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About Literature / Professional Senior Member GrandpaMale/United States Groups :iconsuturehq: SutureHQ
Stitching 'em up since 2003
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Deviant for 15 Years
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Random from DD's I Featured

Mature content
Blood Red Blood Blue Bluegrass :iconchesterfield:chesterfield 32 28
Mature content
memoirs of a whore :iconphoenixtx:phoenixtx 871 363
Literature
Big
And it all came together with a crash
an expanding singularity creating
pure noise
         Monumental foam rising in a desert sea
    of waking
    something.
The monsters and the carnivores of the soon
and the twisting never
The cancers and the throbbing monads
The green megaliths and groping
summers
The plush sentients
       All at once.
Ascending mightily a broad expanse of unbounded
         Nothing?
Surely not.
But all the same expelling passionately
the voidless form of before
to sum up into waves of sonic being all that
   would pass for passing
all that would crash and scream and pass.
Somnolence
        and indolent proportions
of waving wind spun across new fields
making bread, eating it
           
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet 57 41
Literature
Derivative Deposits
they will derive consistency
from the motion of lax drizzles,
engaging moments with precision,
never still.
each peace a steam travel
colliding fatelessly
on a stolid amble amid lit trees
begging for constance,
begging for trespass,
begging for tide...
and you will be
              sometimes
that disconnected line
dotted, for meaning
in some transitory time,
              aching for stability
        and a thinner crowd.
  because sometimes
  the silence of a louder shrill
  melts quicker than the pelt,
  stirring smooth enough to
  slip,
  slick downside the stair
to where we meet in the foyer
at the end of our destination,
disparate;
and breathless from the ride.
:iconashriel:ashriel
:iconashriel:ashriel 36 25
Literature
Cliff Notes
Cliff Notes
Cricket leg serenades
To this Asbach taste that veneers late Tuesday -
Companions to a cork parade
Of characters strolling through the vines;
Residential escape in charmed, young prime
Staving off charge of rolling night.
Fetch your pink,
From recessed cupboards, bottled up
To pour on ice.
Relax.
Lay the tumbler to the coaster;
Watch condensation droplets
Pool into a question
You avoid.
The modern art above your bed
Is sacrilege;
Grasping for tradition, well-kept
And bred in sound conditions;
A sieve that bled until she cried
Your name
From underneath those lines,
And you found heaven
Through that answer in her eyes
Shattering shock of matter melting,
Diluting tonight's pride and worth
As the minutes go by;
Leave rocks behind
To remind of true meaning -
Everything at home is everything that's right.
:iconnonculture:nonculture
:iconnonculture:nonculture 30 39
Literature
Sleep
 
Sleep
a tsetse fly
drinks its next meal
amazing shrieks
the sun, newborn crying,
is sky ilk
under
a maze of feathery canopy;
the Bandundu forest,
gives birth to a
litter of bananas-
grass covered savannahs,
stubborn windblown maize
yearningly sways
to the river, where
water walking fish farmer
casts a drowsy eye
on a school of tilapia
playing in his bamboo den;
a kihuta viper opens
its razor mouth
and belly,
fresh meat
wafting through
endless horizon;
while decadent sockets,
hanging by swollen neck,
sway
as he is carried to the garden.
Burial grounds
burn slowly
like an old antelope
pulses, waiting to slip
into its last coma,
palm stem walls blanketing
the mind's catacombs
while your planted carcass watches
a tsetse fly
drink its next meal.
 
:iconwernstrum:wernstrum
:iconwernstrum:wernstrum 61 73
Literature
SEEKING SPRING 2
SEEKING SPRING
I am the tree-in-winter man
bough bent with wintry woes
seeking spring.
Inside, below the gnarled and ravelled rind,
inscribed by glacial ink in cruel seasons,
exigencies and crises lie curled
concentrically in seized circles
from heartwood to the bark.
Inside, again, sap congealed and gelid
trapped static in harsh-hardened tracheids,
sits still pooled and sorrow chilled
in serried cellular ranks
from yesterday's roots to tomorrow's twig.
Yes, I am the tree-in-winter man
waiting for spring's demulcent peach-pink
breath to melt and liquefy
from frigid core to icebound bole
and tempt the sap to surge and rise.
And then these soft green buds
I harboured in the long dark days
will plump and swell;
and blossoms white as snow
will ecstatically burst the knotted bark
to be strewn and scattered on the ground
finding spring.
:iconmeic2:meic2
:iconmeic2:meic2 27 28
Literature
NORMANSCRISMUS
hawlee
misoltow
treas
presants
famlee
peese
luv
presants
charetie
presants
presants
am i mising sumthing?
how did this awl begin
wat duz this holedae
meen?
never mined look at all tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
a seeson of desepshon
of plesent lys
so cute wen we fule children
wat hapens wen thay find owt tha truth?
wat is tha truth?
never mined look at all tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
look at tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
stand in aw of tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
its all abowt tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
you no its sumthing deaper
pretend you no wat it meens
or just enjoy yur presents
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
and eet turkey or ham
watever you eet evry yeer this tym
and i well call you nayber
and ride yur slay
wen the nite is silent a baby is born
that duznt cry wen thare ar lowd sownds
and sheperds bring presants too
becawse He is speshal
who pepol well always argyoo abowt
and
:iconnorman2:norman2
:iconnorman2:norman2 43 363
Chrysalis by madhs Chrysalis :iconmadhs:madhs 224 102
Literature
november 2nd
squatting.
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
expanding.
wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
squatting.
i never thought i was doing such a
:icondreamsnhazel:dreamsnhazel
:icondreamsnhazel:dreamsnhazel 111 76
Mature content
for Kahori, who i named myself :iconxtape:xtape 75 78
Literature
Coffee Mugs
It's a man's world,
you can tell
from the dirty coffee mugs,
huddled together on the table.
The lone water bottle stands above them,
imposing, clear and tall, as its owner,
Her pregnant belly precedes her like a shield:
a neon sign flashing "here I am".
In the elevator, two people dare a smile
while they talk of things they know
no-one else cares about.
They wear glasses and awkward clothes.
In this place time hangs like tepid air,
which no fresh wind can ever disperse.
:iconSarcastig:Sarcastig
:iconsarcastig:Sarcastig 22 40
Literature
He Thinks By Fire
Castles
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Rocky cobblestone.
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
us something
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
Sighs, speaks:
Contracts
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!

He breathes.
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
:iconaltruisticlies:altruisticlies
:iconaltruisticlies:altruisticlies 14 21
Literature
They'll Be Back In Summer
The boats pull in
Pull out
Like clockwork
By months
Every year breaks open
On the edge of the seasonal bowl
Its fiery orange yolk
Dawning
Giving the extras their cue
The camera reels
Behind my eyelids
Record this summer at-home vacation
The aural thump
Of their midnight parties
Permeating the walls
Of concrete
And bone alike
Until the role of ambient silence
Is recast
Till fall
:iconMadFunk:MadFunk
:iconmadfunk:MadFunk 13 29
Literature
Issues With Eight A.M.
A white van skids past,
spins slush inward, then rattles down Ninth.
Leaves shiver in little pendulum arcs,
bled dry and brittle.
Afraid to leap, they opt
to stare down spans of barren ground
as I walk to work.
The briefcase man turns green
and I grimace, plod the last block.
Wednesday might as well be Monday
as the door clicks closed.
:iconterov:terov
:iconterov:terov 9 40
A collection of some of the DD's I featured during my 2 1/2 years as Tier Admin/Gallery Director. It's depressing to see how many DD's have been deleted, either because the author quit the site or was banned during the Great Purge of 2005. I've counted 38 such poems that are lost to us. What a shame.

Random Favourites

Literature
'K' is for Virginal
You are a textbook replication of a slighter Plath and Hughes,
drawn daily through a contemporary intro-Southern collective jar
and with a geminated bite and sphere at your freshly-picked fingertips,
hanging fire like bed sheets with poetry-peppered papers
on a clothesline of aberrances, sharp thumbtacks of unfinished prose
delaying some other thing, casual stings, Greek recipes.
You’ve cloistered yourself in a trapdoor oven with a lightly-curtained laugh,
sputtered oven light glaring so that a single passerby can ensure
that you don’t cook yourself to a lighter colorlessness,
        postured sweetly with a deep carbon coat.
:iconcatching:catching
:iconcatching:catching 8 16
Literature
Art of the Onward March
And here you are, perched on the eaves
of your fathers' understanding,
ripening in folly as the chorus swells.
Like an heir to Babylon you meditate
on the melting of peoples
sloughed into your flaming voice and hands.
This is your manifesto, artist of broken
lampposts and husks of homes, streets
where metal whines like
mangled mongrel dogs still limping
roads emptied behind the
crackling gravel of your many, many brushes.
Your calligraphy is stroked in slanted reds
and browns, ink leaning from the force of your
latest, brightest work.
:iconterov:terov
:iconterov:terov 42 47
Mature content
for Kahori, who i named myself :iconxtape:xtape 75 78
Literature
november 2nd
squatting.
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
expanding.
wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
squatting.
i never thought i was doing such a
:icondreamsnhazel:dreamsnhazel
:icondreamsnhazel:dreamsnhazel 111 76
Literature
Derivative Deposits
they will derive consistency
from the motion of lax drizzles,
engaging moments with precision,
never still.
each peace a steam travel
colliding fatelessly
on a stolid amble amid lit trees
begging for constance,
begging for trespass,
begging for tide...
and you will be
              sometimes
that disconnected line
dotted, for meaning
in some transitory time,
              aching for stability
        and a thinner crowd.
  because sometimes
  the silence of a louder shrill
  melts quicker than the pelt,
  stirring smooth enough to
  slip,
  slick downside the stair
to where we meet in the foyer
at the end of our destination,
disparate;
and breathless from the ride.
:iconashriel:ashriel
:iconashriel:ashriel 36 25
Literature
Cold Detroit in October
Cracked Freeway Detroit how it ached my head,
Surrounded by Commercials and cold morning air,
There was no real choice unless you super sized it.
37 Year woman behind the counter soul on her sleeve,
None of mowtown's money stayed in Detroit,
Only the sad inspiration still chills the air,
Three dollars and fifty two cents change no heart
Left to smile all the energy lifting the dimes and pennies.
Hospital as we pass the old brick houses designed for
Ford Motor Corporation employees; street construction,
Loud bass pumpin' jams from a cheap cadillac,
Walked into an arabic restaurant old muslim woman white
Head band rolling flour.
Smokey's "Tears of a Clown" running down people's eyes
In line's at White Castle Burger at night or
Krispy Kreme Donuts in Dearborn...
Smokey Blue Collar Polish Softball Team at the pizzeria,
A Salad Cheese the salad a garnish with a black olive or two,
October's leaves dusty and the air reeks of oil,
Nostalgic Autumn some other American's dream not here,
Michael
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain 26 34
Literature
Causa Prima
At first I thought I was just fertilizer,
a big-breasted woman with no more trouble
than a spread of the thighs and maybe
a devil of a time trying to impregnate,
being made of stone.
But things got trickier--apes wanted
to be threshers,
groups got larger.  I had to learn to sing
like a man, brush my fingers into mud.
It was supposed that fast orbs turned
with my strong neck, and I had to become a meteorologist.
Monoliths appeared.
And things grew major.
Calendars seemed so innocuous,
but days gave way to years where
monsters ate my babies and wore their bonnets.
Ugly things started to crawl, and they wanted
me to dance around Prometheus' toys.
I still felt like a Mother, so I multiplied,
donned feathers and fur and scales and
jewelery, gossiped and made love,
grew jealous and became an ocean.
My chapped lips licked themselves, and I
let them dress my wounds with
coins.
They aged and made me judge them,
gluttonous for pale notice.  I had to be a father then.
Clocks d
:iconsarasvatia:sarasvatia
:iconsarasvatia:sarasvatia 2 15
Literature
a time to fly
</i>
The bird, an extended cremation,
its wings were thin coffins.
Crushed from below
in all directions,
rotating through
each one at a time,
it has a stomach
full of dead seeds
and lead.
It sang a sound like
splash, (not very pretty)
and fell.
A ripple on the water said,
"I'm here," not was.  I liked that,
but not as much
as before.
</i>
:iconnihilim:nihilim
:iconnihilim:nihilim 10 44
Literature
Elixir
Under the sins of my autonomy:
high parachuting phonographs spinning backwards
      I wish they could sense my subliminals
notes holding formation just move so
fast
and the eponymous hero stands vanquished.
A crowd of mutual sufferers
suffered to live
suffered to bear lives
suffered to twist polyglots with their suffrage
          asking
       Is it supposed to continue?
Mongrels
shedding water with light, basking
truth to the reign of masked contortions,
skin flapping skin to practice whole sounds
violently diminishing the god-given
supremacist silence.
Hypocrite fools of Hyperion,
your solar-panneled powers will do everything
but stop the rain you call with your forced flight mandalas
Windows of the subatomic clap shut,
my face your touch but still opposing
the radiant applomb you suggest,
offering a seat in your valence.
Is it supposed to continue?
Worry less about yo
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet 3 19
Chrysalis by madhs Chrysalis :iconmadhs:madhs 224 102
Literature
Greasy Spoon
one towel, fourteen hours
of grime to be lifted.
food to plate, fork to mouth,
gravity and addiction keeps
a layer of dust firmly intact.
waitress is the filter for this place.
her lungs trap the secrets that slip through
the patrons' forks.
some, she lets slide on through.
waitress turns mid sweep of plate off table,
her smile blasting deep depressions through
the doorway - boom click slam -
where, regulars, glasse eyed amble to
the table they staked claim to
fifteen years before.
she imagines that sound a likeness
to a coffin closing over one
too tired to sit up.
the greasy spoon spins its magic through
mugs not really clean.
they have year old grinds
stuck in cracks, still.
waitress knows,
universal truths are divined
from the rainbow film that keeps old coffee mysterious.
customers choke it down without a glance, so
their insides swirl with the infinate.
:iconjustaphase:justaphase
:iconjustaphase:justaphase 1 6
Literature
morning mouth
Morning mouth, how
do you suppose
we go about our
house held woes
or shout at
rows of ripe
corncob pipe
dreams?  Morning mouth
where are your
clothes, your mopped
wigs, high-top sig-nature
skid-marked kids'
shoes?  Your turn
style waits awhile for
your mood to
solid-tude.
Maybe your cleft
bottom lip splits
down your
ribs, hits your
heart to pull apart
ments scarred.
For a start.
Aren't you barred
from the breeze
of breath left behind
your kind?  Diseased
in time with blue
collar implied?
Unwind;
Your folds are
chapped, morning
mouth, your face
holds shapes that
will never
amount.
:iconEnigmaticReceptacle:EnigmaticReceptacle
:iconenigmaticreceptacle:EnigmaticReceptacle 8 26
Literature
Annie Comes Home to Rufus
This morning,
Annie tumbles from the car
and onto the driveway.  
I watch from behind the curtains
as Mother and Father trudge behind,
dragging duffles full of god-knows-what
(sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars
of bitter white pills and injections).  
"Daddy – keys!" she cries,
and his mouth stretches, baring teeth
(he smiles, he thinks)
as he tosses a jingling cluster.  
The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.  
I hover in the kitchen –
I never know what to say.  
She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.  
"C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend
I'm happy to see her
eight pounds lighter than last Sunday.  
This afternoon,
Annie is tired.  
Only I am allowed in her room,
where the angled light shafts and the dust motes
turn the plastic hairs of her wig
into faceted filaments.  
She slides it from her skull
and drapes it on the sleeping styrofoam
:iconbloodorange:bloodorange
:iconbloodorange:bloodorange 70 67
Literature
Sunflower Flux
He played hard this month:                                      She played well this month:
Mortgages prefixed sales                                         Chlorophyll quotas left in the wake
and rows of steadfast hotels,                                    of cushioned lovers and tickling tiny noses
plastic monuments saluting a gaudy cannon             
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive 51 136
Literature
Mythos
I saw smiles that winter
Yes, in the serious undergrowth
cut where I was born
I saw your brand new fishing
hat and we were like
dawns in our underclothes
spread like wet sticky mosses
on branches
that blew smoke in the face of my
monster blame
We spit like dancers:
at our heels to move quickly
to slide blade-patterns through the overtones
the missing syntax of our misanthrope
kingdom
We sped like firestorms
I took your carvings and trashed them
twisted my own dogs to mean
partiality for your weakness
I let the duress of a thousand quicksands
pull me under drag me up
And you tasted like springwine
under bloodthirsting moons
of white teeth
     Mysteries can lick my fingers
     and have the copper of them
     have the fear of twenty-nine soldiers
          inbred for war
     grind in their innards
     Politics may take my cold chocolate
     zinc-laced and run through with
     co-dependencies
     spiced up with flesh
     It may thaw the minds of stone paperbacks
          ill-bred
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet 4 9
Literature
As A Row Of Tents
Genetics ganged-up,
forced my hair into retreat,
unable to cope with the things
I have to face.
So my haircut is,
shall we say, aerodynamic.
To lessen the effect
of my skull poking through.
Coupled with the harsh angles
of my face it gives me
a thuggish air. Policemen
eye me suspiciously,
OAP's cross the street
and real thugs
exhume their aggression
from shallow graves.
Donning designer specs
and perfectly ironed shirts
softens the impact
on the eye,
but unfortunately
it lends me an entirely
different air altogether.
:iconflamemc:flamemc
:iconflamemc:flamemc 22 80

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I was watching a basketball game on television and during a commercial break, there he was! Starkist Charlie. I said, "Oh jeez, not this knob again." My son, home from college on break, said, "Whaaaat.....??"

Charlie was before my son's time, and that led me to wax rhapsodic about how some of the most successful ad campaigns of the 1970's played upon the worst aspects of human nature. Worse, most were aimed at children. When I had finished foaming at the mouth about it all, my son advised me to write it down. Rgr that.



Low Self-Esteem:


Starkist Charlie, the bespectacled, beret-wearing tuna whose greatest desire, and seemingly only goal in life, was to be murdered, hacked up, canned, consumed, and shat out by humans. Why? Merely to prove he was as good as the other tuna who got murdered, hacked, canned, eaten, and shat. But he didn't measure up to Starkist standards. I'm sure they suspected mercury poisoning, albino brain chiggers, or some other nefarious reason for his mental illness. There is probably a multitude of liability issues that would stem from selling psychotic tuna for consumption. And imagine if this dipshit was your son. "Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be murdered, canned and shat, papa!" That's when you point to your wife and say, "He gets that from YOUR side of the family!"



Sadism/Schadenfreude:


Sonny the Cuckoo Bird was a mentally unstable avian whose psychotic episodes were triggered by the proximity of Cocoa Puffs cereal. Despite trying a variety of activities and strategies to prevent himself from going apeshit, such as bowling, dancing, watching television, and even padlocking himself into a booth, a couple of shitty kids would show up with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and trigger him into completely flipping his lid. Just to watch him do it. These are the kinds of kids you can imagine pulling the wings off flies and setting cats on fire. But hey, young serial killers in training have to eat too, right? Might as well sell them some crap for breakfast.



Selfishness:


The Trix Rabbit. All this guy wants is one lousy bowl of some wretched cereal and the kids won't give him any. Actually, even though the kids are being blatantly selfish, it's hard to blame them on this one. The rabbit is such an obnoxious putz. Imagine every time you sat down to eat a bowl of cereal, some idiot showed up and tried to scam you out of your food. Seriously, the rabbit has nothing better to do? Evidently he's got enough money to buy costumes and props, so why the hell doesn't he trundle his fluffy white ass down to the market and buy his own damned box of Trix? He's a grifter. A swindler. And he gets his jollies from bilking people. He ought to be in prison for his repeated attempts at theft and extortion. Let him eat prison food for 3 to 5. Maybe that'll put some sense into his head.



Willful Destruction of Property:

The kids are in the back yard or the park playing and getting all sweaty. One decides he/she is thirsty and needs another sugar bump. The other says, "Great idea!" They shout, "Hey Kool-Aid!" and this giant, pitcher-shaped clown busts through a wall or fence, singing an obnoxious song in a voice like Wolfman Jack. Who pays for the damage? The homeowner? Taxpayers? Certainly not the Kool-Aid creature, who loads the kids up with a neuron-popping sugar dose and shambles off on his red, stove-pipe legs. Seriously, this idiot looks like he should be leading cheers in a bush-league ball park. And even then, in my mind's eye, I can see all 1500 fans howling in rage and pelting him with beer bottles as he bursts through the bullpen wall. I wouldn't drink anything proffered by this twat. He's probably got a crawlspace somewhere stuffed to capacity with children's corpses. Remember what Jim Jones was swizzling with cyanide? That's right. You know where he got it? That's right.



Assault and Battery:


Hawaiian Punch used a couple of dickweeds to sell their beverage. One, a malevolent misanthrope named Punchy and the other, a borderline Downs Syndrome-type named Opie. Punchy would ask Opie if he wanted a nice Hawaiian punch. When Opie would inevitably say yes, Punchy would curl up a fist and blast him right in the fucking face. On second thought, maybe Opie doesn't have Downs, but brain damage from the accumulation of bolo-punches to the teeth. Gosh. Watching someone Pearl Harbor his buddy with a vicious haymaker sure makes me thirsty!


Edit: Gee, I just noticed that after Punchy whacks Opie in the chops, he freakin' tramples him. Lookit!
  • Listening to: Andrew Bird

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ndifference
Grandpa
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Memphis
Favourite cartoon character: David Lee Roth
Personal Quote: Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it.
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:iconbeingnaked:
beingnaked Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2017
I honestly think weve been lost on the annals of time
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:iconndifference:
ndifference Featured By Owner May 4, 2017  Professional Writer
Where we belong
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:iconkronix:
kronix Featured By Owner Mar 30, 2016
I genuinely don't know who that's supposed to be in your avatar. Guess I should've said something 15 years ago?
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:iconndifference:
ndifference Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2016  Professional Writer
I am Inspector Clouseau and I am on official police business.
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:iconnonculture:
nonculture Featured By Owner May 28, 2016
you two should get a rheeeeuuum....zimmer. Yes, yes, a zimmer.
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