"typo" poems
No no no, this isn’t one of those commendable confessional rants of redounded reality.
We all know where that goes and what it leads to.
This rhetoric comprises solely of the faulty intuitive comprehension and the ******** behaviour people have while under the influence of the poor man’s ****
That could be mistaken for a typo.
Xeno-meph, would be what aliens are called if they did this too.
Extended warranty of your sinus cavity is a must.
And a mouth guard so you don’t churn away at the capricious calcium that are your teeth.
Smoke and dance till lungs and legs collapse.
Talk like you’re the spokesperson for an oil company that’s pillaging life and land.
Change your personality in a minute and become the ****** you always wanted to be.
That smart talking, **** wagging, ***** licking, *** ******* back stabbing, self serving, worthless piece of **** is now you, but it doesn’t feel like that to you.
Rational ******** your only reprieve.
Keep doing the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again hoping the outcome will change.
But you’re cool.
You’ve done this before, it’s solvable.
A break. That’s all there’s to it.
The itch in your nose has stopped. Your jaw doesn’t hurt.
You don’t feel like **** but you know somehow that something is amiss.
Things are not what they seem. Sense doesn’t make itself.
The dark is your sanctum. Fast is your peace.
That’s not a typo.
The world cannot slow down for you.
You have to speed up. Another gram, another line, another lie.
Control is what you say it is.
Handles are what your stomach has.
Fast forward a few months and you don’t have a handle on anything.
You don’t feel down, you feel fine. Nothing’s wrong
But just another fall, and you’re straight out of line.
Justify! Justify! Justify!
Listen, keep listening… Talk! keep talking!
Everything makes sense. Everything is a sense.
The difference is that I’m faster, quicker, sharper.
I’m handicapped.
Leverage is my mind, broken and blind.
I wish that was a typo.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
the seagull diddled
when he perched on my dock,
though no invitation extended,
no offense was taken,
when in observation,
of the foolish humanish varietal,
did it opine
*"dude,
u need to move more
and exercise those legs,
eat right,
many small meals,
like me,
write your-poetry
while in airborne motion."*
all this was spoke
while he speared and swallowed
a little river perch,
in my face,
flying off contentedly,
just to drive his point home -
directly into my gut
so should the next
pedestrian creation,
be typo'd plenty,
though,
I can walk and talk,
even chew gum simultaneously,
advice from seagulls,
who defecate on my dock,
should be taken as well,
in small sized portion control
poetry is best served,
proudly prone-ly
though I did thank him kindly,
and went back to bed...
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).
you will not win.
- m.f.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke
Wheels no spokes
Board rollin down alleys
Late night skate
Let me escape
The life I never planned
Never on time
You best lower your expectations
Snortin molly in the bathroom
Chuggin ***** in the hall
I could be anywhere at all
But I’d still crawl
back to the clutches of dependence
I forfeited life's race in the first lap
Yet I'm still trapped
Coughing up blood
I strive for nothing
I don't want to feel
I long to be free
From society
Our culture has maxed out
So now everyone wants to shout
for help because what the world wants
Is unrealistic
We try to overdose
And become comatose
To drop all worries of material success
Those
Stacks on stacks on stacks
Racks on racks on racks
We forget
its just paper
Not what defines us
The rest is up to the people
To rise about the atmosphere
Of atoms and mold supportive molecules from the elements we're presented
Not corrected like a sent typo
To your mom
Or boss
Control
Is unattainable
Fathom the slack of a slacker
Loosen your ropes
And walk the plank
With no hopes of disaster nor triumph
Determined
To just be
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
.*if, and however many mistakes i made in typo... attempting to compete with Spawn, using the black panther... ****** please... it's like that "healthy" competition of butter, using margarine... Black Panther isn't Spawn... Spawn is... Spawn... yeah... thanks for ruining my 12" wish fetish... i was so dying... to... i was never going to **** an English girl to begin with... thank god.*
you're seriously going
to "correct" me
using black panther....
seriously?
spawn was the ********
to what....
to whatever you're
doing these days....
i don't want to be
the blank panther...
**** being black panther...
************
i want to be *spawn"..
******* quasi-nigger...
john coltrane...
you a mariah carey
back-up singer or some
otherwise alien whacky
alien-backlog?
compared to spawn...
the black panther
looks like a ******* ******
wing guy...
for what's deemed
12"...
black...
mire like bleak Parthenon...
some columns,
no spirals...
waste of time...
black Panther, what?
so Spawn...
was just a waste of time?
Spawn was the gran-daddy
where the Batman was the daddy
given the Joker
was the gran-gran-daddy...
you get me?
Miles Davis too much for you?
the blank panther is such
a ***** move...
it's like... come Kosovo...
when expecting Sarajevo...
****** this **** will not
stick...
high flying ****
if you think this will become
a ******* pancake...
no, ******
take your blank panther back
to Yakanda, or whatever...
your Spawn was cooler than
Lego Batman...
**** your white *****
and leave me to my existentialism
of... making a "heroic" exit..
akin to Elvis...
but more or less minding
Roy Orbison in a sing along.
p.s.
lego batman movie quote:
black panther *****
spawn go go go! spammy!
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
This whole thing is one big typo.
It’s supposed to tell you how much I love you.
But instead it’s just another boring poem.
How lame.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
I thought you were beautiful
Not shallow beauty,
Skin deep
The kind of beautiful like the sun
Shining on a tree leaf
Showing its veins
Beautiful like,
The sound of a creek
After a good storm
Like the feel of a summer breeze
On the back of my neck
I held you in awe
You were the mist,
Rising off the lake on a cool morning
The view from the top of my mountain,
In the fall when the leaves are colored
You were the violin music
Playing softly while I danced
The colors oil makes on the street
Just after it rains and the light hits it
I was nothing
A ghost,
In the darkest corridors of your haunted house
The typo on an old type writer,
Needing white out
I thought you were beautiful
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
1
Dear Poet Friend at HP
(I don't know your name, as the name you use at HP is in a typo I can't decipher.)
* I welcome your question and comment as it gives me an opportunity to explore this issue of plagiarism. It will indeed be useful for everyone.
* This is my modus operandi: I take a joke from online and I convert it to poetry. The language is mine; I give the joke a context, even alter its spirit, create characters and by the time I'm finished with it, it is a new and original product.
If I took the words exactly as they are and passed them off as my own, then that is plagiarism. I never do that.
Plagiarism is taking another person's words and phrases and work and passing them off as one's own. That is not what my work is about.
* Take the example of Shakespeare. His "Julius Caesar" is actually based on various sources. So is his "Romeo and Juliet" and other plays like "Othello". Do we charge him with plagiarism ? No, as he has used his own language and puts each material from various sources into his own style. I have taken many jokes and I have put them in poetry, in my own style, in my own narrative. It shows a great lack of understanding of Literature to call that plagiarism.
* You might ask why I do not have a note at the end to indicate the poem is based on a joke found online. I used to do that (see my older poems) and decided for purely aesthetic reasons to keep notes to a minimum.
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
2
Would it be fine with you if I posted your comment along with my reply as a separate post on my page? It will benefit everyone to consider this issue.
If you are not agreeable to my including your view in such a post, then I will simply post my reply possibly entitled "Reply on being charged with plagiarism".
Thank you
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I hope I don’t **** this one up
If I make a mistake it isn’t my fault
My credibility can be diminished by the way present things
I, the way I present things
I am afraid of publishing something someday and
******** up the end result
Someone will read it and laugh because I missed word
A word, I missed a word
****
If I am to ever mess up a final draft then
I will laugh because nothing is final except for maybe death
Maybe
Books scare me because when they are printed the work becomes permanent
And I’m not sure I want anything I create to last forever
I don’t know if anything I say will ever be kept for that long but if it is I want my mistakes to be as clear as what I am attempting to say
I am attempting to say I cannot be held accountable for everything I do wrong
People will look back and doubt that I can be trusted because I didn’t use the write form of right
Even so, I hope my errors are good enough to be remembered
I hope I can incite a cringe or two with my fallibility
I was not made to be perfectly correct in all that I do, my words can attest to that
So if I **** this up, if I make a typo,
Let’s just pretend it was on porpoise.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Poem Analysis
1st read, I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius. billy
your poem comment-dissects my poem
my process,
a marathon interview for a new poem pole position,
limb by limb, word by word,
chewed and re-chewed,
like a tiring piece of bubble gum,
the flavor remaining ebbs, but is not extinguished,
and can live in your mouth,
forever
and the praise and this poem,
not a rodomontade,
for your comment dear Billy,
is the process description of a poet’s labor,
from word first to a baby’s birth,
gibberish into genius
emergent from first pain, then pushing, then tilled, at long last,
the dirtiest immaculate conception beautiful
billy reads my rambling, silly abstruse^ & wrote me:
*1st read I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius*
this is a much loved critique
for I well recall each step of creation,
a summarizing parallel
that your words+genes replicated so well,
forgiving you a minor typo, Billy,
it was genus, not genius that you meant
(but then again, why quibble over a miscellaneous, harmless, delighting, tiny little extra i...not me, said he, my muse ego )
Billy has gone gray dotted, but his dot, his comment,
with gratitude,
in me, he,
lives for ever
I feel gibberish coming on...
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
Cause you see.
I can be rich and married to a woman in mediocrity;
Or I can be poor and with the woman of my dreams,
I'm sure of it.
Everyone wants a piece they can only get a tour of it.
Fussin for crumbs, I'm baking more of it.
But that's apparent; or superficial?
It's existential at the core of it.
I just need to feel.
Girl, show me something real.
Don't conceal from me.
You can get the deal from me.
We can go and peel.
You can grip the the wood grain wheel.
Make 'em tires squeal...
For me,
Is who I'm running from.
Upset with all I have and haven't done.
Under layers of writing,
Pounds of paper,
Tangles of letters,
Words rearranged,
Metaphors you may think strange.
But here I am.
Hiding in my forest of unspoken conversation.
Bits and pieces can you see me?
Look and listen do you hear me?
Maybe I feel lost because I've grown.
Trees happen to be bigger than shown.
Past poems come to mind.
Of trees;
Of me.
Of flowers;
Which happen to be about her.
Certainly, this same old ǝɔuɐp’
Cannot be my only stance.
This tree has legs,
I must move.
I just hope to not lose it,
As soon as I get in the groove.
-Luca Ivaldi
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
Type it out you ******* this could be
The last one
For a little while.
I made a promise with myself
Or whoever that shady character is,
Outside
On the deck with me
The one who
Makes fun of me
Delete words as I puke this
Poem?
Out.
Its best that me and this keyboard become friends
My anger towards, understand and accepting
What is proper type,
Or am I the proper type
Of guy who wants Vegas
And EDM
And MDMA
in My life
So writing
Or typing
Whatever
Which one
Of me
Wants to deem it
for only when I dream
It, cheap rhyme,
I want my style to be my own
And I want my intoxicated
Meaningful
Ramblings to be a
Part of it
A part of the
Bigger picture.
I will only type **** like this when i am not sober.
Sober sure is funny
And not just a funny word
Smiley face emoticon
Emoticon is not
a typo
....
Dear lord, oh god oh mighty,
Blasphemy that I would
Even start
Talkin' about
galaxies and universes
outside of this one
Puke some more
As I delete and pull
Words
From
One
Line
To the
Next
Without
Giving a
****
That my
Microsoft word
Capitalizes
Every text
My little brother text (texted?)
Me tonight and said
"Get more ink
For the typewriter"
.
Aside for my desire to ramble on about
Getting more ink
The 16 year ol’ champ
Is right
My biggest dreams at this moment
Are childlike
If that’s a good thing…
Then my 6 year game plan
From this day is in jeopardy.
Autocorrect me more
Higher intelligence
And answer me question’s
The one’s that Christan’s
Don’t need answerin’
Have you ever been introduced to a
16 year old ****
A 16 year ol’ ****
Honestly, I had my eyes locked
On – one
Tonight
And I don’t know so much if
I was looking
But maybe I was recognizing
Recognizing a certain
Level of respect that I had
For her
That she didn’t have for herself
She ****** off my best friends brother to get her backpack back tonight
In front of car headlights
And I have always wanted to type
Backpack back
My entire life.
Put your backpack on buddy,
And walk away from this
Poem?
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
responsive wordplay resizes
double entendre to single line
call blocked the writers
got more out by dialing 9
touch screens to text readers
read text and seem touched
the ringing in your ears
was from a cellular punch
I plan to limit my data
but I always over share
mastering dastardly dactyls
pushes my meter to bare
if you only think 1x
you might struggle to get the picture
take a 4G dose to flex
your brain with crack and fissures
lithium ironic that my low battery
turns hyperbole to hypo
I got you charged with flattery
alas, you're not my typo
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
You are an exit wound
the extra shot of tequila
the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out
you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre
pebble wedged in the sole of a boot
the ****** hangnail
you are, just this once
you are flip flops in a thunderstorm
the boy's lost ********
a pen gone dry
you are my father's nightmare
my mother's mirage
you are a manic high
which is to say:
you are a bad idea
you are ****** despite the ******
you are, I know better
you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass
you are the morning after
whose name I can't remember
still in my bed
the hole in my rain boots
******** with no batteries
you are, shut up and kiss me
you are naked wearing socks
mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks
you are the wrong guy buying me a drink
you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel
sweetalk into unprotected ***
the married coworker
my stubbed toe
you are not new or uncommon
not brilliant or beautiful
you are a bad idea
rock star in the back seat of a taxi
burned popcorn
top shelf, at half price
you are everything I want
you are a poem I cannot write
a word I cannot translate
you are an exit wound
a name I cannot bring myself
to say aloud
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Typing was not my strength, it was my shame.
Typing is a skill to make words legible, not for me.
Letters were rarely in the right order, what a shame.
Things change, typed word can create order.
Secretarial work was not my thing.
Typing purchasing orders all day was not for me.
One typo, the order goes in File 13, to erase my error.
At the end of the day my wastebasket was piled high.
I typed a purchasing order and things changed.
It was for 50 tapes, my fingers flew to my shame.
My boss called me in his office, asked to read
I ordered 50 rapes, you read it right rapes.
He laughed, showed me a pencil and asked.
Do you see what is at the end? Yes, an eraser.
Learn to use it, use it to erase and correct your mistake
Do not throw away your experience.
He added: in 5 years your mistake is forgotten
In 10 years few will remember your mistake or name.
In 100 years from now no one will know who you are.
I wish to be remembered as a woman activist poet.
I no longer use File 13 to delete a shame.
You see, I write and type about the shame of ****
The shame every woman who is violated feels.
It a shame but not her shame, file and record his shame.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
In laws, pardon the typo
in the law,
a system of justice,
like the law of averages,
it all equals out in the end,
laws are broken, people bend,
meant not to, break rules of the land,
the court is fair when it demands,
restitution, a repayment of sorts,
the system is in place when a face goes
behind bars,
near or far,
fear or worse,
in a hearse,
thin excuses,
juror recuses,
furor increases,
time decreases,
behind
bars,
penance the menace,
what we need here is some hard time,
under
the thumb of the law,
but the law has no thumbs, only scales,
held in the hand
of a blind maiden,
but what of the parents of a forever lost only child,
but what of the family who loses a father,
or mother, sister and a brother,
but what of a woman who lost her man,
will the maiden step aside and let them
hold the scales,
I think not,
some say the system rots,
the law is devoid of the
emotion,
that those,
who have measured
their lives against a loss,
the experience has burned off the dross,
they are left with pure emotion,
unable to fill the void,
which the law was never meant to do,
we blame society for all sorts of ills,
rather than have society step in and fill,
the void in the law, that is compassion for the victim
the void in society which is not the wrong but to make it right,
the answer,
avoid the law?
no
avoid breaking hearts,
of blind maidens, and
avoid breaking
laws.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
if you want to make a mark on the world,
remove the marks placed upon thyself,
by thyself,
thus skilled,
then erase others.
be an eraser,
then
a bother-in-arms.
no typo,
bother the world
by your
arms,
your reach around,
arms extended.
freedom begins when first seeing the greater good.
making goodness greater,
frees oneself to free the others,
all the days of your life.
mark them how you free them well,
being a eraser,
then a re~marker
upon each other.
he who erases the marks of others,
makes his mark upon the world non-pareil.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
(for Daisy, a true companion to poet rr)
in the city,
we fight daily the toughest of hombres,
brown, grayed, mottled city pigeons,
who fear no human predator,
in the fight
for the crumbs and crusts of
inspiration
however, they may come our way
get a message, a post,
with the words
“a good create”
the words form a chord,
in my throat, taut, visible, tense
even knowing it’s likely a typo,
probably meant “creature,.”
but the phrase strikes me
as one too little spoke
in our diurnal drudgery
numbing~dumbing struggle,
but, I take them as (a) writ,
for the crumb of challenge
proffered
if we cannot justify our existence,
daily with a new create,
then incumbent upon us
to cherish, double and thrice,
the good and wonderful
creates,
the surround us
been decades since my body
was warmed by the shape of an animal’s
curves fitted into mine,
our sleep rhythm intertwined,
nay,
one
<>
so once again,
I mourn a living poem
who crossed my path
in photo, in words,
but never,
not in,
living color
but the sighs of loss,
real
*so as is my wont,
inquire within,
where shelter?
in the love
we create
tween us and our*
creatures.
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 10:56 AM UTC
This poem is thumping like a boulder
at the bottom of a river
And last year’s hit
is fighting static on the radio
We sat against the waves
all day yesterday
I still feel the rocking
That anti-movement
The best part of a meal is right when the food arrives
I’d rather stay hungry than be satisfied
to stop wanting
to stop chasing
I sleep on the ground
to be farther away from you
the whole time we were stock images
choreographed feelings
unrealistic props
and a well timed photographer
Now we’re stopping in yesterday’s parking lot
and today’s hit has turned jarring.
They’ll be running our circles
long after we die.
I made a dozen
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
before my mother came home
and took the knife out of my hand
I’m running to you
like you’re a pint of Ben & Jerry's
and I'm lactose intolerant
It stays in my mind
like choking on medicine
It’s like that pregnant silence
when the waiter asks
“together or separate?”
It’s like driving up a mountain
or criticizing the lack of representation in a Hallmark movie
alone from my couch.
There’s nothing poetic about stalking you on twitter.
but it’s part of the story so here’s a stanza about it anyway.
[Pause for effect]
I hope next time we meet
you’ll ask me how I am
I’ll tell you I am super
and both of us will believe it
again
I hope one of us will smile and say
“0ne day”
and the other will notice the typo.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
watching the pain dry
*you did not mistake -
no word play, not the product
of typo or errant
clenched eyes
labored writ,
the liver is failing,
the interval organs
a joint co-production
contribution,
the words demonized,
but truth cannot be
plausibly denied
all cast members
are rehearsing
preparing the last act,
interrupting with
exceptional,
expectorating refusals,
objections,*
too
*this n'that
*all their "too's"
are double O'd,
double ****** negatives
an overflow
bloodletting,
excessive overwriting
the playwright words,
maudlin can't be spoke in the present
of his
presence
revolutionary overridden by the
actors,
the words too hard,
to speak sob as long as I am
almost stilled but still
in the room
-*wrenching a bemused grin
guiding them & pain to a higher purpose,
admonish them with pleasured pleases
needs saying
as it writ and
carrying the denouement
to a rightful conclusion
as*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
"You're a goofball" she muttered
"And you're a typo queen" I smirked at her
"But you're my goofball" she smirked back
"Forever and always like you are my queen"
Yet now I'm reminiscing and a total wreck..
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
It seems like a man can't be happy or sad
A man can't be sappy, y'all gettin' mad.
"All you do is sit at home. Go do something."
Constructing
"Where are you? Come home."
Undertones erupting
I do this for us alone.
Even if it's all for nothing.
Let's do, explore and roam.
Even if it's all for nothing.
Live life like I tore this poem.
Like life written,
All for nothing.
-Luca Ivaldi
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC