"verisimilitude" poems
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?
What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?
Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.
Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master's whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags, while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them, and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day's sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother's. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, but always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
Tod Howard Hawks
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
This poem is going to be a lie
He tells himself
Writhing in tantalizing filaments
The bright asphyxiation drawing him closer and closer
To this
An ideal
Of the perfect truth
Told out in unwritten song
Painfully typed words
A clever shower of meteors
Belittling the dangerous craters on the surface
The danger of tripping and dying
Not withstanding what we know to be
A falicy
My multilingual interpretation of her feelings
Old testimonies heard in the court
Of the already guilty
This poem is a complete distortion of facts
My trivial response to empowered individuals
Standing on my Adam's Apple
And beating on my lungs like drums
Rhythm meaning honor
And the attention of the onlookers meaning
The inviting glow
Of the fireplace.
She sat down next to
That night
That town
That unfamiliar castigating of a child not belonging to
You
Or her
Or the abyss
"Unbelonging"
"Inbelonging"
Not. Yours.
The wordsmith falters
Checking his math
Calculation, equation, kiss on the cheek
For luck for death
For the noose to slip, lovingly
And gently to the ground as the trap door swings open
A great, open toothed smile
Laughing at silence
BARBARIC to interrupt such delicacy
Straining to look into my eyes
She whispers low
I want to find a home...
And i tell her, with my heaviest conviction
"No home is."
Which could mean anything.
This poem is a verisimilitude
A lie about a truth
Which, again...
Could mean anything...
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
When the silence takes the stage,
and I am called upon to perform, oh what a fool I shall be.
Dance monkey dance they'll say, and dance I shall.
On all fours I crawl,
your *****
Leash me up
in a tight collar
speaking for your laughter.
Here it is,
my self respect,
I present it to you,
I give it all, unto you.
For I no longer need it.
It's a small price to pay for this life.
It's a simple token
for the price of a fancy gown,
for the reward of approval... from strangers.
To be able to buy that fancy car
To be the envy of it all.
To be admired...
For this handsome repayment
loss of self worth
seems nothing.
and it is nothing
until late at night
when I stare at my skinny bones
in a large
but empty apartment
with the city's lights
shadows dancing out my regrets on the walls,
reminiscing of the whole person I used to be.
when I was someone you could respect...
someone who could say no
and had control
and didn't live under constant contract
and scrutiny of the monster that is the media.
Late at night,
with a morning soon coming,
a morning filled
with my stripped body
contorting itself
and writhing
for the camera
to please a generation I will never know.
To flaunt materialism
and narcissism
expected to sound sagacious
and preach this deceitful verisimilitude
but teaching the youth
to be broken and hateful-
to live with these quixotic expectations.
and
it
is
disgusting.
Yet here I am.
Stripped,
broken and battered,
pouting my photoshop lips
and limp, sick body
to preach it day after day.
For It was so long ago,
that I was respectable.
perhaps I could better remember those days-
but in this life
with a restriction on ennui
you are not allowed to be anything but
deliriously content
and that is not a problem so long as this bottle doesn't run out,
so long as I keep swallowing these pills,
drowning out the voice
that despises me.
So long as I keep on acting.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
If I could draw or
Paint or sketch,
Or sculpt or even
******* embroider,
My self-portrait
Would be titled
Cliché, Bright Eyed Girl,
Girl Who’s Falling
For ‘The Bad Boy,’
Girl who Doesn’t
Stand a Chance:
Girl Self-Involved in Petty Problems.
I’d be a surrealist
I’d befriend Zelda Fitzgerald
In Paris, then the clinic:
A sad clown face
So eager and fragile,
Drooping low,
Fair, but not the fairest
Dripping, melting,
Like those clocks, or something
into a dream,
Where I, a Botticelli,
Venus,
You, a Gonzo trip
And you’d press into
My soft full hips
With nicotine stained fingers.
A bee coating the peony,
Such slick pollen
From past flights of fancy:
You linger for the most succulent taste.
I’d trace the ink of your tattoos,
They lay beneath your skin.
I’d crawl down there too,
Pushing up against your veins.
With the crest of a wave,
We’d crash together,
Golden silk surrounding us:
Coming
Out of the foam.
Then I come back,
Back into the frame:
A sad little girl,
Face lowered,
Unruly hair shadowing her face,
While you look past,
Walking away in the foreground.
But I can’t paint,
Draw, sculpt, whatever.
I’m no Dali.
Just like I
Can’t make you
Fall, fall, fall,
into a cliché,
In love
With me.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
you row, row, your wooden boat,
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
How much is time, what is space and distance
as the ship behind you is never reached
for it forever recedes, as you row, row
and perennially speed the prow
towards
Towards what?
Towards that
Which forever recedes, as you row, row
You row, row, the wooden boat
And all time and effort, all will and motion
is but oil and canvas
A picture, an impression, an illusion
A verisimilitude
of what?
Capturing what?
To embrace what?
That which eludes
Past time, past space, past mind and body
you row, row, your wooden boat
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
A dream
Soaring towards
boundless ideas
Paving the path
Verisimilitude
Society.
Placed me in the box of
idealists.
Striding to convince me
my feet
need to find
the ground.
Society.
Untethered me.
Released me
into the realm
of possibility.
Freeing me
to create
Ideology Reality
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
We live in an age where people patronize technology,
Where criticisms exist beneath deafening reticence,
Where every truth needs to be re-examined,
And where life itself is falling on its foundations and hinges.
Beliefs and opinions are held back just for a sense of inclusion,
Letting every genuine trail of truth left behind and ignored.
And yet people wonder, why is this generation filled with delusion?
The only answer is, the loss of connection with Christ alone.
Many of us call ourselves true believers,
But when it comes to actions, the appropriate term might be barbarians.
More often than not, we only practice sanctity inside the church;
And as the mass ends, we come back to our own sordid worlds.
We are indeed sinners in different twisted ways,
Corrupted by evil, and thus to Him we go astray.
Yet, He continues to shower us with eternal love and forgiveness,
And waits patiently for us to greet him in turn with thanks, and praise.
Indeed His love for us - His children - is eternal and unconditional,
That even if we are in nature imperfect,
In His eyes, we are nothing but absolute beauty.
For we are created in His own image, liking, and serenity.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
One day I'll wake up and see,
See men dropping no more bombs,
To drag myriads of innocents
Indignantly yowl beneath tombs.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See a bunch of desperate culprits
Before their trembling knees,
Seeking redemption by pulpits.
One day I'll wake up and see,
Just as a rose wafts her scents on air,
Soothingly so shall harmony and peace
Ameliorate our world once so fair.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See all men working hand in hand
With a sole aim of invading not,
But to enrich each others land.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See the mighty air of verisimilitude
Dawn upon all men and women,
There's need to care for the destitute.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See it vividly that all women and men,
Whether yellow skinned, red or white,
Accuse not the Raven for a dark omen.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See people of all sorts of creed,
To oblivion obliterate their theories,
Admit to one great soul we're all linked.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See it dawn unto men without doubt,
Walking down the isle to the same ***
In sullen graves they'll never get out.
One day I'll wake up and see,
See men quell their pride and vanity
Right into the most peculiar abyss,
Regain sanity to draw back to humanity
One day you'll wake up and see,
See with me all these wonders evolve,
And we'll stand in a stupendous awed silence,
Seeing such crimes against humanity dissolve.
©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
20th January 2017
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
As I lean upon the boardwalk
Gazing at the beautiful blue sea
I listen to the clash of roaring waves
They talk to me in ravenous voices
While spiraling winds provide them
With such close, inviting company
My ears become alert and peeled
My senses are alert to its extremity
I come to think to myself, asking,
"Is there a spirit in the waters?"
I pinched myself followed by a slap
"Man I'm tripping", I tell myself
Then yet there's the voices again
This time I catch the words
"Come with us, join us now",
They said with such conviction
I shake my head in bewilderment
Asking myself "Am I dreaming?
As water splashed upon me I hear,
"You belong with us, come hither"
I began to turn around and run
Yet, at the end of the boardwalk
I spot a blazing wall of fire
So I race down the other direction
And in my way was a wall of wind
They began to enclose on me
I stand there confused, but fearless
As I stand there presuming lethargic
I say within a quick stutter
"Wh what is the meaning of this?"
"Wh what do you want from me?"
They voices began to say altogether,
"We are apart of your conscience"
"Come stay with us and be free"
"You don't belong here"
I say to them, "Belong where?"
They speak in synchronized word,
"HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE"
And I ask "What do you mean?"
And they then say to me,
"Here in the outside world"
"Let us free ye of this dungeon"
"Get thee hence from this place"
Then suddenly.... I closed my eyes
As I opened them, they were gone
Everything was back to normal
I looked around, nothing was there
The walls of fire and wind, gone..
I was still leaning on the boardwalk
As for the waves, they were calmed
And I never seen the sky so clear
I realized in between my talk
A conversation with my conscience
The message it was giving out
I know now what it was offering
In my state of inebriation
Dreary as I look across the coastline
I said to myself, "Now I get it"
"I see what my conscience meant"
Beyond a brush of virtual reality
Within my mindful verisimilitude
My conscience was telling me
To leave the physical world
Be free of all corruption
To be happy and from now on...
LIVE INSIDE MY HEAD.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
THOSE WHO RULE
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 1:00 PM UTC
Quietous* tree,
That hath sought
Found to bleed
And from torment wrought,
Thou dost despondent stand
And thy veins doth shed
And bury in desolate land
The tears that thou hast bled.
Thine heart's own verisimilitude
Beats within thy stiff breast
And all thee hath eschewed
And thy plot avoid lest
Thy count'nance rear'd
And thy misery form'd
Within all whom thee fear'd
And their joy harm'd.
Quietous* tree,
Son of agony's lot,
From the pain within thee,
What horror hast thou begot?
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Patience's home
Sweet and merciful, the tows of resolve?
Account me the silence, the hint of some
Verily fascinated, the tools of cares know the world...
Livid, the tale between two legends
Found curiosity, saviors share of woes...
To remember the clash of waits, worth, and winds
The clue of frustration, if not forces to believe, hold...
Running avarice, the told whisper of when
A prayer has sat right in front of you...
Can a heart be ever so erudite, a sincere occur to then?
Just one more stone of merit, of a liberty to collect who...
Since we are here, the total of unity...?
For a quiet question, sought by instinct
And the callous might we admit; is a reason, a ready...
Quote of vanity and its verisimilitude, and with a wink...
The eyes of existence
Realizing the poise if not poignancy of few's
And looking long beyond the order of meaning's resilience
Can the past of love, be the future for kinder soon's?
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 2:53 AM UTC
Occasionally
I place my hands over fire
to see if they burn.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 30, 2022
Dec 30, 2022 at 4:56 PM UTC
My life
for an instant,
wafting in and out of reality,
a breath taking verisimilitude
interchanged with my surroundings.
enclosed,
naked,
numb,
lying belly up in your palms.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
A canorous music perforates my opaque
Quivering chromaticism smears me
With osculance and solidarity
I solicit solitude
And altogether, I'll be accompanied
By my only one ally
We, anon, will rally loneliness
Imbibing a cup of chocolate
With zest and dally
Oh!... An ameliorated hallucination
Do not! I beseech! decimate
My incipient, redintegrating mate ---
I cannot delineate now any line of this smooth... lie!
Oh... What love dove above!
Blinked delving and desperarion
Scintillated once whilst falling apart on my face!
With a liquor of ink... and... tears
Penetrated any level of my flesh and sunk into my sole soul
Letting a chrysalis breed into a labyrinthine verisimilitude
Lulled by loop and fetching,
Fetching equanimity
I'm sorry... I cannot any more equilibrize anything
This is my alibi desuetude
I hope desynchronised is not my goodbye!
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
To trust any words heard
Or spill any voice spoken
To raise whilst contempted
Razed truth asunder
Under bequeathed breathless wonder
Slandering o'er verisimilitude
Tumultuously timid wounds
Seems a deathly mistake
One shall not afford to make
More than once to thy grave
Each fault lies contemption
O'er silver seas sown distention
Nearer to thine own heart
Evermore beats in desolation
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
"That is not dead which can eternal lie,
and with strange aeons even death may die."
-Abdul Alhazred
Piercing light digs itself into my eyes
A spread of bird calls funnel past open windows
I lift my throbbing head off the splayed pages
It seems that morning breeze has been perusing my book
The Necronomicon
With groggy effort, I go about my daily routine
Brushing leads to breakfast which leads to brooding
Today is Saturday and I am beyond unimpressed
Not many activities catch my eye like they used to
I think I’ll go for a swim
Thankfully, the empty lap pool provides a haven
Loneliness was never an outstanding issue among our family
That pervasive sense of dull dread invades my heart, yet
There is a thin verisimilitude between loneliness and contentment
I muse upon the power of individuality while submerging
Half-past 11, I notice some peculiar glow spreading in the lanes
Emerald ooze steadily overtakes a pair of arms and legs
It is not long before this strange goo overtakes my skull as well
Instantaneously, terror plunges deep into my amygdala
I assume sounds of thrashing water and stifled screams
How does my body drift deeper than physically possible?
When does my mind disconnect from our tangible world?
Just why are suction-cupped serpents binding me?
Questions spill over the brim and are not met with any answers
Nonetheless, I embrace impending death
Visions assault a cloud of sensory panic
The chlorine chaos takes on saltier flavoring
I see images of cyclopean kingdoms draped in sea growth
Stupendous beings lumber with apocryphal disregard
To these incomprehensible entities, I am dust
They relinquish me back to my microscopic world
I do not know why the cosmic horrors revealed themselves
All I am aware of is that this was a mere glimpse at true evil
One born millennia before the most ancient of stars
One that will persist millennia after such bodies have extinguished
I sink back into the water, exhausted
"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."
-H.P. Lovecraft
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Struck at form you reign--
days orchestrated a destiny...
the image-less precognition
of light and dark.
A self-generated whole, an
energetic rogue...of what
shall have dominion.
All will remain passable,
imbibe what's to be expected
of momentum--the obscuring
verisimilitude has made the
mind's acquaintance.
Twilight Zones are as strangers
to the mind, filtered out with
unblinking exactitude--to regard
them is to engage the borderline
whence they came.
Days come whence they came--
yet, we must not think so.
Struck at form you reign--
over destiny...only when its
shadow be withdrawn to its
selfsame form.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
your ossuary stands
on the most prominent
of vivisected stems
the hem of intersected threads
the stead of temporary dreads
it is the contact between
the fruits of all your deeds
and the lives you've lead unseen
a riddle in the dreams you've left
beneath
below what ego buries deep
its verisimilitude in a lie
an exemplary visage
of the ties that bind
this place that we call
Setenance
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC