"henri" poems
little ladies
than dead exactly dance
in my head,precisely
dance where danced la guerre.
Mimi à
la voix fragile
qui chatouille Des
Italiens
the putain with the ivory throat
Marie Louise Lallemand
n’est-ce pas que je suis belle
chéri? les anglais m’aiment
tous,les américains
aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie
Vierge
Priez
Pour
Nous)
with the
long lips of
Lucienne which dangle
the old men and hot
men se promènent
doucement le soir(ladies
accurately dead les anglais
sont gentils et les américains
aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance
exactly in my brain voulez
vous coucher avec
moi? Non? pourquoi?)
ladies skilfully
dead precisely dance
where has danced la
guerre j’m'appelle
Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
te ferai Mimi
te ferai Minette,
dead exactly dance
si vous voulez
chatouiller
mon lézard ladies suddenly
j’m'en fous des nègres
(in the twilight of Paris
Marie Louise with queenly
legs cinq rue Henri
Mounier a little love
begs,Mimi with the body
like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep?
toutes les petites femmes exactes
qui dansent toujours in my
head dis donc,Paris
ta gorge mystérieuse
pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi
éclate ta voix
fragile couleur de pivoine?)
with the
long lips of Lucienne which
dangle the old men and hot men
precisely dance in my head
ladies carefully dead
10.5k
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
i always thought that comparing
photography to painting
would be hard,
but then i read an article about
a girl with a baguette,
in the jardin de plantes
looking up at a kerfuffle
being pestered by sparrows,
having henri cartier-bresson
take a picture and i thought...
*one brush stroke of colour,
after watching a blank canvas
for about an hour.*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
"good luck," they think it means.
brides, grooms, hell, even the kids in the club.
and the notion that the phrase comes with the
shattering of glass under a custom print napkin--
just wrong.
it's important to be mindful of what mazel tov means in
that moment, sure, but it's also
important to be mindful of what mazel tov
means in the everyday. the ritual.
see, mazel tov means "what good fortune."
and I know, I know, sounds pretty
**** close to "good luck."
but think about the glass.
all these tiny pieces to pick up
and you say, "good luck."
have fun picking up the shards.
don't cut your finger.
saying "good luck" in that moment
makes you an *** but "what good fortune"
sounds like you got something up your sleeve.
and you should. in this life, always. always
a few tricks. you know when I was little,
my mother asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up and I told her, I said,
"I want to be a magician."
her response, "you can't do both."
she's right. that's no profession for an adult,
but you can be an adult and a
magician on the side, as a hobby,
that's alright.
wait.
what was I talking about?
magicians, magicians, oh. tricks.
how else are you going to get by?
mazel tov is a mind trick.
see, we say "what good fortune"
when the glass breaks to reframe the
situation. what's your reaction
to that sound? your ears perk up--
if ears can actually do that, I don't know--
the hairs on your neck stand up.
I guess they can't really stand in the conventional
sense, but, well, you feel the space of a room.
and after that beautiful sound, and I mean beautiful,
you are forced to take everything else into account.
you don't want anything else to break. what matters most,
you know? that's why we say "what good fortune."
I'm delighted to know something as worthless
as glass has broken. because now I'm more
careful with what's valuable to me. right?
you spill soda on a cloth seat in your new car.
mazel tov.
now you don't have to be paranoid
every time your nephew climbs in with an Icee.
it's material crap. just crap. you're alive.
you've got a car. be thankful for what you have.
reframe, you know?
your girlfriend, your wife leaves you for a
former high school quarterback turned
owner of a lawn service company.
another casualty of the sweaty, lemonade-fueled fantasy.
once again, mazel tov.
you are so lucky you didn't spend the rest
of your life with her. the glass shattered.
it's a beautiful sound.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, having read Henri Bergson’s ‘’Creative Evolution’’, which won him the Noble Prize for Literature and is now considered a Classic, I was impressed by his words, ‘’Life does not end with death. It conquers death through reproduction……..and creative evolution.’’ Bergson’s book inspired me to compose this poem way back in 2008, and post it on ‘Poem Hunter.com’. Hope you like this short and simple poem. Thanks, - Raj.
THE CHURCH AND THE GRAVEYARD
The Graveyard lies silent behind the Church’s cool
shade,
As the shadow of the belfry tower falls over the
world of the dead.
Perhaps they are mysteriously compatible in certain
ways!
Through the front door of the Church we enter;
And with passage of time through the rear door
we exit and go,
Forever mingling with Life’s eternal flow.
In the Church marriages are solemnised.
New born babies are christened and baptised.
Hymns and sermons are heard on Sabbath Days,
People kneel down in silence to pray.
Some to repent and confess, -
To seek salvation and are blessed.
And when the older generation pass away,
In the graveyard behind the church they are
laid to rest.
Yet amidst death Life goes on .......
With peels of bells and chorus songs.
The world of the dead is surrounded by Life,
Our younger generations live and thrive.
For the epitaph cannot bury Life’s eternal song!
Green grass grows around the dead,
And trees showers flowers from overhead.
Bouquets of roses on cold marble slabs,
With fond memories a tear drop is shed,
In loss of the loved one, now in the world of
the dead!
While Life surges, swirls, and flows all around,
As the dead lie in their graves where silence
surrounds.
New Life sprouts, and memories slowly fade …….
The Graveyard lies in the Church’s cool shade!
-Raj Nandy.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
***** Attacked by a Jaguar, after Henri Rousseau*
Unaware, arms sway.
Attentive green gazes
at a tuxedoed man
and his broken bride.
Pink perfume glides
over the jade scene.
A red disco light
hovers above raised limbs,
spinning stardust
rain down upon them.
In the corner
he hides -- peering
around fibre-optic
shrubs. Blackening
this white moment.
On the ballroom
floor they dance.
Rendezvous in the Forest, after Henri Rousseau
In the wilderness
they meet, horsebacked,
whispering nothing
sweet, meaningless.
Captain courts, seeking
victory beneath bare
branches... hidden
where all can see.
Curious trees bend
to view the scene below.
The lady's palace
chaperones her mistress
from faraway brush.
Antiqued cotton tufts frown
overhead, lost souls
driving by wreckage.
Vultures. Scavengers
of hunting season.
Pausing to behold
the carnage
of predator and prey.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought.
The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.
The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
Religion is to mysticism what popularization is to science.
Spirit borrows from matter the perceptions on which it feeds and restores them to matter in the form of movements which it has stamped with its own freedom.
There is no greater joy than that of feeling oneself a creator. The triumph of life is expressed by creation.
Laughter is the corrective force which prevents us from becoming cranks.
Intelligence is the faculty of making artificial objects, especially tools to make tools.
**** sapiens, the only creature endowed with reason, is also the only creature to pin its existence on things unreasonable.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
It seems that laughter needs an echo.
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
When we make the cerebral state the beginning of an action, and in no sense the condition of a perception, we place the perceived images of things outside the image of our body, and thus replace perception within the things themselves.
The motive power of democracy is love.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/henri_bergson
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
(the reconvening of my mind)
It's always the extremes
that bring me back to center,
but it's the trips I take on purpose
that remind me its time to go home.
Today it was the thought of blood.
I cannot stand the sight of it,
and neither would I brave a plunge
in icy depths this time of year.
I’d rather gather sunlight
and convince myself there are
no ghost revivals,
only blood reprisals from
daddy's DNA.
I tell myself
I need to get away
to where I can pray
again, to quit giving in,
to stay and fight wars,
the black, the white,
the gray fluttering darkness that
comes out of nowhere swooping
past my ear, scaring the **** out of me
as if it never happened before
but it has, its just been a while.
So I call for a council of angels,
then prepare for the riptide
of demons that join the fun when
my cranial convention convenes.
The left against the right,
The east against the west,
The pros against the cons,
all the ups and downs,
I don’t give a **** what it is
just give me back my wars.
Give me back my reasons to live.
Give me Nietzsche
Give me Brennan Manning
Give me Sam Harris
Give me Frederick Buechner
Give me Bertrand Russell
Give me Henri Nouwen
Give me Daniel Dennett
Give me Gerald May
Give me M Scott Peck
Give me Pia Mellody
Give me Dante
Give me Jane Kenyon
Give me the Marquis de Sade
Give me Dostoyevsky
and that should just about do it.
Within these names exist
enough controversy,
enough conflicting views
on life, on love, on God,
enough heresy,
enough truth,
enough lies,
enough knowledge,
enough beauty
to keep me waging wars
inside my head until the day I die.
Give me back my wars.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
I finished moving into my residential college as a storm began
- fat raindrops, as big as coconuts, falling from a black and fouling sky.
These northerners were acting like a "tropical storm" (Henri) was a big deal.
“Surely New England gets storms?” I ask, from behind my mask.
“What about NOR_Easters?” I say, like a meteorologist.
“Those are different.” I’m told, with no other explanation.
“Did you bring this storm from the “SOUTH?” I’m asked, accusingly.
(This was after I told them about coming from one ”bulldog-college-town” to another.)
“Yes.” I reply, “It was in my luggage.”
A silly question but they have a point - the storm feels like it’s involved and fulfilling some obligation to dramatize my college move-in story.
“Time to quarantine!” I’m informed - “Yep, can’t WAIT!” I lie.
One disaster at a time.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
My curves are not mad.
Henri Matisse, Jazz
when silence gives away its name
birds become electric
darkness is no more a story
in their wooden beaks
I stay at the beginning of thought,
decelerate reality
again and again
bread, pain, blindness
truth visits me in my dreams
sometimes
between desire & dying
shortcuts, blind alleys
Shangri-La and Valhalla
Nirvana & the hunting ground
Guadalupe
untitled self-portraits
fast heights
blinds & shutters
Spinoza's abyss
the chasm of reason
Kant's please mind the gap
pits of harmony
barren grounds
Prigogine's broken circle
lost aesthetic qualities
and the bit moves on
when silence is an unfinished canvas
waters, faces make an offering
and their names grow
when I am confused with the possibility
of the sea level
then I know where
my love
is
splitting every single second
is beauty
unadorned
could I remove the decimal point
from my dying breath
?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
This is his Henri Julian Rousseau taboo land,
here he appears as the lion night after night,
with his tail stiffened, erect--but the Gypsy wasn't there
Bathed in psychedelic strobe lights, now
here on a plush confession table doubling as their stage
his Gypsy lies spread-eagled,
til there is no secrets left in her body, he now tries
to pry open the many chambers of her peripatetic mind.
With a lingering kiss, he in vain tries to arrest her
never subdued spirit and begins his secret rituals
for the angel of sin, black magic maiden, yin for his yang
who in ways direct, sly or by allusion, is the bestower of
a million forbidden pleasures, whispering,like a mantra thus:
"There is no right or wrong, all illusions, within an imagined truth"
which made him stray, albeit, within the labyrinth
like innumerous men of power, which they gained
shedding blood, sweat and tears; as if there is nothing beyond.
She who by instinct engineered his downfall
from the pantheon of the anointed is finally here
but this is no retribution, only return of the favors received,
his throbbing lust seeks her deep interior's caresses
giving her forgiveness in return, his masculine urges
wish to be gripped by her unusual craving,
she is melting like butter, her sweet urges fight back
in unison they seethe, wreath, roll and race to culminate.
On a swing hanging high ,above the poisoned earth
for a few sweet transient moments they remain,
weep in pleasure til they fall in to slime and crawl back to life
--then the Gypsy and the Lion remember nothing .
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Kamau Brathwaite wrote
That "the hurricane doesn't roar in pentameters"
And I really believed it could be true
That Caribbean hurricanes had their own cadences, their own dances :
Ida was reggae, Allen was merengue Brigitte was gwoka
David was cha cha cha and Edith was kadans rampa and Dorian calypso
All dactyls hatched instead of iambic pentameters
Out of each island Zeus 's head
Until i met the still eye of Hurricane Muse.
Muse was her nickname
Her real name was Shar
Named after shark and share and shear
and sharon,
Named after a calypso rose
Fearless except for lizards, a rose of tiny thorns
With a taste of a stormy black coffee
Born to a dragon of Jade and a white *** tigress
In the midst of the 1961
hurricane season.
Shar has the S of Sébastien Sally Sam Shary Sean and Sara
The H of Humberto Hanna Henri Hermine Harold and Hélène
The A of Andrea Arthur Ana Alex Arlene and Alberto
And the R of Rebecca René Rose Richard Rina and Rafael
And she dances not only calypso
And quadrille and zouk
But a mix as well of Salsa Hustle Affranchi and Reggae
In iambic pentameters
While she gently paints fearless green lizards
Having her five iambs of coffee
First thing in the unstressed and stressed morning
Before she even opens the syllables of her still Muse eye.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:23 AM UTC
Give me a Sarie tone poem
like light on a Monet haystack,
or Brazillian Astrud like a Matisse line.
Let me lie down in a half-shuttered room
in the south of France with Matisse
and the soft flutter
of heavy -feathered white doves,
their mild calls.
Only a little time, Henri,
before Picasso will come with his big boots.
We should take our afternoon.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
****** those are who forsake the kingdom for the throne
And ****** are the weak
To be overthrown
Blessed those are who practice, preach, and caress
The doctrine of the strong
If strength they possess
Drowning are those who live above the power of the tides
Cycles are for no one to escape
Truth shall always rise
Already deceased are those who believe their mirth shall not diminish
All will tell you this
Sin greets you not with attack, but a kiss
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Lovely blossoms glistening near the mountains West Coast
while the East Coast deals with Henri
waiting for a blue sky the morning after and another hear wave
C@rainbowchaser2021
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 5:05 PM UTC
Sat in a room with Henri Matisse
You must have many questions for me
I said
Henri smiled
At that very moment snap -Gyula Halasz-
His Hungarian walked in
I dropped my tea
She dropped her dress
Henri drew
I drew a blank
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
According to the poor, this is not the first time. It is Chinese music, but plastic is plastic. ......... Destroyed elements: plastic, music, God, children, beans; Music experts "soft" Maria, Miss USA, Miss Beijing, Miss Latvia, Miss Jordan, Miss Nigeria, Henry High School, 20 , Yahoo, username and | google code. .................................................. ......... ***** ............................. Vichy ....... ... There was no Chinese music before, but plastic is plastic. ......... Move to another instrument: plastic, piano, music. God must move. This article has been published in English. "Game ..." James George, Henry School of the Republic of Korea February 1, 2010 "6th century of Wales": Maria Baccarat, America Online, Miss Beijing, Miss Russia, Miss Africa, username and phone number 1) .............. Actor ......... ...... ...... ... ....... ....... ......... ......... ...... ..... ..... ...... .. ... whom ......... ........ ...... ...... .... .... . ...... ...... ...... poor This is not the first Chinese music but destroyed plastic ............ Plastic is a "soft" music, Henry, Henry, Zenith, 20 Miss AI, Six African Henri Bergson High Schools, Henry, Zenith, 20, music, music expert for children, and Kong Maria, Miss America, Miss Beijing, Miss Latvia, Miss Google, Miss Yahoo, Miss Username, and Miss Google Code ... ............................... ....... .......... .. ....... Miss Nonsense ...................... .......... .... Miss Vichy ... ....... ....... But before Chinese music is plastic. ......... Move to another tool: Miss Jordan, James, George, Latin Lines, Miss Beijing, Miss Africa, Jordan, George, or 6th century: , Johnny Henry School, Maryland, Feb. 1 John, 20th Century Google, Yahoo, Miss Nigeria, Miss Russia, Miss Africa, Miss Jordan, Miss Iran, Google, Navigation (children), University, username and phone number 1). .............. Actor ......... .......................... ....... ......... .. ......... .. ..... ..... ...... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... .. .. .. is is this ... ... ..... ..... .... .... ..... ............................ .... .... According to the poor , this is not the first time. Chinese music is called plastic, plastic ... destruction of some elements: plastic, music, God's music, children and bean experts "soft". Mary, George, Music, Sixth Miss Africa, Henry High School Feb. 1, Jan. 20 "Toco Big Vix ..." Miss America, Beijing, Latvia, Jordan, Nigeria, Russia, etc. Thousand) Children (Google), Google, Yahoo! Yahoo! User Prostitutes and Google Code ........................................... .. ...... ***** .............................. Vishy ... ... .. .. This is not plastic plastic ... it is the first music in China. Other devices and other directors: Plastics, piano, music for God, "Game ..." James George, Johnny, Henry, Jordan, Nigeria, Russia, Iran, etc ... ... or the 6th century: School February 1, Juan, 10th century Google, Yahoo, Navigation (children), username, ********** and phone number 1). .............. Actor ......... .......................... ............... ......... .. ......... .... .... .... .......... ..... ...... ...... ...... with whom ... ... ... ... ... ............ ......... ......... ... ... ... .... .. .. ... ....... .... .... According to the poor, this is not the first time. Chinese music destroys plastic, but plastic is called "soft" ......... and some of the elements: plastic, music, god, musician for children's beans. Henry High School, Henry, February 1, 1965 is Google Code encoding Mary, Miss America, Miss Beijing, Miss Latvia, Miss Jordan, Miss Nigeria, Miss Russia, Miss Zenith, Google (20) children, Google, Yahoo, prostitutes, prostitutes. .................................................. ......... ***** ..............................
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 9:16 PM UTC
US, US, confidentiality, in the end
all kinds of Baltimore
and a successful new map of the city
of Romania's City Council. Ignite the Union,
Veronika Madam Imbert 3 Samuel Lionel,
Elm Elsa, Elsa BJ Lab Saint John
and Loose in two years of the first size;
Kennedy, one of the most intense
Spanish in the world. Adams Adams Adams,
Burt, Tantrum Lithium, SMS application,
Saskatrot 1B and geometry
Smug Bimmel dot-two "Spirit" AP,
Ffelos (1587) USA Julius Caesar,
Analyst Hippocampus, "Squeaky Review"
suitcase "Latin peace equivalent),
which is the first a path published
in the United States, or Salidiyama Varga,
Pericles, New York, USA (1729);
The Niukts Nation rules the collection.
Ninjas YES YES YES Place James 1732 iAnatomiseks
"Castile in" 500 "Bejdzdzgaga Etam" Paris
500irurijij garen'g is harder to understand -
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Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
“Everything in moderation,”
Henri’s mom said with a grin,
serving the banal advice
with red Kool-Aid
and unfiltered cigarettes.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 2:03 PM UTC