
It begins with the proper heat of summer
Simmered slow with the joy of expectation
Perhaps a dash of color to keep it real
Then we turn the heat off and let it set up
Add a splash of wine or two from the cupboard
A dash of pumpkin spice just to feel crazy
Save this big batch of winter stew in the fridge
Because, like life,
. . .it’s always better next day
Congratulations.
You’re now prepared for winter.
Eat, Drink, Love Yourself,
Love Others, Love Life, Live,
And may you always be merry.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:00 PM UTC
it's as if you shot an arrow
through the glass cupboard
of my heart.
as if my arteries were handles
to the china cups and mugs
that shattered into a violent
destruction, devastation
of your target,
which was me.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
It's alright gal I've turned off the lights
tonight is going to be a night to remember
your coat is in the cupboard under the stairs
hung and forgotten
for where you are going you won't need it
bed awaits our love making
your legs wrapped around my hips
you get yourself comfy
I need to urinate
ill empty my bladder and be right there
lay back and think of England
because no one but me will hear you scream
when I slip my ***** in
and make you wet
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
**One solitary teabag, not enough for two to share
just one for the teapot, the caddy being quite bare,
no drawing of the water, no mashing of the ***
no teabag for each person... while shopping I forgot,
with saucers on the table, there's no teacup at the lips
for the corner store's not open, to buy more 'PG Tips',
it's tea-less in the cupboard, no tasty leaf to brew
so I will have a coffee... and make tea, just for you.**
... ... ...
'trademark'
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 3:31 AM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Let me tell you, I thought I knew love before you came around.
I mean, I’ve written a million love poems.
But the subjects, they’re more or less the same, black ink, red ink, graphite.
And the graphite smudges, and so the picture is never perfect.
I try to re-write it all without mistakes, but I don't have an eraser.
Which is to say that I have commitment issues, but no issue committing, I just commit all the time, to everything.
I've canoodled with paper, but there's never enough space on the page for all the love I have.
Sometimes, I’ll meet a crayon that brings some colour to my life, but they’re just too waxy and impressionable. Too immature, too naive.
Naive.
I’ve never actually been in love.
But you, you are so much different and way hotter.
You bring a spark into my life that I’ve never known.
Baby, you set my world on fire.
I tell myself, blue pen, don’t let this go up in smoke.
Let me tell you. I would do anything to know love.
You see, there isn’t much to me, but I’ve got this way with words and I’ll write you into every poem that’s ever birthed hope in the eyes of star-crossed lovers.
I’ll draw you a map of my heart so when you feel lonely after you’ve been put aside and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, I’ll be there.
I want you.
I want the good things and your sweet embrace of smoke smells really good right now.
I want the good things but I’ll take it all. I’ll take the bad things too.
Fill my lungs with your poison, show me what it’s like to love something so much it kills you.
Teach me how to give all of myself to someone just so they are satisfied, even if it leaves me crushed on the cement.
Let me become addicted to you.
My whole life is written in ink and I can’t escape the mistakes I’ve made so if you’ll have me, here I am.
I can’t guarantee that I’ll be right for you, who knows what you write with but I will be here.
Let me tell you, I will still love you after watching you kiss the lips of every person that craves your taste.
I will still love you after you steal the oxygen out of helpless gasps and sunken cheekbones.
I will still love you after your temper sets forests ablaze.
I will still love you when you suffocate me in your fumes, leaving me choking on everything I should have said to you.
I will still love you when you burn out and your ember softens against a pillow of ash, and your smell, your taste, your everything lingers in the air like a nostalgic dream that I never want to wake up from.
Let me tell you, I am forever.
I am infinite and I can create and write anything you want, even if it’s just prose on a piece of paper or a picture of the moon on nights when you’re the only good left in the world.
I can be anything you want, and if that is someone that will love you because they want to, and not because they have to, then I will be that.
I won’t quit you.
I can’t.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Tell me you couldn't do it anymore and had to leave
Tell me I wasn't what you bargained for and the feeling isn't real
Tell me I'm stubborn and maybe too ambitious for you to deal with
Tell me I'm naïve sometimes and can't seem to keep up with your beat
But never tell me I made you leave
Never tell me you tried to get even by going for my friend
Never tell me I had roaches in my cupboard,
Never tell me you left because I was unfaithful.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
It is early.
and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,
An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.
Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre
Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth
Good Day, Sweet mother earth.
Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.
And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
From the cupboard two mugs are brought
Grounds are measured, water hot
The drips fill up the coffee ***
From the spout the bold brew streams
One sweet with sugar, rich with cream
The other black, reflection gleams
Both give rise to wisps of steam
Anticipation piqued
Each unique
At first, slow sips with careful words
Not too much, don’t get burned
Pleasure comes with each sip
The words caressing from your lip
Drinks become deeper, feelings slip
My cup’s now empty, but my heart is lit
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 4:28 PM UTC
The broken biscuits lay in a tin
An ordinary oblong tin
With turquoise pattern
And pink embossed flowers
Gold edged to finish the job.
How many times I visited
That tin on the middle shelf
In the top half of a cupboard,
Sawn door, to allow for fridge,
And quietly took out the tin.
Broken biscuits were my delight
All shapes and sizes tasty bites
Wafers, bourbon, custard creams
Rich tea, digestive all suited me
Sometimes fig sandwich, pleased.
Love Mary
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC