"ouija" poems
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
I got out my Ouija board
and asked the demons why
fish can't live on land
Freedom is taken for granted
they said
and you are undeserving
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
your love is like Ouija Board,
in the end you got to say goodbye.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
ohlil'elf I SPEAK magictricity
boastsevenafter manyayear
myluv TO THEE, 2b a dynamo
myheritage isasoft taleincandy apple gold
AND THEE IS HER, AND SHE IS THEE, dirtdiggerdigup edgars poems; AND TO W H O M I REFER.
andso COULD SHE BE oncemine
protectherfromAS MUCH damage
as oncewas INTO ME itseems
AS I AM INTO HER?
we'll see
AND IF SO, THEN THIS PLEA FROM ME WITH W O E F U L
rocket TEAR,
stars WILL NOT GO TOO LONG moon
ringing UNANSWERED HERE, opalstone
iou FOR HER SILENCE HURTS, BUT IS inpearly gems
R A R E.
benfranklin deadseafrom SO FAR AWAY! acrimsonsky and YET SO NEAR! even tiny bugs heedseen
we arewherewe are
BUT I WISH YOU WERE NEARER, DEAR! indialogue
love-in-a-mist
lone BECAUSE stars
by EACH DOMINION dawns
early ON SUCH OCCASION light
silver MUST UNWIND, streak
bombs SO AS TO burst
solely BE a sole
redredrosy
heaven REBORN IN THE MORNING SHINE, sent
RETURNING AS GLORIOUS and
mighty AND AS FRESH AS THE NEW DAY SKY, might he
repent
once AND THEREUPON SHOULDST CARRY ON upon
adream WITHOUT IMPERFECT MOAN OR a my tier
luving SIGH. ofluv
fortunate I PLEAD WITH THEE TO MANUMIT cookie
wrench YOUR TIGHTENED CLASP chromium
calcium THAT BINDS, petalstems
ouija heArts knoweth
asdf REST fdsa
zxcv YOUR WEARY vcxz
lkjh HEAD A BIT ON MINE, hjkl
mnbv AND EASE INTO PLEASANT REVERIES. vbnm
yeseth noeth
isitasif or asis youwillhaveme
oh AFTER ALL, THE DUSK HAS COME TO GIVE REST TO THEE, to all
pay AND I AM YOURS AND YOURS AM I notmuchattention
to me yet
openmetoyour -I AM RESTFUL SLEEP. interpretation
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
Demon from Depressed Depths
Horror lurking in the murk, squirting myself through liquid nightmares, paranormal animal portrait
The walls of my bedroom are black, the ceiling navy, ****** sun above me winks in mockery
My friends are few in this frozen almost-society; I wander the briny fog in boredom, purposeless
Eyes swollen from swimming, swallowing so much salt: dehydrated underwater, skin pasty and ill
I hide from starving sharks and their terrible tiny teeth, but duel the diving whale: he I can drown
I can ***** forth literature; the pens of Whitman and Carroll were filled from my blackened innards
From fingertip to toetip I am nearly biggest, in a world without fingers or toes, primitive appendages
I am all knowing: I commune with the dead: I can operate a Ouija board alone with all these arms
I was killed off by Tennyson after just 14 lines, but Lovecraft made me what I am: heathen deity
Wonderful creature, yet I find myself here: battered next to chips in a polystyrene tray: Beach food
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
and oddly enough, H is the only letter in the alphabet that can accommodate vowels the easiest, and subsequently laughter. well m can too, but it's more of a jolly hmm in between sudden outbursts of h and co.
and on Sunday i get to read
about a prince moaning
quote: 'at home on my arse'...
oi oi ***** Harry, where the magnum?
call on Clint Klein and head into the eastern woods!
'there be a bowl of spaghetti there waiting for ya'
the leprechaun said.
ah a job, ah a family, ah George the usurper
of attention seeking girlies...
10 years in the army, and then bust,
using a Ouija board to stop being
employed by McDonald's;
but hey! it's Sunday... can't a price have
his day?
god, this humour is so cheap
it's almost gagging
for canned laughter,
but it ain't getting any, shame,
and double shame for Fawlty Towers using it,
whatnot and what care for all that "famous"
intelligent humour of the British ballot box,
supposedly... if that **** is intelligent & funny why use
such horrid precautions (psst... laziness)?
slapstick does it for me, means i can be intelligent in
other mediums.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Ouija, ouija, ouija
Grab my heart and squeeze
Grip my neck and pull
Ouija, ouija, ouija
Shadows released into the wall
Horrors brought into this world
Ouija, ouija, ouija
I wasn't here
But now you see me
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
I
The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave
Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing
Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful
No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.
II
Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished
Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary
Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page
(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
drunk woodland children, we
ask so many questions, we
firefly skin. the picnic table beneath
our lamps, our ouija board, our girlfriends
next to us warm and laughing.
stories:
we tell stories to scare eachother
before descending into our tents
on the outer darks.
sweet night nothings.
& everythings.
i’m consumed by dreams of you;
somehow running;
somehow ******* my way out of my own inevitable
death.
a lady bug wing half-yanked and humming.
wind scorpion.
mosquito
in the early morning buzz, and i roll over
to see your puffy little sleeping face ::: sunlight there.
limp beyond the tent and zipper.
we eat mayo sharp cheddar salami wheat sammies
& take acid.
everyone one else goes on a group nature-hike,
but i stay behind
hallucinating of my dead mother in those sequined clothes she used to wear.
::: we play scrabble and talk,
until she leaves.
like love.
like guitar strummed chords and many hydrations later –
my tribe returns,
with fish.
the girl i love.
you/she roll joints in your lap,
in my lap,
in a chair and i mirage
the faces of everyone through glass &
slosh; through campfire
& lemonade.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
I tried to write a lullaby
With a 70's theme of sorts
Kids drinking Sunny "D" in their jammies
Girls in Mindy, Boys in Mork
But that's as far as I could get
This dried up crinkly brain stays in a daze
So I picked up the phone, dialed up some friends
In hopes of a friendly Friday night game of charades
Of course Sylvester brought his Ouija board
He thinks with the other side he's in tune
I hate to break it to Houdini here
But I think he's inhaled to many fumes
My friends say that I'm just paranoid
Like a jester without a court
So I turn and apologize to Sylvester
Okay dude, pull out the board
We place our fingers on the Doohickey
Or is that the Thingamajig
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, is all that it spells
As Sylvester has a fit
He knocks the game table over
And screams it's that movie, The Shining all over again
This is ****** spelled backwards people
As the smell of the dead blows in on the wind
In all of the dark spirit world excitement
I think I even pee'd myself
I suggest in a manly way with a wet spot on the front of my Bell Bottom jeans
That we put the Ouija board back up on the shelf
I really wasn't expecting an evening
Of doom and gloom and tombs and such
I think I'll go back to writing that 70's lullaby
If you don't mind...thank you very much
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Channeling demons against my will.
My body, used.
Seen nothing more than a flesh ouija board.
In your game of self reassurance.
I'm not the conduit, you wanted me to be.
My eye's just as open as yours.
Stop telling me otherwise.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can conjure up some evil.
No lesser imps
or minor demons though.
Only a meeting with
the capital “D” Devil
because Glenn and I would command such an audience.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can giggle like schoolgirls
when Chuck Biscuits sits on that whoopie cushion we left out for him or
finds a fake, plastic eyeball floating in his coffee mug.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can go on the “Punch America’s Face Again” tour.
We wouldn't be singing in our slimy baritones on this road trip.
Just passing out black eyes
like Halloween candy.
Leaving a trail of busted noses and
broken hearts
in our wake.
There would be sleepovers.
Glenn and me
with Iggy Pop, Johnny Rotten and
the ghost of Peter Steele in attendance.
Ouija Boards and light-as-a-feather.
Peter Steele would always win.
He is a ******* ghost after all.
We could give each other nicknames:
Goodboy Glenn and The Big Dill.
maybe a secret handshake…
Nothing too elaborate.
Just cool, y’know?
We would text one another
after the season finale of The Walking Dead:
Darryl needs to die he’s not even in the comic but it’ll probably be Michonne there’s no justice on T.V. for cool black girls this show has just been a study in emotionally manipulating its audience since the beginning anyway why are we the only ones who see that
Why are we the only ones who see that?
Are you listening Glenn?
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
Ouija is a darken term
Painted by humans
Who thought that
Little girls without faces,
Translusent bodies,
And banshees
Only existed in a blank.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Because the galaxy was blue
Because the universe was me and you
Because of our hunger for a world not ours
Because of the deficiency within our stars
The consistent lack of artless voids
And shifting second nature grins
Such bliss in connection- rift to avoid
But they have come and crawled within
Because of the absence in pure communication
Because of the split between two fleeting creations
Because the skies have all gone down
Because the spirits put us under the ground
The psychedelic tides became too strong
Her little voice lost in waves far past
Ouija spirits sacredly summoned and
Sinister laughter cracking her glass
Because the earth twisted her bones into a mobius strip
Because the pure boy had begun to slip
Because of the way we couldn't make sense of it all
Because of the subconscious swaying to falls
Alone now in tear drowned terror, the manipulative beast
The little girl whimpering in soiled sheets
He orchestrated the world into ****** gatherings
Our souls succumbed to iniquitous happenings
Because they craved for more than they had
Because they had no choice but to become mad
Because they hadn't set their imprinted place
Because they allowed the demons to show their face
I called his name in lulling tones
As I laid still upon the bed
And wondered what would become of my bones
If they could not get the voices out of my head
Because of free will, he came to me for peace
Because of the misleading thrill and rapid retinas decrease
Because the voice quells to his sweet earth
Because the reason for death had been rebirth
What it was to be consciously dying--
Afraid for eyelids shut; inducing eternal sleep
Lullabies hummed so softly lying
To be so far, to be in too deep
Because we were finally safe when all unfolded
Because we made sure nothing was left untold and
Because we had brought each other back to shore
Because of the desire to stay once more
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Time was you could turn on the radio
And the first song you heard would contain
A message to you directly from God
He'd tell you what was happening in your life
Sometimes He'd tell you what to do about it
Always a surprise, good to hear from Him
But not always what you'd want to hear
A lot of it depended upon the radio station you chose
These days fewer people listen to the radio
Opting for streaming music or perhaps internet or satellite radio
The last two sometimes seem to work in a pinch
But it's just not the same, I don't know why
Yahweh just seems to like good old fashioned terrestrial radio
Probably makes His voice clearer on the AM band than FM
Not that He doesn't respect progress
He's got a nostalgic streak in him, that's all
And some really poor people can only afford a cheap AM radio
So there you go
Practically any song can drip with profound meaning
If you use the radio like a Ouija board
Try it sometime
It could change your life
Even for the better
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
But I will **** you like the bible should be
****** not all soggy and misremembered
No, like a true gentleman, I’ll pull your
hair a little and I’ll whisper some things that
echo like inside mother’s womb
Don’t ask me to ‘cause I won’t call you back
Burp up some acid reflux
onto my chest and tell me it looks like
ectoplasm, let’s get those demons out of you
bring out the Ouija board and let’s
smash it, I know they’d just hate that
This isn’t clairvoyance, it’s black metal
dance music and you’re stripping for me like
I am your father or some other guy with
too many tongues and I know one day
I’m gonna write way too many poems about
Your youth is growing out of you but it’s not
a petunia, it’s more like that alien in the movie
Alien and it’s telling me in the wrong language
fdjsodsfaokdncvmjklclkmewa
so I take it as a mixed signal
so I take it as a yes
I have made lovers feel like they’re a bailout
but tonight, darling I’m gonna make you feel
some astral projection and you won’t see God but
you’ll see how many prophecies my sheets have made
up
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
He prowls around like a hungary lion
Looking for his bait
Be alert of sober mind
Don't let him be your fate
He is the prince of darkness
This is his world of rule
The leader of temptation
Deceit his favourite tool
He's arrogant he's boastful
Satan is his name
His followers the Antichrist
Destruction is his game
The master of disaster
The distributor of fear
Be on your guard
He'd like us all
To believe that he's not here
I used to walk in darkness
His path I walked along
I told fortunes by reading tarrot cards
Then realised this was wrong
Through ouija board I met him
And spoke with his spirits too
He spits deceit to all he meets
Including me and you
His aim is of destruction
Many ways he'll surely find
To annihilate abolish
The (love ) of all mankind
To all who don't believe in him
Just Look around you'll see
So many in his image
( There's only Christ can set us free ~)
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Sometimes, writing poetry feels like...
Playing Charades using metaphors to describe your actions
Solving Jigsaw Puzzles to assemble your current thoughts
Using Ouija boards to converse with your own feelings
Sometimes, reading poetry feels like...
Playing Poker when you study the writer's intentions
Connecting the poet's thoughts as if you were playing Dots
Figuring out the writer's feelings like in Strings
Anyways, its always fun!
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC
Run the fuckin' Jewels, friend.
I try to write to the beat,
but **** it, I'll just strip instead.
I work in sales; I work in industry.
**** the things I say are all lies,
so what's the point of even writing them?
Because I can't write good truth for the life of me.
I can speak it though.
Catch me in court, cuz I'm trying to be hard.
It's all ******** It's just a parking ticket.
We're obsessed with hard ************* and chill *** ******
#blacklivematters
It's true, and we're all in danger.
Who else grew up in the suburbs but is trying to go hard as they can?
Masculinity means cars, cash, ******* and ***
If you ain't getting ***** you just a *****
Thanks Drake, for teaching us what's important.
Kendrick speaks to 'Pac, I wonder if he used ouija board.
It's the weird line between demonic and technology.
I'm just writing off the dome,
I wonder how different this would be if I were sitting at the seafoam.
Let's praise our idols; not praise our God.
Let's **** **** lick, blow.
We all know there is no next show...
So what the **** are you living for?
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC