"teethed" poems
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
I think often
Of breastfeeding
The tip of my ****** tickling his skin-thin upper gum.
In my imagination
It is many minutes of calm
I cup his head
Which fits into a palm and a half
My body is full
With his quiet innocence.
I imagine trying to imagine
How much he doesn’t know
All the ***** things
This action may mean one day
How he doesn’t know
What a kitchen is
Or a mortgage or an income
His fears are not boring.
Mine are of finances and guilt
His involve teethed creatures and deaf silences.
He does not know what it means
For the time to be 3:15
Nor can he comprehend
The recentness of his existence.
I and the cat are nocturnal
He lives in intervals.
We associate babies
With a soft pink
I imagine
Looking into his eyes
Two wrinkly slits
Wondering how to
Confirm this.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
The wolves are hungry tonight
and so is she
her heart does know no fright
with her pack she longs to be
Under the bloodmoon
see her limbs grow
her feral body is to swoon
turning wolf into lady from head to toe
Her brothers and sisters sharp teethed
running with the winds of winter
in this cold and star-bright night they will feast
blood smearings in the snow look just like cinder
Hear her song howling through the air
all ice melts underneath her fiery feet
as they catch and bite and tear
lucky ones see her eyes before their demise they meet
'Tis the night of the hunt
benighted men will not run
shouting "Begone! Animal! ****
happily she devours them, flayed bodies in the morning sun
She's always lurking, lusting for your smell
Dripping wet her mouth with the juice of life
no one lived for the story to tell
of the wolf woman, dark wood's feral wife
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
I stay up for the moons
Quiet gaze
The light by the bedside
Carves shadows of you
Into my bare frame
The air itself is naked
Vulnerable of all scent.
I kissed you thrice,
One on the lips
For devotion,
One on the ribs of
Your teeth,
On the elbow of your
Favourite book.
As all writers do.
I created that arched frame
That pulled your
Tendons tight
To my inked sheets,
Shot you into blind space,
While I teethed on
The bow of your
Fingertips
Our skin tarmac,
There was roadworks
Of our bed.
Toes dancing morbidly
Between bursting stars
While night gulls
And ravens watched
Through the window
Waiting to peck
At the mangled carcass
Of our hearts.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Powering whisker's tense, the unfurled orange;
teethed with nature's rosy armament.
Brother Tiger sniffs. burning nose
whispers of passion
with breaths of love.
More than two million years under human life
And she knows more than you, a white milliner
roses bloom
rose is a dove.
Brother Tiger gazes off into the East
Rose smiling, rose laughing,
Roses are searching for proud preys
Heaving breaths
dynamic, catlike stealth.
Heartbeat’s thunder
****** shadows hide.
She sends him a fairy-white rosebud:
“Hey Love, let’s off to search again for spring…"
"come home safe, Brother Tiger: Don't be feared"
Chant and roar along please
A kiss of desire on the lips.
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 2:35 AM UTC
At eighteen I'm the scent of second-day hair with perfume in it
It smells like your bed, and my sweat, and your exhales, and my Juicy Couture Viva la Juicy . How middle school of me.
I'm the cool touch of unwashed sheets on bare skin because the thermostat is fussy and I like sleeping naked
Just me, you, and this body that I don't like so much right now, but I'm eighteen, and I'm working on that.
I'm leggings while they still pass for pants, and the chewed up ends of pens in twenty different colors
Chinese homework has really turned me into such a biter, and I claim to love all those darling pens equally, but I show my blue pens the most love
I've teethed them half to death
I'm not even close to halfway to death assuming things go well for me. Oh, please let things go well for me.
At eighteen I'm the taste of chai and menthol because that's what's **** these days
I'm all about what's **** these days. Apathy, really bad electronic music, bare midriffs.
Funny since at eighteen I don't want anyone to touch me
This body is my project, please don’t even look at me like this, all insecure and exposed. Please just let me curl up, and please let me be by myself.
I wish my mother were here to bring me a popsicle. My throat hurts from all the screaming I do these days.
At eighteen I guess I'm still a little angsty, but I just want you to love me
God, do I want you to love me.
I want you to patronize me with the warmth of your arms and undress me with strong, resolved hands
Don't touch me, just look at me and tell me that I'm perfect and naive because at eighteen I'm still milky white, soft, and broken
I'm a sight for sore eyes, a new sight, your sight
For god's sake
Just love me.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
skull on a stick
black candle wick
draining her soul
cant let go
Dragool drinks deep
legends red teethed
burial chamber
prayers bequeathed
its all blood day
dark kisses bite
his ghastly bride
waiting for night
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web,
But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done,
What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes, on any foggy day,
My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,
With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,
A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.
And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin,
A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,
And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying
That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!
He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,
He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,
He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,
And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known,
What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?
1.7k
There are times,
too far many,
the spaces between them are fading,
becoming slivers of slight reassurance.
But there are times,
when I no longer feel like a person,
no longer feel human,
cold to the touch and lifeless.
There are times when I fade into the background,
far too many,
watch the people pass by.
Sometimes, I muster the courage,
let my fingertips ghost along the skin of their arms.
Watch the bumps form, fear lingers in my eyes.
Most don't turn,
they're used to us.
They don't leave a glance, don't turn,
don't face us.
It's disgust, but also fear.
They don't want to become like us,
hollow, spaced and cold to the touch.
They like warm, soft skin, glowing white teethed smiles
and lively eyes.
But, there are some, who turn around and leave a lingering glance.
Most don't see us, let their eyes leave us before they're focused.
They fear us, they're young, they don't understand.
Most of us feel twinges of guilt when they're startled,
turn on us wide eyed with panic swarming in their eyes like hornets.
The others, they're different.
There's a few, the ones who take the time out of their day,
smell the roses and are grateful for the small things.
Never take advantage, always gentle, kindred souls.
They don't flinch when they feel cold grate against their warm skin,
don't flinch when they meet the putrid hollow of our gaze.
Don't run away, don't break out into a cold sweat.
Most smile, a warm, friendly grin with paint white smiles.
I used to believe he was one of them,
would guide me from the dark of the background
into the light and introduce me to life.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
They said they wanted to take the molars of
Those fleeing danger that they had escaped
By the skin of
Then leave the reward of sanctuary beneath their pillow whilst they slept
As if they weren't having trouble enough already
With where to rest their weary heads
They said the rewards were many
And wanted to make completely certain
They weren’t being too generous
Because giving gifts gives rise to greed
So they decided to take the teeth
And ensure those safety seekers
Knew exactly what being bitten means
And those who sought for something more?
Those bitten by these charitable actions as much by war
Their wounds didn't heal
And they found sores on weary feet
To find they had grown hungry mouths there too
The shoes that ate the distance beneath their step
Yielding bite marks as footprints and yet
They stored safety as a promise
In between records and held up blue plaques aloft
That said "I was not born here on this date
But I belong here" and I've history and a home to make
But for all the shiny pennies that they saved up in a jar
The princess dentists could still feel each
Generous donation, milky beneath their mattress
And each asylum seeker kept them up
And we clean teethed few, who always knew to brush
For three minutes before bed
Lucky by grace of birth, seas and a few miles more
Looked at these dentists questioning
but they shook their head
Warned us of the toothache of their seeming sweetness
So tell us about dental hygiene
how to floss lies from our gums
or else wait for all our teeth to fall out
Have them taken from beneath our pillows
Where we had gracefully saved them like we were told to
Constructed into fortresses
Utilized the tooth extraction cotton buds
as comforting ear plugs and pulled the wool over our eyes
Let’s wait until our retirement
Till we realise the Toothfairy wants our bones
Not just our molars
and we pushed away those who only needed
The chance of rest and the chance of somewhere
new and safe to show us how to smile
So brush your teeth tonight
And be thankful
you will never know that those who turn away from you
Will do so, because your breath
Still stinks of all the **** you so readily eat.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
You like to blend in
It's safer, not being identified in a line up
Not being noticed by the school Bully
I couldn't bear that life.
Always needed spotlight
Crosshairs
Skyscrapers.
Let people come into my building for it's big neon signs
When they leave maybe they've learned how to use pen. Bought or sold stories.
Taken something with them.
You are in the ocean
One of the many holding hands
dropletts blending together
Boats motor by, dump their waste
People dip their toes in,
******* before they leave
Scream over you about their tragedies.
Never hear you.
Except one girl
She sits by the ocean
Listens to the waves and the crashing
Watches the men hurl lobster traps
wants to be a scooba diver.
takes lessons
Gets a degree in marine biology
visits your rocky bottom
Lost in the sea of other droplettes
Illuminated Neon Coral houses
Tiny white specks to chase
lights dangling from
big teethed fish
She stays there
Loves how beautiful it is
Her name is Poetry
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
ix.
when you were eighteen
and i was fourteen
you handed me a blindfold
teethed with razors
because you say
truth is schizophrenic:
and angels are anemic
and my eyes are sweeter
than pomegranate
but your poison did not stop at
fairytale apples or lazarus
or hellish flowerets,
it re-mastered
left its tar around
your marrows.
iii.
when you were twenty
and i was sixteen
you gave me a Glasgow smile
on my tongue:
like the pale harlequin
so i could bleed solace
and sympathetical commiseration
through every word
when ever you needed me
wheil you emitted a rosary
that encircled
clavicles, threading it to a hole you manifested
inside my sternum
because you belived
a heart was not neccessary
if a doll could
love with fingers
*
now you are ten years old
and i am seven years older
you ask me to write a poem
about you and artistry
but i am waiting
for the aestheticist
beside the violet car
with one ear and
debauchery
licking my fingers
and biting off your nails.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
You can never skip an opportunity to call yourself that
Because you’re your ma’s son:
Didn’t get caught up in the tool shed
Got spiked through with the hooked art of repeating yourself instead
Should I feel insulted then
That these cracked, digited fringes
These rejects of your diminutive anatomy
Are how you love me?
You love me with the unvoiced, unexplained idiocy
Of fingers that make Mexican waves
To one particular song
And lure mine to come dancing too
You love me with the whorls where you keep your DNA
Counting the concaves in my skeleton:
Explore them, soothe them
Wonder if you made them
And I think you fear that
If you ceased to trace me as I grew –
A carpenter sifting through the age rings in my spine –
I’d only feel the dislocating vagueness
Of an absence too menial to be mourned.
“Cack-handed”
But I remember different:
I remember your hands like leather,
All heated and scratchy from your pockets,
Unhooking the problems from my mouth.
And how the weather’d teethed on them,
Gnawed away chunks down around the cuticles
Until they were dry and scarred like February –
February getting lost in its own bleak cavernousness
They stir the rag in the shoe polish,
And the burnt spoon in the bean tin.
I used to try to pinch them
But my nails were too soft
And your palms too crusted
But when they tell me “thick-skinned”
I shake my head and think
“No, beautifully cack-handed”
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
O moon, pale and alone
like me
O inhabitant in deserted skies
as I in lonely wilds
with my ghost baby;
let us put a charm together
a curse on men who betray their wives
and who put their seeds in young unwise girls
and run away
and hint the naive could **** themselves and their babies
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
O moon, pale and alone
listen to my tale:
*a charmer
dazzled my mind
and put his seeds in my womb;
and he told me he loved me
but he had other duties
and he said I should be ashamed
for being such a loose woman
and I should **** myself
and so take my baby within me*
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
O moon, pale and alone
feel the pain and horror in my mind
as I am doomed to deliver this script
night and night in this wilderness
Behold this infant I hold in my hand
this ghost of a baby
that has never seen life
******* at my milk-less white breast
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
O moon, pale and alone
come, let us put a charm together
a curse on men who betray their wives
and who put their seeds in unwise girls
and run away
and hint the naive **** themselves and their babies
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
O moon, lend me your strength and power
let us weave a curse, let us cast it over such he-devils:
*May their genitals rot
eaten by vermin;
may their eyes be eaten by giant flies;
and may their evil turn
into sharp-teethed ravenous worms
and stampede inside their bodies
and eat all their internal organs
and may these huge-bellied worms
eat every nerve and eat their brains part by part
O may such men die in pain, in madness
before their very wives*
Lend me your power
lend me strength
and curse with me
O moon, pale and alone
like me
inhabitant in deserted skies
as I in lonely wilds
with my ghostly baby
that has never seen life
OOOOhhhh…..eeeeee…..oooeeeeeyoooo….
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
kisses turn into monsters my
mind can't conjure up
they leave an ocean of pinks, purples, and blues,
yet I say nothing
this sharp - teethed demon
comes after me as fast as
a bullet can go
in my head,
i run rapidly, to the edge of the world,
but physically,
i stay as still as the sea
if I move,
he will come after me at supersonic speed
and i'll drown deeper
under these pink sheets
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
I was born fast and moving in the back of a bus 8 ½ miles outside of New Orleans. I was not noticed until my ***** cries wafted to the front of the bus, heard by a 50-year-old transvestite named Is-he-dora trying to homestead in Kentucky. She put me her manicured under arm and carried me off. You see, mom pulled up her ******* quick, smoothed out her cardigan, and popped a Quaalude before the driver could realize she climbed out of the emergency back exit.
My first drink was bourbon through a ****** I teethed raw leather, the heel of an old boot, and a mannequin who was named Dolly. She only wore red satin and peacock feathers. The gals only bathed her in sesame oil with almonds floating in the jar. She smelled of mom. My school was on the laps of the people in the back of racetrack stables. I take my learning fast paced with a side of jockey.
I took to the streets half paved by the beats. Cassidy may have had the road, but I had the words. I was thrown out of every Mormon congregation south of the Mason-Dixon. I made it to New York in a bathtub in the base of a pick up truck for the purposes of shoplifting for fun and profit. I vogued my way through Harlem, and at night I slept with Dolly’s sister in the bedding section of bloomies.
Here I am. Right in front of you. Can you see me? Can you smell me? Can you feel me?
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
john donne, was wrong ...
you know,
there are times...
when a man, is an island,
set alone far out to sea.
when,
he is bereft.
just a void, of sadness,
a gape, of hulking misery,
a chasm, of blankness,
in diminished and weary desolation.
with,
nothingness,
barren nakedness,
abject defeated melancholy,
as mountain range and peaks.
with,
indifference,
listless malaise,
the emptiness of depression, fatigue and lethargy,
as his meagre crops to eat.
with,
despondency,
distress, grief, affliction, abject and ineffable, sadness
as, the rivers that run through.
with,
tribulation,
torment,
desperate lamentations,
now, covering,
the fields with bitterness
and bereavement,
where once, the wildflowers,
used to grow.
now,
he is an island, alone.
deprived and dispossessed.
wanting and widowed.
and
with beaches, ravaged, bankrupt and heartsore
the reefs, encircle,
tho, fragmented, incomplete they are short, sharp teethed
coral.
waiting with,
patience absent,
anger rampant.. that
make,
the currents turbulent ,
those,
miserable, mournful, waters,
those,
sad, sorrowing, suffering, waves
that,
break, upon his grief-laden
shores,
tide, after, tide, after, tide.
he stands,
among the grieving.
unreachable.
an island.
a hollow man.
alone.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
*Church.
State.
Body.
Mind.
"Nobody gets left behind."*
Toxic youth brain-washed by games
Adults around them carelessly play.
Success bartered for our souls
Briefcase in hand, your flesh still cold.
Air-brushed, white-teethed
In the mirror we hope to see.
The pressure builds, we're prescribed,
*Church.
State.
Body.
Mind.
"Nobody gets left behind."*
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Magic memories, Sweet, of you
Who swam with me in oceans, blue.
Swam in deep green grottos warm
Where minnows, brightly painted, swarmed.
We plunged down, deep, to coral beds
To sway with tidal seaweed, red
And conger eels’ ferocious teethed
Now bared… then recoiled back to reef.
Squads of barracuda dashed
Around us, close, in silver flash,
Threatening with long gnashing teeth
Invoking stone cold fear, bequeathed.
Yet hovering, in deep crystal clear
Enraptured and entranced, endeared,
As giant kelp in columns, swayed
And stingrays in battalions, played.
Long grey shark then menaced bye
Ogling us with plate sized eye.
Time, I thought, to swim for shore
Where hot white sands… enticed us more.
M.
Great Barrier Reef
January 1968
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 4:49 AM UTC
I feel that old twinge of bitterness creeping up again from the shadows.
I almost don't recognize the pattering footsteps of the old fiend.
never the less, the hair on the back of my neck stands up and my eyes glaze over.
Next thing you know I'm foaming at the mouth speaking gibberish in-between nips at your ankles.
Ah! the familiar pang of imaginary injustices,
piling up and filing in to rows of sentences without pauses.
Oh what a wonderful feeling is that of the raw ball of hate caught in the throat!
Venom drips from the fangs hidden in nonchalant inquisitions.
Tread carefully for I lay in brush of amber straws waiting for the perfect time to lunge.
Needless to say, I did not seek out the dog that teethed upon me. Nevertheless, I've become unforgiving and rabid.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
Clicky teethed and Eighty-Nine,
She hears the distant high - pitched whine
Of ratty kids in four-strong choirs
Who sing of Kings as she expires.
Wasn't wealthy, wasn't witty
Not too smart and not too pretty
But loved a man she wed at twenty
And he loved her, and that was plenty
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
her mother holding her hand as her veil covers her face, she waits for the right moment to walk down the ail. Her dress whiter than snow, as her mother leads her down to her lover. She dreams of the embras that awaits at the end of that long forgetting ail. with for-get-me-not's settled gently and evenly on either side of her she walks down toward her destiny as her belly is swollen with child and her mind wondering, she sees nothing but the smiles on everyone's face. Her mothers tears falling as she smiled along with everyone else. though her smile was with goodbye as her youngest child smiles and watches as her mother try's to hide her rain of loving joy. her mother rises the veil to kiss her forehead she leans over to allow the kiss, as her mother walks to the row to sit down. Her heart beating so fast she doesn't hear anything else. Her lover staring at her with an open heart. as they say their vows the dress seems to b weighing her down as they walk to the end of the ail. She made it down the ail of destiny, with her mother guiding her every move as she did when she started walking, as she teethed her first tooth, as she helped her ride her first horse. Her mother was there when she needed her and when her mother didn't want to let go she finally let her little butterfly fly away and leave the nest of her mother protective arms. Her butterfly hoovers over the road before running back to her arms and kissing her mother goodbye as she made her way toward a new life and a good husband to guide her through the tough times, but to her little girl her mother would always be her hero and protector
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
Devour My Memories, I Utter My Thanks
The faintest heartbeat, beating incessently within the womb of the accursed
A plague, a toxin, a parasite adorned in rozen love...
How despair will foster you as its own soon.
Despair that dusts blue skies to crimson.
Painting the earth with the despair you, so courteously, gifted...
A life she was meant to live, and a life she was almost denied.
Who was it that almost cried when she died?
Not the mother,
nor the father.
Not the god that wouldn't bother...
But the one whom those pointed and screamed
“Monster”.
Adorn thee with strength, needed to breathe
Adorn thee with love, needed to grieve
As an infant, our adoring spirits you teethed...
Our child, concieved with love...
Father adorned your body in gallant, red petals...
Sprouting purple fruit, that blossomed upon your beautiful body.
Mother, saw nothing, for the sugar in her eyes...
Nullified her to the girl that slowly died.
Your brother we had, whom we ensured held your hand...
Overcome with corruption, he mangled those porcelain bones,
It needed to be planned.
to dust they turned, hollowing them from the inside
until the walking world grew barren, and your canvas lost its color.
They covered their eyes to the “us” that they saw...
And you, who wanted to live, wished to know why their spirits died.
You asked of us, begged as a young soul, to not be blind
So HE painted your canvas with color.
Distorted blacks, containing every hue that even a treasure of a species only saw...
You saw, for one simple reason,
We loved you.
We showed you that the conceptual distortion you felt...
That solidified pain...
It, too could become a comfort. And I became your comfort,
the only comfort that you need.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
Glass is seeping through my fingers
stealing a free ride on ice cold blood
these window panes are asking for forgiveness
while your front door is seeking revenge.
You cannot walk quick enough into the abyss of the night
before it swallows you whole
roaring back with a rigid teethed grin
and a kind stab to the back.
It is cold as hell
if your heart were to freeze hell over
I am dying slowly
thank you for loving me at least once
at least when both our lips were lost
and our hearts swollen with patches of frigid deep blue
the same way it seemed
every time we kissed
you'd leave sweet frostbite
You are frozen solid
yet somehow the only way I can keep warm.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC