"minced" poems
The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today.
We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes.
The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed.
As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene?
simply erased with the sunsets demise?
No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos
and a found hello to you.
Mine own scars are fingertips
gouged into the sand and faded
but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide.
A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones.
You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello.
In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night.
Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine .
How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear?
Does it still ring ever so true?
The bell rings true whispering distant voices
Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers
We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices
The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin.
Honestly? Where does our downfall begin?
Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more .
In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see.
half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain.
Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times
The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before.
The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table.
A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye.
And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting.
The page forever bleeds.
Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor
Bleeding ink into cracks
that will forever more
hide the spirit of our souls.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
she was young
and had struggled all her life
like a cursed devil doll
with the darkest impulses
pain was ***
*** was pleasure
and death she thought
oh wow thats an ******
while her little girl friends
all
may berry kittens and sunshine
screamed in terror
at the horror films
like minced mice in cleavers
she thrilled to the part
where little innocent
katty bratty blondy
got it hard and ******
with an ice pick in the belly
and then stumbled
around
waring her surprise face
blink-less
trailing blood
finally getting to the ice box
pulling out her last
ice cream on a stick
and while eating it
fell head first into the cooler
dead
she thrilled witnessing
the girl poked through
like butter
by a guy with eyes
like spider bites
in a jet black
motor cycle jacket
and electric bolt tattoos on his face
all blond
duck assed
jelled like filigree in
wild root cream hair tonic
she imagined his ****
pink longish arterial
a real throat gager
she, helpless, sacrificial
and oh so willing
being murdered by a boy
who loved her that way
his **** a
a piercing blade
the very death of her
her little hot pink ***** *******
a gooey cauldron
of drooling tears splatter
she thought
how can any body want this
Oh but i do
*** yes please
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
Obedient
Superfluous minced rubicund aqua Phoenician
Our orphanage spills blood from picnics
Menopause conniptions lipstick
Her sons learning curve
Popstar gentleman suicide
The preschoolers last taste of Apple juice
Enola gay is soaring above the vain
Potential future poets and mathematicians
Bright eyes and innocent giggles
The souls of peace
Molecules disintegrate of wondrous dreams
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
"Farty Face"
"Burpy ***
Will never waste
an ounce of love.
Hot snot
and bogey pie
his children are
the apple of his eye.
There's a hole in my bucket
Dear Liza
All that have met
come off much the wiser
Chicken Curry
****** Up
Minced Meat and mash
Come on better hurry
gotta speed up
We don't need lots of cash
to enjoy this michelin starred grub.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Instead of the default Top Ramen "seasoning,"
try:
minced Garlic and Onion,
Basil, Marjoram, black pepper, ground cayenne,
and a hint of parsley and thyme
and use sea salt
to salinify to taste.
Personalized seasonings
make all the difference.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.
Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.
Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.
Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.
I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:
The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
Take a simple packet of minced beef
Add a drop of water to the pan
Finely diced an onion and 3 chopped garlic cloves
Oh! Don't forget the fine cut celery
Now cook gently with a touch of love
Until the mince is brown
This now is the time to add just a pinch of dry mixed herbs
A liberal splash of soya sauce followed by a gentle stir
Important now please don't forget
A large pinch of marsala spice
For this will be the beating heart before you add the rice
RICE! Did I say rice?
For the amount of minced now in the ***
Cook an equal amount of rice until soft
Of course in another pan
Now just before the rice is done add mixed veg to the mince
In the other pan, frozen veg will do
Now strain the mince but save the sauce
Worth its weight in gold
Now, yes now's the time to strain the pan and add the rice
To the mince so savoury and brown
Mix the rice and mince with love until well combined
Place into a baking dish and set the oven high(160)
20 minutes will be enough so now the dish is done
Thicken the sauce you strained from the mince and bring to a gentle boil
Serve the mince/rice with new boiled potatoes and the sauce
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Stare at your bedroom wall
and bard me a story about
the creeks of white between
the sun-patches of blue paint,
the faded yellow of the door
where the damp towel was hung
day after day after day.
Tell me about the mark
of a swept paintbrush
that accidentally destroyed
distinction between wall
and radiator.
They're no longer clean,
either of them.
How are the door handle dent marks
from that hurried moment when
you rushed into your room
away from our argument?
What of those stories?
Will you need a new place
to erase the memories from your mind?
The flies and the walls cannot speak
to anyone but you now.
It's all rotten anyway.
The sweet stink of evenings
spent in an intimate supine,
with a cleaver caught upright
in the cutting board bedpost.
We were atop one another
with our faces to the ceiling,
reading passages of poems aloud
after drenching the bed sheets
in varied indentations.
Cut words and minced gazes,
we grayed as shadows
against those weathered walls.
I remember those walls,
moonlight had reflected off the frames
of littered photographs, those stories,
and created a dance floor pattern of crescents
and plank-meeting-plank askew.
Those walls will tell me stories
even if you decide not to anymore.
I'd buy them all up, I would,
as I do the meat hook-hanging
in the butcher shop.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
O let us sing a song of gorgeous British food
Roast beef, fish 'n' chips and lovely Brummy balti;
Some of it is bad and some of it is good
(and yummy TV dinners...Mmmmm... they're really salty).
But the finest treats are Findus beef lasagne
(with its extra secret subtle basinful of horse),
And ne'er forget a burger a la espa-na-ya,
(made from minced-up donkeys' genitals of course).
Britain's Chinese restaurants are also velly nice-y
They serve food so tasty, and so low in fat,
(and no one cares if Sichuan Chicken, hot 'n' spicy,
includes some choice cuts from your neighbour's missing cat).
School and hospital canteens, the gourmet paradise,
Serving pigswill on the cheap - obese kids know it's very nice.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
Where are the endorphins?
Happiness devoid,
Empathy of the world around me,
Has been many years destroyed.
Where men, women, children and beasts
Roam the land of the living,
Indulging in empty, finite feasts.
Where are the endorphins
My mind isn't often,
Clasped within the reigns of a chastity belt
But allowed to roam free
Within the comfort of self-confidence,
And now my thoughts are minced
Never to formulate a plan,
And think "Yeah I'm the man".
Where are the endorphins?
I can see but I'm blind,
Not even trying to latch on to any comfort I find.
Missing out on the touch of another,
Feening for the passion and peace of a lover.
Where are the endorphins?
A chemical high,
At this point it would seem that this drug is a lie.
Happiness devoid,
Yet I still cannot avoid
This search for an invisible glee,
Which is a wish most probably now lost at sea,
A message in a bottle,
Simply reading "You shall never find me".
A tease comes and goes,
A sliver of cake,
A sip of fine wine,
But how long will it take to taste sweeter with time --
A portion satisfies for a short period
Much like in the novel 'The Iliad'
Where joy may endure for a day,
But once its time is up,
And I stand at the gate with crossed limbs,
The question unanswered remains;
Where are the endorphins?
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
The papers said she was a small-town girl
from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with
the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer.
The boys, they liked her minced walk,
those black curls and tight black dresses,
But it was the smile that won you:
An aphrodisiac painted deep red.
The picture didn’t do her justice.
I examined her body on a cold slab on metal:
Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with
Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half.
I bent over to get a look at those eyes:
Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue.
Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied
Movies religiously. She was determined
to be known by the world—one day,
With bags and ambitions, she fled
To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst
Other Lost Angels; no permanent address,
though her mother received letters every week.
When the cops brought her in to identify the body,
I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet
Stitched up the sides of her mouth.
I hear the leeches got to the daughter first,
Calling up the poor mother
With some cockamamie story that her
Little Betty had won a beauty contest.
The mother answered their questions proudly,
Never the wiser, never know she was
Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary.
Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across
Headlines and the evening news:
I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams
From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s
Severed body draped, to give her
Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide
her Glasgow smile.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
Toadstools and gremlins
Peaches and lemons
Wash, chop, and mix
Together create your fix.
Blood and minced liver
Stirred without a quiver.
Before placing in the oven to bake,
Add in flour, three eggs, and old heartache.
Forgotten promises and toenails
Beaten together with the eyes of two killer whales.
Throw in some chocolate and hash,
And Liar’s Brew is ready in a flash.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
It's all been soiled like some overused sponge stinking of mildew and the precise antithesis of the cleanliness it was meant to produce.
It took but a second for my overly-romanticized secret affair to be shoved into the bottom of the garbage disposal and minced over and over by the thunderous roar and bite in the throat of the sink, and *good ******* lord* I felt every grind and tear slicing up my entrails and leaving me gutted and panicked on the kitchen floor.
This is why he, and every other precious charm sparkling in the trove of my heart belong locked away in a safe and hence buried at the deepest trench that can thus even only be located by the swiftest of explorers.
I should have known you to surpass qualifications in navigating the turbulence (there be none for you, probably, anyway) and disarray that is the ever-winding contour of halls and trap-doors within the chambers of my heart.
You're too sly to just float along the surface to the tempo of my shallow praises in that scarlet inner tube and work on your tan from the UV Rays emanating from the warmth of my I am happy smiles,
No, you're unsatisfied lest you've overturned every lingering mystery and lighted the sad, empty shadows that I had humbly darkened so to preserve the pathetic weaknesses and guilty pleasures that I hide inside them.
I'm sad that you think that with that necessary darkness comes malice, because I've never had an honest evil wish for even the scaliest of serpents.
But now you know that for yourself, and you knowing is the same as five billion men and women hearing and seeing and discovering at last the very unremarkable and demeaning secrets of my heart.
I'm going to try to be okay with this, so all the while please,
if you can manage,
try to be okay with me and my "lie".
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
Don't overwhelm me
a smash of your leaving.
Not now... I won't pull
through this crush.
In my face a blank
slate. ... not again
We've been through
this... haven't we?
Than why???
Don't tell me you
got to go. This thing
here , whatever you
want to call me.
It's loving you.
You're a liar
You're a cheat
You'll be the one
that I'll be minced meat for
I overlook me, all I see
is you and I,
attached, fasten together.
Where ever you go;
I want to be there.
I don't care anymore.
I'm willing to do whatever
it takes.
Don't squeeze my soul.
Don't scatter me everywhere.
And time!
And time will only annihilate
my broken fragments.
I'm not taking no for an
answer. I just can't do it!
Not today...
Please wait until tomorrow.
I'll be good. I'll be so good
you'll forget this day ever
happened.
By Jessica Hughes
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC
Hurricane Mathew
I ask a third or fourth time,
When is it supposed to hit?
I ask
one second time later
But it's the
New day
Not a one
And not a
crucial
piercing
blue day
A simple tiny little
You
Day
Reformat
My mind from memories
Thinking then
Then the thought
making steps
a bit more pleasant
Healing the try and burning the gauze
For a brighter
(And th3n)
purified future
The outcome father,
Has me quoting melodies
Closing my eyes
So that now I am seeing
My childhood's house burn
I chew the candy now
Pink...
... moving lobes
Moving...
the boys scratching your newly
(Insert ****** possibly insectuous) painted siding
And that wasn't remembering
That was
(Or is it now)
Over and over
And it's over
Oh so oh oh
I mix my mediums
You've made a mistake
I mixed my mediums
Betrayed by blood magic
A sequence of sounds
The pen
A barn
And my
((And mine alone))
Crystallization
.
I wondered once
And surfed
I lied once
And shivered
I woke up
And spoke once
A pool of blood
((Nurses telling you))
It's a lot of blood
And the drummers shake
My death
My . .
I wish to say
My pen leaks
Wish and pray because of Saturday
So today I stay
A madman
Oh...
so
mad
Man
Breathe wind breathe .
Breathing.
Win.
Win but breathe.
The shorter term breeze
And you'd say (I hope)
There he goes again.
Argh she blows.
Again.
And I continue this
A death without
A death tasting oh but so foul
Picture me as I stay asleep
A microphone's pop
Ad
And the sweetest feeling of kissing me
Not knowing
I cramp too soon
And I hide
bug poison
In my thinning hair
But what is that?
Virulity is
And power....
And all of this....
It is abracadabra
It is alakazam.
Life is a few minced words..
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
WARNING: Horror...you might find this series offensive or distressing if you are not used to horror.
3)
I know
once I was just like you
I was young and furious too
the world was too much
everyone made you feel
so hopeless, you think you could ****
I know exactly
how you feel
*Dear, oh dear
don't cry
Darling, oh darl
don't bleed*
There was a time when I married
(everyone finds it's a mistake;
they either **** their partner
or, to continue living,
they **** their own spirit)
but I was determined to grow
my body and spirit -
can we not get conventional? -
so I had minced pie for a time
and no one could bring
my wife back home
you see
wifey got
too comfy
and see she had this thing
(after respectability)
about responsibility
the role of husband and father and
parent and homeowner, mow the lawn
service the loan
and all that crap –
I quite believe she was going mad;
maybe she walked away into the woods
Was that responsible of her?
*Dear, oh dear
don't cry
Darling, oh darl
don't bleed*
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
Light; form shadow; cast shadow
and it drags on, and on.
Across the ridges in the marbled concrete,
like the dark hiding behind, until the light ends.
What is it like, to have your head
separated from the rest of you,
and cast to the side? Like the head
of the Afghani citizen, skewered
on a rock by the barbarians who trudged
through, and ended the light of the unarmed.
Casts for crayfish, to sew their claws
back on so they may hold their heads
up high into the dimming light,
as Canada steals the sun away.
Bridges for peace and walls
that break between river and canal
where teenagers row, stroke after stroke,
down past dead deer and graffiti.
Where the two Puerto Rican brothers
hid the pieces of their mother in garbage bags,
after they chopped her up,
like minced vegetables. He said
the helicopter hovered
feet before their boat, while black
plastic bags rose from the depths
filled with carbon dioxide made
from decomposing flesh.
As my hands danced across his back
I told him I walked along that wall
to watch fireworks, or catch glimpses
of a weasel that lived within the rocks.
The wall was not built for the disposal
of mothers,
but for the seagulls. So that they can drop
their prey against it, until the shells crack
and their warm innards
are spilled out upon it
like the hot Afghanistan sand.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
Like **** you look; like you cry yourself to sleep.
I want yeah love, not yeah tears.
You laugh in public, but in private you're crying.
Stuck to old fabric when you should be in silk with me.
'Cause of me, you say,
You can't hear The Bees.
I want yeah love, not hyperbole.
I thought I had you lost,
But you know,
I see:
Holding up,
That face, yours,
Behind the big plastic frames,
Who you kiddin'?
Not me.
I see the blue.
Who you kiddin'?
Not me, babe, not me.
So we're both unhappy, you in yours,
And yours in you,
And me in mine.
Mine in me.
Me and ******* me.
Still, I am free to not be free,
You are love, that can't.
Now ain't that a pretty irony?
Why aren't we turning?
Like we're meant to - two matchsticks burning as they coil each other round -
The white,
Burnt charcoal for all to see.
Oh, yeah, I forgot, blind ambition for a dream - that through entreaty - can't be met.
From tinctured gray hair,
And looped repetition,
Patriarchy's silver,
Its forked deceit.
You ********* you.
Come here I'll flail you proper,
Open up your flesh with my acid tongue,
Lash you to a better place so make your skin red like the devil's own.
Ahhh, come on!
Summer's buried,
So to our hovels,
Our fake wombs,
And see what emerges when you can't long any longer our hardened decay.
When desire finally awakens and brings you skipping to our light.
I'll be there in the shade,
Waiting to dominate,
As best you had.
Come lover,
Before all meaning's lost,
All passion's fury spent
On false gods who live to lie.
Come dart with me in the shadows and the light.
Take me to the sun's core.
Strip me,
Make to me, again,
My deepest rings penetrate,
On my face scathing drip,
Savage in my ears,
Over my minced and dessicated body rage,
Your clear **** in my hair.
Animal; you, I miss.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
I was your victim
Your offspring
My beats echoed with you
You claimed my heart
Threw it in your meat grinder
Used the minced remains
To cooked yourself a meal
Slowly savoring it
Chunk by chunk
Jl 2016
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
On slick steel strings
six of them gather.
Around the electric hum box,
the muffled distortion buzzing
of suave spear-like poses
We are so green
and so mean.
The dance of divinity
in-between drum filled paradise
and a pair of hi-hat smash
the opening line to our razor's crass waving
our mantis praying
Drenched in reverb chorus shimmer
lightning dash with the blast trimmer
our boats the bass on the river melody
In reverie, Minced the mic
our barely audible voices shivering
our mantis praying
Strap stable static through magnetized
cords of magic
getting picked up on the down stroke
the shift bend pinch harmonic
capo for the overture
the reprise.
Fallen leaves in the back of the half-stack
octave raving
our mantis praying.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:48 AM UTC