"lightbulbs" poems
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best
my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
13.8k
A tired old man groans
As he hand you some
Asian culture cuisine.
Riddled with spices
It tickles the little thing in the back of your throat
As you swallow the substance.
Face now flushed
Like a cluster of fire ants crawling on the hill
Calling it their home.
Home?
Where was it?
Your memory slips.
Glee storms the man’s face
As he studies your expression.
“Seems like you can’t handle such a simple thing."
Clouding your judgement, you bite your tongue
In desperate attempt to knock back the sense
That gone up and left.
However
It fails.
Numb as the lightbulbs turn into bottle-cap suns
Concealing sight
With the light that it shares.
Count as your heart stops
With eyes bloodshot
His crafted words echo
In your failing ears.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
He lives in a cold and empty house
Where lightbulbs hang from silver chains
And lonely ghosts live within
The cracking, creaking wooden walls
He leaves out his favorite books for them
And listens to footsteps beneath the floorboards
He plays piano,
a reclusive recital for empty rooms
And they keep each other's soft-spoken secrets
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,
A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.
A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw
To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.
The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.
I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the slope,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back
And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,
Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,
And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.
Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:
He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:
Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
My mother is like a lightbulb,
She makes her mistakes
She burns and she brightens
And then she breaks.
-
My mother is like a lightbulb
She brightens the room
But make no mistake,
She can darken one too,
-
My mother is like a lightbulb
She blunders and cries
But don't think she's harmless
It's a well crafted disguise
-
But regardless of it all
Someone gets hurt
Palms are cut open
And fingers are burnt
-
And yet,
my mother is unlike a lightbulb,
Because broken lightbulbs
are replaced.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 1:45 PM UTC
You're the kid that asks how the cotton candy skies got that color
except now it's all blood red
"I guess God killed all the angels" he said
and I think:
baby my wrists are rags, ripped up rags,
and needles give you bad memories,
and my minds a black, empty, hole but it's still so ******* heavy
just a weight that no matter how much you want to say you can, you just cannot carry
and you need to stay alive
because there's no spots for angels anymore when they die
but I just can't bring myself to say it
and he knows people only remember things about me
like the fact that I like whiskey, and my suicidal tendencies
a lining of lightbulbs
infused on the wire in my brain
he says Jesus was like any other psychopath ,
just a normal schizophrenic
and if there's a God
we pray for him to fix the problem he's created
what if heavens just like hell in the form of a maze
golden maps leading you to places you aren't any happier
acid trips into abandon attics,
blonde babes with tied up hair
and yellow teeth
cracked out, veins
complaining that the life they hated ever changed
he says I ruined the calm after the storm that no one lives to see
the ending of the bible
that no one has enough attention in them to read
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
I can see you there
standing in your studio relishing
in the faces of your followers
creaming their jeans over your creations
lightbulbs hanging from the cealing by telephone cords
and photographs of babies dressed as dictators
trying to prove that innocence still exists
when we both know that this world
was robbed of its innocence a million years ago
you might fool some people but I can see right through you
professional hipster, wearing tie dye underneath your skin
and an overpriced suit on the outside
painting your lips with designer brand
translucent rasberry lipstick
and kissing your acquaintances
a kiss for each cheek
I want to know how you can fake it so well
hiding behind your little purple door
counting money while I’m busy counting lies
was it easy to push your dreams so far away
so deep in the back of your mind that they may as well be in your shoes
did you ever think you’d be here
that you’d sell your soul to the devil
because I’m afraid that you might be my future
and I would rather stand at the end of the dock with Mr.Gatsby
gazing at the green light across the river
holding on to hope forever
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
If I moved a muscle right now a window would break.
If I took a solitary step the tiles beneath me would crack.
Submerged in the oscuridad save for a small pulse of luz called optimism because that’s just how I was raised.
I know I can’t pretend to make an oasis
Because how well did that work out for me last time
The lightbulbs can yell and scream and punch the air
But nothing will make them turn on without a power source.
I can’t be breathing hard or else the candle stub I have left will blow out I have to
Guard it but keep looking for my next step using its meager light trusting
That the beacon I look for is not further than the reaches of my
Light that I will with the remaining shards of my life to keep on
Reining now is uncertainty that is
diametrically opposed to the concept that the sun is gonna rise tomorrow I promise so let me stroke your hair and shroud you until it does.
I exist in this limbo of heeding the hours that come. The ticking of the clock drudges yet I gulp every last second as it arrives.
I voraciously **** the teaspoon of trust I have left that the
Audience is just watching the plot arc to progress and that
The dramatic irony of some surety is just beyond the radius of the hardly illuminated path beneath my shuddering feet.
Maybe someday I will stumble upon the next candlestick or something.
Maybe someday I’ll find a working light bulb buried in the snow or something.
But here I progress or something.
Un día a la vez or something.
Grappling foot by foot for something.
Something.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
I stand before you, not as an expert, but as a concerned citizen.
One of the four hundred thousand people who marched in the streets of New York on Sunday and the billions of others around the world who want to solve our climate crisis.
As a poet, I pretend for a living. I play fictitious characters often solving fictitious problems. I believe that mankind has looked at climate change in that same way; as if it were a fiction. As if pretending that climate change wasn’t real would somehow make it go away.
But I think we all know better than that now. Every week we’re seeing new and undeniable climate events, evidence that accelerated climate change is here, right now.
Droughts are intensifying, our ocean’s are acidifying, with methane plumes rising up from the ocean floor. We are seeing extreme weather events and the west Antarctic and Greenland ice sheets melting at unprecedented rates decades ahead of scientific projections. The scientific community knows it. Industry knows it. Governments know it. Even the United States military knows it.
The chief of the US navy’s Pacific command, Admiral Samuel Locklear recently said that climate change is our single greatest security threat.
My friends, this body, perhaps more than any other gathering in human history now faces this difficult but achievable task.
You can make history or you will be vilified by it.
To be clear, this is not about just telling people to change lightbulbs or to buy a hybrid car. This disaster has grown beyond the choices that individuals make. This is now about our industries and our governments around the world taking decisive large-scale action. We need to put a price tag on carbon emissions and eliminate government subsidies for all oil, coal, and gas companies. We need to end the free ride that industrial polluters have been given in the name of a free market economy. They do not deserve our tax dollars, they deserve our scrutiny. For the economy itself will die if our ecosystems collapse. This is not a partisan debate, it is a human one. Clean air and a livable climate area inalienable human rights and solving this crisis is not just a question of politics. It is a question of our own survival. But now it is your turn.
The time to answer humankind’s greatest challenge, is now. We beg of you to face it with courage and honesty.
Thank you
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
troll tooth
oger toe
flow stupid
fistful of shiny carbon lattice wilt
and a composted halo too
beautifully torn derivatives slid
from this orifice
oven timer set fer
office space wasted
noob cubed
these are exponential times we're livin in, sim
yer prolly obsolete, so tap the banner below
for more there's more
trends friend then interrogate
unfriend those has-been's for the win dim
naked lightbulbs swing from
threadbare strings faster than light plus **** too
there's ***** adorno
how right you were
this **** is almost criminal
art narcs on
the hole a' truth
so help me dog
im
the hominid
that stood up
this fiction.
slipstream hoolahoop no-show
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.
Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.
Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.
There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.
The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.
Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.
Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.
Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,
a ghost.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
Wired like a loaded gun
Waiting for the morning sun
Hello! How are you today
And I wonder
My love
Should I take the sun from you
Put it in a box of darkness
Like setting
I spread the ashes of a love never in love
just a circle venn diagram make believe but not Peter Pan
And love
I love you so
I am the sun
And I shine for no one
So box of darkness
Here I come
Speckled star dust farm eggs
Fresh renewed self conviction
Moon born
Phasing through to a life
Without you
Hedonism blood pulse
Still sentimental soul
Selling out to the lone wolf
Sneaky fox
Flowers tainting memories
Hand holding cheek kissing nostalgia bliss
Don't think
Of the one you will miss
Just kiss
Supernova
Little sunhat at nighttime party
Don't don't listen to the lies you whisper to yourself
You are the one you'll miss
If you don't help yourself
Feast on sin and self-righteousness
Reincarnation is second chance
Listen to the hands with the carnations outstretched
Fellow stranger with star burnt eyes
caring for those self told lies
You cheat
yourself
with handholding cypress knees bending towards
neurons collapsing
into the one who
Binary stars you
Binary stares at you
Holds you in your sleep from far away
Dream meeting past life fleeting into the now
You answer to this highschool crush pop quiz invader of reality
Who questions what color to paint the moon
Never almost drowning
But who has only ever taken a life
that belonged to them alone
relating in fictional patterns of physics
Undeniable wavelengths
colliding crashing consoling
You knew from the first eyes
that seeds of doubt would sprout in what you mislead as love
And you ask
Why not?
Hello,
today is not tomorrow.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC
i spent seven days in a foxhole
eating sand and burying the secrets
of former lovers.
i gave myself the silent treatment
for the first four days
then i sang for the other three.
i dreamed of cowboys and westbound trains
and i had an old sack full of bottles
so i wasnt alone.
i was a fine toothed comb
or a skill saw
and i felt useful for once in my life.
i crushed a box of lightbulbs on
the fourth night
and i found the prettiest place to sleep.
i hung photos on the wall of the prison
to keep me happy
and missing you.
now i live in the basement of the world
and i wish for nothing more
than a swiss army knife and
one word from you.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
In second grade, we did an experiment with static electricity
We rubbed balloons on our heads,
& stuck them to walls
& kissing you is kinda like that
My hair stands on end,
I get shocked when I touch things
& I want to tell you stupid stuff like,
kissing you is a bundle of kittens
colliding with my face at .5 miles an hour
It's like being shot with a dart gun
made of hummingbirds
that shoots darts made of hummingbirds
& your lips are so soft,
I can't actually tell when we are touching,
like braiding hair underwater,
like napping under a blanket filled with rainbows & clouds,
& your favorite books
When you kiss me,
the cartoon devil & angel on my shoulder
climb into my ears,
like all of my neurons,
& start ******* on my brainsteam
If you were a 300 pound professional weight lifter
& if I were a Kia Sorento,
you could drag me anywhere
Kissing you is patient & impossibly slow,
like peeling paint off the wall with glittery stickers,
or cooking a turkey with a lighter
You remind me of the time in second grade
when Bethany Hopkirk
called me a freak face & stabbed me in the arm with a pencil
Cause kissing you is kinda like that,
unhealthy & will probably result in disfigurement
But baby, bring on the ****** scars & lead poisoning
Cause when you kiss me,
you are dangling me off a bridge by a belt
You are the screen door of my childhood,
all taste & swinging
So full of holes you could never keep anything in
You are every black eye,
you're a semitruck & I'm a turtle with two broken legs,
& a broken heart
You are illegal fireworks falling down stairs together,
driving on four flat tires,
playing frisbee at night with a saw blade
Kissing you is like falling out of a 37 story window,
exploding into a cloud of robins
& reappearing on the ground with my mouth full of feathers
& when I can't kiss you,
I try to find the static electricity in my apartment
I dig around in light sockets,
change lightbulbs with my teeth,
& make out with the toaster
& I know we've only been seeing eachother
for a couple of weeks,
But baby, when you kiss me,
I can't remember my middle name,
or which one is my left foot
So come over tonight
We'll shuffle around the apartment in our socks,
& we'll let our lips drift toward each other,
like tectonic plates made...
out of kittens
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Tonight, lanterns will swing freely like me, brassiere-less and glowing
Steam growing misty around my eyes,
My hair all pulled up, my bangs sticking to my forehead.
Lanterns will swing freely and the light will escape from them and create
Patterns on the glossy sidewalk
Plaster-white sidewalk with only a few pieces of black gum.
Lanterns will swing and patterns will dance and mirrors will tarnish
With time, green or brown, with cracks.
Until, perhaps, one day I shall not be able to see myself in them
My reflection might be murky and indistinguishable from that of a tree
Or a root
Or a dog
Or any other lonely person.
Tonight, the mirrors will crack and the glass will collect dust and piggy-banks will be left unshaken
Their promises unfulfilled,
Leaving empty tummies and sunken-welled eyes.
Tonight, the lanterns may swing free but the lightbulbs inside will be trapped,
Emaciated and skillfully looking for ways to break the glass.
Tonight, men will cry and mothers will mourn for themselves
And decisions will be decided
And switches will be flicked
And dancing will illuminate the gum
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
If you could see the way she looks at you
you would know
But you're busy building walls of doubt
nursung weary what-ifs
like feeding gremlins after midnight
I have this picture of the both of you
You are staring off into your imagination
always just above the horizon
And she is laughing
at something you said
She is looking right at you
smiling honest
Only you can make her laugh like that
Only you
I guess some of us need it spelled out
Our egos need to be reminded
You are not always going to be her favorite everything
You are not the best
But for whatever reason she chose you
Chose you like a raffle ticket
from a barrel full of so much better
You are not a jackpot
she is not a jackpot
but you both have won something
You're both walking away with what you came here for
You break her heart some days
How her eyes sadden
and she does that thing that girls do
you know
when they go
awww but it's pronounced oohh
(Men love that sound)
I see the tremble in her arms
the hesitation to hold your head to her *******
But your signals cross
and you beat yourself up later
for not acting differently
because she might fall in love with you
if you had done things differently
You can't act your way into a relationship
If you're not being yourself
You're being somebody else
and in that case
she's better off with that other guy
It makes me wonder about lightbulbs
and how many people it takes to ***** them in
depending on your occupation
I wonder how many pairs of eyes it takes
to notice what love looks like
Because if you could see the way she looks at you
you would know
and the only thing you might do differently
is continue to be yourself
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
when i am home alone
my separated parents off doing separated things
i drive my car around the neighborhood
looking at the christmas lights.
i do this in silence;
i want nothing more than to just gaze at them
remember the sheer awe and beauty
of a couple little lightbulbs strung together on wire.
it used to strike me as odd
why people hang lights anyway around christmas time
but i soon came to realize
it's because it brings people closer together.
neighbors whom you have ignored
are now helping you find power outlets.
friends of your wife whom you used to detest
are now handing you a plate of cookies, smiling and wishing you a safe and wonderful christmas.
i see this all of the time.
and it makes me smile to know that
just by a simple arrangement of little blue-bulbed lights
we are all, actually
family.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
Alien encounters
abducted by my own frontal lobe
sand dripping down my toes like those
sandcastles I used to make at the beach
as a kid with peach fuzz dunes and
flower petal skies I want my
orange bathing suit sewed to my skin and
my finger nails cut too short so it
stings when I waltz on surfaces made
of wood or steel or linoleum
like those victorian queen polka days
when we used to lay on the kitchen floor sunlight
vomiting onto our faces and we laughed anyway
I want your mustache forests and I want to believe in them
and you told me I ran so fast I don't know why I slowed down
there are 6 easter eggs hiding in the garden but
one
has a slug on its shell and when you pick up
the tie dyed droplet surface you'll shriek
in delight
in the light
of the moon
the golden one hides in the creases of
the trees and it will remain there for
1 week until you smell the stench
like emerald gas climbing up your nose
I have dreams of flying
falling
thoughts of
icicles and snow angels
pretending I am someone I am not
an actress with all the lightbulbs and glitter
who am I to say it
me me me me me me
back to the hallway extremities
and ski lift blushing and ocean
drowning I can not wait
for the day that I finally realize
what I need to understand
in order to vacuum the carpet
in order to
in order to
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
please take me into the
forest, deep
with tall redwoods and let me feel the rocks like
swords under my callous feet.
where we can watch the sunset from
up above the tilting world, sitting on our thrones
made of Marlboro filters and sticks
on a mountain cliff.
we'd be cliffhangers
and thieves and vagabonds, painting ourselves
with the blue tinted night
like the deepest parts of
the
sea
far from the wandering grasp of
reality.
watch the stars with eyes like
flickering lightbulbs,
shining yellow in empty, echoing rooms.
bring along four bottles
of wine,
one for each of us.
we'll drink until theres wine slipping past our cheeks
like some kind of blood-orange sob,
leaking out our hollowed belly-buttons
rivers running swift through the lines of our
palms.
wounded from every pore with the blood of
our intoxication;
magenta tongue stained skin.
would you let me take your hand and lead you
through the empty, knocking dark
and sing to you in the soft moments of
before morning?
would you trust me enough to
close your eyes
and let me lead you in a bruised,
tumbling
drunken journey to the top of the
highest mountain?
we could lay in the summer blanketed wind
made of dancing sky and
burning earth.
close our eyes and stop the earthquake in
our minds,
wake up with the sunshine seeping through
every corner of our aching
bodies,
roses growing out of our jigsaw jaws and puzzle piece
crumbling ribs and lungs;
see through our sober fingers and
wandering eyes
a different world than it was at
midnight.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Sometimes,
I stare at the stars.
It's almost like some kind of event for me,
A recurring celebration or memorial.
A birthday, christmas or halloween.
"Starday."
-
Someone once said,
*"What if it was a just a ceiling,
And the stars were just lightbulbs."*
And I laughed at the idea.
A real laugh.
A child's laugh.
-
I used to sit outside,
on the cold, wet, grass,
in the middle of the night.
I'd ***** my head to the heavens and just watch.
Obsidian.
An ocean of black,
lined with burning jewels, winking back at me.
I figured,
explorers had already mapped and navigated all the others.
There was but one ocean left.
-
Sometimes I'd imagine
that a spaceship would open up the sky,
Drifting down on a wave of fire and light.
And they would pick me up,
They'd pick me up and steal me away.
They'd say,
"We heard your prayers."
And I'd say,
"Finally."
N.H.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
Come here.
Let’s.
Let’s?
Let’s…
Let’s.
Come here.
Listen to Edith Piaf
(So hipster, n'est-ce pas?)
and the scratch of her
voice on the turntable,
will be ours
to keep in Moleskine
notebooks of memory.
So that we’ll try to believe,
love is actually a thing.
Let’s.
Come here.
This quaint room will be
ours,
our guest, as we breathe life
into the coffee cups, wooden chairs.
We’ll give it a nose, yes.
Lightbulbs will smell red
wine in fingerprinted glasses.
Windows will drink
us,
to us.
And we’ll laugh, our faces
hot and sad, mouths
crammed with French
fries.
A scene blurred with happiness.
Let’s.
Come here.
Trash the hands of every
boy, who’s spread himself
out on marginalia of our days.
Slathered himself on pieces
of time we wish we had hugged to ourselves.
Hate, hate, hate
him, we’ll say.
And his **** hands.
Let’s.
Come here.
Our eyes will be fireflies
behind our glasses,
in this cinema’s night, as we ‘swoon’
at rom-coms as buttery
as the popcorn we bought in the interval.
Life’s too short, we say.
Eat about it, drink about it,
maybe even talk about it.
Forget about it.
Let’s.
Come here.
Talk, about nothing.
We’ll all be dead one day.
Let’s.
Come here.
We can be friends.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s?
(And your giggle will end
all and every verse written.
I’m **** sure of it.)
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
The days of the week bleed together like watercolor memories of a clumsy painter.
Find your question,
Solve your puzzle.
Make yourself shine in a box of dull lightbulbs
"I was born into a floating sphere in space,
And I'm not sure what to make of this place."
So what the hell am I here for?
And what am I thinking?
I'm in a generation that just can't stop screaming.
But I'm still standing.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 5:47 AM UTC
XD
If you offer Moses porkchops
And Ghandi t-bone steaks
An Amish woman lightbulbs
You have what it takes!
If fish ain't on the menu
For a Catholic's Friday meal
And you fast on a Fat Wednesday
You're the real deal!
If at a Mosque you're dancing
While they're bowing to the east
If you use a salad fork
To eat the main course feast
At Episcopal church functions
Then don't give a dime
At Joel Osteen's mega-church
Man, you're right on time!
Non-religious offenders
Really should unite!
Just do what comes naturally!
Don't give up the fight!
Far from being reverent
Take it one step more!
Diss ol' jolly Santa
While looting big box stores!
But watch the gays and lesbians!
Jokes we won't allow!
Or political gurus and women
*For those are sacred cows!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 10/9/2013
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC