"pollack" poems
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******
Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.
Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.
The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
*Like the alarming abandon
& disarray of Jackson Pollack,
equally beguiling disciplined
skills in the classical baroque
airs of Antonio Vivaldi,
midst the wonderment and
wanderlust of a child,
I'm awe inspired, unfurled betwixt
your captivating demeanor*
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
On a long journey across the night of an America
I drove into the desert landscape and beheld
Elvis and Morrison, Hendrix and Dylan
In a ditch to the side of the road, with trash bags in their hands.
They seemed to whistle while they worked,
But the notes just wafted into the night, not nearly fast enough to catch my speeding
Cadillac.
In the morning, I stopped into a diner
With my breakfast and coffee,
I saw a newspaper that was guaranteed by the Andy Warhol himself
to be one hundred percent truthful.
I didn't read it. Had to get back on the road
The desert went on forever, and in the oil fields
I saw Jackson Pollack, standing by a gusher,
Wearing a cheshire grin.
I smiled back at him, secure in the knowledge that I would have enough gas to get
where I was going.
The announcer's voice blasted through my car's radio.
He said Poe had solved overpopulation,
and that Emerson, Thoreau, Uncle Walt and Miss Em
had got their hands ***** and fed the entire continent of Africa.
I shut him off and bore my eyes down on the asphalt ahead.
I passed a drive in theater on the left side of the road
and caught a glimpse of Scorsese accepting the Nobel Prize for Peace.
Someone told me later that he and DeNiro had stopped genocide.
I politely nodded and got back in my car.
Out there was America and I was going to find it.
Out there was industry and capital.
Out there was ingenuity and hard work.
Out there were my own bootstraps waiting for me to pull them up.
Out there was
America,
and I was going to find it fast.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.
There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.
Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)
When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.
Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.
The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.
A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
I've returned from the cyclone
Not quite intact
These images are haunting me
Every time I close my eyes.
No patience for people
Their ways take me under
I erupt in fury far too often.
My arms are a Jackson Pollack
My face in the mirror a Salvador Dali
I'm trying the best I can.
The doctors throw cocktails of drugs
my way,
I don't remember who I am
or care to even try
Your either against me or on my side.
I've been hurt too many times
My eyes are likely to swim to the side
I'm dizzy
I'm dumped
My days are too long
My nights are too strong
You think you've got it rough
A little empathy, please
Think of what it's like
to be me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)
Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova
While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks
The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease
So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings
Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.
Wagner and Chopin got frightened..
..and off they ran.
But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park
Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.
While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel
But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.
Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics
Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics
The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing
Oooh look.. the good against sinner
Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.
Cometh the day cometh the morn
Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.
Here is Joshua blowing his horn
And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets
Are the countless dead lining up on the streets
And the wounded and deathbound far far below
I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.
But Picasso arrives and cries
My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche
Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)
Then Pollack turns up totally ******
Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?
What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing
The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing
Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot
Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot
Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed
By Beelzebubs prototypes
Those that live in the black nights.
But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes
So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions
Take arms and do battle
Till we hears Satans death rattle.
And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.
Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well
Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.
Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part
Of something vast something grand
A spiritual war being fought in this land
I am alive and I shall survive.
PRAISE BE.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
My heart - delicate,
and malleable
undulates
within two poles,
seamlessly juxtaposed -
beauty and affliction
capricious container-
truth and fiction;
the sheer surfeit
of choice
reverberates with
imperious diversion,
settled invitation-
loud and shiny things.
Hard to breathe,
I'm in exile
slave to my emotions,
obsequious and servile
barren, cold and mute
existence - the brute;
tilted reminiscence,
scars of loss
contrive frames
around moments -
footprints,
interminable -
being and time.
Infinite deity,
triune polyphony
artist of sublimity
smearing shades
of loneliness,
vestiges of faith,
to retrieve
hues of meaning;
oddly convivial
prophets
of reprieve.
Orpheus lost Eurydice
palpable discordancy
suffused in time
could not resolve
without verse
decidedly sonorous,
canvas showered pain,
splashed
Jackson Pollack stain
Love - onerous,
deep beneath
the veneer,
it's mercy severe.
Fiction from the first
Eden‘s fatal gift,
lucidity cursed
altered cosmos murmur,
parlance of
disordered elegance;
effusive language,
phrasing art nouveau
tacit script;
ensconced within
the fabric;
create a Thirst
torment - visceral
and immediate.
Ardor and innocence
once quenched,
render
pathos in proportion
to the pleasure,
conveyance of beatitude
The past absorbed
into the treasure,
Inscrutable Heart -
devotion and turpitude
desire, loathing and paucity
affinity in abundance,
fear and doubt
inhabit certitude.
©2009 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
It's amazing,
How words will only actualize our realities
Fully
When they are uttered
Aloud.
And once those unspoken realities transpire,
It's as if the all the air in the world gets caught in a primordial vibration,
And those vibrations
Break the internal balloon
Detaining veracity's ink
Painting our insides like the canvas of Jackson Pollack.
Seeping through soft tissue.
Spilling into chest cavities.
Sloshing around.
Saturating the hues of our flesh.
A single utterance
Resulted in irrevocable emotional
Infiltration:
"I'm in love"
*********
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
There are times
When the clock
Stands still
And has no use at all
There are times
When the hourglass
Is empty
Without a single speck of sand
There are times
When true love
Is not the fiery flame of bursting rose petals
But holds the guilty pleasure
Of a freshly exhaled cigarette
Crying its way into split grey and blue wall paper
Water stains splattered around
Like a shotgun blast
To the temple
Of Pollack
In this hour of stillness
The sound of dripping water
Is like
A solitary fortress
Filled with Ancient
Chinese gongs
The crow taunts with universal preciseness
Staining itself with blind savageness
They are like my ex's
Crying for
More and more
Love
Here
This place of pink eraser head monotony
Head bobbing as blue faced doctors
Flick their butts into the eyes of God
Their names being called half way through their break
Their lives being spent and bent around the dismal dead
Their lives to be revealed as the table of savage time slowly slowly turns
And they will look into the eyes of the young and say...
"That was me once"
But here
In this lapse between love and loneliness
Ambition and Ambivalence
Passion and Impotence
Elegance and Clumsiness
This place I
Clumsily
Naively
Stumbled upon
Where the block is ****** with heads
With all that have come before me
Strewn mile long entrails
Lining a wooded dust covered stage
As thousands of peering peasants and tight tipped thieves and makeshift martyrs and raving royals
Watch
With keen and stale horror
Here where eyes and ears and teeth belong to everyone who has ever lost
Men and women
Lift their heads
Towards the last stretch
Of key clicking
Infinity
Here
In this place
I turn and stare into the gritty haze
Of the past
I turn again
Like the wheel of mismatched fortune
Toward the blinding illusion
Of a future
With no clear stars
In this place
A lone tree poses atop a hill of fire and death and freedom
And I stand
Beside it
As if
It were
My only
True
Friend
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 9:28 PM UTC
when I was in kindergarten I was shown Van Gough
it said that
he cut his ear off but when I reached for the shears
my mother screamed
my teacher introduced me to Galileo
I spent the whole day watching NASA videos
I went home & dropped my mother's vase on the carpet
it shattered into a million pieces
my mother screamed
they showed me Jackson Pollack
I ruined my carpet with acrylic paints
my mom shook her head
maybe I was too far gone
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
negotiating modernity
at the MoMA
one's pushed along
mass conveyances
inertial rush an
intractable force
surer then the weight
of Newton's gravity
routes precarious
contemplative moments
nails scratching
Pollack's #9
in desperate attempt
to hold ground
Mall of America's
crushing crowds
vagrants pacing
the large garages
barely glimpsing
composite walls
the open spaces
bagging fast food art
not a bit of intimacy
in the **** place
Music Selection
Ornette Coleman
with Eric Dolphy
Free Jazz
2/24/11
NYC
jbm
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
*don't worry, you're not watching ******** **** but it might be equivalent, given the stature of the words... i never knew why Hebrews complained at the word Jew sounding yuck, and the Poles never minded, even with Pollack... funny... anyways, you either accept this wording or you accept ******** **** your choice.... but censoring spelling is like inbreeding anti-literate farmers who have tractors instead of horses these days... bake that macaroon slightly more, i want to see a suntan on it; chance of a bagel thrown in gratis? i thought so... happy Hanukkah.*
Hier stehe ich mit den Händen voll Blut
Und trage in mir eine beißende Wut
Du sagtest du wolltest den Körper von mir
Und ich gab dir alles gerad wie ein Tier
Ich kann nicht ertragen zu sehen dich leben
So komm her zu mir lass dir den Todeskuss geben
Viele lockte ich schon in den grausamen Tod
Und auch du wirst verfaulen in der Kammer der Not
Winsel um gnade oder schrei es hinaus
Es gibt keine Hoffnung du kommst niemals mehr raus
Denn hier ist dein ende und ich werde es lieben
Zu weiden dich aus am Bunkertor sieben
*Bunkertor sieben
Am Bunkertor sieben*.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Scary Larry,
The Margarita Fairy
Could drink anything,
As long as it wasn’t dairy.
Bollocky Pollack
Hung up his smock
Covered with paint
Put it on the auction block.
Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.
And Yeaster Bunny
Thinking he was funny
Baked bread dildoes
That sold for bags of money.
Scott Tissue
Said “We’re gonna miss you.
Your bread will sell quicker
If don’t make it an issue.”
Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.
Phony Joanie
Wishes for alimony
But refuses to divorce
Her husband Tony.
Decided she plans
To keep him instead.
Good for ready money
Though he's lousy in bed.
Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.
**** Poncho,
Everybody seems to
Dig his Mayan body
If only for a day or two.
Then he's off to play
With somebody new
Maybe some other day
He'll make it back to you.
Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Scary Larry,
The Margarita Fairy
Could drink anything,
As long as it wasn’t dairy.
Bollocky Pollack
Put up his smock
Covered with paint
On the auction block.
Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.
And Yeaster Bunny
Thinking he was funny
Baked bread dildoes
That sold for bags of money.
Scott Tissue
Said “We’re gonna miss you.
Your bread will sell quicker
If don’t make *** an issue.”
Two three four
What are friends for
If you don’t accept them
Then throw them out the door?
Besides variety
Is much more fun
Than always being alone
With number one
Phony Joanie
Wishes for alimony
But refuses to divorce
Her husband Tony.
Skinny Lenny
First cousin of Kenny
Lives with nobody
But sleeps with many.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
No one comes to see me
In the basement, comes to know
What is up in attics
But a screwy lightbulb's glow
Which more than one it took to change
My empty canvas walls
From her Mona Lisa smile
Into Jackson Pollack halls
Having food fights with myself
And cleaning plates of thought
Yet leaving ***** dishes of
The hungry nights they brought
To an appetite for more
Than the kitchens we confine
Each microwaving minute
To the tombs in which we dine
Though silverware is sterling
And gold the chandelier
The finest china only made
My family disappear
Leaving me to parlor tricks
To stoke my fire places
And locked inside the study
Of my most unwelcome spaces
Where I learned of outside worlds
Far beyond my private property
And wrote of how to share them
In a game of life monopoly
Then took a **** on status quo
And flushed away the norm
And shaved with cold steel sharpened on
The water's never warm
For in this house-divided
I'm a one-man civil war
Armed with rebel causes
For a union to restore
So my doors and windows are
Always open for my guests
But underneath the floorboard's
Where I take all your requests
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
When lightning strikes a tree
Sap boils, cells explode, bark strips off into oblivion
And the tree melts, revealing a new form to the cool wind.
When you opened your eyes through the guise of a fading child,
I felt this happen to me.
My heart struck by your thunder, the leaves and ashes
Of my nerves
Blasted away
My DNA peeled away and there in its place lay a new man
Melted into the shape you pounded me into
With vicious eyes and stares that disintegrated injustice
Almost like a new world lived within our gaze.
Somehow, this universe has been opened
Time brought us to this moment. Gravity
Pulled us here. Revealed a blind spot in the folds
Between the atoms and the space from my mouth to yours.
We're like magnets
Like polar reversal
Hanging gardens of universal hope
And a lust for comfort
An insatiable hunger for simplicity
And solace
Uncompromisingly, we surpass the unnecessary and move straight into
The Moments We Wished For.
Closed blinds, wax and oil
Steam rising from the drain
Your hands entwined with my spine
Hair a maze for our fingers
You
Are
A mountain of passionate letters
From kids who thought no one would read them,
Sent through the ears of judges who never looked up at their victims
You were an undeveloped diamond
A sunset that someone polluted
With lies of impurity and worthlessness.
You wanted simply LOVE
A true hand to hold you and show you
That not everything in the world was so hopeless
Well your father may not have been the one to do his ******* job
And get right into all the reasons why you're beautiful so let me be the one
To pick up his slack and change you.
You're a raver with skylines in her eyes
An excuse to roll out of bed with a smile
Seventeen years of pent up compassion
Waiting to be released on some lucky bystander
Someone guilty of desiring you
Of telling you
You can do better.
You were always the one
Before we met
Before we did whatever we could to be in the same room for more
Than just a breath
You may be a dragon, a cougar,
A Jackson Pollack spattered with blood and ***
And anger and years of self-doubt
But I am your new canvas
And right now, I am empty.
And you are overflowing with colors.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
The museum feels like heaven, feels like I could walk into the corner Pollack and the indiscriminate Monet, but there’s the characterization of Thomas Kane and you hate Mondays security guard.
The man with a beard followed me all the way from the Impressionist room to the modern films and when he finally made me lift my eyes from the canvas, his were turquoise and shook me awake.
I kept running up the stairs because I finally found out where they keep the hidden garden with the spiraled copper fountain and I laughed when I found my reflection in the Italian enamel.
You fell asleep with your head on my knees.
The weight of your skull was alarmingly heavy, so I played with your hair until you woke up. The moment of recognition on your face was so human I wanted to cry.
You scrunch up your eyebrows and touch your glasses trying to remember and a tiny echo of a perfect smile plays on your lips. You kiss me exactly and hum along.
You carried a contraband white umbrella into the gallery so we hid it under a desk. Your helmet was still blank so I gave you some concept art. Your languid loss of service as a multitude of goodbyes allow me to kiss your forehead right as your thoughts hit the pillow.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I understand why you tuck me into a warmer blanket before you leave for work in the morning with your heavy boots and your thermos and let me sleep while you shower and kiss me awake for breakfast with a cup of coffee in hand.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...
Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.
The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to Beaver-esq TV show.
Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.
I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...
Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.
Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ****** straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.
Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Eventually the moon loses its shine over time.
It dims and then fades; nature's greatest crime.
The van Gogh you desired turns dim, then black.
It's lost in the memories you won't get back.
The stars you wished on burned out in the sky.
Falling like tears that you refused to cry.
Splattered like a Pollack, then erased from sight,
Left alone to ponder your life in the night.
It may be darkest before the dawn.
But all of your dreams seem to be gone.
You're channeling your inner Picasso blue,
But dreaming of what else there is to do.
Your easel is life, your brush be your decision.
Will your masterpiece come from perfect precision?
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 3:23 AM UTC
The gaslights on and the bills are due. Leftover rice for dinner again. School in the morning. Dead-end job with too few hours in the evening. Drunk at night. Drunk at night. Awkward encounters with women I don't know. But good too. Lot's of laughs. Deep wine fueled discussions into the early morning. Music,Music,Music. Fall extravaganza, Jackson Pollack on the mountainsides. Things change. Snow and cold and wind and ice. Hide by my fire. Wait for Spring. Wait for Spring.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Thomas Edison invented the light bulb,
but he didn't invent Times Square; Hugh
Hefner invented the centerfold but not
the Internet; Walt Disney didn't invent
motion picture cartoons, but he ran w/ it;
Hell, Henry Ford didn't invent cars but u
would think that he invented car crashes
& exhaust; Van Gogh, Picasso, Pollack &
Basquiat didn't invent art; they broke it;
no one poet invented poetry; u wouldn't
know it from the way they go on about it;
have u ever heard a poet brag? it's kind of
pathetic; oh, they get signed to lucrative
contract occasionally; it's never enough;
ask Dylan Thomas & Wallace Stevens,
Bukowski & Eliot; poets have to pay rent
& prostitutes just like everybody else;
No, mankind has never really invented
anything; he's not even his own best idea
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
feeling her ego
bruising
around my neck
maybe there's a face
among our still young
Jackson Pollack loving
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
i
who would have imagined i´ d
have my very own computer
we had wooden pens in a class
of sixty..
two a third of a pint of milk every
day
(though i never made monitor..)
in the summer the milk could become
disappointingly tepid
and in the winter
the blue **** fed on the icing cream
thus rendering it unfit..
(though we drank it any hows..)
we all found that very charming
and did not begrudge their ingenious
ness..
(they who had no breakfast drank
sometimes three bottles..)
we had abacus or what ever the plural
is..
(i don´ t care..)
which if i am correct
was a system of mathematic
invented by the persians
or so..
but my favourite lesson
was propelling paint by
a straw..
(i was a budding pollack..)
the random and sub conscience..
and some old newspaper..oh yeah..
i used the same method years later
to wean myself off *****
opening up pleasure
that had been sleeping..
stimulating and fused..
now,i have a computer..!
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
Burlesque, Jazz, painting and literature
In the golden age of stripping
Four different golden ages converged---
The golden age of burlesque: Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Tempest Storm---the beats; Burroughs, Kerouac, Ginsberg---
The golden age of modern art; Pollack et al---Motherwell, etc.---the golden age of literature, the golden age
of music after swing’s drop dead ghosts,
hiding in fur dyed hot bebop---
the ghost of the roaring twenties, flappers’ ghosts
and beat girls smoking cigarettes,
casually ***** the dawn of the atomic age
came late---strippers come early,
dancing in like Flora Dora girls showing their garters---
Hot Hot Hot---the origin of swing in her sweaty leotard---
Martha Graham and St. Vincent Millay and others---
Stripping has come down to Dita from Lily,
U know Betty’s in the kitchen w/ her cookies---
Her: Barbara the nurse, the cookie dealer,
What’s-her-name---the woman who is still rich,
I can find her on Match.com where Mary-Ann Mobley found her British soul mate---U know her puppet lover, Miss America 1959 Miss History, June in Paris---her Barbie,
Troy of the broken boulders---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC