"flaked" poems
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.
her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.
but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.
a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.
she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
Honey seeps off the tips of our sugar-dotted, pastry flaked fingers.
oh, your lips are
just
as
sweet
as
your soul.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.
And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
She unravels herself like a rose
In the palm of my hand.
Some of her petals break off
And lay to the side
The pain of growth,
Making room for something new.
She looks me in the eye,
The tension of letting go
Of reasonable fear.
Too many lonely nights.
The crescent moon of every lie
Hovers over her head.
Piece by piece,
She's laid that insecurity in my hands,
That uncertainty in her eyes,
Slowly turning into trust.
Seeing that I didn’t discard
The pieces of her that flaked off,
In my hands.
Regardless of how bad they look,
They are a part of her.
She twists and she turns,
Her thorns piercing my skin,
One after another.
With confidence, I don’t have to tell her
That I am not afraid.
But I do so anyway.
The crescent moon that hangs
Above her head fills out
And becomes full.
As comfortable as she seems,
Fear still lingers.
No matter how much she
Lets go,
She's been let down before.
In time, my hands will become
A vase that will protect her from harm,
And my heart a place
That will warm her always.
When the day comes she knows,
With certainty, that I am not afraid,
I will still tell her
I am not afraid
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
I am an immigrant
lost in a foreign land.
lost in the language.
Abandoned in the promise of home.
Sacrifice wells its tears in the eyes.
Alone, further the thought sits in.
The breaking of trust twists
and turns in the chest.
Not a soul to turn to.
Not anything reminiscent of home.
The thought of your name brand new.
A place my dreams could roam free.
Stuck in the anticipation of being
a part of you.
I've wandered the streets of your name.
Ambition, now lost and afraid.
Once eager to climb the ladder of your
streets.
In truth all of it was a dream.
Your kiss now dried, now hallow.
Your hand now chipped and flaked.
I've told you my truths
My dreams.
You've turned a blind eye.
Swallowing me in your cracks.
Forever lost in the dark
Aug 10, 2024
Aug 10, 2024 at 2:11 AM UTC
Hell shimmies when I am blunted ;
When I take a knock to the senses
When I am skinless,
singing stings
and misdirected by pain
If I had trained better
I'd be deep sea
Sussing distant messages
Operating with slight tremors, vocals and movement
and only when correct...
I'd be home
I'd be instrument
Not an act
Not a pet to society
No mood fool ;
flaked,
flooded
and littered
Rapped at by experiences
Attack reacting
An embarrassment
Watching my own pattern spooling
the same sums
and spoiling with repetition
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
I want to split you in two,
tickle your cherry stem
& sprinkle you with sugar drops.
I've thought about marshmallow,
some vanilla cream
on top of your lemon tarts
& rolling my tongue
to spread it.
Honey dripped onto your flower
would be tastier than flaked-baklava,
a little whipped cream
& nuts would certainly
finish you off.
But I do dream of stuffing your pastry
with my creme-filled cannoli.
That would be the ultimate dessert,
don't you think sweet lady?
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Once upon a time, Oh but that’s such a boring way to start-
Once upon a time.
I was little red riding hood that knowingly stepped
onto the wrong side of the path,
Hoping that a monster in the woods
would come and get me, but you-
A hurricane,
car crashes in slow motion,
personified heartbreak-
Too much.
Too much applesauce madam? The waiter asked, clean-shaven face bathed
In the New York skyline, ignorant to the gunfire explosions
inside me as I waited for you.
No thank you, sir.
“Meet me at the station”,
scrawled in messy, love- stained letters
In between the railway roars and the clatters of foreign accent, you've flaked again, like the struck chord of a bass
Signifying disappointment like a punch line
Reverberating through my skull.
Okay, repeat the mantra, one-two-steady-
Okay. It's Okay.
Four weeks later
I had your body pushed up flush against bricks and-
No shut up you don’t get to say anything after you go and shatter me like that
You’re sick do you know that? Lips snarling, heart breaking.
You’re sick.
So maybe I was the big bad wolf after all.
Stairwell bricks glinted off iridescence and
your mouth in that sad, sad laugh
Studying me like a dream brought
to the ground,
Puffy lipped and eyes blown wide like I was on some psychedelic high-
And you said
*“You’re still a child with fanciful ideas of love, and the way you cling onto them-
Quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”*
Please darling, let me redefine myself
Skip the pleasantries and small talk,
scrap the story of little red riding hood-
Once upon a time, I was apology and you were forgiveness
I can imagine inside you, of alarm bells and sunken souls
as you listen to the static white noise of
A dying heart
Hello darling, are you there? Can you hear me? Is this mic working?
I hate to sound like those magazine cut outs-
I hate to sound like,
Just another lover, just another cliché-
But you were the matchstick to my dynamite
and nothing feels better
Than my own self- destruction, so won’t you please
Another chance? No?
Even Lucifer sometimes longs to be let
Into the gates of heaven again
I’ve cooked some apology,
I saved a plate for you
So for the love of god come inside and have some before it goes cold.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 5:04 AM UTC
My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten
The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun
Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant
her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention
To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars
"Le Bonheur De Vivre Gem-Art"
French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting
He's transformed.
Shape heart delicate uniform.
"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow
the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it
Magical modernly gem -fit clock.
See through hands meditation harp.
Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.
Lips movement beyond hearts.
Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.
Artesian heels tapping boots.
Fall for Autumn love cahoots.
Beloved, divinely he's the healer.
The picture spoke she's the winner.
Wilderness he glides kisses prints.
Pushing her waves hints.
Everlasting one thought he's guessing?
Art never part beautify stem.
Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
In the crease of her fingers
Is where she held me.
A history of thought,
Filtered.
Flaked off at the end.
It was her fingers I felt most comfortable.
That I could truly do anything.
Stuck between her middle and pointer finger.
Held high, upright.
Unprecedented in eclipse.
She'd press me to her lips.
Resuscitated.
Flaked at the tip.
Scatter ash
Where I felt most alive.
Nestled in the bend of her fingers.
My building without escape.
She'd set fire to my head.
& like a mad man I'd lay still.
This smoke, a place I wanted to be.
Our bad habit persisting
Day in and day out.
The only fact perhaps we truly have.
I'd unravel in loss of responsibility,
The nook of her fingers,
A universal sense of comfort.
Withered down.
Tossed to the wind.
Our history made short,
Recognizing that we were doomed from the start.
Smoking in front of the no smoking sign,
A habit we can't put down
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
Dean and I loitered on iron horseback
Flaked with nuances and peppered with a keen stutter
Our jokes had weight
Weight creates a gravitational pull
Our jokes had a gravitational pull
My clone emerged in the rearview mirror with his girlfriend
Dean and I thought that was funny
They were attracted to us, for once
We got a bite to eat, my head, like a gyroscope
Universal karma
Revolving, self-stabilization
Into the palm of reconciliation
Forced by nature
With interdependence
A means to measure
And counter each sentence
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
God is in the shadows
deep in the pocket of that rose
an impossible color, beyond crimson, the epitome
of crimson, so crimson tears spring forth
This is where God, silent, drunk,
on vacation, slumbers
God is nowhere to be found
not in dead fathers
not in demented mothers
not in fading ex-lovers
not where spiders lurk
not in the boom & beat of adolescent children
It is the sorrow lodged somewhere between
breast bone and lung, sorrow the size and shape
of an island, a mountain,
the texture of wet sand
the weight of wet sand
It is this that snatches away my breath upon inhaling
A life-long sorrow, sealed to skin
as surely as metallic paint to a pan -
It hangs on with a cage fighter’s tenacity
locked in fierce embrace
sorrow coppery tasting
sorrow flaked in my hair and
Draped over the sofa, cat-like.
It just hangs around -
changing to heat, radiating at a dangerous level
nuclear, capricious, then, as time passes
just a presence one becomes accustomed to,
like an aging dog or webs above the bed
Its cousin, malevolence, its twin, melancholia
family to my family, blood to my blood –
dropping down from the shower head as I bathe
sorrow becoming holy, beyond flesh
It holds hands with the musician I’ve known all my life
and dines regularly with that other writer
We speak of transformation, you and I
of becoming other than ourselves,
as though we can unzip our flesh and find a whole
new identity underneath, throbbing, pink, blood-pumped
and with this, go forth into the same old world
that remembers transgression and forgives nothing
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
The coffee stain
would not come off
the wall, dear, when i scrubbed
it only the peeling wallpaper
came off in my hand.
It flaked down like
snow onto our rug.
Do you remember, darling,
when we bought that rug,
it was an old place
in Clapham with
threadbare
walls and the old man smoking
a pipe asked if we were together.
We didn't know what to tell him,
babe, but when you asked me
the other day
where I had put the
lost keys I thought of us.
They have been lost
a few years now,
We lost the keys somewhere
incomprehensible
and I cannot get in.
The coffee stain will not
come off the wall, dear.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory
Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.
The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
Single life is sweet
And a lover’s life is a dream
But then there is that
Space in between
That doesn’t seem real
At all.
It’s the fall
From cloud nine
To the loneliest limbo.
It’s watching sparkling sugar coated single earthlings
Below show off their uncommitted free spirited
Confectioner outfitted
Figures and naked fingers
Bubblegum ***** call blazers
And frosted fickle flaked fedoras
Suiting each been-there-done-that suitor
In runway Yong Wild and
Free
And then you see
Above
Airy fairy angels in love
Wearing pale peachy perfection
And creamy chiffon
Adorned in pearly promises
Baby’s breath and fresh roses
French kisses and rubbing noses
And of course
The stupid
Valentine’s Day cards.
But you are far
Away from either world
You are a girl
In silent confinement
Trapped
On Cloud Five nothingness
Like a time bomb
A volatile child
Ready to explode
At any moment
So kept
In icy isolation
So that no one
Could hear the cries
Of your eruption.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
If you take a left at the pier
I promise you wont be disappoint
in the amount of sights and sounds
The lights meld with watery waves
who crash upon aged wood
Singing softly to organisms dwelling atop
the crushed salt breathes into your heart
a pit-pat only talented songstress could imitate
- Id go with you if I could
but I'm growing tired and old
my skin is flaked and aged
So begin your journey down the road
and take a left
at the merry old pier
filled with old memories that will fill your ears
Ill meet you soon but not in this way,
In the sands of the waves and the flashing lights
in the salted incrustations atop wooded planks
on the polished boats of greedy racers,
there you will hear my voice as it carries in the wind
pit-pat patterns that only your heart could create
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Of the thousand reasons there is no God…
yet god lives in the thousand and First;
humility
Of all the Homos, One persists
by feasting upon the Fruit of a Tree;
Humanity!
A human ***** full of Pride
will ignore that which sharks abide;
the LAW
And ‘God struck down upon the deck
while Atheism commands all Ahoo and knows
the flaw.
Man adorned with all Its accoutrements
of flaked flint and purified plutonium
submits
to the Universe Man thinks He creates
until the noose of Its laws ‘round His neck
persists
To all God’s creatures past present
and future there is one dubious Gift;
Sentience
Whose edge is but one of a pair
and threatens the user with that ‘other edge’;
Common sense
God in his omnipotence stands all alone
despite what demons, angels lambs and fishes
Plan
So He creates a Tree to tempt His dust to rise
and contemplate the distance between He and
Man
If man is truly God’s image writ tolerably small
then what is man without a notion of humility at all?
He is ‘god’ with the power of an infant in tantrum’s fit
with Entropy standing ready to swallow all of It.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
I had locked away my true thoughts and muzzled my true voice
for far to long.
Was it a character i desired to be?
Were my words to be but a joke to break the awkward silence?
When you start to be social only to lock yourself up
to exist with your demons your becoming a dangerous
person to yourself.
My work once flowed now it sits half finished great starts
stalled endings.
My skills were learned from not the comic arena
and i could imagine my journalist friends laughter mocking
me even now.
He's slipped finally lost in cheap jokes gone from
anything that speak's of his true voice.
The people didnt thirst to know John.
for my well penned alter ego was the one they all knew and so blindly
misunderstood.
Old friends check in.
Messages on my phone i'd sooner erase than
respond to.
Had I slipped in some form of insanity?
Embracing dellusion to mask my failures in life?
I was a writer ,A troublemaker and owner of laughs.
A good time for many yet emptyness was my reallity.
As from the TV screen reflected change and madness.
For crazy is a close friend of chaos.
I got in the game to make a mark but what was the price?
A destroyed marriage a relationship heading into
the very same direction.
What had I become but some twisted monster
and tormented soul.
A sad afterthought to a sick joke.
Deppresion can make us into something no mirror can truely
reflect.
The chamber stayed loaded the glass my curse
seldom these days full.
And what she wanted I could never give like sunsets
red cast gold flaked embrace i was a moment.
And moment's can't forever last.
No child should know a madman's life.
And a selfish bastard I knew was my role.
Empty streets and smokey old bars were my path
and what to anyone could i truley give?
Pain was the fuel hours my sea to sail alone.
The chamber was full but soon one would
be missing.
A tale cant be read untill it's finshed.
We are but moments.
And moments can't last forever.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 10:32 AM UTC
The Maybaline raccoon eyes stare
full of synthesized tragedy
for a life
severed from the parents
she clings to so dearly.
The black-flaked fingertips dance
without any real purpose
for entertainment
and communication within
a hand-held device.
The perfectly messy hair lays
upon a head full of thoughts
for friends, enemies, and homework
yet the ambition isn't
anywhere to be found.
She sees herself as different
but she really is the same
committing those high school crimes
That she pretends to be above.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 3:49 AM UTC
Public transportation reeks of human sweat; the unwashed bodies of common man pressed together like flaked tuna fish in a can, only less well preserved.
What folly bathing can be; as it hides the dark animal truth of who and what we are. The stench we turn our noses up from whilst we traverse throughout our day holds within it's sour notes our true identity.
We are not nicely scented soaps and perfectly groomed hair. We are not our finely pressed clothes or smoothly manicured hands.
We are creatures of this planet with a developed mind capable of great feats but our greatest achievement thus far may be the lies we have convinced ourselves to believe.
And so we pack into busses, trains and planes and do our best not to breath the same air as our fellow passengers on this trip called life.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
Romance is dead.
He died on a cold winter night
With a bottle of whisky in one hand
And 5 missed calls on the night stand.
He died along with laughter
From red flaked lipstick, fish-net thigh highs
And broken wax on the bed sheets.
Romance Is Dead.
He died along with good mornings and i'm sorry.
He died along with warm kisses and long hugs.
Died along with wishes and rings,
Died with forever and took I Love You with him.
Romance Is Dead
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
i glimpse the dawn
through alabaster-flaked rickety-pickets,
like the cavity-riddled ******* maw
of tom sawyer’s crooked-grinning demon
trying to reap its earthly exodus
and rail at the wind
for its squalling disposition.
i have a head full of grass,
and a trail of ants in staggered patrol
clambering in one ear
in hopes of alighting through the other;
their bodies breaching synaptic copulations
of thoughts and ideas assimilated in lucidity,
but turning, like the thrusting-seed of climactic joy,
only to find their first glimmer of stirring light
is merely a preamble to a yawning, abortive dark.
the sun is blinding,
and yet i stare onward - inward,
finding comfort in the dazzling blur,
like a drug redefining the transcendent pain,
and rending heart and brain to simple masses
without flex or flux to pierce the void
and conjure illusions wrought
of patch-worked memories and dreams
that i can no longer tell apart.
here i have come perchance to bleed
in pools to stain the shape of my words,
and your eyes to dance upon their drift,
like the mortician's arms embracing the husk
of cuckoldly bones and beguiling flesh.
here i have come to cackle at worms
that chew holes in the leaves strewn like a sheet,
to shadow the moment i stepped off of the page,
and splintered these whittled stilts
to tempt the proffered flames.
it is a moment lost in orbits spent,
revolutions spiraled, twisted and turned,
like bitter shells spat from that forgetful sea,
where i cast line after line of salty breath,
to avail the deep with my own sullied hook.
so here i lie with a head full of grass,
thoughts taking flight on thorax and gaster,
staring onward - inward, of the blinding sun,
to purge the umbrage of a threadbare soul,
and wander the void
perchance...
to bleed.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
In my house
It smells like burning nachos
Like pico de gallo left to rot
And beans too long on the stove.
I stand in the doorway
Keys in one hand, doorknob in the other.
It's snowing outside, and I'd forgotten
That I'd asked you over that afternoon,
Just to talk.
Maybe watch TV.
For three and a half years now, we've been best friends.
But there was a different time,
When we didn't talk to each other,
When we let teenage angst and hatred seethe
Between us like some dark and twisted monster.
There are different kinds of anger.
I was mad at you because in the summer
Between seventh and eighth grade, you flaked on me
For those other girls, the ones who wore bikinis
And whose dads had speedboats and sports cars,
Whose boyfriends were in high school,
Who wore black eyeliner and gossiped all the time.
I was mad because you changed yourself for them.
I thought that that was why you were avoiding me.
Today you told me
You were mad at me
Because we liked the same boy.
You said you thought I resented you for it.
I laughed.
This is why we have these talks -
So that, looking back on our junior high selves,
We can make fun of what idiots we are.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 4:08 AM UTC