"gnarling" poems
Desolated in the biting winter
Bitter frost masking gnarling wood
In the morning when the sun kisses our heads
Gone are the icicles with a thousand facets
Fragile emotions only whisper
Sorrows and regrets to keep you company
In your consummate solitude
All of which juxtapose your worth
b.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
On the road
The dark of night
A fingernail moon
You’re only light
Dead gnarling trees
And hooting owls
The tensions thick
It twists your bowels
The air is chill
It cuts the skin
It’s hard to think
The trouble you’re in
Surely lost
This road is queer
Every dark turn
Filled with fear
Every step uphill
No hope in sight
Every step you take
Takes all your might
Just when you think
The end is near
The way ahead
It starts to clear
Fog starts to lift
It clears your sight
And up ahead
Reveals a light
It takes the shape
Of a cottage door
Whether it’s safe
You’re not quite sure
A wayward cottage
You might find rest
Or just another
Of the devil’s tests
Light so bright
You cannot see
Just through the door
What might there be
You steal your courage
Through the door
You’re in suspense
And I’ll tell no more
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
/ *because such examples have to, have to(!) be perpetuated, reiterated, perpetuated, reiterated... these... "things"... these minor quests of establishing being - against, the authoritarian rule of the democracy of beings.*
you don't shout,
you don't disturb the "social", "peace",
of proverbial english society...
nope...
shouting does not good,
akin to:
silent water eats
away at the shorelines...
what you do...
is akin to what birds do...
you don't gnash your teeth:
i.e. clench them molars...
gnashing means clenching
your molars -
a gnashing a gnarling,
a pestle & mortar scenario...
no...
no shouting...
silent movie era of hollywood
translated...
you... simply... chatter...
you strike incissor teeth against
each other... crafting a lightling storm
like crackling sound,
like corn flakes...
in a bowl of milk...
you... chatter...
inspiration? birds...
bird calls...
you... chatter...
mind you, unlike the english,
looking into my mouth...
the jaw should fit within the confines
of the skull...
the upper set of teeth
should accommodate the jaw's
line of teeth...
but you simply... chatter...
which is embodied by attempting
to take a phantom bite at "something"...
you...
echo:
central incisors against
the lateral incisors...
you subsequently: chatter (χατερ)...
i missed the eta (η): given that i also
missed the excess of tau - in what isn't,
a translation - other than a phonetic
equivalent of putting on sunglasses...
because, when your neighbour,
tells you... that you can't smoke...
in your own home, perched on a windowsill,
out of the window,
implying that the smoke is
vacuumed into his bedroom?
and somehow, the law,
and the air, we share, is somehow his,
and his alone?
and i can't do, what he can,
within the confines of his property?
NOW WE HAVE A PROPER SHITSHOW!
some english are ******* backward
hardly insulting the ****** community,
with some succumbing to prosopagnosia,
while some (notably down syndrome)
actually having a memory capacity...
that curious look and a familiar expression
waiting for a smile...
i basically live next to a mental illness
example, par uno...
and englishman who "thinks"
he's king, rather than a convenient
citizen...
****** won't budge...
guess all i'm equipped with is
my chatter remedy;
and english society still "thinks"
that i'm the "mad" one.
- because it's like...
how can you dictate, what someone can,
or cannot do, on their property?!
like smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill, outside a window,
with the accusation:
the smoke is coming into my bedroom...
oh right...
so...
erm...
you own the dynamic of air
to suggest such a bias?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
From the depths of hell
Where I slowly fell
A deal made with the devil
As I started tossing pennies in a well
But the angels came and broke my fall
Saved me from sinking, down this hellhole
The life I sold is more precious than gold
That my friend is what I saw,life is now more clearer and bold
But after all upon throwing them all
Before the saving and breaking of my fall
I drowned in fame,money and ***
for 7 years I ruled the world as it rise to an apex
But then downfall and recollection came tormenting my soul
Hellhounds came gnarling,scratching and waiting at my bedroom door
Regrets starts falling alone with my tears as I prayed for salvation
Never thought God listened, As the angels descent ended my damnation
The devil is a salesman and you're a valued costumer
Starts thinking 7 times before you go and starts to barter
For your soul is more precious than what you think you'll be having
God gave me a second chance never thought my soul is worth saving
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Through the fields of stars and through the black forest,
And always West, trailing behind them a glowing disk,
With their frizzy coats and gnarling smiles; the heroes try to **** them with meteors.
Scattered shards of stone-fire bits, and the ashen paw prints evading it,
…and the horse shines upon Lykaon’s grave.
Howling are the wolves of Phanes, their number growling with the rains.
And matching windy howling screams, with hoots and hollers inbetween…
The great horns point at the wolven den, from which Fenrir’s gaze sees all man’s sin.
And the flames of Cerberus lick the hori-zon;
…as he descends into Hell’s cave,
And the Drakon hungry for lycanthropes, he hunts the plains of Hades;
But the cunning beasts avoid him while calling out to the moon, over their master’s grave.
Calling out over Lykaon’s grave,
Cyclopean-cotton collects, a smoking pillar covering guide. Obscuring the light and now they are vexed, as the Lykos struck down, they have died.
And their flesh is what the Drakon does crave, as they are devoured on the stones of Lykaon’s grave,
…at that place known as Lykaon’s grave,
Struck down with asters
and gobbled-up,
over Lykaon’s grave.
Wyrd-wolven stars at night
…over Lykaon’s grave,
A werewolf at,
The entrance,
To the cave,
And that King,
…who stands before Lykaon’s grave.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
*Lying in the ground, entangled,
lost in a thoughtless trance-
there is no need to hide,
I shut my eyes.
Seduced by the sight of color,
persuasive in its attempt to bridge us together.
We are lured in,
there are no promises,
no spectre of thought.
Remind me its today.
The cold ground beneath,
carrying the weight of my tender heart,
unshackled by the grip of your starving hands; touch me.
Your hand slowly slip under my skirt,
pulling down my sweet intimate.
A sensational rapture,
—loud as the clouds,
a maddening sound.
Envelop the day like a tension film
--desperate to penetrate the savage sun,
Foolish, undoubtedly foolish.
serenade me under the shade, my little fire.
I could hardly breathe.
I suffer sweetly in your hands,
helpless, glued to the ground, frustrated,
annihilated by the movement of your hand,
those fumbling fingers tracing my delicate skin...
I weep your name, my darling !
I hear the world’s lust,
clandestine eyes watching us,
Ignorant of the world were in.
Ignorant of the world I’m in,
drowning in your gaze-
I witness the world’s miracle-
Its electric than the pinnacle.
my sweet teeth.
what a sentimental thrill to be close to you this way-
gnarling, exposed for the taking.
You go deeper,
reach higher,
my toes curling,
body reluctantly surrender,
hands crawl,
knees start to shudder,
eyes start to water, I cant move.
do you hear me my lover?
I'm begging, whispering,
but this time for more.
blind me again, and again, and again.
I kiss you gently, roughly, then all at once.
The sun boiling at the palm of my hands,
holding me down in prayer,
my screams start to clutter,
body start to simmer,
lights start to flicker,
I keep my eyes shut.
I no longer need reminding.
Keep me alive in this place.*
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
I, the self, saw small subsidiaries of larger rivers.
Then I joined the water and sank deep in its hug.
As if chaos wasn't chaos.
Many simple and small expressions on the cusp of a monstrous wave.
-truly random randomness is absurdity
and absurdity folly.
Until oneself awoke to fleshy folly.
In every satirical ebb and flow
it creates neither order nor disorder because both are illusory.
There is no science of history just the insanity of hounds who trough
luminescence enough
to be dangerous,
gnarling their fangs at me.
In the distance they appear as beacons
but they are only ash now.
Electronic flotation device hovers above the memory,
kinetic nostalgia.
I the oneself can never be a memory
One has to become an objective entity to become a truly subjugate oneself.
-to reject it all,
discard all the objects,
to unplug,
to disconnect.
-reconnect to awaken to divine folly:
Contracting and expanding with the confidence of understanding with wives and
government.
The self thought it was him.
The self, a pariah, forgot the boy.
He became the whole self, the oneself,
and then forgot the self
to gain the self.
The warm plaster mold cracking.
Diseases and the cures both wear masks.
Plagues and reckless panacea are memories that only sort-of work backwards.
I the self,
poor masked sort,
felt the universe's tendons,
felt its flesh.
The oneself waits awake-
amidst the tearing of realities tissue.
Ossifying skin to bone,
to stone.
My muscles remember being metals
molten and dumb
like an Olympian.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
Fecklessly eremitical
Scholars of sorcery wizened
As a thousand dew drops
Sullenly fall like tears
From furtive circean eyes,
Gnarling pious pyrognomic malevolance
Within the nebulous netherworlds
Salamandrous sanctity
Summonsing the heliacally
Resurgant vaticide from
The pheonixs flames
Newly baptised;
Immutably the darkest
Light that ever shone
Upon halcyon times.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
Carrying the fever and heat
Of love’s first flame
I set out on a journey
Expectant and anxious,
Sealed and tight lipped
All emotions bottled.
From port to port I journeyed
Travelling in a little love vessel
What a heavy cargo of dreams I carried
With the scent of memories perfumed
Did a black cat cross my path?
Behind all veils of cloud
Hope lingered
My spirit….
Pulsating inside
My senses….
Waiting for the moment of beatitude!
Skyward I flew
Floating through the air to land
Finally in your trembling hands
Dreaming of a nameless delight
Bursting open at the earliest moment
With my heart beats rising hoarse
You slit my mouth,
Pulled my soul out.
But,
Gnarling at my face
Mercilessly you tore me into bits
And threw me into the bin
In the Westerly wind
Slivers of me flew about
Like ghosts unable to get back to their graves
After whirling naked in the gust of wind
Pieces of me fell down one by one
To lie inert on the ground
Gasping for the final breath
Did the firmament tattooed by stars
Mock at my pitiable plight?
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
They will soon be down
To one, but he still will be
For a little while still will be stopping
The flakes in the air with a look,
Surrounding himself with the silence
Of whitening snarls. Let him eat
The last red meal of the condemned
To extinction, tearing the guts
From an elk. Yet that is not enough
For me. I would have him eat
The heart, and from it, have an idea
Stream into his gnarling head
That he no longer has a thing
To lose, and so can walk
Out into the open, in the full
Pale of the sub-Arctic sun
Where a single spruce tree is dying
Higher and higher. Let him climb it
With all his meanness and strength.
Lord, we have come to the end
Of this kind of vision of heaven,
As the sky breaks open
Its fans around him and shimmers
And into its northern gates he rises
Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel
With an elk’s horned heart in his stomach
Looking straight into the eternal
Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all
My way: at the top of that tree I place
The New World’s last eagle
Hunched in mangy feathers giving
Up on the theory of flight.
Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate
To the death in the rotten branches,
Let the tree sway and burst into flame
And mingle them, crackling with feathers,
In crownfire. Let something come
Of it something gigantic legendary
Rise beyond reason over hills
Of ice screaming that it cannot die,
That it has come back, this time
On wings, and will spare no earthly thing:
That it will hover, made purely of northern
Lights, at dusk and fall
On men building roads: will perch
On the moose’s horn like a falcon
Riding into battle into holy war against
Screaming railroad crews: will pull
Whole traplines like fibres from the snow
In the long-jawed night of fur trappers.
But, small, filthy, unwinged,
You will soon be crouching
Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion
Of being the last, but none of how much
Your unnoticed going will mean:
How much the timid poem needs
The mindless explosion of your rage,
The glutton’s internal fire the elk’s
Heart in the belly, sprouting wings,
The pact of the “blind swallowing
Thing,” with himself, to eat
The world, and not to be driven off it
Until it is gone, even if it takes
Forever. I take you as you are
And make of you what I will,
Skunk-bear, carcajoy, bloodthirsty
Non-survivor.
Lord, let me die but not die
Out.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Watch out, the stove is hot.
White iron teeth that will bite your tongue,
split chapped lips,
then eat salt and vinegar crisps.
Sharp streaks of nerves,
grinning with missing incisors
drip in lines down your chin
of green and brown copper.
If I had a fish pond
to throw these dimes into,
I would never have to know
where they came from,
why they didn't fall out of
my coat with the turned up collar.
Unwashed wool wraps and rots
round warped shoulders,
gnarling strained fingers
between ball and socket joints.
Fussy tea cakes and strands of hair
relinquished to the wind
hobble up and down outdoor train stations,
old-fashioned floral prints swept aside,
a puppet show of sickly chicken legs
pocked, potholed and pickpocketed.
Lost in the war, between couch cushions,
baked into blackberry crumble
in go egg whites, out come memories
of snow that tightroped power lines,
good dogs that stayed,
coauthors of the oxford english dictionary.
Badly rolled cigarette smoke in the streets
writes gregorian poetry for darned socks
snagged on shoddy repair jobs,
splintered wooden bones.
Pour yourself a stiffer drink,
it’s going to be a gangrenous winter.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
People search far and wide for Love,
Not only is it love there looking for though...
There looking towards a place where they belong,
Where people don't judge them on there actions or appearance,
A place where people love them, and accept them for who they are,
And not what they think they should be...
Ones only hope is to look within for this feeling,
Never give up on the search...
Please just keep going and be free of these gnarling demons,
Let love break there grasp upon you...
Be Free,
And Most importantly...
Find That Feeling Or Die Trying
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
There is nothing fair about the pale light of New Spring
Air that is full of promise,
bearing no fruit or cinnamon scent
Naive contempt that we all will bear a rich fullness
Sun wick in its watery gaze.
New Spring is the forewarning of the lengthening shadow
While the flowers bloom, gnarling hands tug at their roots
Decaying the imago, delicate foundations,
ruining their artful poise.
Urge of the nightingale wavers and a swift dirge comeuppance
Clouds break apart, denying their lofty existence,
Soil blackened by the soot of His flamed feet,
Which trespass sweetly and indulge in the
scent of burning and plague.
New Spring is the cowering of my hope
and the doubts of rightful renewal
Bread I bare is stale, water a rasping thirst
My heart unfrosted and chilled from Winters gambit
Tis a Stolen Season
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
if I could rise up
as a Homer's character
and call for ruler
to ebb the inevitable
if I could call you
before its too late
and move my pawns upon you
casting alchemy
if I were to ever know
to define needs and desires
to be hysterically deviant
before it mattered
if I could have seen
what it would been
walking pavements with you
and having an alfresco meal
if I could have keyed
my grandfather’s watch
to exist again in the moment
and dwell on the thought
if I were to ever understand
the sound of clock and
fading pulse of our hearts
to be nigh analogues
if I could have
seen the world’s ends
and ranged my life
between the extremes
if I could have
borrowed your wings
for a span dolled over time
till the lapse of angst
could this be gnarling fate?
or just our folly?
leaving bated breaths and sighs
for there is no time
for there is no tomorrow
to accord with or may be confute
all the static beliefs and floating IFs
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
she is all but
gone from me now
sitting quietly in her chair
a mix of memories
and medications
she used to be fierce
and bigger
than her four foot nine inch frame
but now bones and flesh
fall and curve in
gnarling hands and feet
making her skin
look and feel like a letter
read a thousand times
her voice once so rich and strong
once full of opinion and humour
is now but wind
sighing through ever present pain
I miss the quickness
of her wit the most,
But I miss the mothering more.
Time has reversed our roles
and the decisions are all mine now...
She has out of sheer weariness,
having battled so long, for so hard
aceded her will
to the slow walk of dementia
She sits quietly in her chair
memories gathered
about her, as her companions
Some days it is like I am not here
and others,
she is not there
The days we meet
in passing....
or for a a good while
are gifts that shine bright
at least, in my saddened mind
On the other days,
I hope and pray...
she finds herself
amongst friends
in happy times...
as she wanders slowly away from us
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
We're like wolves
Gnarling at each other
Shooting poison arrows
Hating everything we are together
Our hate is love
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
spring. it's almost unsleeping
and stubbornly worn with
young feet in all her little parks
and her grassy and gluttonous
new flowers uncouple their
fragrant heads bumbling
a savage and stemmed arcuate
light that tumbles out the swaggering
mouths of upended winter.
the small and creviced
the hardy chapels of wood
and plastic and nails and wire
will burp to some agile fleece
some women and boys
into the delicious war of
new uncaking roses or the fine **********
that is this tide of bubbling heat
gnarling at the pale and loveless moon
who also is a *****
that plasters every skin with her lipsandfingers
she,TheSpring, will splay her plaintive thighs
and in their between, will march the strong
weak column of undead flesh
who are men and girls
and they will love her
the freckled empire of her *******
the fortress of her smooth impossible belly
the unquestionable meter of her hips
and they will climb her naked ribs
with hands of innocent foolhardy clasping
to the magistrate of her tongue
the holy orifice she wears at the between of her cool cheeks
and smatter on it
grossly ardent spit
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
I strolled among lavendills
in the pithy piney plodding hills
bearing the brunt of burdensome ********
as I garnished grins of whippoorwills.
On a plateau-ish plain of prickly peet
I felt the bog beneath my feet
tickling my toes with ****** tainted thorns,
I remembered gnarling days, and stood forlorn.
Pickled poesy pomagroups
foretold of future ladle scoops
in caligrating loop the loops in styles
reminding me of marching troops.
In shifting shylock shapes of time
with ripping radishes of rhyme
I began my daring dew descent
to the lowly muppet mugging climes.
When, on sordid stony steppes I stood,
amid the brash and boorish wood,
wenting where I was, I brought
a hinting hackle pang of good.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
impromptu heaven
your sudden ample petal
drove clean straight wicked
a gnarling sodden wistful considerate
inconstant unpermanent rising golden bobble
(a really big wet
said on my heathen brow
the somewhat between
of your delectabley furnished hips)
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 2:59 AM UTC
i'm afraid that i've forgotten what it means to be alone
i keep imagining a tattoo on the length of my back
a girl, ethereal, asleep on the forest floor, her long
hair flowing out amongst the ferns, over the moss,
spilling into the nearby pool, and then it begins, the
twisting and gnarling of locks turned to roots, from her
cerebral crown grows a giant of the forest, which
shelters her and creates a branch shadowed world as she
slumbers and drifts off to dream of her own deep, dark fairytales
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
i hear you in your room
Wild Thing,
howling at the moon
swinging from your blanket vines.
it’s you who’s gnashing and gnarling,
growling and moaning.
give up your crown
Wild Thing,
set the yellow paper on the ground
sail across the sea in
your cardboard-box boat
and float back to where you belong.
i’ve waited for years
and weeks and days
Wild Thing,
for you to hear me,
watching the steam and love waft off
your dinner every night.
listen to my roar,
Wild Thing:
don’t let the wild rumpus
reach too far into who you are.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
याद पिया की आए
i miss you.
my disgruntled face,
constant gnarling at the sun
might have already betrayed
how much i hate the summer.
i hate the summer,
i miss you.
i miss your movement across the earth
as you
t i p t o e / march,
tread lightly / thunder in,
caress / trample,
r e j u v e n a t e / strangle.
most of all,
i miss you because
i wish you would rush in,
darken the skies with clouds
like kajal for a goddess.
shove the sun
under a celestial carpet
woven from cool water
and colder skies.
i miss you.
my hatred for the sun
only progresses with the months
till july, till you descend.
they say that when love arrives,
you can hear a hundred violins,
you can see the colours in every living thing.
when you arrive,
i see only joy -
pure liquid joy.
i miss you.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
chained in a dungeon
no one can reach you
at the top there's a window
it has bars running threw it
so no chance of escape
you can see all the people
and what's going on
but when people pass by
you cant scream at all
your throat is to dry
from not eating
or drinking for weeks
your under weight
skin dangles from your bones
your eyes are black
from no sleep
and selling your sole
shaking chained to the floor
its completely dark
aside from the ceiling hole
you hear the gnarling and gnashing of teeth
you hear the beast get closer as it creeps
you cant run away
you cant scream for help
your shaking
crying
my addiction has imprisoned me
into true hell
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
the first time tristan tzara put his hand
into a bag with clippings from newspapers
of individual words and started rapping
at the cabaret voltaire,
after william burroughs extended this
method and instead jumbled up paragraphs
and even sentences rather than single words
to avoid being poetically terse:
and later proclaimed that writing is 50 years
behind painting... you can still get
it wrong in terms of defining the mood of
an era of a method... preceding them was
piet mondrian - with that new york grid
depiction in the vein of minimalistic cubism...
just squares and lines... what tristan tzara
stumbled upon was how to translate a jackson
******* or a kandinsky with words into words -
the chaotic splatter of colour into ink monochrome;
it really isn't that easy to write out a jackson *******
it requires a sort of automation, a knowing automation,
it's primarily intuitive - you don't know what
the exact content will be in each case, but you do
know that you're writing in a context of translating
your very own kandinsky - even though you're
not necessarily looking at an example of kandinsky's work;
but let's be pedantic, first tzara, then mandrian,
then burroughs, the painters retreated into
mathematics and a theory of colour, putting them
on equal footing with plato's theory of forms,
but to get the setting, poets scout, poets are scouts,
writers of fiction are the actual army, who
come with bulging sentences, clear depictions
(clearly blood will be shed, the uproar of two sides
clashing and the sharpening of swords
and the swift swooning down of sharpened pin-like
arrows with hussar wings to frighten even more),
poets scout the new territories - the plateau
is never jumbled in fiction, such writers set out
with clear vision and aim at running for miles
without anything changing, but scouts enter
difficult terrain... many twists, many turns,
such obstructions as trees, mountains, bees
butterflies and seances of witches, not to mention
gnarling wolves - for these scouts are obstructed
by images, and because of that, some of them
report very little for the army of paragraph
hunters... but some join rank with them,
after all the scouting is done - they too take up
a weapon and stand shoulder to shoulder
with the giants like tolstoy - although lessening
the narrator's role a little.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
~||«§V§»||~
I shall make upon a tempest wind,
the howling lore of kin-dling Kin.
Naked as the growling lush,
exposed to gnarling mangle-brush;
cut deep a-depths~ a ghoul's ravine,
a chasm winding labyrinthine.
The cleric scolds the child's eye,
a vision purer shan't comply.
To each and every soul tis own,
the Majesty alone is known;
what cannot speak or read of such,
we walk alone, to staff we clutch.
Such passing is a bent display,
the overarching Virgin's ray~
of light and luster gleams too much;
a subtle sense and gently touch.
The Maker's Mark as center thrice;
completed cross and circled square,
a lighter mist must walk you there.
Through hidden and unveiled descent,
the loving heart must twice repent.
So thorough bound~
the Hallowed Ground and dusty gems
wash clean and clear;
transmit the sound~
a vibrant round,
resounding through the atmosphere.
Like patterned rings and symphonies,
resolved upon each leveled wave;
a sonance much like paradise,
a fortitude as bolden-brave.
The House that thrills the Living Word,
enshrouds the saints upon their throne;
whose gardens groom a rich bouquet,
a fragrant mist of plush array;
Illuminates the Sacred Hall,
in reverence of which moves us all;
in song and dance, Eternally,
I leave you here to rest in me.
~||«§V§»||~
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC