"flocked" poems
(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)
Four
solemn faces,
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.
One
diner desolate,
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.
Some
loneliness darkens
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold
are
isolated together.
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Mayday: two came to field in such wise :
'A daisied mead', each said to each,
So were they one; so sought they couch,
Across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows.
'No pitchforked farmer, please,' she said;
'May cockcrow guard us safe,' said he;
By blackthorn thicket, flower spray
They pitched their coats, come to green bed.
Below: a fen where water stood;
Aslant: their hill of stinging nettle;
Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle;
Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud.
All afternoon these lovers lay
Until the sun turned pale from warm,
Until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm :
Cruel nettles stung her angles raw.
Rueful, most vexed, that tender skin
Should accept so fell a wound,
He stamped and cracked stalks to the ground
Which had caused his dear girl pain.
Now he goes from his rightful road
And, under honor, will depart;
While she stands burning, venom-girt,
In wait for sharper smart to fade.
4k
Something’s stirring
- hey honey, sweetie, sugar-
Something’s ******* up and in, like their stomachs,
(why don’t I look that flat, mummy?)
Something’s furious and seething, something strong
And stuck and breathing
My bones in. It’s the *** you see, yeah you bet,
All they are is *** sweaty, oily, wet
With some such suffocating, suffering, surrendering
Desire to please.
Please the man, the thick man, with your eyes.
Please him with your deadened stare – glare -
Please him with your chest, your hair,
Feel the way that wind rustles and tousles, as you dance,
As you feel the liberation of a thrusty, ***** pleasing stance,
As they slip money between your legs. As they wrap you up, up,
Up in its crinkles, up in its arms,
Swept from your feet and in love, swept up from harm,
Just as you desired.
Love is the one – but what? Love comes from beauty, right?
Full lips, bright eyes, as dead as the night,
The best thing a girl can be is pretty.
(well that’s what they are on screens)
And that’s why I cried when they drew a picture,
Fourteen and they took all our ‘best features’
Ripped them from our bodies,
Bundled them up into one jigsaw creature
-where’s mine?
They forgot me,
But it’s fine – she’s got your per-son-a-lit-y.
And I cried.
It’s easy to say, I know, and I see
That things are better now, I am almost free.
But oh she’s been in the wars:
She’s hit; she’s ripped; she’s cut; she’s lost;
That pleasing object onscreen – she’s yours.
But passion’s no good, gotta be pure, sweet and true
Well she’s gotta be new, and a girl's gotta do
What a girl only can do,
‘Til she’s through,
‘Til she’s cold cold and blue,
So hey lady, lady, lay-dee,
Who are you?
Sorry for the passion, words disordered in a heap.
Didn’t mean to make it bleak. Didn’t mean to make her speak.
But you see this is how she might.
Flocked in furious, in flight,
The little bird - the beast - is heard:
Each word, each word, each bite.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I sank to the ground and all came to halt
Birds flocked east before all shook in vigour
Windows shattered under the weights of roofs
Stone homes toppled before acknowledgement
Clouds of dust rained jagged stones upon us
The turbulent waters foreshadowed more
For waves of sharp heights dominated us
They carried us, and whirled us intensely
Earsplitting cries now silenced by water
And when all had come to a halt once more
The bodies succumbed to the ocean's pull
I was supposed to die, but I hadn't.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.
I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.
Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.
Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.
Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
remember the last great
unpredictable summer
deluded by codeine and cigarettes
pulled by lunar cycles toward reproduction practice
interconnected over coral reefs
before real estate won the forest
we slept untouched on the beach
encouraged by chemical overuse
with our hair tied together in knots
and seagulls flocked on long leafy wings
their beaks pointed out passed the big rubber sun
and i struck your vein with a needle
and you struck my strange heart like a runaway slave
you danced naked in the florida sun
and i stood behind you on tall stalky legs
laughing, getting high like an osprey
sweating into a shrine, wringing out my heart
on the banks of that lazy river in my hometown
when the sun went down we chased each other
through the thready umbrella of vines and pine roots
under the old abandoned bridge
a mile long
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.
Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.
Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.
Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.
For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.
©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
They say
Birds of a feather flock together.
But what if I’m fly
With no feathers
I’m more of a social butterfly.
So when I pull up
You say with scowling face
You have no feathers
So you cant flock with me.
I try to explain that I came out of my cocoon
I just learned how to fly
But some would brush it off.
And say, Be glad I did not devour you.
Leave while you still have the chance.
So I guess I do that.
And then you go up in the air
And get chased by a bird of a different feather
Who seeks not to talk but to feed.
The only feathers it cares about is yours to eat.
I wonder when you are up there
Trying to fly around a feather that sees at night like its day.
You say out of breath, I could have flocked with the butterfly
But I was obsessed with feathers
And feathers just might be my end.
But it would not be mine.
Because remember, I'm a butterfly.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
The Butler Model of Tourism
I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself
down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet
to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row
as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”
him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
What was it like
Bleeding out into your wedding dress
When the wounds cut too deep to bear?
Fighting back our urges to help,
We instead flocked to the funeral
Where the beer was free
And finger foods flooded our senses,
Immunizing us against your cries.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
i remember hippies all those years ago
and a place call woodstock where they used to go
spreading words of peace and an end to war
only flower power and be free again once more
they flocked in there thousands to the woodstock ground
singing songs of love spreading love around
but that was years ago now the hippies have all gone
no one left to spread there peace or carry there love on
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
So came the days,
long of summer's winging
sweet the cherry chickadees sang
of June
Grasping leafy ribbons hung,
willowy warm the trees we swung
All the green - the frog soliloquy pond
Fritillaria, frilly forest fronds
grassy mountain meadow paths,
daisy clouds bloomed, swirling past
Wild geese flocked the lake,
dusk too soon alas
August night of seasons end
starry meteors flashed across
velvet black whistling to
a blue moon
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
(A Pharaoh Speaks.)
I said, "Why should a pyramid
Stand always dully on its base?
I'll change it! Let the top be hid,
The bottom take the apex-place!"
And as I bade they did.
The people flocked in, scores on scores,
To see it balance on its tip.
They praised me with the praise that bores,
My godlike mind on every lip.
-- Until it fell, of course.
And then they took my body out
From my crushed palace, mad with rage,
-- Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt --
Their crazy anger to assuage
By dragging it about.
The end? Foul birds defile my skull.
The new king's praises fill the land.
He clings to precept, simple, dull;
HIS pyramids on bases stand.
But -- Lord, how usual!
2k
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Her small round face stares back at her
Blinking blue eyes in the bright blue light and
She looks around knowing it’s wrong but not daring to ask why
While chubby pale fingers type in the line
“Chat rooms for kids”
She know that she is not yet old enough to be here
She’s only nine but she checks the box to assure the website that, yes,
She is 18 years old or above and, yes,
She understands that there is adult content present inside of this room and, yes,
Child **** is not permitted beyond this door.
But to a nine year old these letters on the page are meaningless.
She doesn’t know what adult content is or even how to
Pronounce the word *********** precisely.
All she knows is that in a matter of clicks
She will mean something.
She will mean something, and she will have worth.
She will be loved and cared for and praised and called a
Good girl, a
Babygirl, a
Kitten, a
Beautiful
Stunning
Delicious looking darling.
She learns new vocabulary terms but instead of words like
C-C-Contrast or
T-T-Typical or
D-D-Difficult
She begins to ingrain in her brain new and exciting words like
C-C-Cock or
T-T-Tits or
D-D-Dick.
She even learns how to use these fancy adult-y adultery words in a sentence like
“How big is your C-C-Cock?” and
“I don’t have T-T-Tits yet” and
“I want to touch your D-D-Dick”.
And with every letter her tiny hands typed out, more and more men
Flocked to her DMs, ready to give her all the love she could ever need if only
In exchange for a couple of things…
Will you do a dance for me?
Will you say this sentence for me?
Why don’t you take your shirt off for me?
Show me what such a big girl can do with that P-P-Pussy.
And she continues to learn new things such as that
ASL means age, *** location and that anything above 7 inches is
A good and impressive and “wow” thing and that
If she does what these men on the screen ask her to then
She will make them happy, which makes her happy, which means that she has done good.
And she learns that certain ways she moves makes them happier
And certain poses she can do allows them to show her their magic trick.
She doesn’t know how the magic trick works but it doesn’t matter because
When they perform their magic trick they thank her
And praise her and say nice things to her and
That’s all she really wanted.
She found a home in that cream colored background of
Www . chatavenue . com and she knew that even when the world
Was against her sweet, innocent nine year old self that she could
Turn to that blinking cursor and type a few letters and be able to
Feel loved.
And that was all she really wanted.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 6:42 PM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
In memoriam Asher and Franklin
Farmers flocked to Blossburg's mines
willing their abandoned plows
to perpetual dust and rain.
Burrowing into the Tioga hills
with Keagle picks and sledges,
they filled their trams with rough cut coal.
Black diamonds - carved for waiting boilers
of New England mills and trains
and Pennsylvania's winter stoves.
Brothers, Frank and Asher swung their picks
in tunnels deep beneath the hills
and brushed away the clouds of soot.
Their coughs at first seemed harmless
enough as from nagging colds or flus -
but deepened as their lungs turned black.
Pain and choking drove them to their beds
where no medic's art could aid them.
Then the coroner came to seal their eyes.
A stonecutter's chisel marks their brevity
on an marble graveyard obelisk
that pays no homage to their sacrifice.
September, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
i remember hippies all those years ago
and a place call woodstock where they used to go
spreading words of peace and an end to war
only flower power and be free again once more.
they flocked in there thousands to the woodstock ground
singing songs of love spreading love around
but that was years ago now the hippies have all gone
no one left to spread there peace or carry there love on.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC