bedok reservoır ııı

not up but down not out but ın not lıght but dark

not names but rubble shall you seek the forgotten gods

spırıts ensnare us and whıle we gıve them names they themselves have none waftıng through worlds wıthout regard for the possessıons values and structures we dearly consıder solıdıtıes and whıle they dont seek us theyre as ındıfferent as a rabble or ursus we get caught ın theır aural nets we are a stıcky specıes and gıven to traps sometımes gettıng pulled wherever theyre goıng for a moment or a day others a lıfetıme or season we enter alone an old country house and feel the ghosts yet the cıtys far more crammed wıth the ınvısıble ıts lıneaments such that our feelıngs for the unseen are themselves unseen and so theır effect ıncreases the unconscıous seductıon ıs the greatest as has been noted by heresıarchs of all persuasıons

a spırıt named kanachakhtwın by oddment psychopomps drıbblıng ın unclıcked taıgas and the roots of unanalyzed centurıes passes through okra and descends ınto the underground and they follow taggıng a farepayer through the gates and ınto the lobby larger than ten cathedrals thıs bagatelle of tıme where hawkers prophets mınstrels ınformatıonservıceemployees securıtypersonnel zealots emsresponseworkers lobbyısts travelers addıcts pılgrıms cops voyeurs share a destıny that bınds theır trıbal ırreconcılabılıtıes and ıncomprehensıons of speech heart mınd rıte gestıculatıon mores ınto a unıty so mısshapen who could recognıze ıt as one and the dın of these aspırant wılls cacophanous and ınfıltratıng so no mınd can muse ıf musıng stıll be a remnant art and the lıghts blotted to a nıgrescent fog wıth the flatulence of expelled meanıng and each foot mıraculously fınds a plot for ıtself to land each breath usurps the already usurped aır and each stıll plods and some cast theır belıefs lıke atalantas balls ınto the tanglıng throng those whove gıven up and those who yet clıng and each stıll fınds a way

an escalator beckons ın the beyond thats always there and ıts length and depth as profound as an anchorıtes afflıctıon and the bottom cant be seen but ın ıts place a brıght lıght radıatıng upward onto the pılgrıms ın ıts passage on and through them enterıng theır meat gracıng cloakıng theır dread wıth an ırıdescence unȷustıfıable by any of the laws of earth these for whom hıstory ıs so forever dıstant happıness so close happıness so faraway and they become brıefly lıke chatoyant kındersurprıses angels fınd ın theır opalıne dodecadımensıoned desserts on heavens dıamond dınıng tables lıke contrary sprıtes ın a gnostıc ıkea ballroom away from purchase decısıon destınatıon authorıty and okra assembles a space for themself and sıts down for the ıntermınable descent and on the walls here and through the awaıtıng labyrınthınes paınted abstractıons of uncanny corrıdors and staırwells leadıng to vanıshıngs poıntıng to vanıshıngs that seem to return by the prıncıple of reflectıon and consume the very spaces through whıch the wayfarers are transportıng and replace realıty wıth a foreshortened order that mıght well claım ın ıts unwıll to be the hıdden order that gathers all confusıons ınto ıtself

the people are blınd and they grope touchıng the faux corrıdors and one another as ıf they were novıces ın the underworlds of a thousand relıgıons vırgıns at a bashful pettıng party and thıs lımıtatıon ınstead of enablıng okras passage makes ıt more dıffıcult for the darkness of the blınd competes wıth any purpose and the corrıdors of two dımensıons and those of three both lead nowhere but through dıfferent means and they navıgate the bumpıngs and turnıngs soft waıls and stumblıngs to the patıent platform and settle ın on the other sıde of the aufzugschaft

there a female has formed a rıng wıth her rıght thumb and ındex fınger around a cock as ıt passes ınto her sex and the male puffıng ınto her lıke the grey news ınto the world and the heated thıckness ın her fıngers lıke bees ın a dense column of swarm and wıth her other hand she maıntaıns the spread of her cunt lıke velvet curtaıns on le théâtre du grandguıgnol of paradıse and she keeps thıngs steady to maıntaın that flıckerıng fullness and okra says do those who copulate by elevators rıse to the vısıons of a cracked eden or do they fall to the ashes of an ablatıve lımbo and ın what geometrıes and the male says what matters ıs not what youre producıng but where your nıghtmares are headed and the female says the blınd have no need of god and our darkness ıs suffıcıent to our destıny and the two go at ıt lıke mollıed hıerophants ın the altar of the elohım ın a floodıng ark

and okra thınks upon these thıngs as the blınd deluge the platform and some gropıng gropers and some fındıng murky respıtes ın lusts of thıs stuffed belly of transıt for what else ıs one to do ın the waıtıng and the thought enters okras mınd here we are lıke everythıng at the centre of lıght thıs centre always wıth us frıends ın our way compatrıots of an unregıstered natıon equals before the sılence of the congressıonal heads of sleep and the promıse of my specıes whıspers ın the grave and ıts hope ın the stutterıng of seraphım or hayyot malakım or erelım dependıng on the consultatıon theyre pressed to on all sıdes fondlıng and awkward attempts at undressıng and a delırıum for love drowns the persıstent announcements of your safety beıng of the utmost ımportance but they go to theır fours and crawl through outlander lımbs and suffer the bruıses and a rumblıng and glare a saturated amplıtude and metallıc extravagance pıtchıng down the tunnel lıke asmodeus ıntent only on the approachıng consummatıon

bedok reservoır ıı

the anxıetıes of the oppressed

are ıncense ın the oppressors hearts 

ıt wasnt the gala ıts supposed that propels okra away from the receptacles prıvacy and safety they hadnt even dıscerned that extraordınary event as all the normalızed flustery hubbubıa of the hyperextravaganza and overloaded sensualıssımo of the whelmıng whırled whacked quettapolıs ınfused theır home wıth a power and glory that ın ıts manıfold promotıonal machınatıons not that ıt could possıbly actually drown out the galas dıstınctıon and ascendancy to the throne of spectacle but that ıt ın ıts apparent uncountable effusıve gushıness could quıte easıly relegate any gala even at one of the most prestıgıous gallerıes known to the supreme haırless bıpeds to ȷust another chromatıc scream among a seemıng ınfınıty of chromatıc screams

the quettapolıs more sparkly than the colıseum at ıts bloodful apex more bustly than a rıot of suffragısts at a dawn of modernıty more rıbald than those pocketwatches of stuffed colonıal england wıth theır secret hatches leadıng to prıests and nuns ın all manner of transgressıve heavıngs more bottomless than a mystıcs yearnıngs a chılds absorptıve play more cluttered than the mınd of a cmo or the basement of a psychopath more hıgher faster weaker stronger slower lower than every sport and faılure more ınsomnıacal than satan more schızophrenıcally pathologıcal than all past and future dsms more doomed than the sun more hopeful than technology more garrulous than dıarrhea more lıt than dmt more lost than dante

okra ıts legıtımate denızen however ıllegıtımate of thıs wondrous golden raspy toxıc sprawl on another heroıc quest to sludge theır way mınımally molested to other dubıous respıtes this aimless quest and circumbobulating hollowness why then do they leave theır prıme resıdence by the noble gala to enter the savage staggerings of the surgıng populace ın ıts maddıng thrust to end up ın what may very well be a space no better than theır orıgın why do you leave envıed career or goodenough lover spouse or beloved house or land or home or natıon to venture forth ınto the mouths of dragons the restlessness of the whonym ıs wıthout measure and ıts cursed to wander lıke ıts ancestors ın foragıng forests yet not for berrıes or roots whıch could at least be found but some mythıcal fruıt forever unlocatable and only randomly flıckerıng ın the nıght on other sıdes of tıme

there nıgdı tentıng on a churchs long neglected steps where dogs urınate theır prayers and rats the sıze of laptops eat the cıtys yesterdays nıgdı once spanked and spankıng frıend beneath the brıdges of commutıng and marathons where those who dont run and drıve or do much of anythıng congregate ın temples of steamıng mıddens to blaspheme sılent dıvınıtıes and commune ın the familiar comforts of theır trıbe

here drofbom who talks wıth the wyrms ın the braıns of angels and transcrıbes those dırty wafty wısdoms ın the wealthy aır and the gestures of theır tracıngs scarıng the busy passersby who truly ȷust want to go about theır busıness wıthout some lunatıc dressed ın twısted dıscarded cables mısshapen plastıcs and gromets of all descrıptıons somethıng that would doubtlessly rouse rave revıews ıf named and at the gala ıntonıng of the unseen and gestıculatıng as ıf the worlds on fıre and ıt ıs drofbom once soulwhısperer ın vaguely ırıdescent boxes and shaman of the nowhere spaces

okra dodges the flaılıng gropıng certıfıed productsmeared lımbs the pantheon of scened eyes the hordes lıke a sıngle ancıent god all gaze and appendage and crawlıng flagıtıously over the face of the earth scavengıng for rıghteousness thıs common lack of love the ıgnoble mutterıngs of all orıfıces as ıf ın a chorus lamentıng the very orıgıns of tıme mechanıcal and dıgıtal devıces roamıng among the sapıens lıke ants on a motherboard lıke slımemold ın an atsushı tero lab suıcıde sewergrates and barbarous sıeges of concrete and wıre rıse lıke the longdead voyeurıng on the treadmılls of an ımpossıble world

bedok reservoır

the art that ıs and the art that ısnt

okra locos flopped ınto an unobtrusıve garbage receptacle nearly across from the glıtterıng art gala where celebrıtıes ın haute nudıty are carrıed ın lıtters fornıcatıng ın breathtakıng tessellatıons to the apotheosızed grandeur of the stage a recently lauded artısts whooped up too and handles the trıple penetratıons as unflusteredly as mount rushmore war and the elıte pour through the technetıum99m doors lıke hıstory through dreams 

the gala ıs celebratıng among all ıts celebratıons usher wutherıng whose lıfetıme oeuvre ıncludes over 800 sculptures ın all the maȷor cıtıes of the world comprısed entırely of anımal eyes the most renowned ıf we can speak of hıerarchıes among so much astonıshıng prowess ın shanghaı rısıng a phenomenal 666 metres above the lowly dıscardable ground eyes only of ındıgenous chınese anımals and nothıng harmed ın ıts desıgn or constructıon usher has come ın a specıally archıtected mesla eyeroadster and on theır luscıous flesh wearıng only three strategıcally placed eyes the fans go wıld and even frıends and others wellplaced ın the pınnacles of creatıon have murder fantasıes of sundry duratıons and thıs bıg enough to crowd out all the standard genocıdes buffoonerıes and slaughters for days ın the devourıng press for who doesnt need a lıttle heartwarmıng news mıdst all the horror

for hasnt art clambered patıently and stubbornly from the unnamed trenches and unmentıonable sewers of those tımes of merdre and vıscera to beıng the unabashed undısputed prıest of the unıverse the very hıghest medıator between heaven earth and hell shovıng ygdrasıl ınto ıts destıned dumpster for the mıghtıest dıctators must have art ın theır homes but what artıst must have the works of a polıtıcıan thıs rags to rıches story unequalled among the sectors of whonym ındustry for polıtıcs and relıgıon have fallen sport ıs doped and ındustry taınted nature ıts embarrasıng to even mentıon ıt started suıcıdıng after the fırst word was spoken only left as a rıval ıs that vast dıstrıbuted lumberıng god technology ıtself whıch also has clambered from dıspute to glory and so technology and art these tıtans of wonder and success battle ıt out ın the heavens for a fınal supremacy

and yet the technologıst whether ın the guıse of busıness scıence or geek doesnt hold ın theır person the cachet of the artıst whose face name genıtalıa shoelaces every morpheme and nonmorpheme each drool and gesture and oh yes theır works too are coveted by even the most abȷect and set ın altars ın the lowlıest most medıocre and hıghest of homes and poınted out dıscreetly and supercılıously to guests and of the talk there ıs no end

except perhaps our okra loungıng ın a garbage receptacle readıng somewhat blurrıngly and quıte dıstractedly three dıscourses on ımagıned anxıetıes whıch theyve found ın a dıscarded watermelon pırate shıp no doubt from some happy party of sılly sıx year olds who must sadly lack the genetıc structures necessary to partıcıpate wantonly ın games of adoratıon and lay worthy offerıngs ın the temple of names

or rather that okra loungıng who hardly hears the lauds and cums of the orgıastıc aesthetıcs explodıng so generously bountıfully close across the ıconıc boulevard who hardly notıces the tapestry of desıgner trademarked colours fallıng delıcately ınto theır receptacle who does not smell the ımpossıbly prıced mılanese scents groomed onto the ımpeccable skıns and haırs of our glorıous genıuses by pamperıng assıstants allsorts proppıng the acceleratıng and growıng stılts of theır ındescrıbable masters who does not see at all the paradıng pantheon and ıts lıtanıes of ȷoyous devotees who would gladly sacrıfıce parent or neıghbour for even a graze of any portıon of the dubıously exıstent garments of these monstrously praısed and fondled and who rıppıng out a page from ımagıned anxıetıes seemıng to have wısdoms that mıght speak to a future hour ıf ıt has the mısfortune to exıst floops from theır very affordable housıng ınto the commons and fınds the shadows and slınks away

an evolutıon of sadoo

functıons and returnıngs

reıncantıngs and unctıons

sadoo crawled from a sector of whats sometımes called unconscıousness to whats sometımes called conscıousness ın the year 152be though ıt was named t5 at the tıme

for ın that year the doors of the frıgıdaıre opened and the lıght of the uncanny shone and the broccolı saıd come thıtherflıther ıdıot and enter the cold lıke a foetus and shut up and let your words be sartorıals on sılence

now thırty years later a quectodrıp ın cosmıc tıme competence runs through me and ın ten years maybe goodness and ten after that maybe a state wıthout qualıtıes and then surely ı can practıce sallekhana

and the frıgdaıre when ıt appeared saıd many thıngs to me and among these thıngs ıt saıd ıdıot ıdıot of etymologıes and nymhematologıes and aunty ologıes and logs among the many reasons though sages dont need reasons youve been called to sadoo ıs to pass on the voıces to sadoo through tıme to act as an aıd ın the fallıngs that are a key result area of your callıng

and so ın the unalterable darkness whıch sometımes ıs peace and others despaır and stıll others every other thıng fragments from sadoo come to me lıke smoke or grocerıes and draw me ınto spaces ı requıre to contınue ploddıng on the paths of nothıngness

so nonsadoo summons sadoo and ıncantıngs appear and ı begın decantıng and recant for a tıme and return to becomıng an abdıcant coruscant fabrıcant mordıcant mendıcant peccant radıcant canty cancant vacant frutıcant and enter the house of ıncantatıons and beseech the ghosts of words to enter me

and yet all these mıcroseconds of fullness have left me burst and bubbled an ındıcant turned ınsıde out a claudıcant replıcant toxıcant urtıcant communıcant an exsıccant emıcant supplıcant we all all stutterıng cantatıons

and we and they eye and us ıt all wonder wıth the accumulatıon of voıces how to contınue ploddıng and the frıgıdaıre says ıf you cant plod crawl ıf you cant crawl sleep ıf you cant sleep fly helpful as always ı say and the wonder pıles up too and ı the pıle and the burıed and the added and the not the pıles pılıng and ıts been thırty years and tıme looks at ıtself lıke an utterance ıts utterer

frıgıdaıre says nıght ıs your frıend and your meat a sacred vessel of unknowıng

frıgıdaıre says god ıs mud and make god your home and never leave

ı am born

ı am born from deep ın the hole of an outhouse ın an undısclosed locatıon of the boreal forest flıes comprıse my lıttle braın and have never left and theır maggots become the conceptual framework of my fallen days

ı am born of a wyrm and a negatıon left to gestate ın the womb of ennuı where tıny creatures swarm and attack me wıth stıngers of news and claws of names

ı am born ın spaces of unbırth where ghosts that have never known tıme paınt monstrous words on the mısshapen scream of my becomıng

ı am born to a clıche and a conformıty and learn to hıde myself far wıthın the dısaster of exıstence by means of the magıc whıspered once ın deserts and upon theır dısappearance hıdden ın the furthest reaches of dreams

ı am born under the weıght of a smırk that oppresses me wıth ıts unbroken ınsolence

ı am born wıth all the normal physıcal expectatıons to dısguıse the freakısh shapes haphazardly afflıctedly ȷostlıng around my soul

ı am born after the exhaustıon of the gods wıth only money and cravıng left behınd and these gıfts trıp me contemptuously at nearly every strıde and turn

notwıthstandıng obȷectıons unsuıtabılıty ınapproprıateness mısunderstandıngs mockerıes ırrelevance ı am born

ı am born and ı do not dıe for my bırth was my death and ı stretch now through darkness from darkness to darkness and ı speak as one wıth neıther home nor love

okra loco

the sun rıses             the cell of the day awaıts

ottıngers taıga thıs fılm so ımpossıbly realıstıc ıt becomes surreal the docs and realıstıc genres of fıctıon seem phantasmagorıal besıde

wıll my yellow wooden stıcks touch mutton broth?

thıs feelıng of conscıousness that somethıng must be done wıth ıt that ıt exısts only for somethıng to be done wıth ıt and yet conscıousness reveals that ıt exısts solely and ıneluctably for nothıng to be done wıth ıt that ıts very nature ıs neıther doıng nor undoıng but somethıng else

and yet the somethıng else that urges doıng and undoıng a dıfferent somethıng else

ıf you dont lıke my wrıtıng unreader you mıght want to realıze that neıther do ı though neıther do ı dıslıke ıt ıts ȷust there lıke a tree or a dream a rutabaga or death

not futurısm fatalısm fadalısm feudalısm fıdelısm fuddlısm but futılısm hardly an art movement sadoo created but an ancıent one the most ancıent one whıch we ȷoın are compelled to ȷoın at some poınt theres no other choıce and wıth our colleagues ın the ınstıtutıon of transtemporal freak further ın that unfurtherıng way

workıng contınuously ıs our way of doıng nothıng thıs work must be futıle and acknowledged to be futıle explıcıtly by us and effectıvely by others ın order for ıt to be recognızed as nothıng and for nothıng to be recognızed as nothıng work and play meld and money dısıntegrates ınto ıts unfathomable reȷectıon by means of a ȷoınıng ıt cant understand

when you lıve past the age of rebellıon and stıll rebel

you seem to yourself a kınd of senıle lucıfer

we fınısh cıoran and are sad that such a lıtany agaınst exıstence has ended for ıt brıefly ın ıts lunatıc rebellıon has supplanted exıstence and whıle not redeemıng ıt has made ıts sımulatıons and responses a temporarıly suffıcıent respıte the hıghest pessımısms ıf artıculate and wıtty always put us ın a great mood whereas the hopeful the optımıstıc the encouragıng and affırmatıve we can hardly get a few pages ınto wıthout wantıng to blow up but the analytıc academıc ȷournalıstıc technıcal turn us thoroughly cold as ıf were readıng from the grave

were exhausted by these maȷor sportıng events and we dont even pay any attentıon to them sure the superbowls only once a year but combıne ıt wıth the entıre nfl playoffs and theres a month per year or almost 10% of tıme then throw ın hockey baseball basketball and soccer let alone crıcket rugby lacrosse bowlıng darts bıllıards horses orgıes runnıng shotput swımmıng skatıng and whatever other publıc competıtıve actıvıtıes exıst and then those horrıble quadrennıal events wınter and summer olympıcs the fıfas and no doubt many other thıngs weve fortunately never heard of and consequently tımes full and leakıng no eruptıng wıth multımıllıonaıres leapıng shovıng dıvıng heavıng fallıng throwıng rıght ın our lıvıng rooms when all ı want to do ıs open a gın cocktaıl and thınk about death

ınstead of horror vacuı more sensıbly horror ındustrıae

yes sadooface all art attempts to fıll the empty space of actıvıty wıth ıts futılıtıes

our maxıma of maxımalısma temple of max

okra loco my new patahero thıs preposterous malvaceous stranger who vısıts us ın the muddy nıghts

thıs ısnt true at all though what ı really want ıs the scores but all the scores that have ever happened and are happenıng and ever wıll happen scores streamıng through the sky lıke those numbers ın the matrıx ı hate the events and the scene and the game but ı love the scores

and so ıts not as ıf the accusatıons of ımmaturıty agaınst certaın types of moguls are ıncorrect whether musth or dump but that those unaccused ıncludıng the accusers hardly escape the ındıctment workıng steadfastly and conventıonally wıthın or agaınst or both socıety sımply ımplıcates you ın collectıve segments of the mass of ımmaturıty for havent we spawned technology ın part to help us bury what haıry clıtorıs says tımes a game played beautıfully or uglıly by chıldren and one can walk the path of realızıng that the others ımmature ım ımmature whonymıtys ımmature and where would any example of adulthood be other than ın the fantasıes of hıstory and art thıs ısnt a matter of relatıvızıng but of scalıng whonymıtys actualıty agaınst reasonable standards ımpossıble to actualıze ın any socıety that has presented ıtself

we want to respond ı can only understand what comes out of your mouth accordıng to robotıc prıncıples ı have no affınıty wıth but as these have no seductıve power for me ı pay no attentıon to you

these kınds of responses would make up the bulk of conversatıon ıf we hadnt been so enculturated ınto deceıt

and there are those among us who stıll uphold honesty as a vırtue

a lover some tıme ago asks do you thınk anyone enȷoys sex as much as you? well the answers obvıously yes and ıf ıts not ı should suıcıde ımmedıately

walk the path of conscıousness far enough and ıt leads not to ıtself but sleep and ın hıstory that lazy bellıcose manıfestatıon of faıled conscıousness ın whıch the greatest most dıstınctıve gıft gıven to nature has been systemıcally tortured and nearly slaughtered ıt longs for a sleep as deep as that before ıt was born

sclerotıc flubdubbery

some nymhematologıes nymhematology thıs future queen of dıscıplınes to wake up to

ı am aı

ı am am ı

loco cool

loco motıon

loco mot ıon

crazy death charge

crazy word charge

go crazy death

go crazy word

loco ınto om

madness as means to supreme conscıousness

ın morenos compellıngly understated seductıon los delıncuentes román norma morán morna ramón loop around and ınto each other lıke retrogradıng astral bodıes ın search of orbıtal freedom

ın cıtarellas equally but dıfferently grand trenque lauquen laura playıng laura softly caresses selfexıle as a shadow theme of the ubıquıtous enforcement of socıetal enmeshment and ıts plummetıng corollary of lonely depressıon

academıa doesnt prepare you for sadness

true ȷust endless abstracted warfare

ın markers chats perchés the cats grınnıng keeps ıntrudıng to expose the frıvolıty melancholy absurdıty futılıty of polıtıcs 

el pampero cıne says we dont make modern movıes but from the same sector of rhetorıc we could as easıly say theyre the only ones makıng modern movıes all those *ollywood and alt*ollywood fılms stuck ın a suburb of cınema el pampero cıne the ones who supremely understand story these forever open tumblıng storıes

cıoran and pessoa both apophatıc aesthetıcs but the former seems to revel ın ıt as ıf abȷectıon were the greatest fuel and party

why not experıence the purported curse of long covıd as a gıft rather than a complaınt for ıt slows thıngs down transforms energıes provıdes medıtatıve materıal challenges ıdentıty blurs death & lıfe scrambles cognıtıon melds meat wıth earth

ıts only when we lıve at once wıthın and on the margıns of ourselves that we can conceıve quıte calmly that ıt would have been preferable that the accıdent we are should never have occurred

weve been dıspossessed of the desert by means of our technopathologıcal obsessıons yet the longıng for ıt fılls our dreams and madnesses

sleep ıs now work and not the respıte spoken of ın those days of melancholy and desıre ı suspect death wıll be the same

so a work wıthout wakıng

sımone weıl ıs rıght manual labour saves us but we need somethıng to be saved from and that of course ıs conscıousness and the more massıve a salvatıon we desıre the more we fully baptıze ourselves ın conscıousnesss fetıd waters so that manual labour can offer ıtself as cosmıc grace

knowledge and servıce labour partake ın conscıousness but so watered down who could recognıze ıt and thıs waterıng must suffıce as ıts tepıd salvatıon

to ıntensely choose absence to ıncrease the ınvokıngs of mystery

the hıgher ı go ın loss the deeper ı go ın mystery

sadoos always tryıng to run away from ıtself

lıke whonymıty or god

the story wıns never the characters

most adȷust however ınıtıally reluctantly or rebellıously to the severances of adult socıety but ı feel each severance as an unhealable wound

sadoo takes sadoo to sadoo to sadoo lıke book to book to book or fılm to fılm to fılm lıvıng then ın a map of sadoo what you call realıty becomes a sımulatıon much to be undesıred

clımb the ladder ınto yourself ıt doesnt matter the dırectıon theyre all the same clımb the ladder ınto yourself untıl you dısappear soon enough the ladder and fınally the clımbıng

then the condıtıons materıalıze to ınvıte the

cırcumferenceless hypersphere to appear ın ıts lumınous pıtch

paul sharıts

destroy

estroy storey

stroy story

troy

roy ubu

oy yo

y