"squeamish" poems
Poetry is like a *****
in its wobbly, dangly freeness
(This poems not the cleanest so stop reading if you're a little squeamish)
Some have it, some don't
some use it, some won't
some like it awkward with a twist at the end
like a shakespearean couplet but on the person it depends
for others its merely secondary
(oh but always necessary)
to the holder - their Mars or Venus
So, as god is my witness,
poetry is a *****
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Don’t read this if you’re squeamish,
Or if you’re eating food at the present,
Since some of the subjects discussed in this poem,
Are let’s just say rather unpleasant,
On the subject of donating organs,
Or the subject of organs at all,
It’s not unusual for my claims to leave,
Some subjects feeling pretty appalled,
Now I’d say that most people die,
In fact I’d vouch that it happens quite often,
But when my time comes, set has my sun,
I want all of me in that coffin,
Now I get it, I’d save lives if I donated,
And I don’t mean to sound like a **** (yes I do),
But the unmissable flaw, the foot in the door,
Is that not all of my parts seem to work,
My eyes are screwy, my heart’s far too cold,
The state of my lungs’ll make you shiver,
My kidneys too small, I'm not sure I have a pancreas,
And don’t get me started on my liver,
And let me tell you with a face like mine,
Not showcasing this beauty’s a sin,
But it’s awfully hard to have an open casket,
If I’m not sporting any of my skin
It’s selfish and weird I know that,
But my eyes are where my soul is exposed!
…Yeah actually my soul’s pretty tainted,
Can someone make sure that my eyes are closed?
I only want those I love to have a part of me,
So if I’m forced, if I’m forced, to partake,
-
-
-
They’ll be frying up my organs,
For refreshments at my wake.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
you have the
nerve
to say that women are
squeamish
when we see blood
month after month
you say we are too emotional
to hold office,
too fragile
to be independent,
too unpredictable,
to be on our own
but you forget
we are bulletproof.
you forget
we have stamina
and fire inside of us
because we are fighting
twice as hard
to be recognized
as the amazing,
successful people we are.
we are fighting
to be seen
as more
than our appearance,
to be valuable
because of our brains
instead of our *****
we are bulletproof.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
On campus, warm sun bathing my shoulders
as I listen to two girls discuss poetry
(and the dreamy guy who teaches their class)
and I try not to laugh at them as they talk about
how romantic I would be to have poetry written about
them. I want to ask them if they are really that stupid.
Instead, I bite my tongue and enjoy the taste of pennies
that floods my mouth and keep my laughter gurgling inside of me.
I long to ask these simpering, silly girls
if they have ever read any poetry about life. Not about the
romantic notions of life, but about really-real life. Poetry about
blood and pain and ******* and dying and loving and art
and I want to force feed them great ****** bites of
Chaucer or Ginsberg or
Bukowski.
Yeah... Bukowski. Visceral, blunt, gory, beautiful Bukowski.
But I have a feeling that this action would go unappreciated.
Their poets don’t use language like **** or ****
Their poets don’t talk about the world I know.
Their poets live in a world of rewrite and revise.
I want to scream at them how silly they are and how much
their views will change over the next few years. And I realize that I may
have been staring (glaring?) at them because they have fallen
silent and are now looking at me with the squeamish discomfort
of people who have just realized that they’re being observed.
And I think to myself, **** it,” and I smile and tell them that
their handsome poetry professor is married, and their idea of poetry
is limited. “You should read some Bukowski,” I tell them, “Then,
you just might get it” and they gaze up at me slack-jawed, staring blankly
for a moment, and I want to make sure I have not sprouted another head.
Instead, I gather my things and walk away. And as I do, I revel in a fleeting
feeling of superiority because I know.
I understand.
I get it.
And I can almost feel special.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I have a certain paranoia
That everyone hates me
I know it's completely irrational
But this anxiety won't stop plaguing me
I feel like a burden
For simply existing
I'm fidgety, anxious and restless
Bracelets on my wrist always twisting and untwisting
A squeamish feeling in my stomach
When I hear laughter
The whole day is now spent
Thinking about it long after
Logically I know not everyone hates me
I know the things I tell myself aren't true
But I take solace in the fact that
No one will ever hate me as much as I do
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Spewing through my pores
are obviously vocal cords
I'm sweating cause don't you notice how heaven is getting bored.
-- And lord I know we children
but give us something appealing,
cause hell it just seems enticing
cause sin is clearly unwilling to,
release us from its wrath and be spiritual,
my spirits in this clash with this alcohol--
but I try not to break the law
by sleeping this poison off
I'm squeamish
believe me
I'm sick
and suffering from withdrawal,
cause all i see is Sandy Hook behind the walls
and in front of my iris
my silence becoming violent
exhaling louder than sirens
I'm sighing cause you be lying,
you say!
That you will save us
if we put nothing above you
but you taking our children
we made them to be just like you:
I'm sleep.
But if I wake up
will you incarnate a savior
cause jesus is highly needed
don't tell me its human nature!?
to pull the trigger,
peal off -- a mind set against the lord,
pop -- pop they let off should i be packing a sawed-off
Na
But I'm speaking from my core
its obvious that I'm lost
I'm screaming but don't you notice how heaven choose to ignore.
And lord I see the irony
but I'm not even 60
why are you choosing to hire me
is it because I'm gifted, a voice?
I had no choice
cause the devil trying to recruit me rolls royce;
Versace starter kit it's not hard to convince me I swear--
he's talking salary
how the ******* will miss me
just put this ounce in your pocket
and listen Nina closely
"just trust me I got your back with Nina don't need a safety"
I'm loyal,
so should I start to bang
cause if you can't beat them stay
I need a hymn to sing as I hold the burner to my face--
remember what the preacher say,
if your feeling lost, pray
I never had a voice
Trayvone Martin never had a say
so is the prayer worth it,
will jesus even surface,
the creases on my faith is shaped like Eve and Adams serpent;
I'm lying to my friends
I'm not religious on purpose
I'm a servant to the truth
but seems the truth is out of service.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Never tell me to never change
Cause next thing you know
Ten or twenty years from now
You’ll look me up and I’ll be
337 pounds with a career in
Painting houses purple.
I’ll carry an umbrella with me everywhere I go.
There will be a warrant for my arrest out in a country I don’t visit anymore.
I won’t have any lovers—not a one.
I’ll have given them up for my causes:
The cause of the Open Windows and Rooted Bird Feet and Medicinal Marijuana.
And then I’ll fall in love again.
This time for keeps.
And our kids will be just crazy because we’ll live in a place without video games.
I’ll be a violent pacifist, or a passive violinist,
And all the world will have never heard of me.
Then he’ll die, or I’ll die, or we’ll get to live until we’re old and we can go to **** beaches butt-naked and revel in the joy of squeamish young people.
And if I’m not the one to die, then I’ll get angry all over again about the state the world is in.
These sort of things don’t fade with age.
Maybe I’ll try to fix things, or maybe I’ll just accept the things I can’t change.
Maybe I'll be changed by the fixed things I have so much trouble accepting.
Maybe I’ll have enough friends (you included?) to take care of me if I hit rock bottom.
Maybe I’ll be strong enough to take care of friends (maybe you?) that have reached the end of their rope.
So be appalled with what may be, or live in denial for what there was, or choose to embrace a bigger me.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
I have no patron saint. But if I should
I doubt that Doubting Thomas would be him.
Though well he worked with what he understood,
I cannot emulate my eponym:
too squeamish still to press your ****** palms,
too cowardly to bear the cross you bore.
too blind to fall and sing believing psalms.
With other saints called Thomas, all the more.
But then there's Thomas Cantilupe's career,
So concrete: he was born in 1218,
was chancellor of Oxford for a year,
gave countless counsellings to king and queen
and years of selfless service to his see;
and lives today recalled by God, and me.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
god is tugging at my sleeve. the weight added to the fabric adds an urgency to my steps. im sweating now, grappling with the burdensome presence of a creator. he whines and demands my attention. he cries when i cant pick him up off the ground. he asks for task after task of menial, worthless labor until i am face first on the dirt with exhaustion. my aura has grown squeamish with anticipation of his next tantrum. i walk on hand sharpened eggshells i myself have placed as he ordered, i live in a fortress of solitude, shame, exasperation, and fear. i retract myself from enjoyment, fulfillment, and success at the empty promises he gives to entrap me further. since birth i have upheld this responsibility. babysat my guardians. protected them from their own mistakes. leaving feels like abandoning an infant to destroy itself from the inside out. living for myself invokes nausea and confusion. how can i function without approval from the hellbeast that gave me life only to use it for his own? growth is the only freeing process by which i can loosen his grip on the fabric of my shirt. outgrow your creator, your fractorial parent, your burden you did not choose to undertake. slowly detach from his entrapment. slowly make your life worth living again.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
"FIRST THERE IS A MOUNTAIN, THEN
THERE IS NO MOUNTAIN, THEN THERE IS."
she was Swedish
squeamish that a man could
still live at home with his "Mam"
she tried to get him
to...you know...think
about an "ecological self"
"You gotta think..."
she informed him
"...like a mountain!"
he looked like he had
just fallen off
a continental shelf
"Mannnn!" she thought
"He's just never grown up
a Mammy's boy...devoid of self."
he hadn't heard of Lovelock
or even Arne Naess
she spoke better English than he did
he blushed when asked
if he had read Luce Irigaray's
THIS *** WHICH IS NOT ONE
had never heard of Simone
de Beauvoir's THE SECOND ***
just the word made him blush
all he was intent on
was getting his hands on
her ample *******
so shortsighted to go on
a blind date...never again
he talked only to her cleavage
she gave him her number
a false one
the Well Woman's Centre
sang as she quickly
hurried away
Donovan's "First there is a Mountain..."
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
1.
Diaphanous dragons disgorge a deluge of diamonds
into the shadowed crevices of cumulus clouds.
Ruby-red sapphires overpopulate the glistening sky
like carbon-hardened locust: gorgeous messengers of the gods.
The Earth wears a crimson helmet, shielded from
the odious absence of ozone above the North and South poles.
Near Minneapolis, John Berryman's wizened body shatters
on the frozen riverbed below the Washington Avenue Bridge.
Angels weep to see him jump, as he waves a vaudevillian goodbye.
The sapphires blanch, then turn an angry, violent violet. Black holes ahead.
2.
Shakespeare and Mr. Bones **** on mortality's skimpy
skeleton of life. Will this broken body be resurrected?
Does it deserve such distinction? Better yet, does its daring,
drunken destroyer? Four hundred Dream Songs nod yes.
Berryman toddled ticklishly toward the last traces of transcendence.
Love & Fame broadcast how terribly his faith failed to trade
daily delirium tremens for the mysterium tremendum.
The God he prayed to demanded a syntax pure, plain.and perfect.
With jolts of jest, He jimmied paradoxes into koans. Berryman
howls for the sound of one diamond scratching the outline of his body on ice.
3.
He left a legacy broader than liquor, lechery and the love-struck ladies.
Lust seeded his fallow lacunae and lazily broke his wife's heart.
Scholarship scooted him to the squeamish, secluded top
of his Shakespearean class: Signal student turns trusted teacher.
Poetry cloned the Oklahoma clown in him. No successors,
no schools, no savvy peers, save Lowell. his fellow manic-depressive.
He dreamed songs of hilarity, humility, history, dehumanization.
Poetry proved serious business until it learned to laugh at itself.
Sapphires crackle under the weight of the creaking sun. They spin a kaleidoscopic rainbow of colors onto Berryman's obituary. Somehow, he has won:
An irreplaceable jewel of the sky.
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC
That summer day afore I did depart:
Like those merchant ships of Tarshish
Which sailed not once from their home port
Were my words affectionate to that dish,
They never my mouth left to her ears forth,
Failing her feelings as a buckleless belt
A sagging trouser. Though cold feet I felt
Nay; howbeit it's for her squeamish heart.
Yet I, beholding her supine in her pink bikini
On the beach with a lollipop, was musing honey.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Jim socks and honestly
I bet
a bigger better bag
of eat
and oh maybe
I'll say excuse me
tonight
a la mode
and or load in the shorts
so the courts find me guilty
I'm filthy.
I'm famous for ****
**** me off
**** my hands
send me off
like a band of behemoths.
A squeamish man is-not-a-man
or a mammal
malice towards a camel
lake ocean
and babbling brook
Anne Frank handled it well
Academically
Flu epidemic. Lee
Harvey Oswald. Waldo
Donde estas?
Where's your dad?
Is he happy?
For you I'll adaptively choose to be tactical
Lisa is moaning
for you.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
Lucy quickly bit the dust / an electric shock to her ****
Her life was nasty, brutish and short / squeamish lovers of mice retort
But those in homes with mice who fume / must insist upon her doom
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
I am not comfortable in my own skin, I am not comfortable looking at my own body.
I hate that my body is often looked on by others, it makes me feel ***** But I love being touched. I love kissing.
I hate when they say my name, though. It sounds like a bad word. Something that doesn't fit. But I love my name. I love how it sounds.
I hate hearing from a mans mouth, it comes out tainted. I hate feeling squeamish when anyone compliments my body. I hate that I immediately want to cut into my skin when someone tells me I'm beautiful, or that they love my curves.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Here I am in the yard again,
shovel in one hand, plastic
bag in the other, trudging
toward the fence in my slippers,
determined to not feel squeamish.
The dog has been scolded
and brought into the house;
she whimpers at the back
window, watching my progress
across a quarter-acre of dormant
grass dusted with morning snow.
Up close, fixed by death,
the squirrel bares its teeth,
white and sharp, its eyes
the size of juniper berries.
I tilt it into the bag,
blood smearing
the rusted shovel,
and turn back, surprised
by the heft of lifelessness,
how dead weight pulls
a broken body down.
Gravity, it occurs to me,
is a relentless undertaker.
I walk and the bag swings
like a soft pendulum
banging against my leg,
counting out my steps,
confounding the dog.
You see, our yards are
nothing but undug graves.
If gravity is our undertaker,
then physics has pocketed
the stars, wearing a funeral
suit blacker than outer space.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
all the ******* leave the party early, attired
in cackles, even though stilettos say otherwise,
they laugh and squeamish assort
a waiting line for a mongol tribe:
open all hours minus the sunday,
when jesus' ***** was dried;
got to love a mother of a culprit readied
for sacrifice and prayer lasting 2000 years.
in between the party?
a man walked idly musing his relevance,
he popped a few balloons with his cigarette,
his life flashed before his eye,
notably an error, pornographic photos
flashed before his eyes, not as bad as Gucci and
gob anna in twisted anorexia... **** actresses take
the catwalk... we all revolve around liking curves...
plus **** in *** plus **** in **** plus **** in mouth,
a holy trinity through and through;
there was no offensive image shown,
there was no offensive foghorn sound made,
but she's too eager to censor communication,
says f**k... hush... oompa loompa augustus needs the loo
to **** out the roman empire...
what entertains children breeds a fear for adults...
what entertains adults makes children divvy...
say piston and phallus in a rhyming symbiosis
of tact... welcome you, welcome i;
what doesn't entertain children does entertain adults?
the reality of a mistaken fact that childhood passed?
and of those who's childhood was orphanage?
the free distribution of wealth... or a free distribution of justice
be seriously taken along with vitamins?
burp... are we shining with sun and vitamin c?
perhaps we wished to have netted brown skin
in a spider web of self-producing vitamin d of kenyan origin?
ah i see, sneezes from cayenne peppering.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
#Alexithymia
I'm not hellish i'm driven by a Mephistophelean relish
To reach an introspection to understand the inception
The ontological Manichaeism turned to be an existential absurdism .
And i'm drown in my own nihilism
Oh...what an owlish reality !!! i'm squeamish about this absurdity
I rely on self-revulsion to resist this daily delusion
...
What an exasperation !!! we live in the premeditation
This nature carries a lot of humiliation !!!
I'm sick of this fornication
Could the end of the road at least fetch a salvation ?
What a downhearted metamorphosis
I'm lost and i feel astonished
...
With conviction that this existence is only a deception
Oh...Oh...Oh....what a corruption !!!
This reality is based on a false deduction
That leads to a fatal destruction
Just where is the dysfunction ???
Is it in my creation ...
#Mzoughi_Moncef Le 06/09/2013
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
The sun , the stars are always happy seeing your face in astonishing
When your excited Just for a minute,
I'm all out of puns , but now i just got bad jokes , I'll use they're times
Wisely, just for a minute,
I'm was always on some kind of medication spazzing out and bumming
but only just For a minute,
And through it all you stood by me with guardian-like intentions with
All your fears and hopes just for a minute,
Randomly assigned to make you laugh at every aspect seeing as
You have a hard time at school with kids and grades,
Kawaii nails for grabs and the girls really liked your style,
May have a lot on my plate too but I like your smile,
Trancish features , even all your teachers think your beautiful,
Sitting on the bleachers , not knowing that it's my heart that you
Really stole.
/
Scratching wood does not remind me , of your,
Squeamish Skin when I touch,
Don't think of you as a trophy, cause I'm,
Living , living in your love,
Two days would pass by me love , but it wouldn't,
Stop me from dreaming you,
Tree carvings wouldn't be the only, cause,
The cause of feeling blue,
Could ya , could ya , be a , be a,
Everything that I've been hoping for,
I could be ya , I could , I could , be ya,
Everything forever and more,
Could ya , could ya , be a , be a,
Everything that I've been hoping for,
I could be ya , I could , I could , be ya,
Everything forever and more,
Breaking all this silence between us,
Boring all these trees.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
baking in the mojave
no rivers here like in the tangles back east
crows—and perhaps other animals can on occasion
be heard in a tussle
squeamish feelings settle in the crater of a
stomach half-empty
Last night I woke up aware
of the snakes that bite and scorpions that pinch
but not how truly they exist
I’ve never felt the sun sear my skin so
I hope to fry and lock in all my juices
like my brother’s rich cooking
oh how I dream of a brother by my side
and the more dreary and sweaty I become
the more I begin to see one
a dark, hulking man, as sullen as I
sulking as I do; beneath a new sun
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
Morning chatter about the state of my life interrupted by a collision
Body on glass, a bounce that chilled me to the bones as my eyes opened a little wider in disbelief
A sojourn halted
Your mouth gaped as it took in feeble breaths,
stained red with the evidence of a cranium beyond repair
And I thought to myself how cruel my house must be.
Big, glass doors that allow light to enter my life but also offer malicious reflections
of safety.
And the hardest part is the quivering as I picked you up,
the brief glimpses of hope that perhaps this is just a hiccup in your victorious journey over land and sea.
We’re all told that these happen.
You’re bound to fail, it’s part of life.
Necessary for continuing on.
I suppose sometimes these tragedies are too great to overcome.
Everything about you is perfect, glorious, radiant.
Feathers tinged with olive and **** you sure look good with your fiery cap
and your neck delicately spotted with black.
Your eyes were shut at first but upon my gaze opened to full capacity,
making me squeamish and uncomfortable because I could not change a fate already in the works.
I blink and suddenly your manner has changed.
No more frantic heartbeat dances across your breast and your mouth has stopped moving,
no more words to utter.
You are no longer destined
to feel the warm tropical air that you must be craving
on these cool August mornings that have left me confused yet excited for things to come.
But perhaps your life was extraordinary,
And perhaps you have changed the course of mine.
And maybe we shall meet again, as your soul dances in the wind.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
Beauty is hiding the ugliest blemish
Embedded lies in the mind of the squeamish
A feeling such as love cannot be contained
So why insist hatred is preordained
Drawn into gray the eyes do deceive
I capture a leprechaun and stole his disease
And now I hoard over this *** of gold
Refusing to pay the amount that I owe
Take not the day that I long await
Touch not my blue skies, my forest, my lakes
Yet help thyself to the opinion of those
Who embark on life’s journey by selling their souls
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
With someone who never once listened, but wanted to be heard,
My feelings were hurt.
I set myself up for it the way I wore my heart on my sleeve,
And bled on your shirt.
You’ve always been squeamish,
And that didn’t make things better.
So, when not fighting for me came to be,
You got the varsity letter.
And I know you do things just to spite me,
How selfish could I be, right?
To think everything you do and say is in direct correlation of me,
But I’ve felt the sting of your bite.
What did I ever really do wrong,
To make you so underlying and bitter?
Just because I stuck my neck out for you,
And sprinkled my love with glitter?
And to pretend you don’t care for me,
To say you’re on a different track,
And to say I’m so in love with you,
Is just calling the kettle black.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC