Empty Space: Abby Heller-Burnham


Ode: On the Schuylkill

On the river's bank, boat-legions rolled
    in search of commerce, bridges to build;
souls, cargo (heavy, light), bought & sold,
    coffers waiting in Philly to be filled.
Ladies stepped gingerly onto green banks,
   white satin, black lace, versed in politesse or no-
      patterns walked, insignias inscribed into air-
young ones, underlings already in their ranks,
   sought to make the landing show-offy, slow,
     down a hundred yards from a drunken fair.

Add a century, an Expressway looms over
    the murk- wave-sounds, squeals, & metal-
which the Schuylkill cannot answer, hovering
    under- slow-moving, patient, & settled.
The river's mind is settled- the human race
   churns around it restlessly, adding bodies
      shorn of dignity, bloated, pulp-bloody, blue,
having carried burdens the river never dreams
   of, emptiness so incorrigible the Schuylkill's face
      registers nothing but limp waves- tender, true.

The Keats-brain, peering in, questioning, elevates
    the Schuylkill's mystery into frozen heat-
truth & beauty all in the browning, decay, fate
    of all water-bodies subject to our meat-
I sit on the edge, watching overhanging leaves,
   frozen myself by the gross negligence
      of what lies beneath the river's surface,
& my own, as the summer sun inverts, grieves
   for the masses, exploring no penitence
      as I am, grounded, here, diving for purpose-


The Smitten European Syndrome

Anyone who's lived in Philadelphia for more than a few years knows the Smitten European Syndrome. On one's travels in Philly, periodically one will run into European folk, who passionately vow for Philadelphia against all the other American cities: for class, style, distinction, and dignity. It's just something that happens. Much of the European hoopla around Philadelphia has to do with architecture: after all, what a city essentially amounts to is a collection of buildings. As a collection of buildings in the continental United States, Philadelphia is peerless. What the Philly Free School amounts to, is an extended attempt to transmute the grandiosity, stateliness, and gravitas of Philadelphia's architecture into a body of higher artistic work; why I called one of our key pdfs Our Architecture Did This To Us. All these facets of Philly, as a construct, point to one essential reality: Philadelphia is an adult city; a city about solidity, on and beneath the surface. For the continental United States to grow into an appropriate awareness of PFS, all the sectors of America which remain Babyland sectors (the press corps are the worst, and NYC, with its bold-facade-with-nothing-behind-it emptiness, runs a close second) will have to grow up. What I'm doing here now amounts to planting seeds, because wheels this extensive and ponderous can only turn slowly.


& Now, Chicago...

As per other Happenings Ten Years Time Ago: on July 6, 2007, I read with a bunch of Chicago poets at Kate the Great's bookstore in Andersonville, Chi-Town. We wound up doing three Philly Free School readings at Kate the Great's; the final one, in the summer of '08, capped off a trip on which I lectured at Loyola behind Opera Bufa. Illustrated here is a Loyola syllabus featuring the book. But, back to the main: I forgot to mention: Philadelphia and Chicago do share many key issues. Chicago's image problem is a hinge to Philadelphia's: that to make Chi-Town simple is a fool's game. Down to rich Chicago suburbs appearing in 80s movies with which we learned our moves as kids (Bueller? Bueller?).  

P.S. The class I lectured to at Loyola included poetess Stacy Blair



Philadelphia is a city with an image problem. To make a long story short: Philly is impossible to nutshell. I've said it before, but it bears repeating: if Philly has a sun sign, it is certainly Gemini. Geminis do, often, have image problems: they tend to be too complex, too all over the place, to make easy summary possible. The press are wankers and adolescents and need their soundbites, and other cities come through just fine (at least on the surface): DC is the government, LA is Hollywood, Vegas is casinos, Frisco is queers and queerness, Nawlins is alcohol, the Florida cities are the Florida Lifestyle, the Texas cities are the Texas Lifestyle, Seattle went from Nothing to Grunge to Nothing Again, Pittsburgh/Cleveland/Detroit are junk/trash, and the funniest, for those who observe the tactile realities of the United States beneath the surface, is NYC as the power center of everything. Philadelphia is just too complicated, too ornate, as its architecture is, to do the sound bite routine. So you will encounter anomalies: Garrison Keillor, avant-garde hipster extraordinaire, on the Prairie Home Companion, confidently summarizes Philadelphia as a "working class city." On the other hand, a movie like 2009's Dare, which amounts to a staging of Less Than Zero in the rich Philadelphia 'burbs, emphasizes all the Easton-Ellis paradigm insignias of too much too soon, from queerness to sex/drugs/alcohol/money.

Indeed, what Dare actually is, is a meta-movie, staging something daring: accurate reportage of what the Philly 'burbs really add up to, beneath the surface. And, as the movie unfolds, the sturm und drang around putting the pedal to the proverbial metal towards an apotheosis of affluent, wasted youth, brings to the surface yet another Philly complexity; the kinds of kids and families who might hire Rocky Balboa as a plumber or maintenance man. They were there in 1976, too. You just didn't see them then.

Ten Years Gone: Double Imperatives

Ten years ago today, on June 9, 2007, I stepped into the post office, on Chestnut Street between 20th and 21st Streets in Center City Philadelphia, to mail out the first copies of my Dusie chap Posit. A decade and many books and e-books later, it is interesting to reflect, on June 9, 2017, what it means to spend ten years publishing at or on high levels. What it brings to the surface, for me, is an awareness and an acknowledgment that we are living through a transitional time, where publishing is concerned. The splintered or splintering effect in publishing, created by the competing, not always commensurate demands of online life against print life, has created a sense of the whole enterprise as a whirling dervish highwire act. Posit, in 2007, was released as a print chapbook and an e-book simultaneously; Mark Young's journal Otoliths had that double-pronged effect going then, and still does. Beams came out as an e-book later in '07, and pirated print editions soon appeared on the market; while later books like Apparition Poems and Cheltenham were released in print without precise online counterparts. To make up that difference, I placed the pdfs on sites like Scribd and Internet Archive, where they have enjoyed some success. But the point, that the publishing imperative should, of necessity, become a double imperative by '17, is one which adds gravitas to a semi-Sisyphean conception or paradigm model of publishing, in which only the super-diligent and highly motivated might survive, and the idea of standing, confidently and suavely, behind print alone, is an antiquated one.

In fact, from '17 on out, it looks like in many ways online is winning, which I did not expect. The reason is simple: online offers a more pure, less riddled-with-corruption reading experience than print does. The paradigm which held sway in my mind for many years, of print and online holding commensurate weight and finding ways and means of balancing each other out, now in and of itself seems antiquated. Online, of course, cannot be completely utopic; the human race en masse are not capable of producing utopic contexts; but many of us at least do not feel, by '17, that we've stepped into a Rosemary's Baby-level Satanic orgy when we read online. Amazon is just that, an obvious, obviously corrupt jungle; as is the University library system in the United States. It is the province of rackets and racketeers; if you didn't think print books could kill, think again. The problem, for myself as a literary individual, is that I love print books. I adore them. Yet, if the integrity and the purity is online, that's where I'll be. When I stepped into the post office on Chestnut Street ten years ago today, many poetry voices were still dismissive of online as a viable context for poetry; I had no idea then, that so many of these were racketeer voices. So, unbelievably, if you want to ride the publishing cutting edge in '17, you may have to admit that print can be expendable now. Preservation techniques have made online a suitable venue for Eternity, and the Eternity Sweepstakes; and print has become a fool's paradise's, at least part of the time, for clods and literary clod-ism.


Abby Heller-Burnham: Ghost of Day


Mary Harju: Sunflowers


PFS and the Heartland

High or serious art is usually considered the province of the big cities, here in the States. That's generally where the schools, the money, and the prestige are. Yet, as I get older, I can't not be curious as to how the Philly Free School will fare in other parts of the country, like the Bread Basket, or Dust Bowl, or Great Plains, or what have you. One of the most salient mysteries built into America, as a construct, is this large chunk of the country, comprised of small and mid-level towns and cities. What would a rural community see or not see in PFS? The way I imagine it, a small town hidden in the Bread Basket somewhere might have an intrigued response. In small towns and rural communities in general, the populace lead slower lives, and live to more advanced ages. Philly Free School art is meant to encourage contemplative duration; that is, is meant to be consumed, assimilated, and interpreted over long expanses of time. And slowly, piece by piece- not like the McDonald's, disposable version of haute culture espoused by New York. The idea is that if this particular population were to be drawn to, and drawn in by, the Philly Free School, it would be because our oeuvre radiates a certain kind of depth, of dimensions and mysteries which in and of themselves require slow, patient study, to yield the greatest receptive reward. I am attracted to the Bread Basket as an idea and an ideal in relation to us; the kind of audience who would be willing to dig beneath the surface of the paintings and books and stay there. Yet, I am no expert where Heartland mores and tastes are concerned. Who knows?


Abby Heller-Burnham: The Walls Have Ears


If I Ever See Doris Day Again

Envision yourself in a bath, in West
Philadelphia, high as a kite (pot, more),
& you may have a vision of her as pure,
like the America we dream of, like Doris
Day. She may only appear that way once.
Even in the course of the bath, where,
as you wouldn't guess, heaven and hell
loom right around the corner, not the
narrow but the wide way, & it seems like
eternal life, until she tightens her grasp,
you feel around for an exit, no dice,
& her eyes tell you You're gonna die...
yes, you're gonna die, right now. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Two deities turn stone-white, hanged.


Jenny Kanzler: Blue Mattress


Abby Heller-Burnham: Colleen


Waterford Whispers is a tool of Putin.

Yes, Steff. I fucking do. A weekly interactive event cud be made of it. And is being made of it. Please, Steff, i thought better of you. My bad. I don't even wanna tawk ti ye right now laaargh, you have deeply upset me. I was trying to limit my eructions here and get off Kim's page so as to let the vibe evolve without any oppressive asshole here like meself making unpleasant scenes, but you just forced me into a very fucking theatrical bit of drama kween shite now. Hope you are proud of yerself, Steff, for making me lose it and shout obscenities at ye.

But that's just me. I am so fucking caring. I always do it, get taken advantage of by people I think better of than this.

This has ruined my early evening this has. Why me? All the fucking time. All i will say is that if you continue to read Waterford Whispers please defriend me now. Go on, do it, de fucking friend me, like the last of the armchair dudemanbrosistaz i do not cannot and will not have anything whatsoever to do with at all in any capacity because shit happens when you have ten thousand social media friends that are sent to try us and make us better people. Anyone that reads or worse, enjoys reading the excrement from these hateful people in Waterford that helped Putin get clown-face into office ... nah, nah, sorry, you are either with us in the Resistance or you are against the good people of the mega Resistance.

They are not real satirists, them jealous bastards in Waterford, not like me, who spent sixteen years studying the ancient texts before being able to understand and name the poetic precepts found in the definitive texts. One of which is the authoritative satire text on the matter in the Book of Ballymote, that begins with a question obviously meant to be asked out loud, and then answered, out loud, crooning: Cis lir fodla aíre? ‘How many types of satire are there?'

Ní hansa. A trí .i. aisnés ocus ail ocus aircetal.

Not difficult, three i.e. declaration, insult, incantation’.

'Aisnés: declaration; a declaration in prose, reproach without rhyme.

Ail: Insult; verbal injury or derrogatory nickname which sticks, rhymed or not.

Aircetal: Incantation/verse. Divided into 10 varieties with several sub-varieties.

1. Mac Bronn; son of the womb, son of sorrow. This satire is told to only one person. (gossip)

2. dallbach: (blindness) An Inuendo. In this satire, the victim remains anonymous while the deeds done or not done are explained in detail. Further subdivided into three subtypes:

a: firmly established. Done when there is sufficient evidence for the poet to be able to prove the contention.

b: lightly established. Somewhat questionable evidence exists.

c: Heresay or rumor.

3. Focal i frithshuidiu: word in opposition. "A quatrain of praise and therein is found a word on the verge of satire" That which looks like praise but is actually derrogatory.

4. tar n-aire: outrage of satire. A reproach made through negative comparisons about the subject.

5. tar molta: outrage of praise.' Praise soooo overblown as it is ridiculous or ironic. The praising of qualities that the subject actually lacks.

6.tamall aire: touch of praise.' Similar to tar n-aire but not as flamboyant.

7 tamal molta: Satire which praises the subject faintly. Merecer states that this could be a praise poem that praises the subject about the shine of his shoes.

8. Lanair. full satire. The name, family and residence of the victim are detailed in a very public way.

9. ainmedh: full blown sarcasm.

10. glam dicind: a religio magical ritual using public satire and incantation against an unjust king.' It involved 30 clergy, 30 poets and 30 warriors and the spell being spoken just before dawn, by all seven grades of bard, circling a thorn-bush on top of a hill that divided territories, facing north, speaking their part of the satire into their left hand, in which was held a rock and thorn, keeping the legs straight and bending their back perpendicular up and down. Honest. Search online and discover the truth of it.

Thanks very much

This PhD, Satirical Narrative in Early Irish Literature, by Ailís Ní Mhaoldomhnaigh, is very informative on satire in the filidh tradition.


 These assholes in Waterford haven't even read it and do not know it exists and yet they claim to write satire, Steff? Really, Steff?

I didn't quit my job in teaching Geography to underprivileged kids in the Hamptons to go read the Waterford fucking Whispers, Steff.

Nor did I stop working at Cantor FitzGerald two days a week advising hedge fund managers, to become friends with or have anything to do with anyone at all on the planet that does read this fake news that is just a lot of self-indulgent overlong wanky trash masquerading as satire when it is most definitely - you have my word as the foremost expert on it - not.

Only the qualified Satirist can judge. If I want to know about how to steal and write meaningless and incredibly shit poetry under the banner of conceptual performance art I'd go ask Kenny G. If I wanted to know about occult practices that summon dangerous evil spirits I'd call Nance and Hitlary. If i wanted the opinion of a trusted social-media friend I would go to my private account and ask one of my family. And if I wanted to know how to write fake news I wud go to WW and their boss Vladimir Putin. .

Not just anyone can decide what Satire is and isn't. Waterford Whispers is not, in my authoritative opinion as Eireland's most beloved and professionally qualified English language fucking satirist slash praise luvvie slash fucking slash fucking slash fucking fill in the fucking blanks, Steff, and jus do az ye aaargh fucking told laaargh!!!

Or that's it. There's no more 'we', no more 'us', no more kewl beloved fucking warm kind understanding Mwoh the cleverest most boastful most arrogant and most unpopular of Kim's social-media friends, that came first in my Satire class, Steff, first in my praise Class, Steff, first in my Love Language class and first in every fucking thing at the online university whilst training for this very important role of being here for you lot. Teaching all you lot,  Steff, just what is and what is fucking not Satire.

You are one fucking evil Dark Shadow-loving bad vibes vampire with terrible taste in literature. Whatever the fuck are you reading WW for? I thought better of you. You are skating on very thin fucking ice here Steff.

Post a selfie of you holding a card saying 'Very Sorry, I Am Not Worthy', please, Steff. Thank you. And with a suitably contrite expression.

Don't care if you have to fake it, Steff, but obviously prefer it if you are genuinely sorry because that means you are starting to learn, understand what you have done wrong and are beginning to recognize just what's at stake in the coming months and how important it is we in the Resistance refute with every breath in our bodies them horribly untalented bastards in Waterford publishing this evil W.W. fake news that is totally out of control and you and everyone else in the US just need to know that we do have to stop them and Putin, Steff, we have to because there is no alternative to stopping this fucking oppressive tyrant and his evil fake news minions doing the work of a divisive ugly scary fearful world-ending dark side undermining US democracy.

We are the world's last best hope, and as a lover of language and caring individual I just need people like you and all the rest on the list here to do exactly as you are told without any fucking dramas or any fucking theatrics and certainly, no disloyalty whatsoever to the Resistance. Or, as I used to tell the Hampton crowd, ye can just fuck right off. Gottit?

Now get out of my site and do as I say because we need to stop this tyrant, and we need every hand on deck, every mind with mine, or the world ends on 5th April 2020. 

Do you want the world to end, Steff? Do you want little whatever the fuck wotsisname is to have no future, no life, fuck all, just because you were too fucking lazy and stupid to do as ye aargh fucking told?

Awh, WW Fake news. The ice caps are melting and the world is going to end on 5th April 2020. That I know because I played with the tatwas in the House of the Dead on Ushers fucking Quay, and burned some rose petals at a Spirit Dreaming event in Washington fucking DC, and I asked the Great Yétaz, aka Yétaz the Mighty, when was the end date of the End Time and this is the fucking answer I got.

To prepare for it I am starting a cult, with very reasonable joining fees and annual rates for a daily update about the end of the world.

Yétaz the Mighty also told me directly by telepathy that we may be able to shift this date years down the road, if I get enough gold and platinum star membership packages sold in the first year of opening this sacred opportunity to join the cult and sect of the favored ones that will be spared and ascend in the VIP package Orb of Light Salvation Vehicle, shud Yétaz not change His mind and decide that the only human beings being spared are me, someone else, our mates, and paying members with the intelligence to purchase a gold star plus or platinum package, with a special opening one time offer of 20% off if you can answer this question correctly. What is Yétaz the Mighty's favorite color?

What is Yétaz the Mighty's favorite fucking color, Steff, hey, hey, c'mon, why don't ye ask ye new mates at WW see if they can fucking tell ye all this shit when they are not tossing theselvs off just so a deluded few hundred thousand can laff at their sick jokes done in service of a Russian dictator. Proud of yerself now are ye, hey, now you are a dictator loving tool of Vladimir Putin?


Twad Nut Swervile Tai Soer le Ser Live

A sed a hip hop di hebby hubby hobby happy
c'mon groove, my friends, we are gonna move
our arms eyes feet hand legs mouths tongues

Ye seanchai, I am Wondy Mic, and I'd like to say
Hi yohl, to the boogie bang bang the boogie,

boody to the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie
the beat. Now Wundy Jocksen wuzzah reet nice

Ampomian pwofeshnul pro-sting poo-whizz
neologist ov swayt fiok yaarghl. Period. "A kno

painriods" Terole Wundy Jeckstrop Jokeson
toilet Doer Swivel solution, it's a little arcé mian

'n doer main naim bard the lowest grade doer
bard lorge in the tua diswayt eff yule en divmo

anjah gerrim summat kwikly wonna tua le Nu
Karedoshionly ollaire 'scorner' aps Kenzdré,

Jenzdul, Birdcat Kween Kwim Karedoshionly,
lionly loinly app it She said: "He said there is

 no reason for this", Bernz-Cerdoshi-oaw'nly
Kan-Wei Tao-Bong The Gob "I" Ampo

'dunno not bovvered' heeding to speak ih
Wan Kei Resistance bai luv luv luv waves

Yéaargh wei king high we leap She is love
love luv Wan Kei every time we meet,

most days & sing one thru the Wei of Five
 Yégrándmaster Flashes and Messrus flikes

flesh flyte 'atz a hip hop di hebby hibby
bang bang 'I got a little face and a pair

of brown eyes and all the ladeez i do
hypnotize': Kendz, Jendz, Bendz, Berndz,

hottaz than Jendz 'n Kendz buh no Bendz,
Kwifvren Fawndzion is there, Kwefrinz

Fandzy Kerdashionly on Fookbace fake
tweets mocked up in poo-stings of hip

hop ye hibby de hebby hibby hip hip
hoppa ye don't dare stop c'mon alive

yaarghl gaiz giv me worrih goht de daargh
hibby bang bang a boogie say Hup!

jump the rhythm of the boogie de bayt
to the rhythm of the boogie di bayt.

Now what you hear is not a test, I'm
crapping tua di beet beet so unique

I'd like to say "Hello', to the black tua
di brune to the Wan Kei way to purple

and yellow slammin mental patient
drisac bard, 'sticks in the face of all'.

Thorn bae Berndz & Bendz double deep
states R Us massive penetrations &

deepest of deep deep states duzzih
and they all make porntoobz what it is

today and they overturned the porntoobz
industry or summat and made it worse

and more a pwofeshnul ecosphere
in which open deep state penetration


massive peroppa woppa dildo sized
jumbo jets Benjdovaz Karedoshian

gets going into at Menstorz Kirdoshiam's
massively extended turgid whopper

Ampo biz socked getting dry off vitality
sucked of arl McCooliform cunes of d'lim

esmz lets call am Keffon Kaarghdeshyon
scienz di smashiest mega wupazz, toadly.

"The wemon fight for a right to fart in public"
'n imma ramma grandmaster with six PhDs

a seanchaí story house for young A laid Eez
B lads, and when you Cum inside the front

Do the Freak, Spank, and do you the Pump,
and the pushiest MC's trying to prove a point

a treacherous trio serious, the joint laarga
maga maga maga Wan Kei phadazz course,

at all times wid da Berndz, Jendz, Kerndz,
and Kween Kwimmy le fért de tua plus le

Jagashion Tashion Carradishoan Wei
Wan Keia bae tha' Tao be Tai These Are

the days of. Hysterical headlines writing
over the journey Yé duende 'n imbhas

She loving heard stories, heard fables, thank
Yé wicked on the mic and that turntable

this Resistance reporter I do, do, do adore
him. I rocked fourteen funny sad happy mad

live rhymes like I never did before, a record
She said, "damn flyte Wan Kei thank Yúwei

i'm in love with You cossanuva the legend
is true". Mayk luv ti moi, A sed,

"by the way, lady what's Her name?" She
said, "Yé go by the name of Kwim Karedoshian

Lanesbury Villeshireton, and you can be my
boyfriend, please, you surely can, do, do, do

do be my love, but let me just bin off my boy
friend Notzo Supamawhn Té Dichéz neva

lyk'd the worm-sized maggot dert-bord drisac
'im. 'N' I said, "he's a fairy, flytin' through air

in party shopz sexy, cute, and he looks very
like a docker wearing one red the other sock

blue." I said, "you need a man with a hip hop
de hippy do the happy doctorate yeh di habby

graceful eloquence someone with finesse,
a whole shot across the face, letters come

across over through Yé chest deep profoundly
double penetration letters all night long,

and all day following, and after that, the club
party's 'til dawn's early light? This can double

fill up satisfy bust you out super phatz, long
very very penetrative, do go do it, go, do, do

it Yé wei king ego do it, do it, do it. An' Yé

here an' I'm there, bug baaarghdic Wan Kei
every spiritual poo-sting, a learned-craft

annalists double-deep state-penetrations, awen,
Art separations, partings, re turnings, baaagh

blaargh love love life love laffta & le Kwim
Arts Fadashion Karé Mor Mordoshian

& Enkya. A luv Enkya.


South London Din Shanakuz

Coruscating bardic rhythmically brilliant
the tongue in a tempest from Kate Esther

Calvert, Brockley, New Cross, Lewisham
and Deptford, diagnosing all that is bogus

broken and dangerous, phony fictional
fraudulent and counterfeit, all that we

fake and we make-believe is spurious,
all that is mocked and concocted we
simulate, a voice airing trouble in Nunhead

and Bexleyheath, Peckham, Herne Hill,
Camberwell and Hither Green, speaking

of terror domestically and overseas,
painting in tongues a world run on bombs
lies oil war and corporate criminality,

the lines in her mouth circulate a narrative
of light she is weaving above heads
in Her measurement of hearts

and the one lost soul of a global
community in Vauxhall, Lambeth,

Clapham and Battersea, all that it holds
wry warm kind and intelligently helpless,
hope-filled boys weep and girls cry in Catford,

Erith, Bexleyheath, Belvedere and Earlsfield,
Welling, Woolwich, Plumstead and Stoneleigh,

Tooting, Dulwich, Brixton and Dartford Heath,
in every truthful rhythmic lyricality

the goddess of Beckenham and Swanscombe
divinity, Calvert's voices from Ceridwen's cauldron.

Death loss love pain suffering and fake suits,
forged news fair voiced always brilliant never

boring slap dash nor watch ye back in Purley,
Horn Park, Brockwell, Sidcup and Forest Hill,

confusion woven in crisp pictures, reality
the culture of this globe inside outside

beside Addiscombe, Petts Wood, Chelsfield,
Chislehurst and Crokenhill, beyond West

Wickham and Halstead's druidic views, Crystal
Palace, Croydon, Walworth, Morden,

Mitcham, Colliers Wood and Waterloo, moving
bridges at Blackfriars, Westminster, South

Bank, Surbiton and Kew, across time
and space in words placed plaited round
bucket lists and boundaries our face race

nice great love hate culture going down
the tube, left right up aside look away
when alighting, keep silent in the carriage

head down say nothing walk work turn away,
consume just lies oil bombs drive fly buy
more and make a contribution to the world

outside your window on this one time
special earth view, the only one we got,
so powerful it speaks in spoken song

of a Shakespearean inventor retooling Her
own language with the many-voiced
coruscating rhythmically brilliant bardic

tongue of Kate Tempest aka Calvert
from Brockley, New Cross, Lewisham

and Deptford, diagnosing all that is
bogus broken fucked unfixable and dangerous.

"...women go crazy 'bout an Arp dressed man..."