Hebesphenomegacorona

Hyperbase Splendidness & Experimental Poetry -- All Writings are © Derrick Tyson

 

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/03/08 14:50 | link | comments |
poetry, thoughts, poem, prose poetry

A dog humping a stuffed Big Bird needs no risorgiomento.

Don’t do that, someone will say repeatedly.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/29/08 01:06 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Contradiction

Simon says. Simon tells himself not to say anything. Simon is straightedge
and is an introvert. Where is memory stored in the Memory? Forgetting to
remember. Remembering is incomprehensible to Simon. Simon gives gifts
of demanding, perfectly-wrapped in fragile designs. He takes notes like
a therapist. Simon is more intelligent than HAL (but he’s a big fan).
He knows intellect can be separated from the body and knows that
the body is in the mind and knows that the mind is a terrible thing to taste.
Simon says Simon says to himself.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/28/08 03:00 | link | comments |

5 SCENES

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/28/08 02:48 | link | comments (1) |
poetry

Sky/Ground Tendencies Reflect

Ten
-dency
           downwa              for
                   -rd              density

                                                    a please
                                                          for sky
________________________________________

                                                          for soil
                                                    a plea

                    -rd              aridity 
                 upwa              for
-dency
Ten

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/25/08 19:27 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

________________________
                                                                
What color is a color’s shadow?
                                                               
?wodahs s‘roloc a si roloc tahW
                                                               
What color is a color’s shadow?
                                                               
?wodahs s‘roloc a si roloc tahW
                                                               
What color is a color’s shadow?
                                                               
?wodahs s‘roloc a si roloc tahW
                                                               
What color is a color’s shadow?
                                                                

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/24/08 00:51 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

LUST

“Eye Love You”

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/23/08 23:17 | link | comments |
poem

b               mb

    ò
      o
       o
       o
         o
        o
            .                            
   \\\|  | ///                               
__ \\| //___________
   

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/22/08 22:43 | link | comments (1) |
poem

“ (       ‛                                    ‚

         

a poem used to be here

 

 

” /                                                    „

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/21/08 17:10 | link | comments (1) |
no , not anymore

What’s more peculiar than love? The icecream man speeding by children whom are on the side of the road with their money held tight because that’s how Mom said to hold it. Or not being loved at all. The icecream melts on the sidewalk. That’s just the way it is. This poem is a cliche’ for everything that hasn't been said yet. Stomach in the shape of a stomach—how logical. To be non-cliche’: My stomach in the shape of a Cycloteuthidae. Cycloptoothdecay. Abstractful. This poem is now, uhh, satisfied.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/21/08 12:31 | link | comments (1) |
thoughts, random, prose poetry

Everyone’s home has a distinct, particular smell. Some people smell like their homes & I can smell it on them. Certain people smell like the carpet in their homes. I just know. I see pet-hair on their clothing where they had been in the floor, or perhaps where they had recently held their animal that struggled to get away, squirming, scratching. This explains the fresh wounds on their forearms, long lines of red, swollen around the edges. In other cases, I smell similar aromas on certain people. Usually older people, mostly women, who wear their home-aroma like perfume, & their spray-on perfume mixes together with the aroma from home, the perfect scent that remains with me longer than most other aromas.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/20/08 16:50 | link | comments |

Uh huh.

If I were Walt Whitman, my lips would always be chapped. My fingers would stop veering left whenever I meant “right” and once my tongue was set in motion to write about accounts that raise eyebrows or things that permit us to write about how disgusting the world has become, my entire body would be reinforced, like a Greek mercenary.

I’d be dragged before the gods, quakings in my soul, saying, “Your hearts choke because of me.”

A new child to rejoice, reaching my strongest-stride, I would be able to reach the end of the winds—–a naked portfolio—–legions of gall-wit, parading myself in the suburbs, the picture of events still not entirely clear.

Be your own jelly jam, your own traffic jam. Who cares whether you’re asked if you sleep in your pajama tops, bottoms, or neither? Snooping instincts are loathed when the truth is told, like a puppeteer who becomes the character of his own creating.

We need major overhauls. An expedition where the whole city would suffer, people dismissing anything newfangled. The thin ground, like economical weaknesses, becomes icky-architecture. We dip our toes into the goo, expecting new landscapes.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/20/08 16:44 | link | comments |

Hold me whenever you can quickly to

Hold me whenever you             can quickly to

Why are you        Aren’t         (“access the validity”)

Monstrosity is the new pretty  (“blood builds a
strong character”)        Fictitious
motives for empty promises

Lipstick-mood          Right leg propped
my foot hanging out of your window

           Your friend popped pills in the basement
with your brother and his girlfriend who always
wore Aerosmith t-shirts

I leafed thru a JC Penny catalog
(boredom comes with natural preservatives)
while the smell of a moment ofof   “ove”

         Scared stiff        Re-joined    off
to be narrow

Lend me

         Lend me

                                  I'm a bit breathless—

It always upset me when you
acted as if you were having a heart-attack

           I once walked out
on the account of these actions
stumping my toe in the process
but leaving not the slightest notice otherwise

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/20/08 14:12 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

I fired out rounds of one dollar caps
as a child.     Flipped the gun
around on my finger
like Wyatt Earp.    When One thought
that I should have been
aiming my gun at “real” objects,
I just made them all up, instead,
pretending that they would explode
unlike unimagined objects that
stay the same.       Real people in
your life are the ones whom believe you
when you still speak child-like—
whom believe in you, stand behind you,
knowing that you could stop time to find
resemblances in every ripple.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/19/08 14:46 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

In The Shape of A Human Being

1.           Today I found myself in the shape of a human being and I wasn’t
              recognizable. This isn’t all completely subconscious.
2.           Chant with a bongo.
3.           Bingo stars, galaxies of the Alphabet.
4.           My mouth is opened in the rain.
5.           My mouth is opened in the rain.
5.1.        Mouth opened as wide as Yma Sumac.
6.           I’m not a shumaq.
6.1.        Kcirred Nosyt.
7.           This is the wager of a collapse that takes upon the same direction whether
              or not I break from the shape-mold.
8.           One knows more than the knowing allows others to ponder, therefore one
              simply touches on the knowledge before others even begin to contemplate
              anything when we initially attempt to view, in our minds, whatever is being 
              portrayed psychologically.
9.           The image evolves seconds after the brain flips the image from the idea.
10.         Cartwheels on the dirt.
10.1.      Round-offs on the same spot.
10.2.      Hands the color of worn brick.
10.3.      What if dirt were edible?
10.4.      The ants would go, too.
10.5.      The night crawlers, root fungus, moles, mites, amoebas and bacterias
              all would go, too.
11.          I told the snake to roll over and play dead.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/18/08 12:28 | link | comments |
thoughts, poem

Whatever gloats your goat, she said
to him, as he put his tuna sandwich in
his mouth. I thought of wind-pipe pockets,
instead—words to tie around the tonsils,
hanging in the soul, teasing the heart
-beat—a distant genre, tied to eyes
of despair. We’re always bound to hear
a voice. Everything is tied to music.
I’m in a universe. Planet Bossa Nova.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/18/08 12:12 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

ONEIRIC

Dreams are always happening,
we just sleep to see them,        their smugness
in the meaning of forcing a phase of slogans
in subconscious-ocean — I swim out, feeling heart
-beat in eyeballs, slightly-inverted.
            A mind to thoroughly
                        accuse,

                                                 waking up slowly, Holy,

(silent gap)                               “looking for something”

                                                 The ability to appear in the dark.

                        What is the meaning of oxygen?
“To not see it brightly”         If our vision was x-rayed
by God-mechanics, we’d be able to see ghosts die,
moving slowly out of unordinary doors.

A dear dead person misses you
just as much as you miss them.            I gesture out
beyond sleep, beyond sunlight
                                              opening roadmaps,
finding question-marks inside.     To be able to design
an earthquake (a mind to thoroughly amuse), life-casting
belief-systems, as dense as quartz.

Watch as eye-circles form.     Climbing a cliffside,
soundwaves still exist in the air of a Resurrection.
Living in a tomb, life hasn’t been welcomed back.
Sound, burrowed into decline.     Inexperience can kill,
like a virginite-model slipping off of the catwalk.

             To pierce through energy-efficiency.
             Mouth of Math, bow before me!
             With your factory-scale teeth 
             shimmering upon the halogens of false royalty.

To be able to leave your mind
without going away.     Sun-dried eyes still washable,
remain as sweet, like golden corn.     Hair snipped off,
falls at the feet of the witch.     Paying close attention
to every aspect — every brew.     I grow mossier every day
like a French garden plaque.     To satisfy the senses.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/17/08 15:01 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Objects in rooms with wonderful faces,
my knees weaken, expecting something
other than a broad-colored mantel. The large boat
sitting above the fireplace. Picasso was a lover
of African art. I turn blue for him, blackening
my skin with crushed onyx, holding my shoulders up
like a marble bust. What defies our anatomy,
understating it, to trivialize a mold.
Books inside of us come out, as hard as banquette,
an eloquent rawness. To ring your own Liberty,
the bell sits quietly. My copper-skin
becomes patina-clad, spirit shaped from repoussé–
The trick is to figure out why the wind
blows through you, or how, the uplighting of
intuititive serenity. Bright faces become noir,
rolls sweetly down the cheeks, bright Goddess.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/17/08 02:13 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

[clutched rivets capable]

clutched rivets capable of
monitoring my instrumental
breathings. wind is all of
the world’s historic “longings”
in straps of bird-eye vision
ultraviolet temptation
amplified by alternating
periods — our STYLUS
like hairless heads (my
hair growing back has
received positive feedback)

decline to speak. media-bats
flock blindly — we’re all the
echo-patterns of mosquitos
sucked dry — hungry
dogs     tail-wags      street-bags

a final record. body mechanics.
undergoing testing. cuticle dislodged.
impulse. extra movements.

           think of
                      NORMAL ABNORMALITIES!

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/16/08 14:40 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

the hole in my ozone

noticed it sunday

it’s waking up

it’s been ‘sleep

the irreligious feeling
of ill-withing the tail-whip
of your gumbo-repellant

salt in the sparticuz like crip-blood fiasco
reluctancy
everyone was trying to be a gangster in 1994
i became the blue from choking on its
gucky wipe-out chalk-removal
face blueberry erection
red quibble and nibbled until the fad fried in the variable
i watched Jacob stand in the middle of the field,
a short distance away from the basketball court,
throwing up
                                                                gang signs
in which he says he learned from a friend

my sang-froid in the grind
dumpy-wind Freud banging against the erosion of my disappearance
when lightning tossed its sensual light          a wanton-bomb
of energy    per   p   u erfectly    trangressed why do i have to
lash the last turn-around?

i drip like company before they arrive
action-merc       frill deon.           abb.

coarse and less dense i wanted to see the way tires move
and flow into a puddle’d highway across the testimonial
estimation

why are we so limited?
imperishable accessories     discontinued jewelry hanging
from ear-to-ear    tear-trace tracked and equalized

a lapse of mortal-wave
lush factory smoke is disaffected
into disinfected parol-independence    the elixir for our yellow privileges

her hair is red
falsified stabilization ESTIMATE*

                                                                 *euphonic eclat-epidemics

do you taste yourself when your mouth breathes in pollutionitives?
itives swollen for my benefit
crick in the backward frontal ashen       colorless symptoms     lungs

          don’t beg without communication
filtered-utensils she held
the phone to her ear and the numbers
became disorderly

a customer walked out of the store
cursing like a storm
thorgerson surreal fixtures
spiritual wave of anguish
held her upward and laughed

Like the ‘bell’ before a fight
“i wanted to go outside and whoop her butt
but i knew i couldn’t”

like the spell before a fright
i shuttered like a rumless belly
inside of an alcoholic’s mind-stomach
of panhandle fjord-want          pedals

pushed from the evident speaker

 

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/16/08 14:16 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Amused to sing the text of food (if I choose it)—
out of my mouth isn’t food. I anger the tongue,
the crooked snake tilts its head in regret. Let our
feet carry us-ward inward. Let our feet carry us
to a poor mother, wind and water, nothing to be
vexed, in due time, surrender your curious register;
be the wise One, know your journey. I spelled
my name clearly with my toes in the sand on a
deserted beach. Everyone knew my name.
Perhaps it was tragi-comical that all was gone
with a fancied gust of wind without weakness
blew sand over it (and into my eyes), tired out
of patience, the least of intimations of these
would have kept alive sand-castles. There isn’t
much to show for suspicion, especially suspicion
of the heart. This is the secret poison of the heart.
This is the secret poison and it isn’t reasonable.
Cold faces lead you to pondering about their
up-bringing. I sing songs in my heart expecting
a glance. Don’t let things rot in your head.
I believe the greatest of our appetite is love.
Take away the author’s arms and he will write
with his mind. Loosen the fountain, dive in,
watch haphazard glances appear. Sing their
praises and resume further. In short, bended up
with weakness to forfeit nature’s elements of inner
-anger. Spring out, spread out to be the foetus;
sift away soliciting eyes. In the sum, all is
accomplished with hints. Something crawling, um,
something, um, crawling on my foot. I looked down,
nothing there.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/16/08 01:25 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

I was born disappearing to
be disappearing,

a shadow taken by force.
A short walk I’ve become

beyond the still air. Walking by
a Barber Shop, could’ve been in 1950,

making notes on how to create
generous amounts of human-likeness:

gossip before the electric nodes, lightning
hits the venue, blue from window,

before IT’S ALIVE, IT’S ALIVE. To be
generic, to dance in a venue of flakes,

putting together a costume-change for the dead,
bone like bamboo (laughter), I grip and tear

plenty of cartilage with
words of encouragement—

an actual age is just a lie,
my result is always a reappearance.

Quenched, to pick out death like a tooth
-pick, and hold it in a fresh cup

‘til the light hits it, and flick it, boldly,
controlling contours of time-lines.

Hold your cards, I’ll hold mine. My words,
white light knives buckle, the engine of

a stinging siren through a muggy night,
fireworks in salty air, I hold memories ultra-rarely.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/14/08 11:55 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

I had only you,
taken in the rain with a little shake.

To wheeze
with anyone, the weather is       unstably young,

to bloom out of flour
with you.                I, my Mother’s powder,
still drink the exaggerated egg, muscling down,
the little comb of great gale Sundays,
                                     to make fresh the
associations of slanted rainbows,
photographs at the foot,
out of focus.                 Head, out of focus,

every time you move
                          to become giddy,
to bloom in one voice, persistently,         waving

in the light rain anxious to press the shutter
of a goodbye.

The sparrows have carried us off,
blessed with clear skies, in distant paths.    I pull,

I pull out the silk of my forget-me 
             but it is considerably-lower at the end,
but I pull and pull, tightened into half-brilliant
cataracts of prevention.

Finally, I end Myself with “Sincerely”—
there are hours to be worn in the morning,
blue fawn sky, sleeping in your limp,
your usual ribbon tearing at my chest.

I rushed through it
                        pretending to have won the race.

The other half of me is gone,
and what has peeled me to this? The spine of
a kidney.     I stretch out in solidifying evidence
across the now-abandoned bridge in-between.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/13/08 01:31 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

What’s new, I ask myself. Twisted rubber-bands left sulking on the
cherry-wood desk in the kitchen. Today I ate the heat, walked outside
in a zephyr of dark roars, Mother Nature giving me “the eye,”
counting to three before she became the lion we all know. Dry,
although dry on meaning. Overcast, vigorous solids in my gut.
I chase down butterflies like a meteorologist would a tornado,
except I’m no lunatic. I immediately change my spasm when I’m in danger
of being flooded with flooded. On the outskirts we grow into our homes,
windows up. An impulse—white birch or dogwood-white bloom—
there’s a certain charm in strong combinations. I fill myself with candles,
I’m too shy to ask for help or suggestions, so I ignite myself to stay out
of doubt, blood boiling immediately, stopping the impulse.
All-inclusive content, as admirable as being included in on a
three-pronged approach. Invertedly-hung, like uneven ice.
Tender, tenderly, to be ancient. Enemies with strong benefits,
a snail without a shell. My bare-gills.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/12/08 18:52 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Feet and legs imagine the strain that is imagined in deep mud.
I’m picky at the pipeline. Mermaids roll over in their grains in
clever ways to minimize Divine Comedies and Black Sundays.
Let me have your attention please: human beings are booming,
not the economy. Oxfoam-rejects. The smaller moral, smaller
than that.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/12/08 01:09 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

sucked down funnel cake
saw funnel clouds on
the weather channel I-love-you
-not because the last flower-petal said so
I count the hours I jump a picket fence
the south isn’t temporary Billy Ocean
isn’t disco but I’m in a disco-ocean glitter
-ingly spacious with empty hands
I take care of cut roses lotus blossoms
sprout from my eyes in extremes too quickly
they pop out like an impatient prime minister
I’m outta my head so I phone myself
to tell me what a difference thinking makes
when you’re undiscovered I’m in everyone’s
future plans like the session of ghosts whispering puns
in people’s ears the soil hasn’t been happy for years
bourgeoisie speech people praised to take their own lives
bunyans on tongues germinate in the cracks uprooted
through the soul like a banyan seed
it’s necessary to celebrate the railway gate
extended out of stature vicinities of strange
and some, as the poem will continue, are killed
in the shadow of lost centuries
people want to hear the truth but their depths
are plundered it is what we allow
one’s allowance to face you directly the heart
acknowleding the heart of pain dies with you
when you don’t recognize what can be achieved
the stub of the branch seems to bloom again
I give it to you you give it to me where does it go like
seeing the virus go from one body to the next

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/11/08 17:33 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

In Response to The Notion That We "Recreate Eden"

I’m trying to determine exactly “how” we could be “recreating” Eden. There is no “re-creation,” in my opinion. Everything is created once, and either dismantled, dismembered, unjoined — to then be reconnected, put back together, transfigured into some other entity. To re-create anything that would make one believe that it were “possible” (other than perhaps dillusion), without some sort of “soul-voluptousness” (it has to be there, in some form or diagram, I believe), then this “recreating of Eden,” whether artistically or imaginatively, would (to me) merely appear indecipherable. Like, for instance, the following:

g o a k x g h 9 f m z q p o 9 2 u b m 4 7 v g u 2 3 0 b j n r p m w 3 y s 6 4 a o f d l w v 4 g s 5 k d 4 r r m k b y 0 b p n c o i s q n b p 1 5 d f 5 f c 5 p e 8 a a n i p r 2 5 o e b c n h f e u u g 0 3 7 3 t t 1 5 r l 0 4 y a n c 3 m r t n y y 8 3 5 2 p e z v v w f d e 2 w o x 5 1 h e v 4 u w n k s 9 i 2 g 4 7 0 2 q x v 0 p a w f 3 g b a q r c b x 4 7 r z c a 6 w p r t o f l a 5 i q f h r q b s 1 6 8 m 2 k x y 9 w l n a h 7 s z 9 0 1 a m i u g m a k t c h e 9 v q j o f w 4 7 k 6 8 d 6 w i e m h c h i 7 w j 3 s v 4 7 s d 9 i c 2 s d e l y t 7 3 x h 6 2 0 d l c 7 k 7 q 0 2 f p m 8 7 e 2 r d 8 0 c 4 j t i y r k i g 6 u c 8 y k n k z z s w o p f 9 u q h z e x d e 2 1 i k k k m r 4 u m 8 i 8 v f 7 x k 3 y a n 7 q k 1 j 5 m k 3 o o p k m e 3 7 t d q l v 2 f e d i 2 x 3 4 4 8 a z p 2 y 6 h m v 3 d s j v e r v v h a 9 z 9 r x 8 2 z 2 f 4 c 5 p d 9 o j 0 8 c f m 6 f d 0 p 4 z l a n d b s 8 8 t q 7 z 0 k a t x c 4 f h 9 m r 3 v r p q 2 z 2 5 o a w h o u p 3 e m s k i x n 6 j l f s c q q t u g x o r 8 v x 1 1 s s m d i o s 6 c d m p 5 3 d v 4 h b a 8 c a x j w 2 v g l 9 5 a a p m q 5 n t k k i 0 k y 8 d x a f r 1 c 6 3 1 i 9 o a s x 6 0 o j r i g g l d 8 s l q r q p l c 0 w e e 2 i a 7 u c e e 8 1 p 5 o f l 4 0 8 k j g 4 6 4 t f q e u p u 8 n c 4 r y k l p 1 4 w e i c 3 e 8 3 t 2 x 1 i 4 2 j x w 7 z z 7 b p c 1 l z 0 t i 7 g 1 i 4 l v u

Or, perhaps it is equally-simplistic in focusing on the unordinaire? Like a scrap of paper that was thrown away; now, staring at its own misfortune? — of course, being that it would have to have a “soul-voluptuousness” and a brain; but in that odd sort of imaginative-way, it could all occur somehow, some way; the comment of “staring at its own misfortune.”

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/11/08 14:07 | link | comments |

My case is never rested. I wear a padded vest
to target-proof my nested-chest held up high
against “Do Not Enter” signs. I’ve a right
to be put my foot down, don’t I, directly into
the yucca’s pointed equilibrium.

I’ve seen it all before, but there are differences
in pears and grapes. Look at their shapes first.
Who needs to see shapes when it is the taste,
the inside-sculpturing, that lets us judge
our determinations?

I mend whatever is left. I have yet to see your
face. Face it, heaven echoes itself in nature,
like a message in a partially cracked bottle,
water seeping in to obscure all of the text.

When we meet, beams of light
will come rushing out of your eyes
towards me, as if rolling out a carpet,
a lengthy trail, summoning me on the road
towards your eyelids.

I catch Armantrout in my mouth,
like a hungry bear, to echo
I wish that, in art and politics,
people would seek power other than that
of voyeuristic identification.

Casting whatever you wanted,
to hook and pull out garbage.

Sorrow is passed like a kidney stone
through the mind first, then through
the heart with a spearing clear
through to the eyes which show us
the true meaning of one’s intentions,

or perhaps an over-used calling card;
to be blind and still be squinting at the sun,
no changes in expression.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/10/08 14:21 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Speaking

I will simply speak.
Whatever to be spoken,

I open my mouth
first, then move my tongue.

Sometimes
the opposite, like a stutter.

Trying to speak too fast.

I hold my breath,
tapping my own shoulders,

slowly letting out words
to hear it come
from my own voice.

I re-position my idea
towards words
that tease the ends
of my tongue,
my teeth
(bone to bone),

my lips entering
a newer history
of language
every other second.

Like, for instance,
the word Xylophone
at the beginning
to be spoken with
the bottom
and top teeth
pressed together.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/10/08 14:17 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Birthed

i.

   A pregnant woman
   “expects”

   innocently

   poignantly

   like a mother bird
   expecting

   opened mouths
   upon returning
   to her nest.

ii.

   Violent audible-release,
   a birth occurs.

   Death, coiled up beside
   the flesh, stamps

   another body.

   Hair raises,

   unseen,

   on the soft tissue.

iii.

   Everything is birthed,
   whatever is said
   is always followed, somehow,
   with sexual evaluations.

   Carnal nature, spitting at death,
   revolves improvisationally
   to discredit Godliness—

   reactions in space simply
   imploding without a force
   to create, to regulate,
   the action. Other minds,
   eyes, thought-processes,
   make us self-conscious.

   I emerge from any source,
   from every situation,
   newly-translated, observing
   purpose as a promise
   that I could self-destruct
   with my origin still in-tact,

   like plants pulled from the
   ground, unable to see the
   imprints of roots hidden below.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 06/09/08 14:13 | link | comments |
poetry, poem