"whipped" poems
this time has finished me.
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.
victory was so close
victory was there.
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.
and when she came to bed
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.
eleven months.
now she's gone
gone as they go.
this time has finished me.
it's a long road back
and back to where?
the guy ahead of me
falls.
I step over him.
did she get him too?
50.9k
The white man, can't say the word ***** They say because its offensive, it's rude, but I know the real reason why. I know, because that's what I am; a ****** Born as a ****** lived as ****** I know why the white man can't say the word ****** They say that it makes no sense for the blacks to use this insulting, disgusting term for themselves, but only because they don't know the true meaning. We bear the name as a scar, as a reminder of what we fought, of what we were. We bear the name as a reminder of our ancestors, and their long hot days in the cotton fields, picking until their finger tips were raw with blood, whipped until their skin was indistinguishable from the raw fleshy pulp that was their aggravated flesh laced with the crimson nectar of their veins. We bear the name, to remind ourselves, that even amidst all this we lived. We fought our way through the darkness of the tunnel. We bear our scar, to remind us, to remind you, that we survived, that we are survivors. I bear the name, I bear the scar of a ****** That is why we call ourselves the name ****** It is our word of honor, our mark of surviving. The white man is not worthy enough to call me a ******
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
The
warm whipped cream
dripped from her succulent lips
thick liquids drips
smooth tastebuds sips
big long strokes
deep penetrating licks
sensational vibes capsize our hips
riding each other's waves like two crossing ships
mesmerized as our two worlds collide
and coincide like nature designed us
to co-exist we a twist
two organisms sharing a gift
shifting from the present to the moment
relishing in the sensations before they cease to exist
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
*****
I like ***** I like ****
before you touch, you must get permits.
Nothing like a nice pair of assets,
oh how puppies make nice pets.
Bazongas are ***** that are large,
strippers and hookers, will always charge.
Nothing like the perfect *****
but only on the perfect woman.
******* are yummy dark or white,
but first you must wait for an invite.
Some girls even have a third ******
do not squeeze says Mr. Whipple.
I don't mind girls on the itty, bitty, ***** committee,
on a carpenters dream, I show no pity.
They could be called a bust, some call them cans,
a woman's squeeze box, all men are fans.
Chesticles is a term I have never heard,
but everyday, I learn a new word.
I like cones, I like jugs,
girls with big ones, I give hugs.
Al Bundy loved calling them *******
at the restaurant, I wish I was one of the recruiters.
A girl with a nice set of knockers,
might find herself with unwanted stalkers.
Fergie sang about her lovely lady lumps,
a good set of melons, still give me goose bumps.
***** always come in a pair,
why do bra's, they have to wear.
Even men who smoke lots of crack,
still can appreciate a good sized rack.
I don't care if there fake or real.
in a crowded room, I always cop a feel.
Girls love showing off some cleavage,
I wish I lived in a ***** village.
Babies need breast milk to make them stronger,
if the mom is hot, they may do it longer.
In conclusion, I love *****
with whipped cream or melting ice cubes.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
I was small then
She had a parakeet that landed on my head
and a bathtub too
with water so deep!
and legs and claws!
**** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!
She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
where bugs hung-out in the haze
of teenage August
I played in the tall weeds
with a shoeless Italian boy
who ate tomatoes like apples
and cucumbers right off the vine!
He was ***** free and foreign!
We played— reckless, abandoned
behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn
and through the endless fields
I didn’t know....
His name was Tony
I ate pizza with him—the first time
At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
but I could watch night flowers
bloom on wallpaper
She came in to say good night
slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
and I peeped her *******
like Tony’s cucumbers!
I had never seen my mother’s wonders....
Night spread its wings from the old fan—
a bird of tireless exhaustion
whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
tireless exhaustion
tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
stretched out on the whine
of the overland trucks
Route Five through the night of an open window
In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
crickets crickets crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
a summer child
not yet ready for the fall of answers
Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
I followed her everywhere I could
I was small then--
do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
of being sixteen
and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
while she tied her sneakers
against the mattress by my head
I followed Maureen (in my mind)
tanned and bandanned
to work in the fields of shade tobacco
with all those Puerto Rican boys!
She knew where she was going!
I was small then
...do anything for a stick of gum
“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
...through the goldenrod of roadside
through the smell of oil that damped the dust
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
the way the screen door slammed
on her bright behind
the way her lips taunted and took
the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen
I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!
Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)
…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’
“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
oh honey ****
pen and ink **** star warrior
pretty little manga girl
twinkle wisp
with kung fu throwing stars
and triple steel samurai sword
that tear through others
made of pink taffy
and cherry juice fizz blood
moving like lightening
a flying gladiator
with dripping sweet rice
and tapioca milk shake *******
oh
you would taste so good to drink
out of a swirling sherbet punch bowl
with big blow job star goldfish
and hungry pink ***** lips octopus
drooling
sit on your face suckers
oh, fighter of one-legged midgets
the best part after a fresh ****
victory ****
to go down on them
their loli pop *****
butter ***** beautiful
springing through the top of your skull
cause you can't get enough
oh wow
happy hello kitty
***** plump plops
viscous
before the coup de grâce
as she twirls their chewing gum gizzards
with her little swizzle tongue
goo ga licious
before placing
what's left of their hose like glistening entrails
around her throat like a pearl necklace
only to get strangled with it
by double **** UFO boy
solar ******* hero of the universe
so hard
she spurts pineapple juice and *** donuts
out of pucker pie ****
**** banged cross eyed
like little girl manga never felt so good
addicted to cruel
whipped with a hella wet noodle
yes no yes no yes no
yes pleazzz
her big blue marble glass eyes
binocular kaleidoscopes
spring out on the floor
and roll around
turning into all seeing
anti-gravity magnetized
silver pin stripped spaceships
peopled by
evil omni ****** **** *****
screaming through eternity
in search of cosmic
tushi sushi
ogling wiggling ballerina butts
bubble gum for the eyeballs
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because the world around me is ending in my mind
slowly fading into something without meaning
until I cannot breathe and I have to leave
to go cry in the bathroom.
When I am in my statistics class I cannot focus
because there is a boy there who looks like my favorite **** star
I know what his ***** looks like
or might look like
Schrödinger's **** in a box.
I cannot help but stare at him and
picture him in gym shorts and no boxers
or cargo pants and no boxers
or just in boxers
or.
It's an uncomfortable feeling of morbid intrigue that
makes me tap my toes too fast.
I want to know him.
I want to tell him that
I love the way he smiles
and laughs and communicate s
and makes sure everyone is safe and happy.
I can only watch **** that has behind-the-scenes features.
It's comforting to know that
everyone is happy and
everything is consensual and
everyone is having fun.
I get too invested in these people, too attached -
One time I had to give up
and take a moment to breath
because I was just so overwhelmed with pride
Like a parent watching their kid graduate after all their hard work.
And that feeling is not okay.
And seeing that boy in my class is not okay,
Because I feel so proud of all he's accomplished
So when he answers a question right in class all I can think about is
When he ****** a **** on camera for the first time
And the first time he licked whipped cream off another man's *******
And it's very distracting.
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because I start to worry that I will fail this class
and then I start to worry that I will hate my future
and then I worry about having a future in the first place,
bunching up into an unfocused, panicking, asthmatic mess.
The **** star boy is a distraction.
It's because of him that I'm passing this class.
( and in a way, a stupid, silly way,
it's because of him that I'm alive. )
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.
I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.
And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss, I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
In this battle for the freedom of our souls some may think
Maybe I should've let go long ago
From being kings and queens, Chiefs and Pharaohs
To ******* in the cotton fields
To slaves being whipped and forgotten
We were stolen.
Stripped from our homes and looted of our gold.
Fast forward
Now we are doctors, lawyers, professors
But Don't tell me the cotton fields have recovered from our tears
Our sweat seeps deep into the souls of America
So Don't tell me the cotton fields have recovered from our blood.
Fast forward
"All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law."
They tell us equality is coming.
That it is here.
Then let you wait holding your breath
Suffocating.
Black boy shot and killed for walking down the street
Black boy whipped and beaten for looking master in the eye
Tell me are you still holding your breath?
Still suffocating
Still waiting for the keys to our chains
Fast forward
Black lives matter
All roads torn down, we've paved new paths
Stripped from our houses so we built homes
Lotted for our gold but we are golden
Black is hard to get rid of, that annoying stain that stays to long
Black is rough and tough
Black is solid in luring ways
But
Black lives won't matter until we love our own people
Black lives won't. matter. to. them. because you've called that girl a *** or Thot"
Black lives won't matter until we stop the black on black blood splatter
For black lives to matter...
We must empower each other
Standing together the ground will break recognizing he whose tears, sweat and blood upon which it was built
So take one look at our past
Because this will be the last
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Sitting a top a cold mountain
I was thinking to myself
As I had my eyes shut,
Wrapped in warm clothing
Bottle of whiskey at my feet
Listening to the eagles soar,
The trees swaying,
The clouds sweeping through
I imagined this warm feeling
Her, laying there naked
Velvet sofa with a book in hand
Legs wide open and tanned
She was so pure so clean
She bare her beauty to me
Soft delicate skin raised my hairs
I could maul her with my thoughts
But I decide to just eat her
Eating between her soft legs
As she read and drank champagne
Moaning after each sentence she read
She would put strawberries in my mouth
As I licked away at her lips
I dipped my strawberries inside her
Since I had no whipped cream
I was stone and she was flesh
An energy so pure in the night
Then, I opened my eyes
In front of a fire, I sang
"To hold you at my fingers tips,
To cherish the gold in the world,
To be set free forever in my mind"
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
in the dark
compass spinning
wanton wind
howling, wailing
brittle arms
in concert waving
emerald waters
whipped and raging
sky crushed velvet
sequins sewn tight
to the shattered
span of night
a million times
each time as new
with stardust eyes
with gratitude
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
I rise impalpable
from poked and scattered ash.
Memories from the 20 years I lived
leave a crimson rash
on my skin once as white as snow.
the skin they began to scar
when I was 11, too young to know
that they were not just scars.
they were the marks on the bark
of a green, tender tree-
marks of men (or brutes?)- wild
and untamed.
there was nothing left of innocence,
nothing left of rainbows.
I did not have my days to play-
instead I was being played with.
I, a delicate ***** white,
stripped and whipped and sold.
a love-bit nape, blackened sight,
named the girl of gold.
but no more, no more.
I have risen from the depth
with my soft body rugged
and sour breath
and teeth marks on my collarbone-
like it was only yesterday.
men and their laughs-
tormenting and know-all,
conspiring my fall.
Now that I'm awake,
risen from my grave-
(they were kind to give me one)
I shall give them back the scars
they etched upon my heart,
I shall give them back the pain.
the little purple bruises.
I shall torture them quite insane
and they would die,
they would eventually die with regrets-
regrets not confessed.
I would return to my grave
and smile,
maybe laugh the manly laugh-
tormenting and know-all,
I would be their fall.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Our world has many distractions,
Many of which I've known.
But here am I in the midst of it all,
writing a poem to whom I don't know.
Most of all I love you,
More than you could know.
And someone out there, near or far,
To you my love does flow.
I cannot help but think of holding hands,
Crazy dancing and smiling glances,
Movie nights and games with friends,
Writing notes of silly romances.
I'll sing you songs,
Some sincere, others silly but true,
Cause I'm just that kind of person,
You'd best be crazy with me too!
I'll try and love your sports,
and support your teams with cheering,
I'll bring you snacks, and cuddle up,
Though on the inside I may be leering!!
I'll make you cookies and huge cakes,
whipped beautifully with cream,
Even with this I'll be so happy,
I may believe myself to dream.
Oh darling, the future feels so far,
Maybe I should embrace today,
but what good is that to me,
When half this heart is out at bay?
They think me strange, and very different,
Just waiting for my prince,
Forever thinking to my tomorrow,
Based on parent's experience.
I'm sorry mother, father,
It does hardly seem fair,
But for you I will continue on this journey,
A life lived with special care.
And they are out there, living today's life,
And while they're grounded there I twirl,
Waiting for you to find in me:
A precious, beautiful pearl
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Sweaty shuffle, gloved hands
light fuse, twitching in countdown
until heels spark trigger,
cannons drumming grass
driven by bellows,
magnesium snort
in wind-whipped ears
until gunshot
snap:
shell bursts,
shattered tendons
man falling into dust
while fragments *****
burning air, tearing turf
as cheers become screams,
awaiting another bullet.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
just when the dust
settles round my lust
and the thud
of despair hits bottom
just as I flail
and swim in this
blood-caked,
soulless earth
soup of the lost
abyss of unbirth
you plunge my wilderness
charred with remains
from hellfire
and we breathe
halos
our bones lighted sticks,
colors rising in
angel arcs
Your rib cage
is open
for my tremulous offering
as my lips imprint
a crimson O
upon the earthquake
of your chest
I am still down with the
earthworms
wrist **** sopped
by soil
arteries, bashed
split to the root
by verbal hurts
in a sliding psyche of oil
yet here you are
suturing wounds
with whiplash kisses
saltlick moans in my throat
You wrap me in gauze
through the imprint of your eyes
turn my cuts
into fresh brook
gaze upon my
deepest darkness
like goddess worship shrine
my **** is a funnel
for your whipped light
sacrifice ****** prayer
skinned to the core
all layers exposed
your lips slick
with the drip
of my bliss,
deep juice of
freshly-caught
jungle hum
all is bared
we stop at nothing
paint our tongues
with tears
adorn the face of death
with ripe guava
and, as you scream
my name into
a blown glass whisper
my soft fruit
falls into
the heat of
your palm
somewhere
in distance
a
moon
explodes
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
It would seem the world has quietly fit the puzzle pieces into place over night ,
Like wet washing , crispy and dry from the radiators humming warmth , a satisfactory feeling , a job well done.
There is much beauty to be found on this journey home , moments where the heart is plummeting at a million miles a second , descending from the upper troposphere hurtling down , through clouds whipped up by a storm of ages – waiting for the conclusion – perpetual motion catches me
Elegant design,
Crooked lines make curves,
Spitting at the throat, holding those words,
vision of confusion eats up at the temple of love , bodies are walking shrines.
Taste my karma on sticky fingers.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
Chereè, Chereè...Her mommy cried and warned her to be careful, 3 months ago she left home for L.A in hopes for becoming a star. Five foot five, dark green eyes, skin complexion as a beige princess, at a pool party in the hills she met the producer to both whoms sparked interest. She had a voice of gold, a personality so bold, and he had the fill to her mold. So she thought, So she was told, Chereè was gullible a young 19 years old. She moved in with Jazzy, fell in love with him, and his savvy, way of making her feel so **** and strong. For three months he lead her on, head and *** every other night and she never recorded one song. Then he came to her and asking, "Baby do love me…Baby do you care." Thirty minutes after she finished her makeup and hair, they stared into each others eyes, he gave her a tender kiss as he caressed her thighs. "I love you girl, and I always will." As she strapped her heels, he uttered a comment about how love doesn't pay the bills. North Hollywood, for weeks the pay was good, until the night she climbed in the SUV. "What's your name sweetheart." "Whatever you want it to be." She hopped in the truck, and he had something tucked, he turned and flashed L.A.P.D. Just do me this one, and I'll let you go…and she prayed to just get back on the stroll. They went in the back seat, the ***** cop was a freak, he used his cuffs to tie up her hands and feet. She waited till he was weak, he came and then she beat, her elbows into his head and felt for the keys under the seat. He whipped out an 8 inch blade and slit her throat. He kept stabbing, and he ever choked her.....looked at the body, and rolled it over, took his cuffs and gave her a soft kiss on the shoulder, he wiped tears and blood from his face with her thong, because he told her……that'd he let her go. He dumped Chereè on the side of the road, and took off for his Beverly Hills home.………And her mother told her to be careful.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Truly I have become sick of this place
Truly it brought me nothing but disgrace,
The fire burns me down, starting from my face
The pain, is unbearable, just thinking of it makes my heart race
When I think I am served water they melt me down with acid rain
I have finally fallen in the deepest pit of hell, is it mercy I wont gain?
The torture here is relentless,
eating up all all of my skin it begins to slowly numb my senses
I would give up on lfe, if I wasn't brought back all the time
I wonder why I am here....for which crime ?
I forget the life on mother earth, the touch of hell is all there is
Of course, there isn't any bliss (in here)
That is, looking not so bad eh ?
The angels torture us when we are about to burn to the ground
There is no speck of mercy or kindess in them to be found
Stretched out as my skin turns to ash,
We get whipped, broken and torn into shreds...I feel like trash
If I ask for forgiveness now...
And cry out my sins the moment I bow...
Will I have found peace ?
~Umi
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 7:44 AM UTC
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
blood and tears, a royal jelly
merciless kisses like blazing pyres
she cries through a night prayer
my push pin princess;
a crimson petal
nerves edge;
jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss
to serve
to serve
to serve
smiling for a relish of wasps
she knows she is loved
a loved red faced surprise
**** mouth, red chirping sparrow
wax teeth melting
succubus, **** flower
gratefully crushed under foot
toes like musical notes
little pearl ruins
grave stones
whipped cream butter cookie in chains
stipule corridor
**** plume
serrations gush, a singing Dahlia
ripped rose, thorned and curt
plush flames
her skull a throat
her liturgy
weeping, licking gods bulging colossus
wakes her inside
giving her religion
sacrificed on a crucifix of *****
**** of heaven
a burning church possessed
drooling supplications
lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs
a glutinous chandelier
melts like silk around ankles
crystal silt on scorched heels
to serve
to serve
to serve
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
it's almost two in the morning.
i toss and turn,
roll around--
nothing.
sighing, i sit up,
and think to myself,
"This hasn't happened in a while."
my mind automatically goes back to that time,
when i was younger,
and our family went to the capital.
slept in some fancy hotel
with some fancy people
with their fancy clothes.
on the second night we stayed there,
i couldn't get a wink of sleep.
i don't know whether if it was because of exhaustion
or something else.
naturally,
the next morning was hell.
i was pissy and bored
as we waited for father in the lobby.
i couldn't take a nap in public because, well,
i had my pride, of course!
chewing a gum quite aggressively,
i observed my surroundings.
my gaze hopped from one person to another.
a royal from a country i haven't even heard of.
an important figure in politics.
a celebrity.
a kid.
white blonde hair?
i haven't seen hair of that shade.
it was quite unnatural here.
i whipped my head to the left and saw
two beautiful people.
the taller was around my age.
he had the same mop of hair as the kid i saw (the shorter).
the child, on the other hand,
was most probably no older than six.
they were both awesome.
the light glowed on their figures,
and it looked like they were godsend.
i haven't seen anything more beautiful.
and who knew that who knows how many years later,
i would find myself looking back on that vivid memory.
as if it had happened yesterday.
(i feel like i'm still stuck in that time.)
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
I'm not allowed to have my best pie
And for that, I think I shall cry.
For pumpkin is nice, and I do enjoy cherry,
But none will suffice for that scrumptious blueberry
Each cute berry makes a small pop
And as for whipped cream, please give me a lop
For lemon is nice but I simply can't wary
From delicious, and tasty, and precious blueberry.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC