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Myria Mandell Nov 2012
A half-breed is what I am
Its a term that I use loosely
Proud to be described as such
The product of my parents who are
Of opposite backgrounds
I have been exposed to the best,
And worst, of both their worlds
I use this exposure to my advantage
My knowledge allows me to adapt

The Mandells taught me manners
With little white gloves
And a matching hat
Salad fork and dinner fork
Napkin on my lap
Eating shrimp and sipping milk
Baked brisket and baked goods
Spanish Cream and Charlotte Rousse
are variations of the same food

Peanut butter and jelly?
Ill have lamb chops, dad would say
Live-in maid and manicured lawn
Apple trees out back
Playing Cowboy with play guns
Country Club and Boy Scout Camp
Silver service, crystal glasses,
Matching furnishings
Copenhagen figurines
Everythings antique
Draw the drapes in the evening
Mandell & Dreyfus Clothing Store
Located right downtown
He was well fed and well clothed
Under a beautiful roof
Lacking only a sense of real family

The Sisneros taught me family
It was all they could afford
Hillbillies raised in a rural place
Ranching and rodeos and rundown rock houses
Ten of them in a two-room house,
No running water, with dirt floors,
Ceiling plastered with catalog pages with
Flower water used for paste
Playing Sears Catalog paper dolls
Grandma had too many mouths to feed
To worry about how good it tastes
She cooked a mass
She made it fast, a little burnt
Tortillas, Chile, and beans
Typical New Mexican cuisine
Chicken Necks,
Baked small intestine
Wound around left over fat,
Bull Testicles, Blood, Liver,
Dead flies trapped in scrambled eggs
Grandpa stabbing pies
Nothing wasted

Music, singing, and dance
Thats how they passed the time
Spending evenings entertaining
Grandpa singing, guitar playing
Classic Spanish and
Country songs from that time

And these two who spawned me
For I am their offspring
Came together when they were
Not much younger than me
And have been ever since

Their races and classes
Are what set them apart
As opposite as morning and afternoon
When I once thought I should choose
Which ethnicity and which religion
I should be relating to
They allowed me to form my own ideas
My own sense of spirituality
Who I am
Feeling what I feel
Believing what I please
These two people
They just let me be
Tom McCubbin Apr 2015
We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.

Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.

It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.

Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.
Sam Temple Nov 2015
the CIA will never make the money off ******
it made off *******
******* is for parties
dance clubs
good times in social settings
******, not so much
dark alleys with ***** dealers
selling black tar
to hopeless souls
Mexican mules with **** cavities
brimming
carrying kilos into Nogales
or maybe Calexico
bow legged and sweating
just 35 more trips and sweet little Consuela
can be an American
until Trump gets his wall –
article after article relaying tragedy
the poor, lost in addiction
desperately seeking a coping mechanism
something to stem the tide of despair
and general malaise
dead in their prime
over a twenty sack
and low self-worth….
many friends and family this same tale…
some folks heritage is in ranching,
thousands of head of cattle
driven across the open plains
grandfather to grandson,
uncle and cousin….
others,
political dynasty
papa congressman
and auntie judge
but not mine –
the crest of my tree looks like the biohazard symbol
as generations of drug addicts litter the undergrowth
their weight attempting to hold me
lock me into familial history
unfortunately or fortunately
my will, and recognition of god’s power
flowing within me, as it..
I am my own master
and free to fashion my branches
to whatever my liking desires –
undercover government agents line street corners
whispering illusionary tales of release
stories of becoming void of pain
parables relating a free mind
to personal freedom
through chemical alterations
I whisper back
“I bet my **** is delicious,
wanna taste?” –
Henry Dec 2021
Asphalt, steaming screams swear words
The offensive smell of pavement post downpour
I think I’d like life better if it rhymed
The chatter and clatter mad hatters me
Sleepless and hopeless with Romans
And their online roads and aqueducts
They slither and snake but there is no more wild in the west
Automated scarecrows with AR-15’s stand guard
O’er amber waves of grain
Eyes open for outlaws and injuns
Cattle ranching of the future
Feeding the world one cubic meter of methane at a time
12/4/21
Big fan of this one. First time I've posted in long time because I couldn't log into the site
County seat, of Mason County, Washington,
United States Westernmost city on Puget Sound
above ground sans tectonic plates Population 9,834
per 2010 census end result from biological mates
maintains commission form of government
drafted by mandates.

Shelton served by small steamboats
comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
logging, farming, dairying, ranching

& oyster cultivation for populace to eat
Simpson Timber Company mill on
Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
dominates landscape of the downtown area
as essential heart beat Shelton identifies
the "Christmas Tree Capital" sold by the ton.

47°12′49″N 123°6′22″W (47.213702, -123.106088)
coordinate bench mark
total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land
0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)

water laps with an occasional errant shark
in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony illegal
***** fined by the oceanic arc.

well nigh two decades in the past
this poet trekked across America
beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania  - where stockpile
of Amish goodies barely did last

and vanished in a gingerly snap
of fingers, which necessitated
sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
up while myself or other driver stole short nap

seduced to sleep by syncopated tires
as highway miles passed inching closer
to youngest sister via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington indigenous
iconic statue cast.

Ronald Strickland a fine companion
Boone storyteller to boot about my age then
(five decades plus two), him trying to rake
in loot by writing about his travels, yet
unpretentious and no square at root

perhaps one day, I will surprise him
with a call and give him a toot
though on might deign to bellow
while atop the snow capped Mount Rainier

Taking in the august magic crystalline beauty
all year round:
 
whereat snowfall etches silhouette once dusk shed daylight
sketching in natural bas relief ascension from horizon
to heavenly height albedo effect from glistening snow light
luminescence transforming night into blinding sight
from pure flakes of incandescent white.
voyager Jul 2017
I shouldn't face the wrath
Should I apologise,
For null offence
Whom am I
Should I beg for pardon
Am not a human by ***?

Captives of our own identity
By the rules of land  we abide
And cling to the terms
We slither in servitude
Yet we hail our master

By the book we're hooked
We try to stampede for a coup for deliverance
But still I need an assurance
To revive our significance
By hook or crook
Its a wild mammoth thought

Moaning,thatching,fetching, ranching,soothing is our role
Still we'll still like steel on steel
taylor Dec 2019
that ramshackled wax house situated in the lonely ‘Sticks,
where flocks of muddle-minded sheep would whimper,
this obscure grove you attempted escaping to for it only to retreat infinitely further,
birds shrill that knee-knocking prayers were not to heal your sickness,
leaden dirt kicked up in the driveway by his stuttering pick-up truck,
    his hefty-booted footsteps cracking warnings,
two folks roosting there,
    they skimp along on scanty paychecks,
    when’s the last time you spruced up?
hushed deeds done behind doors, back porches, piddling sheep ranching, 9-to-5 waitressing,
a domestic trophy, coaxing you to product with a simper or an act on her knees,
a bride of winsome nineteen
from a limited nuclear family yet disowned as an unfaithful *****  for hobnobbing with the riff raff,
traded names to be a ‘Cherry’, unbecoming displays of skin, hootin’-hollerin’, shake her fist to the Heavens and toss her mane, sneering and bad-mouthing, rebellious attitudes of subsisting on the ‘wild’ aspect of life,
did you think you could your persist youthful life negligently forever?
psychotically ‘steadfast’ to her brutish man,
RIDE OR DIE!                    hard whiskey, cigarettes, and phone calls,
he narrates her stories, she sings delusioned hymns,
their day comprising of blackberry kisses and black coffee grippings,
of bitten bottom lips and benign bruises,
    violet caressing her inner thighs, unbuckled passion to the eye,
                        pose on his knee, crooked grins
dancing for him in wiry linen lingeries, to strut her lithe yielding legs,
                          straddle her in-between those hush sheets,
                                    one hot breath,
does he flinch when she first handles him unexpectedly? does he gaze into distances far and mumbles abstractedly?
       “No one will love you like I do.”
    spoiled excess wool in wicker baskets,
                         does she stash a packed suitcase beneath the bed?
                         red lipstick,
                                        polished pistol,
                                       hotdishes,
to you, the lamb of which she stalked,
    what transfixed you? was it her beggar puppy eyes or the muscled haunches? some boyish fantasy for a mature woman who you observed sunbathing on her lawnside?
                he had that lean meat where his sighings exhibiting his ribs,
                that fond, innocent sense desiring a mother-figure,
you met her under the hollowing light of the street lamp,
what meager knowledge of each other did they know? she cannot fulfill her promise to whisk you away to coasts free,
        soaking the laid-towels in fields, a rhythmic guidance for the inexperienced,
did she think of him instead, preferred? and a warm bed?                                         preoccupied,
caught! in the act of entanglement,
did they hear the din? his baleful bark? your blanched bleat?
springing in defense, muddied soles as tangible sins,
his flash-fire eyes, pulsing veins with an envious rage,
a preaching of her ****, his fractured heart, love so sacred one can NEVER betray the boundaries,
did he clench his hands around her throat? oh!
his demands that he pronounced! **** you with the pistol he brandished zealously,
MANDATORY!
          Moon as my witness,
                            who was your Savior in that moment? where was your merited divine intervention?
but slow of action, faint of heart, grasping her hands he forced the weapon, he plyed her finger to pull the trigger,
             the lamb’s final shallow breath, the hounds smacking their ****** gums,
one cold breath,
The snow must have felt blistering,
how frightened she became, alter her standpoint,
but she could flee as she thirsted! the yank! the ******! to the ground,
                    the punishing baseball bat to ******* her legs,
dousing, saltish tears, rouge lips gasping, sporadically whimpering between bitter laughter,
his hand on her neck skimming gradually, gracefully, between her blades, warm,
gingerly cradling her, splintering voice, apologies like flurries,
            that day summer’s day when they first married in front of the grove,
         she remembers her billowing linen dress, the way they waltzed in lush grass,
                                would the world chasm off beyond?
        he would kiss her again in precisely the same manner as once before,
fall desperately in love with him, firm, truely steadfast, unpacking her suitcase,  
mosey back towards that lit house of wax, that far-flung street lamp and the dispersed sheep,
“Take me home.”        
                                “No one will love you like I do.”
(do enjoy frolicking gently imaginatively)

County seat, of Mason County,
   Washington, United States
westernmost city on Puget Sound
   above ground sans tectonic plates

population 9,834 per 2010 census
   end result from biological mates
maintains commission form
   of government drafted by mandates.

Shelton served by small steamboats
   comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
   Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
   logging, farming, dairying, ranching
   & oyster cultivation for populace to eat

Simpson Timber Company mill
   on Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
   dominates landscape of the down
   town area as essential heart beat
Shelton identifies the "Christmas
   Tree Capital" sold by the ton.

47°12′49″N 123°6′22″W (47.213702,
   -123.106088) coordinate bench mark
   total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
   of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land

0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)
   water laps with an occasional errant shark
   in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony
   illegal ***** fined by the oceanic narc.

well nigh two and a half decades in the past
   this poet trekked across America
   beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania  - where stockpile
   of Amish goodies barely did last
   and vanished in a gingerly snap

of fingers, which necessitated
   sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
   up while myself or the other
   driver stole a short nap
seduced to sleep by syncopated tires

   as highway miles passed
   inching closer to youngest sister
   via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington
   indigenous iconic statue cast.

Ronald Strickland a fine companion
(posted bulletin for traveling fine companion
at Hostelling International - Chamounix Falls Mansion
West Fairmount Park),

   and boone story teller to boot
about my age (now five decades plus nine)
   then trying to rake in some loot
by writing about his travels,

   yet unpretentious and not able
   to square an Apple pi circle
   nor, calculate square a root
perhaps one day, I will surprise him
   with a call and give him a toot.
Gulishta Nov 2017
Some says it's a journey,
Some says it's an experience.
I say it's a roller coastar.
The exhilaration of going up,
The calmness of coming down.
The pulsing of excitement,
The serenity of the quiet.
The tears of heartbreak.
And the tears of joy.
The butterflies of falling in love.
The gut ranching feeling of loosing someone.
The togetherness of family.
The companionship of the friendship.
The celebrations of a new life.
The funerals and goodbyes.
The beauty of mother nature.
And the ugly side of humans.
The innocence of a child.
The aqua and wild life.
It's really hard to contain it in just few lines.
Jonathan Foreman, Daily Mail (London), August 18, 2013
The 16-year-old girl’s once-beautiful face was grotesque.
She had been disfigured beyond all recognition in the 18 months she had been held captive by the Comanche Indians.
Now, she was being offered back to the Texan authorities by Indian chiefs as part of a peace negotiation.
To gasps of horror from the watching crowds, the Indians presented her at the Council House in the ranching town of San Antonio in 1840, the year Queen Victoria married Prince Albert.
‘Her head, arms and face were full of bruises and sores,’ wrote one witness, Mary Maverick. ‘And her nose was actually burnt off to the bone. Both nostrils were wide open and denuded of flesh.’
Once handed over, Matilda Lockhart broke down as she described the horrors she had endured—the ****, the relentless ****** humiliation and the way Comanche squaws had tortured her with fire. It wasn’t just her nose, her thin body was hideously scarred all over with burns.
When she mentioned she thought there were 15 other white captives at the Indians’ camp, all of them being subjected to a similar fate, the Texan lawmakers and officials said they were detaining the Comanche chiefs while they rescued the others.
It was a decision that prompted one of the most brutal slaughters in the history of the Wild West—and showed just how bloodthirsty the Comanche could be in revenge.
S C Gwynne, author of Empire Of The Summer Moon about the rise and fall of the Comanche, says simply: ‘No tribe in the history of the Spanish, French, Mexican, Texan, and American occupations of this land had ever caused so much havoc and death. None was even a close second.’
He refers to the ‘demonic immorality’ of Comanche attacks on white settlers, the way in which torture, killings and gang-rapes were routine. ‘The logic of Comanche raids was straightforward,’ he explains.
‘All the men were killed, and any men who were captured alive were tortured; the captive women were gang *****. Babies were invariably killed.’
Not that you would know this from the new Lone Ranger movie, starring Johnny Depp as the Indian Tonto.
For reasons best know to themselves, the film-makers have changed Tonto’s tribe to Comanche—in the original TV version, he was a member of the comparatively peace-loving Potowatomi tribe.
And yet he and his fellow native Americans are presented in the film as saintly victims of a Old West where it is the white settlers—the men who built America—who represent nothing but exploitation, brutality, environmental destruction and genocide.
Depp has said he wanted to play Tonto in order to portray Native Americans in a more sympathetic light. But the Comanche never showed sympathy themselves.
When that Indian delegation to San Antonio realised they were to be detained, they tried to fight their way out with bows and arrows and knives—killing any Texan they could get at. In turn, Texan soldiers opened fire, slaughtering 35 Comanche, injuring many more and taking 29 prisoner.
But the Comanche tribe’s furious response knew no bounds. When the Texans suggested they swap the Comanche prisoners for their captives, the Indians tortured every one of those captives to death instead.
‘One by one, the children and young women were pegged out naked beside the camp fire,’ according to a contemporary account. ‘They were skinned, sliced, and horribly mutilated, and finally burned alive by vengeful women determined to wring the last shriek and convulsion from their agonised bodies. Matilda Lockhart’s six-year-old sister was among these unfortunates who died screaming under the high plains moon.’
Not only were the Comanche specialists in torture, they were also the most ferocious and successful warriors—indeed, they become known as ‘Lords of the Plains’.
They were as imperialist and genocidal as the white settlers who eventually vanquished them.
When they first migrated to the great plains of the American South in the late 18th century from the Rocky Mountains, not only did they achieve dominance over the tribes there, they almost exterminated the Apaches, among the greatest horse warriors in the world.
The key to the Comanche’s brutal success was that they adapted to the horse even more skilfully than the Apaches.
There were no horses at all in the Americas until the Spanish conquerors brought them. And the Comanche were a small, relatively primitive tribe roaming the area that is now Wyoming and Montana, until around 1700, when a migration southwards introduced them to escaped Spanish mustangs from Mexico.
The first Indians to take up the horse, they had an aptitude for horsemanship akin to that of Genghis Khan’s Mongols. Combined with their remarkable ferocity, this enabled them to dominate more territory than any other Indian tribe: what the Spanish called Comancheria spread over at least 250,000 miles.
They terrorised Mexico and brought the expansion of Spanish colonisation of America to a halt. They stole horses to ride and cattle to sell, often in return for firearms.
Other livestock they slaughtered along with babies and the elderly (older women were usually ***** before being killed), leaving what one Mexican called ‘a thousand deserts’. When their warriors were killed they felt honour-bound to exact a revenge that involved torture and death.
Settlers in Texas were utterly terrified of the Comanche, who would travel almost a thousand miles to slaughter a single white family.
The historian T R Fehrenbach, author of Comanche: The History Of A People, tells of a raid on an early settler family called the Parkers, who with other families had set up a stockade known as Fort Parker. In 1836, 100 mounted Comanche warriors appeared outside the fort’s walls, one of them waving a white flag to trick the Parkers.
‘Benjamin Parker went outside the gate to parley with the Comanche,’ he says. ‘The people inside the fort saw the riders suddenly surround him and drive their lances into him. Then with loud whoops, mounted warriors dashed for the gate. Silas Parker was cut down before he could bar their entry; horsemen poured inside the walls.’
Survivors described the slaughter: ‘The two Frosts, father and son, died in front of the women; Elder John Parker, his wife ‘Granny’ and others tried to flee. The warriors scattered and rode them down.
‘John Parker was pinned to the ground, he was scalped and his genitals ripped off. Then he was killed. Granny Parker was stripped and fixed to the earth with a lance driven through her flesh. Several warriors ***** her while she screamed.
‘Silas Parker’s wife Lucy fled through the gate with her four small children. But the Comanche overtook them near the river. They threw her and the four children over their horses to take them as captives.’
So intimidating was Comanche cruelty, almost all raids by Indians were blamed on them. Texans, Mexicans and other Indians living in the region all developed a particular dread of the full moon—still known as a ‘Comanche Moon’ in Texas—because that was when the Comanche came for cattle, horses and captives.
They were infamous for their inventive tortures, and women were usually in charge of the torture process.
The Comanche roasted captive American and Mexican soldiers to death over open fires. Others were castrated and scalped while alive. The most agonising Comanche tortures included burying captives up to the chin and cutting off their eyelids so their eyes were seared by the burning sun before they starved to death.
Contemporary accounts also describe them staking out male captives spread-eagled and naked over a red-ant bed. Sometimes this was done after excising the victim’s private parts, putting them in his mouth and then sewing his lips together.
One band sewed up captives in untanned leather and left them out in the sun. The green rawhide would slowly shrink and squeeze the prisoner to death.
T R Fehrenbach quotes a Spanish account that has Comanche torturing Tonkawa Indian captives by burning their hands and feet until the nerves in them were destroyed, then amputating these extremities and starting the fire treatment again on the fresh wounds. Scalped alive, the Tonkawas had their tongues torn out to stop the screaming.
The Comanche always fought to the death, because they expected to be treated like their captives. Babies were almost invariably killed in raids, though it should be said that soldiers and settlers were likely to ****** Comanche women and children if they came upon them.
Comanche boys—including captives—were raised to be warriors and had to endure ****** rites of passage. Women often fought alongside the men.
It’s possible the viciousness of the Comanche was in part a by-product of their violent encounters with notoriously cruel Spanish colonists and then with Mexican bandits and soldiers.
But a more persuasive theory is that the Comanche’s lack of central leadership prompted much of their cruelty. The Comanche bands were loose associations of warrior-raiders, like a confederation of small street gangs.
In every society, teenage and twenty-something youths are the most violent, and even if they had wanted to, Comanche tribal chiefs had no way of stopping their young men from raiding.
But the Comanche found their match with the Texas Rangers. Brilliantly portrayed in the Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove books, the Rangers began to be recruited in 1823, specifically to fight the Comanche and their allies. They were a tough guerilla force, as merciless as their Comanche opponents.
They also respected them. As one of McMurtry’s Ranger characters wryly tells a man who claims to have seen a thousand-strong band of Comanche: ‘If there’d ever been a thousand Comanche in a band they’d have taken Washington DC.”
The Texas Rangers often fared badly against their enemy until they learned how to fight like them, and until they were given the new Colt revolver.
During the Civil War, when the Rangers left to fight for the Confederacy, the Comanche rolled back the American frontier and white settlements by 100 miles.
Even after the Rangers came back and the U.S. Army joined the campaigns against Comanche raiders, Texas lost an average of 200 settlers a year until the Red River War of 1874, where the full might of the Army—and the destruction of great buffalo herds on which they depended—ended Commanche depredations.
Interestingly the Comanche, though hostile to all competing tribes and people they came across, had no sense of race. They supplemented their numbers with young American or Mexican captives, who could become full-fledged members of the tribe if they had warrior potential and could survive initiation rites.
Weaker captives might be sold to Mexican traders as slaves, but more often were slaughtered. But despite the cruelty, some of the young captives who were subsequently ransomed found themselves unable to adapt to settled ‘civilised life and ran away to rejoin their brothers.
One of the great chiefs, Quanah, was the son of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker. His father was killed in a raid by Texas Rangers that resulted in her being rescued from the tribe. She never adjusted to life back in civilisation and starved herself to death.
Quanah surrendered to the Army in 1874. He adapted well to life in a reservation, and indeed the Comanche, rather amazingly, become one of the most economically successful and best assimilated tribes.
As a result, the main Comanche reservation was closed in 1901, and Comanche soldiers served in the U.S. Army with distinction in the World Wars. Even today they are among the most prosperous native Americans, with a reputation for education.
By casting the cruelest, most aggressive tribe of Indians as mere saps and victims of oppression, Johnny Depp’s Lone Ranger perpetuates the patronising and ignorant cartoon of the ‘noble savage’.
Not only is it a travesty of the truth, it does no favours to the Indians Depp is so keen to support.
Norbert Tasev May 2020
In my happy Marsyas youth - since I am not much more hairless now, Love existed only as mutual fear and dread! Selfish love was Judas kiss Nothing else! The secret rupture lurked in his mouths, and in the moments he offered, the tongue remained silent so that he could mow down his relentless theses! The Eye blew tears, and the fear of the house rooted in our feet,

that in a fraction of a minute we became traitors to the sure Universe - and we didn't regret it, because it was good: We did the first ****** then! The silence whispered secrets over our heads: Our punishment is returned as stigma wounds by the eternity of our day! And where the wooden bridges of the heart were scorched by the compromising betrayal, there were vultures ranching! And because fragile existence has now begun to destroy the remaining stumps of the heart - all stateless

rehearsal: Momentary immortality ended sooner with the Act; We let ourselves be defeated: We cannot control our human brains, our complex and upset emotions. And that Mercy and grace are truly Human-hearted? Doubt and hopelessness endlessly carry out Prometheus' distrusts: There is no and cannot be a sure point in Life - one cannot know the laws of invisible decisions. It only vegetates with its life among those who exist meaningfully!

- In the end, we get out, - this time surely from Existence, that we did not dare in the eyes of the cathedral instead of the truth of our words; Whine confessions: Your lack is chasing suicide for sure, with stubborn stupidity about how much I love you! - I finally stayed what I was:

 Eighty-five percent of his body is a hairy-bodied forest dweller, to whom Being has immortally given a single nymph look, and who, because he had a slightly unfavorable physique, could only message in poems instead of the War of Kisses!

— The End —