"skewer" poems
homage to Wallace Stevens
I - My Focus pistoned up the rise
and all at once, the Rockies -
silhouettes against the western skies.
II - On the road to Boulder
a pleated ridge crawls north
like a blue whale bound for the open sea.
III - Appalachia's intoxicating verdure
never fails to induce in us
a certain mellowing of the spirit.
IV - You 'conquered' my North Face, did you?
Why, I should skewer your arrogant ***
like a holiday lamb culled for the sacrifice.
V - Lewis and Clark looked west
surveying the Bitterroots' frigid expanse.
Farewell Northwest Passage!
VI - Pueblos stranded on Enchanted Mesa -
their rock stairs crumbled to the valley floor.
Should they dive to their death or starve?
VII –Touristas at Big Bend Park
wonder at its pastel window -
its romantic haze a toxic gift
from stacks across the Rio Grande.
VIII – The once mighty Ozarks humbled by age,
dwarfed by the youthful Rockies.
Listen up, youngsters, your time will come!
IX – We de-bussed to seize the dolomites
with our hyper-kinetic shutters.
Pausing for a draught of Italian air,
I felt the whack of an Alpine snowball.
X - Before Oregon's crater had its lake,
the mountain scorched the village below.
Today its azure waters preach only serenity.
XI – Looking down from Shissler peak
to the golden meadow below
where the elk herd calmly grazes.
XII – Do mists veil the Blue Ridge Mountains
or are there really no mountains at all -
only clouds decked out in mountain attire?
XIII – They say that peaks more steep than Everest
soar up from the ocean floor.
Who will scale their sunken heights?
May 28, 2010 – Boulder Colorado
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
I closed that door.
Barred and barricaded it,
Left a bomb inside,
I didn’t wait to know it had
Set off.
I haven’t stopped stopping,
Staring through the small windows,
Everything blinded; myself folded.
A tornado streaming through my past,
This gush sets me free, flying uncontrollably
Somewhere else.
The more I fall, the more I find
the shards of that broken world.
I let them skewer my mind,
imagining them mended back together.
I closed that door.
Yet here I stand its way,
a silhouette.
Neither here nor there.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 6:53 AM UTC
Between the din of dusk and dawn
Runs Sleepy Pillow Lane,
Where gators guard the Gates of Thorn
And cryptid creatures reign.
They glide across the midnight sky
Like grime in sanguine sewers;
White canines long and talons drawn
Spike rodents on a skewer.
Gray giants glare from full-moon eyes,
A ghastly ghoulish spell;
Sweet sleepers swell the wells of Nile
While centaurs swing the bell.
Horned vipers writhe into your fears
Like scythes through strangled weeds;
And severed heads of angel hair
From shouldered stumps relieved.
A putrid pile of newly-deads
Awaits the devil's scorn;
And legless maggots gorge in beds
From which the fly is born.
Hungry hyenas howl in packs
While circling carrions crow;
And chunks of flesh are torn from backs
Cracking bones bare below.
Scavengers feast on man and beast,
No rotting limb is spared;
From hanging tongues to napping feet
Blood splatters everywhere.
Brimstone and thunder fill the air
With hail presaging doom;
Ten toothless witches shriek and cheer
As zombies creep from tombs.
Masked mummies stalk with stakes and stones
In search of sleeping heads;
They crave the skulls and living bones
Of bodies slumped in bed.
Through R.E.M. you toss and turn
And roll on restless wheels;
Alas Red Rooster blows his horn
To end your grim ordeal....
~ P
(January, 2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Fat people canes
They buckle and break
Fat people canes
They smell faintly of steak
Fat people canes
Always arched
Fat people canes
Holding up the heavily starched
Fat people canes
Struggle down the street
Fat people canes
An aid for battered feet
Fat people canes
Support poorly distributed weight
Fat people canes
Caught within a sewer grate
Fat people canes
Can't handle the load
Fat people canes
Easing movements slowed
Fat people canes
Used to skewer crumbs
Fat people canes
Used to butter buns
Fat people canes
Prop for a hefty handicap
Fat people canes
Can't fit within a taxi-cab
Fat people canes
Deserve a wage
Fat people canes
Traded in for a Rascal with age
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
There's a form of rodent
In Latin form "quill pig".
He isn't very fast.
He isn't very big.
But be very cautious
If you encounter one of these.
They are very nasty,
Mean, to say the least.
They bristle up and like cacti,
They have a vicious will...
You don't need to touch one to be
Nailed with a quill.
They will flick their tail at you
To let their venom fly,
So give this beast.a lot of room
When you see him going by.
People who are insecure
Will be like them so watch out!
You don't want to be around
When they start to pout...
Their quill will rend and skewer.
The quill/ pen has its art.
It will send a poison pen
Straight into the heart.
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 2/12/2015
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
the invisible hand is in my pocket
pilfering everything
and there's nothing i can do
to stop it from robbing me blind
it does not guide it only destroys
personal expression under the
whims of an outmoded model of economics
capitalism
a philosophy that subscribes
to the metaphysical conclusion
that a spiritual malady
plagues every human heart
a harsh chorus that rings like a melody
of triumph in the multi-million dollar
mansions of the 1%
convinced we're born selfish
it seeks to reward us for our own malpractice
an edict predicated on social darwinism
that forestalls the possibility of future charity
as it drowns in the throes
of misanthropy and butchers any hope
of philanthropic community or basic humanity
to vanquish our more maleficent impulses
relegated to paying taxes
to ensure the illusion of security
while our money finances endless
war and police brutality rather than
healthcare or education
they know if they keep us sick and dumb
they can get away with ******
if the population shirks in horror
from the looming specter of terrorism
they can justify ubiquitous surveillance
that robs us of our right to
self-determination but
people should not be afraid of their governments
governments should be afraid of their people
they say we can't be trusted
that this is for our own good
but i'll call their bluff that
bull on Wall St. is full of ****
and like a matador i'll entice it to
lower its horns and charge
when itsjust a hairsbreadth away
i'll turn to one side and let it skewer
the slave-driver raising his whip behind me
that same skulking shadow that turns
veterans into homeless wanderers begging
for loose change in Central Park
a pale horse haunting the aspirations
of college students it
leaves the poor and
oppressed shivering after dark and
overburdens broken backs
god doesn't hold up the world
like Atlas we shoulder the globe
now watch us shift the weight
brought down by the people you tried to suppress
this is not some petty expression of vengeance
but the rallying cry of a dream deferred
exploding out to meet your injustice
mark my words
we're taking over the world
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
He calls himself Dr Swalik
Take a long sharp skewer
Pierce the body in numerous places
But please, please do not pierce any vital organs
Place said scammer in a pre heated oven
100 degrees or gas Mark 4
When the agonized screams have reached their loudest
Reduce the heat
Baste liberally with honey and olive oil
Add chopped herbs of your choice
Re baste the scammer and turn up the heat
Gas Mark 7 would be about right
When the skin is crisp and golden brown
Serve up the scammer on a wooden platter
Serve with buttered new potatoes
And **** apple sauce
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
She was as crazy as a Norse horse
with a wild bleached mane and madeyes,
always willin to do anythin for ya
with a ''come on then''
her moods would drive you insane,
wrenching compassion and anger from your heart in equal parts,
spewing venom when talking of her ma,
it would hurt to listen, yet it was easy to see this sulphuric froth
as just rage being rage.
In her kitchen she concocted over spilling potions
banana and coconut breads, her time was your time,
her table always spread, with baskets and jars,
Valerian by the bottle she sculled to help sleep,
baskets with moss and golf ***** Scottish tat in a heap
and beliefs, worn and threadbare like the carpets
in her tiny, orange doored flat
with a gerbil called ***** and a hamster called pat,
and dear wee Jamie who spouted that Halloween mantra ''crap bat''
we filled and hung balloons with sweets and let the kids skewer
the hell out of them, it rained chocolate in the corridor for weeks,
and that is what I loved about her madness,
is that it dived and it did, and it speaked
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 7:06 PM UTC
Blowing smoke into the night
inhaled from a mini pipe
twisted with colors
I did not choose
My wispy gaze into rain
summons from the gone past pains
the deepest red hurt
faded, cloudy
and grey
What lost I no longer remember in color doubles affect in its audible cracks
Following in footsteps wherever intuition leads. Happily? Misery? In madness and smiling
What lost no longer hangs over in color but lives always in minute hands
I chose
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
The Cataclysmic Frog!
Knows he wants to die.
Slip from his lily pad.
No-one knows why.
All he seeks is misery.
He’d sooner end up dead.
A frog of many colours with toxins in his skin.
To tell the truth in this sorry tale
Which is maybe merely a superficial jest.
Secrets told and secrets sold.
Only shows an honoured few.
He is gifted.
Blessed with awesome style.
Offers trips,
Accompany him on his lily pad,
The cataclysmic frog, he’s not bad.
Subtlety strokes.
Most of his gifts he keeps hidden away.
Denies he has them.
He’s crying inside.
Cowering in fears’ depths.
All love concealed.
The frog, he knows these feelings exists.
Finds them hidden under well- worn pebbles.
Eroded by the tide.
Pebbles round and shiny.
Clear and bright, occasionally catch sunlight.
Provoking memories, still fresh.
A fear of fingers snatching him, causing searing pain inside.
In his heart feels wickedness as stabbing needles burn again.
The sky drips with vermilion blood tears.
As in sadness, he denies.
Believes he can’t see her in front of his eyes.
Dries out while he dies.
Just as he expires before he flies.
Such a shame.
He knows this vision was predicted.
Together they shall beat a retreat.
Poor dying frog stuck upon a skewer.
Finding excuses to give to his muses.
The sad cataclysmic frog, once again he’s blinded.
As his true love he denied.
Just see what he loses!
Olivia Kent 2013
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
As the cobra falters before it doth strike I recoil away from thee, awaiting my moment to ricochet forward and make my **** Such false security aids my real course and weakens my adversary’s resolve and as you happily take full advantage of this ill advised programme you can rely that your mistake is now my gain. As you plunge, I parry and as your momentum fades mine increases in velocity until my blade doth find its target.
This sword of mine, made of finest worked, metal, slides easily through your personage. Flesh, muscle, even bone presents a none problem for this well forged tool. Sharpened point now immersed so deeply through your core that it conveys me too close to this pierced torso. I am spattered by such spurts of blood and sickened by another’s foul breath.
We gaze for a moment, you in the horror and pain of defeat and myself in the satisfaction of victory. You remain upright only through the skewer I have delivered and it is at my decree that you do so. As I withdraw my being the blade extracts itself and it is only then that you are allowed to descend to your indubitable destination.
As crumpled legs can no longer hold the weight of thee I use the momentum of this blades removal to pirouette my body. The spin that culminates with such a strike, a laceration so immense that the removal of your skull is no more than a mere triviality. Your destination is now complete. This is the legitimate place for a lesser man and the norm for a superior warrior than thee.
Come take this gift dear Lucifer, I make a present to you of death's cadaver, it lies here before me at this very moment and it is yours. A donation from one great warrior to another. It seems that I fill such a bottomless pit with unworthy adversary. They suppose honour holds them to stand before such a skilled combatant but their is no morality for lesser men to try. There is no such thing as a honourable fool.
I seek he that will try my skills, he that will take me to the brink of death with more than a single strike. For this person I will gladly redeem as a worthy opponent, for he, I will present my respect in more than a just a mere bow. Such adversary should he become victorious will possess a legacy that will draw him to the status of majesty. I would gladly fall to this superior being and as such, this would be a most fitting and virtuous death.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
She told my dad he was “kind of an *******
the first time we had dinner with him,
at this place called The Pear Room
but she was disappointed that there were not only
no pear decorations, but that there was not a single dish
with a pear included. She ordered a dry martini
with three olives on a skewer,
but she never took one sip. She gulped.
She came at me like an avalanche in jean mini skirt.
I tried to run ahead of her, but she picked up speed
and tossed me right into her path with scratch marks
on my back to prove it. You’d never know it
by the way she twirls her hair into a bun at the top of her head
just to take her make-up off, how she laughs
instead of getting ****** or how she sometimes
orders her dessert before her meal, but she’s just a girl
who puts on her toughness in the morning like a slip.
She folds
her dollar bills into fourths before she puts them in her wallet,
and she strings herself like paper chains
against the sun every day as she drives to a job she hates.
She listens to Miles Davis on her record player,
asks me to dance at half past eleven on nights I need to sleep,
but I get up anyway. I pour us both a glass of Coke
and try to capture the reflection she doesn’t see of herself,
mirror it in my eyes, just so she knows that she
is not just another item on the menu.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
As stars reflect the knowledge of the sacred,
The boiling seas of the cosmos churn acrid.
Upon the nurturance of Venus' passionate quivering calls exclaimed,
The essence of God's wrath so lovingly made tame.
As the chariots of love, upon the courtships of epic virtue, possess,
Our goddess sisters, import the specialty of rule, for which the governs obsess.
As Boreas' trumpet sounds a euphoric ecstatic bliss,
Rosicrucian passion bells hither, to a faint swaying and hiss.
As the murmuring embers of the divine, left receded,
Hour of humanities past, no time of present, so subtley defeated.
As upon death, a mummy spreads its rein,
Crucibles of knowledge, all for not, in vain.
The seduction of fertility and the mysteries left to relish,
Though made bitter upon showers of mourn, to embellish.
The disillusionment of our fathers’ petty immortal opportunity made solemn,
The wisest of men, why, amongst the true, made golem.
Take precedence, then and now, when upon your throne of pride,
As the winds of wrath call upon, our savior’s passion tried.
In due notion a precedence of time, without respect,
A fulfillment of God's love, our souls to resurrect.
As dragons drew the chariots of night with profound duration,
A coward’s sword in hand, his skewer's elation.
As stars reflect the knowledge of the sacred,
Humanities, why… derision for dole, left shaken.
As prophets emit, as seen thus…
When stars do let fall the Sun,
Pray thee, a heavenly Venus.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
Some poets make lousy friends
they'll eventually skewer you with their poison pen
their insulting writ of relentless nasty venom
like some twisted performance-art-form
naked foist of un-allayed aggression
the dilettante's vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife
the very nature of chumminess segues into adversity
a quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence
so affixed are poets to the unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face
a horrendous starkness of civility
justified by a requisite needy urgency of expedience
contemptuousness brought on by an anxious desire to blow you off -ASAP
they'll turn on you like a feral cat
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Right now I want to cut myself,
deep.
I'd like to drop lit,
wooden kitchen matches
onto my willing abdomen
and watch
my flesh melt
away.
Something has to give.
Bind me to an iron cross
and flay my skin.
Strike my joints
with a metal rod
until I am
completely broken.
This cannot last.
I'd like to grab
hold of the flesh
under my jaw
and rip my ugly face
off of my ugly head.
I want to pound nails
into my knees,
chew on thumb tacks,
skewer my eyes
with toothpicks.
I spent an hour
scraping calloused feet
and toes when I could
have cut them off
with a pruner
and saved some time.
I'd like to do these
things, but I am
not a *********
I am no victim.
I am no martyr.
I am not so deep
in The Nothing.
I would rather
perform these acts
upon you.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
The shadows of the distant past
skewer across the expression of her face.
Scars of passionate darkness
are reminded every turn she makes towards the light.
As small as she feels she calls out for help
silently hoping faith can over come the fear.
But the fear is strong and deep inside her bones
sinking ever deeper beyond comprehension.
Char coals and the fires of hate for oneself
are burning inside her sanctuary.
There are holes in her safety net
and no one speaks her language,
so the calls will never be heard.
And now as she feared in the end she drowned
in her own hatred left breathless
to die inside her own self worth.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Skewer my body over the open flame. Rub the coals on my skin.
I will let you.
I will let you to prove that I am human too.
Rake the charred flesh from my bones to reveal that they are broken.
I told you so.
I told you so many times that the hypocrisy is natural. Flowing in our human hearts. Not the spirit. Not the loom. Not the quest of which was given to whom?
You may ask me.
You may ask me who; and I would tell you, "Me and You".
And the quest of which is spoken is to be human too.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
I was running full speed
with hands a-blur
Legs moved at warp speed
but I couldn't be sure
That my mind kept the same speed
as initially procured
Subtle hints in their voiced word speed
that my lungs endure
At the pace of vocal cords and their speed
to a heart that's pure
While I raced at the pace in the fast lane at full speed
I was ignorant for sure
To the signs of the fissures that form when spirits break at this speed
too small to see in this blur
So I raced for the carrot hung at the end of this rope, where we move at break neck speed
Like a pawn on a skewer
Where I was lead to believe, but it's hard to be certain when you're moving at this speed
Where's the truth on the lure
On the line of lies that they casted out of the reel of hope where the victims speed
As my face shows the fissure
From the hits I have taken by the promise of the shelter of a slower speed
Realized faith in the sewer
I slow enough to read the signs missed at my blistering speed
A shock to be sure
Led by misguided voice that speaks at light speed
from the mouths of the cur
NO U-Turn, maintain current speed
but there is no future
And as I started to lower the speed
their words were fewer
Traveling at old fool speed
I was now sure
That life's speed
was nothing but manure
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
St Paddy is a devil
with a cruel taste for beer,
last night he beat me on my head
until my vision disappeared.
My eyes are feeling blurry
and my head is a balloon,
I dont know if I'll make it
until this afternoon.
My mouth tastes like a harbour *****
and my breath smells like a sewer
my brain cells are on strike
and my throat is like a skewer.
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 12:39 AM UTC
...and going to state...action.
The jade edge of the writing compartment showed luminescent in the venetian-split rays of an afternoon sun.
Pillar Vas-Gurta gestured a heavy mop like hand towards the cigar case.
Take as many as you like, he mouthed. But everything suspicious
caused in me an urgent decline. You are always too generous Pillar,
I uttered with feigned diplomacy; the dense undertow carrying off the forfeit.
Why are the Arm-ericans not displaying a greater sense of co-operation,
Pillar questioned the telephone in thick Polish, and to me the single nod of a telephone rung off, his reply was as good as a grunt.
As he finished the call; Ah now, come sit young Valentin, if you’ll none of my Cubans come sit and sip Cognac with me at least, spend a moment with an excellent mint.
Untroubled by the American question, Pillar, eyes like hurricanes, hair curled on his forhead with the oil of a whistle, teeth forged, as if by a village blacksmith, patient and keen to devour conversation, was not a man to be declined twice in one afternoon.
Pillar was a man who’s stubble grew as he considered each of his thoughts: and the skewer fed silence that connected fear with steel.
I sense Valentin you are withholding something, are you troubled, rumbled the Polish border, is the Cuban smoke a little too dense for your sensibilities, My friend, my friend you are troubled, so tell me.
Please. I answered for the cognac. And for the writing compartment.
I see it is from Gabriella. His flash, dense and swift as a school of minnows turning their escape into silver, caught me unaware; the weight in my question.
He loves this woman. Here it is then. Even Pillar is vulnerable.
You do not answer Valentin. No I’m sorry, I mumbled. Something troubles me. Please tell me Pillar, why am I here, why have you called me.
Ah the question that cuts to chase the rabbit. As you say. Or something like that, no. You are here Valentin because I like you. You may think, there is nothing I like, and that also may be true. But the cigar must be smoked to appreciate its fullness.
And it that moment, Pillar reached for the razor in his sleeve. Before he was aware, I had seen the gesture. The heel of my shoe captured his nose. The cognac glass filled slowly; a distortion of colour. Pillar sat motionless at his desk. Draining with the final swill. The jade edge of the writing compartment offering a seal of approval; Gabriella's last kiss.
The cigar case remained open and untouched.
I had taken as many as I'd liked.
...and Cut..
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
Clean off your slate, that messy desk is just a ruin of all your memories
Dust every corner of your room, make room for contemporary
Throw all your old toys in the garbage, they're just personality accessories
Destroy yourself if all means point to necessary
Talk to the conch before you throw it back into the sea
Or into that lake broken of glass bottles that gave you ****** feet
Dress yourself up, make yourself look neat
Only return to that lake if you want to see where your heart still beats
Strip your bed, clean your sheets
Forget those games in the corner they distract you from the elite
Travel into an empty cave, forget the friends you once knew
Trade out your old sneakers for some nice shoes
Forget the swing sets, and the bicycles, they're way past due
Forget the silly pop music, it's time you outgrew
Cast away that personality, trade it for a tie and a monochrome hue
Try on your high heels and your perfume
Lose some weight and your hostility too
Skewer you, skewer you into a new geometrical suit
You jump now, you're a frog now, not a newt
Learn how to love, learn how to reproduce
Learn about narcissism, try to pursue
Learn about love, try not to lose
Learn about depth, try to precept
Learn about religion, try faith too
Learn about yourself, try to hold on to that, it's more important than you ever knew
Become one of the many, one of the many of the few
Take everything out of that trash can, begin anew
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
A Poem on Zugzwang :
Before your life ends up in Zugzwang
Learn to pin, Devoid of sins!
Skewer your thoughts,
Hope against odds.
Manoeuvre your troops and forces
Plant outposts and seal victories
Remember-
Numbered are your moments,
To post your deserving achievements!
Plan, Work Sail and Prevail
This is the way you must trail.
Chess is timing, so Is Life!
Move with a purpose, Have High aims!
Face the gale when
Defence is the demand
Hold on! Take charge and command.
Do the best and Leave the Rest
To God!
And he will save your position from the Critical Zugzwang!
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
In the month that I popped a pharmaceutical drug to feel better,
I smiled for the first time in months
at a lame joke,
I stopped worrying
about where I was going to be
if the zombie apocalypse was to happen,
I ceased feeling terrified
of waking up to the voice of Joey Ramone
to not want to be or feel anymore,
I wondered how Hemingway felt
as he stared at the glittering city lights of the Rive Gauche,
typing down his dark thoughts,
I walked to the blinking white silhouette of a tiny person across the street,
without hoping that the cars would magically skewer to the side
and consequentially crush my skull in,
I felt my heart enlarging like a balloon, while I stared into
his magnetic eyes,
that remind me of the glistening candlelit lights of Paris
after the war,
I craved the chocolate ice cream
my imaginary little brother bought me
while annoying me,
I listened to the world
and heard it's rambles and jangles
and knew that "every little thing is gonna be alright",
and I watch myself in the mirror
to realize that I
this person staring back at me is a shell
enveloping in the shock at my utter disbelief
that I don't know who I am anymore.
Perhaps somewhere out there,
in a parallel universe,
wherein lies reality or fantasy,
I have already given up
and is watching me here
to mock me.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:29 AM UTC