"parisian" poems
A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
but stars we named together
linking lines from star to star
hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
another
leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
that you
chase
chase
chase
lifting the palm of your hand
so cold to the touch I shiver
feeling the beauty of my tears
that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
of this cold Parisian night
you smile in jest and
I misplace the space
between you and I and that sky
whispering "do you love me?"
how could I resist the beauty of
our second to last kiss.
© Sia Jane
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
See those red windows by Midland Park
Where the schoolyard stands empty in the frozen dark
See that Neon motor in 21st gear
And the only question is "why are we here?"
In memory motel with unchanging rates
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
By the edge of the stream with bread in hand
Two doves chase the wind to a foreign land
As our voices are carried to a teenage past
In naïve reclusion we knew couldn't last
With a palette of hate I still can taste
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
Weathered storms on a Parisian stage
The book can't be written unless you turn every page
On a worn out, de-facto, company car
The diamonds will promise to make you a star
In sovereign rule of my mind's estate
I still see the Moon Glow on your face
On Ebony's wings coming down from the sky
Miracle rides close behind
The waves from Mexico have long since passed
No moment is forever and it won't be the last
With ocean eyes and a passioned embrace
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
imagine an underground network of rapists preying
on tourist & local girls; having an agreement w/
the pimps & cops [same]; the tourist guides
leading the ladies of all types, mostly young,
stupid & white - blonde is better; local girls
hitting puberty, getting dragged into the den
at twelve get a choice, if they live; the dens filled
w/ liquor & drugs; partying a little or just jumping
her, dragging her to the open floor;
she wakes up naked, thankfully not dead, her
purse nearby; she goes to meet her new Desi
bf at the bazaar where he introduces her
to his friends; that night the same thing
happens; it happens for a week then a month,
then she helps the gang get other girls into it;
it goes on all summer, & on into another summer,
the winter filled w/ hot springs & expensive dates
on the paved side of the street; Bollywood stars
in American cars paying her **** who pays her
coyote who pays the cop to get her to Europe on a
tourist visa to work an exclusive Parisian Brothel
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
GOD GOES FOR A WALK
God goes
for a walk.
it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim
he makes it
...Spring.
Because.
He can.
I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk
& am surprised by
the sudden change of
the weather. . ?
...whatever!
He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.
He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.
He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats
which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.
He strides along with His
Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick
whistling the music of
The Spheres.
The World bows
before him.
He is well pleased
with Himself, un-
-til: He encounters me
coming towards him
dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora
the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.
I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick.
We nod politely
saying nothing but...
He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and
I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!
We pass each other
God & creature.
And ******* if He doesn't
make it Winter
on the very next step.
He was always
a Jealous God.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.
Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.
Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.
**** kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling
Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
Preface
**When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.**
Nithin Purple
Acknowledgement
**This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.
Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes. Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.**
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
I want to live in Europe.
I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.
I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.
I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.
I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.
I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.
- Shilo
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
The Holy Ones
I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
On a scale of 1-10, if you could save one person,
and one person only;
who would it be?
Venetian beaches and Parisian streets,
on the other side of the world,
someone is drowning.
Literally.
Drowning.
But on the flip side,
1+1= 2;
or a window to peek outside and see that blue flamingo.
That one,
right there.
Yes, you!
You.
You're the one I would save,
scales impossible to measure the beauty of those architectural realms.
Hurry up and float to me,
you idiot,
because U+I= love.
Or is it the other way around?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
her smile
and tortoise shell glasses
her picture perfect
delicious curves scented by parisian roses
she steps neatly into the bustling room
and with just a hint of a smile
she stops the room cold in it tracks
as all heads turn
and i must stop and smile to myself
even the other girls desire to be in her arms
even they dream for a moment
of dancing in bed tonight
she leans down and places a tender kiss on my cheek
and the room slowly drifts back to its own dreams
she a tender perfection worshipful and giving joys
she sits with me and
her tight jeans are soft and warm under my hand
and i find myself fascinated by
how she fills up my senses in a moment
i make love to her essence on the air
and passionately tenderly kiss her presence so near
to me that it sets me afire
she takes me
as i take her
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
Pine tree horizon,
stretched to the point of rupture
over the divine cardinal points around
A round world
which's center is me.
Roads I'll maybe walk,
most of which I won't
but the voyage goes on anyway
as long as I have feet.
Nothing this generation gets:
I chased this out of a bad bet,
and found heaven in a net.
We ate the scenery that day
let it drip onto our ***** sleeves
drying in the cold night
the stars,
God they were bright.
It makes me feel alone here in suburbia,
where the buffalo don't roam,
it's impossible to feel so small and so free,
so careless, in this city,
For there is more to Electricity
there's more to useless junk,
there's boy Scouts going
on a real adventure,
their adventure out of their hell
tha smelly parisian cage of pipes,
tubes, teachers and tests.
They get to breave here in Eden,
they see they're missing out,
they cheer the sun all morning,
till the nightime dries him out.
They get to hug the moon,
to face the secret truths under a piece of cloth,
a brown sky tent from which they
feel like they get it:
Men were apes and
they still are
they cannot live inside a jar
and when we breave that honeyed
air, when the smelly brezze rushes through
our clotted hair
we finally get to peek over the mountain,
and love it with
all we got.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Being underage is like living in the prohibition era
There's always a party going on somewhere
Golden girls with bobbed hair and flowing clothing
Bad boys over-age importing alcohol in.
The roaring under-20s
The tales of the Jazz age
There's always a dance to have
A friend to stick with
A boy to catch your eye.
I never got invited to parties
That is, until I reached the roaring heights
Of high society
When for one night I was the focus of your attention
No other girl danced as much with you.
People were taking drags on long cigarettes
Noise everywhere, wild young hearts aflame
You caught my eye once more
And you looked at me the way all girls want to be looked at.
Our courage bubbled over, I gave you a kiss on the cheek
A Parisian end to the night
And I let you go off
Into the misty green light.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
I never told you this story:
The story is, when we first me, first falling in love, I had a choice. I was at a party, with my friends, and you texted me. You wanted to get drunk, bring a friend and show off some new guy you met.
And I was talking with a beautiful French girl.
She was impeccable, with long dark hair and she scared many of the guys away with the intensity in her stare. Her accent made every word a masterpiece, and her style strict Parisian. She did it all like we could do it, but she did it differently. And she could dance.
I asked my friend what I should do.
He took a drink and told me “If she comes man, she’ll only want to dance with you.” He said this as he glanced at the beautiful French girl smiling at me, and I smiled back at her. And that sealed the deal in the kitchenette.
So I walked backed to her, and she held out her hand. She pulled me in close, and I could smell her hair. She smiled as she taught me, laughed as I failed, and it took a while to get the hang of it, but I finally prevailed.
And I danced with the French girl.
I ignored your texts, blocked your calls. And it was her that I was texting on my walk home, forgotten about you at a bus stop far from home. It was the feel her of her body against mine I missed, not yours.
And even though I later chose you, I later fell for you, and I later lost you, that night, I chose her. I chose the dream over reality; someone knew over a scene well seen; I chose love, I chose me.
And do I regret that decision?
Well, out of all the decisions I made which lead me to loving you, I have absolutely no regrets in dancing with the beautiful French girl.
Maybe it was a precursor, a sign I should have taken. But to me, it’s just a memory, and a memory I’ll never forget, a memory I'll always have about dancing with the French girl in the downstairs kitchenette.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
The blind Parisian has never seen the tower, or the lights that illuminate his city of birth
The deaf Italian never heard the opera, or Core 'ngrato from a Tuscany street corner
I never looked into your eyes and saw the cosmos
I am distracted by the power of corporate America
The unflinching pacifist still stands atop a suit of armour with his arms outstretched
and Syria rejoices as the stench of liberty matches gun powder and familial genocide
Oh western world, have you forgotten your past so soon?
Explain to the deaf man how her voice sounds
or
Explain the colour spectrum to a blind child
and then deny the tears that water your cheek
Tell the dyslexic that words are meaningless for it gives him comfort
and turn your back on the monetary religion of which we are indoctrinated
Take your ******* industry and bring it to it's submissive knees
Your weapons too, they are a disgrace
Empathy is universal
Love is blind
[Cliche]
[Cliche]
End.
A return, or a refrain, addendum to the ideas thenceforth
It's enough to leave a man crying in his coffee, Starbucks specialty
**** your poets, burn your books and gouge your eyes
This world is not broken, we are.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
CECI N'EST PAS UNE ORANGE
A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.
I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges
lost & stranded
but still as
big & bold & bright
as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.
It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.
A cat gave it
a cursory glance.
The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.
Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.
Somehow it found
its way to my head
& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral
a swirl of orange peel
& white pith
like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.
I ate it.
Oblivious
to everything else
my first
French
orange.
A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.
I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges
lost & stranded
but still as
big & bold & bright
as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.
It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.
A cat gave it
a cursory glance.
The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.
Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.
Somehow it found
its way to my head
& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral
a swirl of orange peel
& white pith
like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.
I ate it.
Oblivious
to everything else
my first
French
orange.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
you're sweet
with your personality
you're colorful
with your emotions
you're soft inside
when you have a crunchy (tough) exterior
you're expensive,
no, you're worth more than anything
you're a treat in my life
you're just like parisian macarons
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
A sip of smoke finds a path,
Around the spirals of my fate.
The blur of individuality
Stops the painful memory
Of taking my fingertips,
My identity,
Into your soft lips.
What do you think now,
naive ancient eternal love?
Do you remember waking up
To find my hair crawling towards your teeth?
I slowly felt nocturnal curls pull me back to your tongue.
So I cut it all off,
And painted my visage with impulsive creativity.
Your incandescent presence
Drips with Parisian chords of street harps
Praying Hallelujah to the Sacre Coeur steps.
Please make this tremble of blood
Return to a mortal rhythm.
These disjointed bones of our past portrait
Gaze up from the grave we carelessly built.
Now, I return to see the selfish paint
I threw upon her face.
Those golden highlights sing alongside
the praise of starlight,
Beneath the temporal dust of our separation.
I can't bare to look at you,
So I mar my own past perfection,
With some new hope to understand
The graveyard you abandoned so long ago.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
Jean Chevalier was
A Parisian man.
He led a simple life,
He had no big plan.
'La Résistance'
In took he part,
He felt it was right
In his Parisian heart.
The German soldier smirked,
Strapped in his ranks,
He looked down at Jean
And fantasised war tanks.
Jean was stuck in the métro
Since about half past three,
His stomach was aching,
A cigarette needed he.
The German Soldier, however,
Breaking the 'law',
Lit one up and
Opened his enormous jaw.
His pink, beefy face
Took a long drag,
Jean clung to his country,
Clung to his flag.
Jean gasped for a cigarette,
The soldier saw in his eyes.
But Jean managed yet
To stay dignified.
The soldier whips out a fresh one,
For Jean, condescendingly.
But without batting an eyelid,
Jean declares:
"Non, Merci."
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Alone in a snowy field,
Branches plead,
Moans lost in the wind
while flurries dance,
Heavy with fruit long since spoiled,
Mutinous apples cling,
Their coppery smirks
defy Persephone's call to plunge,
They hold tight,
Swelled with spongy pride,
Winter's swirling display fuels rebellion,
Their snowy caps worn with aplomb,
Parisian pommes de neige
usurp nature's order,
Flexing branches like Diana's bow,
A heart-shaped shadow in the wood,
Threatening to break,
While robins bide their time.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
The City of Lights
liberty's burning flame
black terror assailed
to despoil her aims
A lamp to the world
illumes liberated pathways
its Arc de Triomphe heart
scarlet droplets stain
the secular graces
of enlightened ages
defiled and condemned
by fanatical excess
civilizations clash
social fabrics torn
Muslims denigrated
republicans mourn
the death of tolerance
spiraling spike of hate
a fractured city
the closure of gates
dark shadows trundle
down The Champs-Elysees
the fraternity of brotherhood
deeply wounded and frayed
republican ideals
will be surely tested
Charlie Hebdo's critical voice
sorely missed, forever rested
Music Selection:
La Marseillaise
Oakland
1/7/15
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
When I was wee my feets was small.
They found no grip, I'd trip and fall.
I'd stumble bumble left and right
From morning sun to bed-time night.
But as I grew my feets did too.
They grew out of both sock and shoe!
And when I slept they grew some more.
They grew right out my bedroom door!
They grew right out onto the lawn
And when I woke my feets was gone!
I sat there scared within my bed
Just wondering where my feets had fled.
Did my feets go out on a trip
Along the Mighty Mississip?
Were they stomping Kansas corn,
Or hanging ten in Californ?
Hiking in Saskatchewan
Or Yucatan or cold Yukon?
All day long and into night
I worried of my Feets's plight.
Worried that they'd never phone
To tell me they was coming home,
Worried that I'd be bereft
Of both my feets, the right and left!
And so I pictured my two feets
Just wandering dark Parisian streets,
Or alleys in the south of Spain,
Or freezing in the Russian rain,
Or separated in Des Moins
Without the calf, the knee, the *****
But wait! Hold on! What's this I see?
I'm such a goof, oh silly me!
I did not lose my big old feets!
They were just sleeping 'neath my sheets!
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
Her name was Nanette -
A student from France
Who wore red blouses
And **** red pants
She wanted to check out
The U.S. of A.
So a couple with twins
Hired her right away
The twins had their own
Ideas for fun
They loved Disney World
Their place in the sun
They frolicked on rides,
Ate hot dogs galore,
Loved parades, Mickey Mouse,
Fireworks, and more
But Nanette's heart wasn't in it
The job was no fun
She had no real interest
In tending to the young
Nothing could cheer up
This nanny from Paree
She'd rather read tabloids
Than watch twins under three
She clearly preferred
The company of guys
With muscles, tattoos,
And Jello shots on the side
The guys were bad boys
Completely entranced
By the Parisian charmer
And her flair for romance
But the parents were upset
With her profligate passion
They decided to dismiss her
In a daring fashion
They took her to the
Tower of Terror one day
And left her shrieking
As they ran away
And that was the last time
They ever caught sight
Of that naughty Nanette
From the City of Light
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap
Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet
you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air
smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights
taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers
and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out
of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye
gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank
and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those ******
sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home
or the **** films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas
you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid
the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages
looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak
and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky
and entering
the Russian world
of ****** and deceit
and being followed
you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street
from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows
or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you
with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs
and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much ***
will make you blind.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC