"slumps" poems
We are a team, That have a dream…
We don’t stop, no not even when we drop.
other teams are lame , cause we got game.
Sprint, pass, shoot, dribble, assist, defense
Thats our life as we thrive. This is our house
And the game is our spouse.
We grieve every loss, cause we hate losing
more than we love winning. But the next game
We go up down, down up back at it with the roundup
We get hungry to get revenge, on the team that
Can’t avenge but we don’t rest til we’re the best.
We’ll be on top one day and they’ll pop.
We steal like thief’s in the night,
We wont lose without a fight,
We have the pace, and we keep up with the race.
There are setbacks, slumps, bumps,
But that only makes us stronger
And it makes us last longer.
We fall as one , rise as one,
That’s what makes us family
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
I notice the tiny pulse of frustration in the back of his neck
I notice the way that he sighs and slumps over
I notice how his elbows splay out so his face bobs lightly over his desk
A buoy dancing over a wave
I notice the way he glances at his friends before he answers
I notice the way he shapes his mouth into a grin before he speaks
I notice how his eyes squint a little when he laughs
I notice how they dull when he doesn’t want to listen
I notice how his shoulders hunch when refuses to hear
I notice the boredom in the lines of his back as he considers
I notice the way his leg jiggles as he bounces his foot lightly
The ever-present dichotomy of professionalism fighting immaturity
Of a thirst to learn, fighting against ignorance, justice calling
I notice this inner battle of boyish nonchalance and masculine defensiveness
I notice how his eyes dart lightly over his chosen comrades before he writes again
I notice the way he presses his forehead into his hand
As though he could pull ideas out
And read his thoughts printed back on his palm
I notice the consistent rubbing against his face with his fingers
Phalanges to stimulate the thought process
I notice the hesitation before his pen scratches the page
Piercing the paper with words he must call his own
I notice the claim of responsibility and the toll it takes on his physique
I notice the fatigue of struggling to create
To feel, to create, to feel, to feel
I notice, throughout all the time I’ve been noticing him
He has not noticed me once
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,
A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.
A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw
To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.
The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.
I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the slope,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back
And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,
Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,
And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.
Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:
He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:
Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Boxer stands in the ring,
A man who used to be King.
Across stands The Young Lion,
A man who will be a King.
The Boxer shakes his aged head,
A man who had fists of lead.
Across scoffs The Young Lion,
A man who has fists of lead.
The Boxer sighs, his last fight,
A man who has lost his light.
Across strides The Young Lion,
A man who gleams with light.
The bell rings, and the fight begins.
The Boxer strikes, though he won’t win.
The Lion roars, winning in ten.
The Boxer slumps to the floor,
A man who can take no more.
Above smiles The Young Lion,
A man who only wants more.
The Boxer smirks as he lay,
A man who knows the way.
Above stands The Young Lion,
A man who knows not the way.
The Boxer leaves, knowing this one thing.
There is always a new and waiting King.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
FLASHLIGHT
If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.
I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
(Orange
His favorite color,
Knives
His collection.)
This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.
The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
World.
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Before
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.
Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Devon.
Underneath the leaking tub -
Devon.
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Devon.
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
Involuntarily
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.
Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.
Selah.
(You are the brightest one, my son.)
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
He slumps, grumbling at the air
a grunt, no more
admittance of awareness
minimising risk
of developing interest
grunt
the glow across
his face pale
a reflective pallor
shows us his day
has spent him inside
grunt
nourishment calls
a gutted feeling
deeper than his alienation
as food is not forthcoming
he tries to sing
grunt
in letting go
his newfound voice
an interrupted squawk
so disgusted he uhgs
hiding himself again
grunt
daily untouched
but for lonely nights
when in consolation
he hands himself to the
bounty of the sickened screen
grunt
and gurgles
in unity, at one
with images which champion
his waking hours, forcing him
unconsenting
and confused
grunt
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
TEAM INSTINCT!"
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:
"THERE IS NO SHELTER FROM THE STORM!"
My knowledge of him consists of three things.
1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.
2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive
3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.
"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."
On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."
Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.
When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
"Dude.
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."
I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."
"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"
He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.
"There is"
"no shelter"
"From"
"the storm"
"In my heart."
We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
I have them in my mind, a place for me to use and abuse,
when alone and where no one can see.
I visualise what I need, those lovely ladies recorded
in thoughts used by me.
My neighbour she's as hot as could be,
but after to many usesshe has become a bore.
What once went hard with a thought,
now my cheese stick slumps not content,
new **** bank material is needed so on goes the TV
O ye this is good, weather girls low cut tops
in the bank they go for use later for me.
But I need that girl to light the meat, to get me well hard,
so I see one woman in the bank ready for me.
I test drive her not as good as could be,
so I swap parts saved in the file, now perfect for lonely fun.
The thought of her **** and me.
All men and woman are nearly the same,
they have a **** bank for those times when lonely.
Be it butts,legs, ******* or meat hanging or the
slit between the legs.
We all have that special some one that is with
us when are fingers and palms get happy...
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
The sorry umbrella slumps sadly toward the ground.
It's body as cold as the wet night air.
The malleable aluminum handle, bent out of shape,
By the wind that's tossed it round,
To and fro like the arms of teenage kids,
And unsure of how else to rest,
With the metallic moonlight singing its melodic lullaby.
-N.C.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.
A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.
No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.
Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.
The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Dark and ordinary mornings start,
with haptic taps from my Apple watch,
and a yawning stretch, way before dawn.
I glance out my window, to check
the weather because that’s the spec
that decides whether, we’re outside
or we’re down to the gym inside.
“Alexa, brew,” I compel my AI
thank God, she understands,
and my Keurig gurgles to life.
I brush the ‘ol tusks and wash my face,
before wiggling into spandex and taking a place
on the bench by the door where our shoes are stored.
When Lisa comes out, stout coffee in hand
she slumps on the bench, with a sleepy pout.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she confides with a yawn,
“I barely closed my eyes - then it was dawn!”
Checking my watch, I haven’t the heart
to say ‘dawn’s a half hour after we start.’
Every morning we rise and jog a five K (3.1mi)
we decided, last year, that it’s the best way
to jump-start our brains and start our day.
Poets write about love, pure and chaste,
and less about morning alarms and toothpaste
but in these moments, the ways we start our day,
can influence our lives in interesting ways
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 4:03 PM UTC
Stuff is in our blood, a stain on us
Slugging around, these sad star sore guts
Stuff is a stuffy word that’s embarrassing to utter when someone asks you, “What are you doing today... this Summer?”
...
Stuff is what saves us - but stuff bumps and slumps around waiting for its bus
Dress-stressing in its own looks/love - knowing and not -
A stopped migraine, stuff is euphoria sensed through architecture, a sunk shot.
You learn to be the butcher... Sleep with soul hooks...
Dance in the kitchen. Stoop in the shower.
Stake it out, stronger, wiser, these flow-wilters - over-studiers...
Old young bears, hard and soft stuffed in neat beds, hawk hearts bated...
For when we grab us, hug us, twist us, throw us
up-out. Reinstate us...
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:31 PM UTC
She slumps in sleep
Paws clasped prayer-like
Dream-dozing eyelids a-simmer
A spasm-triggered flesh flick
An ear-alert to a tremorous tick
Crisp-dry nose with involuntary sniff
Old dog breath brewing brown toothed whiff
With pain weary grunt
She heaves her lumpy bulk
Onto shaky splayed legs
That hobble and limp
Catches my eye
With a puppy-pleased glint
Wags
.... and pees
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
Cloaked by the veil of night I ready myself for what is to come. Fear is not recognized on this side
of the shroud, for it is this fear that is my most useful and treasured tool.
Footsteps approach the alleyway, I see my target pace forward towards his end, illuminated most
benevolently by the blush of his own burning cigarette end.
In his own world he lays claim to control and intimidation, a brave and dangerous man by his own
words. Words I shall later configure to be truth or allegory.
It is a simple matter to terrify someone prone to be terrified, is a different course to set the same
action upon he who does usually initiate the afor-mentioned phrase.
As the victim looks up into the eyes of this purveyor of violence I suspect it true that fear is well
presented to his visual inspection and it goes without saying it adds to his delight.
I imagine in other venues the same is said of myself but I would very much disagree with this
evaluation. Fear, Intimidation is not what I represent, they are just tools in an arsenal, I am just
simply here to reek good old honest revenge..
You do the deed, you pay the price, Simple as that. No forgiveness passes through this alley-way
this night, just utter, complete and total retribution. A gift from me to all those whom have been
bitten.
As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you will indeed fear evil, for I art with thee
and this rod of correction is indeed not one of comfort
The scatter of burnt ash bouncing off the alley wall signifies the conclusion of any remaining
illumination as he throws the **** of his cigarette away, darkness prevails once again.
As I strike, screams of pain shatter the silence and echo through the narrow passageway. The
****** body of this victim slumps unceremoniously alongside garbage bags, a fitting end for such
*******
True and honest folk can breathe a sigh of relief, to them I am vigilant. If you swing the other way
however, BEWARE.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Feeling her heart pound with the quickness of her breath she knows that she has found her long lost brother. Her eyes shining with excitement, not knowing what to expect from him, scared that he will turn away and leave her again. Holding her breath and quietly walking over to him, tapping him on the shoulder with her index finger, slightly shaking with fear. Her brother turns around and smiles. The reconization dawns on him and his face burns with fury of being discovered, by his own sister nonetheless!!
How could she, he wonders furiously! He had left home for a reason and now she has come to take him home he is sure. Well, not this time, she
won't. In his heart he knows she means well, but he can't go back. If only she knew why he couldn't. Gritting his teeth he tears out of the bar, leaving his sister looking after him with tears streaming down her face and calling his name. He couldn't stop; he had to get out of there so he wouldn't have to hear her crying.
She slumps down onto the stool that he was sitting on before he decided to leave. She had traveled so far to bring him home safely and he wasn't about to let her! She knows in her head that she should leave him alone; yet in her heart she couldn't just let him go on living without knowing that his family was there for him no matter what kind of trouble was, but she was going to find out, whether he wants her to or not!!
Shivering from cold and anger, he walks through the streets hoping that she won't come after him. He loves his sister, but if she ever found out about him she would never love him the same way again. Feeling wetness on his cheeks, he furiously wipes the tears away, cursing at her under his breath. Feeling hands on his shoulders he whirls around ready to fight his attacker but stops short when he realizes whom it is. He was looking straight into his twin sister's deep blue eyes. He saw only love and affection, not anger or
hatred. How could he have ever thought that she would desert him? She was his twin and she would stand by him through think and thin.
As she stares into her brothers eyes, only feeling love for him hoping that he will say something or do something to let her know that he wasn't going to run from her again. With her tearstained cheeks and teeth trembling from the cold, she gently takes his hand and caresses it with her fingers looking into his eyes pleading to him to let her back into his life. His hand trembles with cold or anger, she can't quite figure it out.
He catches his breath as she takes his hands while they shake with the confusion of not knowing what to do. He draws in shaky breaths and extends his other hand and strokes her cheek wiping the tears away from her eyes pleading with an emotion choked voice to stop crying. She nods and says that she will try only if he stops, making him smile, for he had wiped his tears away and her still knowing that he was crying on the inside.
She slowly offers him a smile hoping that he will open up to her. When he gently strokes her cheek, she feels his fingers shaking, now knowing
not from anger, but from love........
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 3:49 AM UTC
The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
undeterred.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
My cell
Has no door
Unlike one you'd see
Where a madman slumps
In waiting of release
My walls shine
With the sticky softness of comfort
But beneath the paint
The cold, blank stone
Echoes the void
I have not the energy
To fill
Although this prison
Locks from inside
Still there is
A madman
Trapped within
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy
Stainless inks get messy
Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps
Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms
Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps
Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts
Words dig up chaos with no mercy
Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound
a.s.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
ever standing
body lithe, strong
trained to strike
too dashing for peeling paint
old verandas
slow-paced hamlet
waiting in country town
place to whizz past
road to tourist hub
how does his tale read
did he pay
for assault
struck the frame
holder of *****
spawning breath
cold fury
for scenes of his mother
thrown down
stain his every stance
grabbing mail swiftly
ahead of arrival
panther muscles
no more the crouching lad
shuddering
her screams
bounce off walls
as mother's body slumps
broken bottle scars
left to clean up the mess
as he leaves for school
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 2:06 PM UTC
Eckhart Tolle found
while sitting, homeless
on a park bench
watching the world go round.
You think you
have it wired,
just before it all
falls apart.
A bagpipe empty of air,
An accordion on its side,
Gasping for air.
Shaking rockin and rollin,
Nepal ground,
It all unfolds
after a while
captured
dusty and dying
under the rubble.
**** with nature,
It'll **** with you.
Beginning as a solid silent
predictable mix
until it isn't
what it isn't.
It'll take a while
until it all settles down -
streaks and slumps
we've been over this ground.
Structures erected
nature's forces take over,
Life changes,
You hold on tight
searching for solid ground
when the waters come around.
Self inflicted,
Victims of circumstances,
Bad timing,
"Structures are known to become unstable,"
Eckhart Tolle
said
just before he became
rich and famous.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Muddy Muddy Monday
Cold air
Cold glare
Lurking on a window that shields our felt insecurity
Summertime we all come to
We all come together then unravel apart
I am a man for a short bit then I quit
And retire
Retire to regimented round the clock lonesome longing of money and a schedule, scheduled schooling of sorrow
Growing up I,
I'm utterly useless
I’m painfully plain
This become the real repetition
The depiction and depression in the U.S. Of A
It's simple
And simply it's dull and sad it's melancholy at its finest
And this carnivorous cancer grows calculatedly sneaking steadily and processing with prowess
And Lexus lingers after Lexus near our neighborhood of suburban sadness,
Sorrowful slumps stuck in sand
Succumbing to ******* the life out of myself muddling through murky days
And this depressive digression into normal no-thing-ness that does not know nothing
But private school privilege pressuring me till I press my heart and it pops
Mundane money Monday murdering my mind mother and might
Monday each day
Becoming Monday
My mothering Monday
My absent adolescence
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Disillusioned by the open market,
he polishes his glasses and stretches,
running a hand through hair made artistic
by the blunt scissors of the philosophy major
who lives downstairs. It was a trade,
he tells me. Short back and sides for a batch
of macadamia nut cookies. Barter economy.
He mutters about measured value,
divides a piece of paper, and breaks a pencil
while forcing the verses of quarter sheet poems,
recounting the night he stole four sponges
from a craft supply store in town,
a drunken fuck-you to the establishment-
but also, he admits, it was late and
he had to do the dishes.
If you want to see how big the world is,
he says, take off your belt. Now
tighten it to the usual hole, put it down,
and look. You are a speck of dust on
the wineglass of human existence.
Don't let it get to you. You are smaller and better
than you think. Another quarter sheet finished,
he slumps back on the defeated sofa
and reads me Desiderata, putting on airs,
grappling with devotions to poke holes in certainty
just as I do now to the worn leather strap,
shrinking my claim to the wineglass with each punch
of the silver awl, and after years, still waiting
for the clink of his belt buckle,
the moment when, humbled,
he remembers he is only
a child of the universe.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
unattended nose
bleeds
babies all dried up
too late to wail
futility already set sail
time jumps
but your reckless sky still slumps
******** creeds
& skullduggery triumphs
leaves you
mind-numbing defeats
no room for the young
or the weak
unless you're the story
of the week
you scream your lungs out
clawing your essence to pieces
your once beautiful soul
tempered by momentary fame
your blind eyes found dead
lost inside a heartless mirror
never once found silence
and only in this final moment
something that resembles
peace
please tell me
this is not the way you wanted to go
please
before it's too late
and i will give you my heartbeat
rip it spraying from my dying chest
just to let you follow the bleed
and listen for the beat
follow it
towards the hope you lost
towards the home you loved
towards the home that bleeds.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC