• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: Saturday

1964

18 Sunday Feb 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1964, 2016, 8*, afternoon, apricot, breeze, childhood, circle, city, comics, culture, docks, eyes, faces, groundlessness, growth, horses, humanity, Journey Into Mystery, life, mouth, Saturday, seeing, skyline, story, Thor, time, vision

                1964

                I found that
                there were circles
                in life turning

                wide and oiled
                around invisible axes above
                darkening city-lines

                the faces of ages
                at the circumference, caverns
                in their mouth

                and vision
                in their eyes that is lost
                in their own story

                which I cannot
                fathom; Saturday afternoons
                fashion

                an apricot balm
                that wingèd horses
                can scarce be seen

                and humankind
                is blinded in its
                multiplying culture:

                the tied piles
                at the docks are creaking
                the eyes, turn,

                down;
                in all the starry cosmos of time
                there is no floor

 

Journey Into Mystery #104, May 1964; Stan Lee, Jack Kirby; I submitted this to a local poetry competition – not even an honorary mention

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

1964 wormhole: 1964
afternoon wormhole: low afternoon
apricot wormhole: Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes
breeze wormhole: sweet chestnut
childhood wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
city wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
comics wormhole: Batgirl –
eyes & faces & mouth wormhole: I am not yet ready
groundlessness wormhole: travelling // arrival
life & seeing wormhole: Sheffield Park Gardens
Saturday wormhole: in the Java ‘n’ Jazz
skyline wormhole: two profiles
Thor wormhole: pen and ruler
time wormhole: certainly a Captain, / but not America

 

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in the Java ‘n’ Jazz

02 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2014, 6*, afternoon, Ashdown Forest, balance, bay window, bossanova, clockwork, coffee shop, Forest Row, guitar, jazz, music, openness, pavement, Saturday, shops, Sunday

                                                                                in the Java ‘n’ Jazz the
                                                                                                                bossanova
                                                                                                guitar

                                                                chorded and semi toned (down the
                                                                                                neck) and
                                                                                always regained on the

                                                minor before the bay window-front
                                                                                onto
                                                                a muggy Saturday afternoon

                                like Sunday used to be with all the shops
                                                                closed and
                                                with clockwork

                the pavement shop sign is folded up
                                                and returned closed
                                by the door

with next week’s opening times

 

first published in the Poetry Jar 160914; the Java ‘n’ Jazz is a coffee shop that relaxes in the small village of Forest Row in Ashdown Forest

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

afternoon wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
Ashdown Forest wormhole: a nice grey woollen picnic blanket
balance wormhole: balance
coffee shop wormhole: Mark & Jon at the coffee shop IV: right angles
guitar wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25
music wormhole: ‘someone …’
openness wormhole: this time
Saturday wormhole: time
shops wormhole: in the / Citadel / Park / a leaf / new / ly fell
Sunday wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – intemperance

 

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time

07 Friday Oct 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2013, 5*, attention, letting go, Saturday, sitting, talking to myself, thought, time, writing

                      time

                to let it all go midday Saturday
                the twists and turns all up there
                wriggling in the frontal lobe where
                      that

                is set the way it are after
                every single tock, little room for movement
                no space for propagation, and then sit it and
                      write it

                without thought it or structure it but
                attention            to loosen the way things are
                mercury-like and caught
                      unawares

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

attention wormhole: AT-tennnnnnnn – waitfrit waitfrit – SHUN!
letting go wormhole: let it all go
Saturday wormhole: Saturday – poewieview #3
sitting wormhole: the 19th century
talking to myself wormhole: and here I am
thought wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs
time wormhole: magnificent salad
writing wormhole: Granada and other poems … continued

 

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Saturday – poewieview #3

22 Friday Jan 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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Tags

'scape, 1965, 2016, boundary, Bowie, evening, green, grey, heart, lamp post, light, octave, park, pavement, pointlessness, possibility, red, Saturday, space, station, travelling, waiting, walking

                Saturday

                                green acres with no boundary
                                level with the pavement and
                                octaves of grey lamp posts alongside
                                to walk deepening heart;

                                until the red-wallpaper evening
                                in poor light, when it all seems
                                futile again, waiting to traverse
                                that distance from the cubic planes of the cold station

 

filtered through: That’s Where My Heart Is, 1965; I Want My Baby Back, 1965; Bars of the County Jail, 1965; You’ve Got a Habit of Leaving, 1965; Baby Loves That Way, 1965; I’ll Follow You, 1965; Glad I’ve Got Nobody, 1965; That’s A Promise, 1965; Can’t Help Thinking About Me, 1965

Read the collected movements in David Bowie: Movements in Suite Major

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Bowie wormhole: poessay X: soul love
evening & green & walking wormhole: sixty four sixty five
grey & red wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
light wormhole: Seven A.M, 1948
park wormhole: “King …”
pointlessness wormhole: New York Movie, 1939
Saturday wormhole: hint
space wormhole: gotcha
travelling wormhole: train journey // like a branch
waiting wormhole: bougainvillea

 

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hint

23 Sunday Nov 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2011, 5*, Beresford Square, finding, grey, growth, ideas, lemon, morning, name, Penguin books, Saturday, sky, Thich Nhat Hanh, time, William Carlos Williams, Woolwich

 

 

 

                                              hint

                                I found William Carlos Williams
                                on an open stall in Beresford Square

                                early-morning Saturday sky grey
                                lemon-smear looking for titles

                                that dully glinted new things
                                to know of all possible new ideas

                                that are 17 years old the Penguin
                                caught my eye and his name I also

                                picked up Metropolitan Anthony (never
                                read it) and Thich Nhat Hanh which

                                I did read but didn’t get but William
                                Carlos Williams I got

                                by simply possessing the book right
                                there and then; I wish I still had it

 

‘William Carlos Williams: a critical anthology‘
Metropolitan Anthony, (it might have been) ‘God and Man‘
Thich Nhat Hanh, ‘Lotus in a Sea of Fire‘

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

finding wormhole: scattered
grey wormhole: the echo of / a small box
lemon wormhole: Maidstone
morning wormhole: Jean Miller kissed Salinger
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
sky wormhole: – sigh! –
Thich Nhat Hanh wormhole: hinted
time wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions
William Carlos Williams wormhole: ‘I wanted to write a poem’
Woolwich wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

 

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letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

1960s, 1999, 2014, 7*, bedroom, black, books, breathing, child, Christmas, comics, courage, crying, Dad, death, duty, Eglinton Hill, friendship, Genesta Road, heart, hospital, ideas, illness, kitchen, laughing, Lesnes Abbey, letter, life, living, love, morning, mother, Mum, Nan, orange, parent, parenting, Plumstead common, reading, rebirth, roads, sadness, Saturday, sharing, son, speech, streets, Sunday, talking, time, typewriter, white, Woolwich, work, writing, yellow

 

 

 

                                                                                    060399

Dear Mum,

it was a shock to see you in hospital, overstretched just
                                living at home
                                and still I hadn’t admitted just
                                              how ill you are
                                and the meet to make the final arrangements
                for whenever they become and seeing you face up to this yourself
                                              has shown me dealing with icing and marzipan
                                                              and not a lot much courage

                it is almost guaranteed that we will not say goodbye as we would like
                                I’d like to say all the things that a Grand Goodbye at the End of a Life
                                                              should
                                              through the choke and early mourning wisp of times
                                                              we grew together in Genesta Road
                                that will always remain

                                              that you are coming to the end of your life
                                is so definitely sad, you said that
                                              you don’t want us to be too upset
                but I am going to be anyway, and already am
                                I will be losing a dear parent
                                I will be losing a dear friend
                                              and I have to be sad about that
(with Nan I came through the crying by learning the times we spent together
                like a lesson, sharing and doing
                                I wish I had shared this with her)
                                              I will be sad losing you
                but I won’t be sad because I am losing our lives together
                                these things which have already happened
                                              which cannot be lost
                                even when you die
                                even when I die:

                your fight to bring us up after Dad left
                                the sacrifices moving down from Eglington Hill
                                              a posh meal only on Sundays
                you said to me one day that we were only a paper delivery away
                                              from the standard of living as when Dad was there
                                as we crossed a road doing shopping for here and there
                the happy stores we had in for Christmas
                                you having to go to work every day
and making the best of it coming home
                                              to the sparse meal to help with the diet
                                                                                    hundreds of times
                hundreds of times which I cannot remember and never experienced
but stay in my heart
                                              somewhere
                it wasn’t effort in vain
                it wasn’t not noticed
                it wasn’t not valued

Thank you.   I was aware

                                from quite early that
                                I was one of very few children
                                whose parent had left them in the 1960s
                your bringing me up is one of the most treasured things in my life
                                              you taught me this
                                although I still haven’t mastered
                or even learnt it very well: carrying on in duty and love
                                you have had much to be bitter about
                                but I have seen you – visibly – emerge
                                like a Phoenix “come on, this is no good …”
                (I am a depressive and a self – indulger and “aren’t you ever going to smile again …?”
                                              that child still does it – far too serious when there is anything to do
                                with him) and I treasure the laughs we had when younger
                                              I will learn to have them in my own family
                because I will miss you when you go
                                and every time I miss you I will have silly time with them
                I remember aching stomach at times
                                I remember you squealing with laughter
                                              I remember Nan’s joy at seeing you laugh so much when you did;
                                I know you hadn’t perfected it yourself
                                I know I only remember the times when it just happened
                                              but it is a valuable lesson
                                                              nevertheless

                the magic of Eglington Hill
                                with its many rooms, its endless floors
                                              become a symbol
of possibilities of life, the ‘scene’ of your providing and care
                the magic of Genesta Road
                                where I grew to learn how to see
                                the bedroom decorated orange and yellow
                                then black and white because you asked us
                with shelves to put my comics and books
                                the kitchen to study with the smell of meal
                                              the lounge to book and write and type …
                                                              flavours of my life
                my development now the space which you clothed me in
                                you are those flavours and
                                as I ‘develop’ into the future
                                you are always here
                                              (you always started from what I was
                                               and letting me do what I needed whether you liked it or not
                I try the same with my own kids
                but only remember when I fail
                                yet another lesson, Mum,
                                you have been so wise
                                              and neither you nor I have
                                              fully appreciated it)

                                the magic of reading:
                                the mere presence of books
                                the unfold of opening paper
                                the rocky uphill of snatched syntax
                the scent of travel the pride of cover
                                I try to have the same for my kids
                so that even if they never read them
                                              they will line their walls with book
                (Joe has satire and sci-fi and atlas
                                Jon has earth and struggle and revolution
                                              Charlotte has stacks and stacks of comic)
                                I will be satisfied with that and I hope you had a similar hope
                                              and yes, Mum, it worked
                                                              and it was valuable
                                                                                    another job well done, I think

                                invigoration of sheets over ourselves and haunting the Common one morning
                putting all the milk bottles from the street on the doorstep of one house a few doors down
                                              planning the front room when you won some money, allowing ourselves gift of ideas on wheels
                letting me go hitch – hiking when I suddenly said I needed to go – I still don’t know how you did that
                                friendship of strolling the park, the ruined Abbey, wandering Woolwich on a Saturday morning
                                                              Mother and Son strolling

                and yes, I can agree with you, you have had a good life
                wherever you go we will meet again in some way
                and these specks of our lives will intrigue us
                                              in some form familiar but unrecognisable
I am very sad to be losing you but comforted with what we have shared
                it is probably only now that I realise how much I love you
                                              and how closely we lived

                I shall miss the Mum who taught me a life
                                but I shall always be breathing the lesson

love from,

 

Mum died 20th March 1999; I wrote this letter but hesitated sending it – a regret of my life; I ‘send’ it now hoping she’ll read it somewhere.   Having marked her would-be 81st birthday the day before yesterday, I thought it high time …

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
bedroom wormhole: sitting up in bed s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
black wormhole: capes flying
books wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
breathing wormhole: whirlpool
child & Christmas & Dad & Eglinton Hill & Genesta Road & mother & Mum & talking wormhole: letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling
comics wormhole: introducing / the stranger
death wormhole: we’re born // to die
kitchen wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
life wormhole & writing time: no exit
living wormhole: letters to Mum III – ongoing-term // eventually
love wormhole: a cup of tea, gov
morning & streets wormhole: oh-pen too
Nan & work wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
orange wormhole: the precision // the gentleness // and / the letting go
reading wormhole: stuck free to move within
roads wormhole: I could step / more open
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
speech wormhole: we’re all the same age really
Sunday wormhole: zazen in everyday life
white wormhole: Bat-Shadow
Woolwich wormhole: ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’
yellow wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge

 

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letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk

06 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 1998, 2014, 7*, afterlife, cancer, change, childhood, crane, death, distance, duty, family, father, history, identity, illness, letter, life, living, London, love, morning, Mum, Nan, prayer, reading, Saturday, son, speech, study, talking, time, walking, Woolwich

 

Mum was diagnosed with cancer in the early summer of 1998, she died the following March 1999; I couldn’t get up to London to see her regularly so I started a correspondence; sixteen years later I realise that our correspondence didn’t just stop with her death, the same as our life together didn’t: our life together was always the response between the words and events …

 

 

                                                                                    280698

                                Dear Mum

                                been feeling the need for a walk
                                and talk down to Woolwich and
                                around, through the history and
                                possibility of a Saturday morning,
                                arm in arm again, for many decades

                                now, but now there are only seconds
                                between all the thoughts and dramas
                                since you died (even, while you were
                                alive) where so much time has passed;
                                and Woolwich fades into building site

                                and cranes; all I could do then was listen
                                through letter, my life was too ‘detailed’
                                and 40 miles away, I said I could be there
                                in paper … now you are no miles away
                                and lost to all effect like cotton walls

                                we always had so much to talk about,
                                so many miles to cover – new routes
                                and ruins; new words and pasts – all
                                throughout the seventies, that the
                                eighties and nineties yawned us apart

                                in all our observation and resolve
                                until your illness made us embarrassed;
                                I had thought to shoulder my part of it
                                but the decades were against us and I
                                grew into the father I never had

                                I had paused to hear your resolve to fight
                                ‘the Fighter was back!’ brave-facing things
                                down to their shame and dissipation, again
                                and again, through all the crush and
                                nullity, giving your sons their childhood,

                                giving Nan her family, the silent duty
                                offered matter over fact, ‘just one of
                                those things’, until you were fighting
                                for retirement, fighting to allow for
                                all of people in all of their array

                                fighting to walk around London, to
                                read and study each new stretch of reborn
                                morning; I include you in my thoughts
                                these days in the quiet moments between
                                successive acts of my plays and rites and

                                whether the religion is suspect or not
                                the prayers are from your son’s heart
                                we have lost all the time of a world
                                but there are still so many miles to cover
                                still now, much love, mark

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
childhood & speech & time wormhole: ‘“ruddy crows!” / said my Dad …’
crane wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
death wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
family wormhole: “I think I’ll have a nice sandwich”
father wormhole: Sylvia
history wormhole: clouds
identity wormhole: I will eventually drift tectonic
life & love wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
living wormhole: ‘I come from the brow …’
London wormhole: my life is not your market
morning wormhole: the poppies / of van Gogh
Mum wormhole: someone called Frank
Nan wormhole: dream / 130207
reading wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
Saturday wormhole: Saturday
talking wormhole: connections
walking wormhole: there
Woolwich wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times

 

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Saturday

10 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

'scape, 2013, 7*, being, blood, breath, career, Carol, cathedral, clouds, conservatory, doing, dream, faces, feet, fly, kitchen, legs, love, menopause, mouth, muse, period, roof, Saturday, silence, sleep, snow, sound, space, sun, sunlight, tired, toes, wind, windows

 

 

 

                                Saturday

                                              my busy girl
lays on the settee in the conservatory feet up
                on the arm

                                              the plastic roof
cracks as it expands from the sunlight columns from
                through the clouds

                                              the occasional wind
blows the bamboo silently outside but the clouds don’t move
                like a cathedral

                                              a fly
intermittently worries around looking for a way through
                the solid space

                                              another crack
but nothing disturbs her breath in mouth open
                out for

                                              she is tired
from the lists erasing and replenishing scribbled on the
                kitchen cupboard door

                                              tired from
a menopause that delivers her fortnight-long periods
                loosing blood

                                              tired from
a dream career where you cannot pick up objects no matter
                how hard you try

                                              arms folded
across her tummy feet and legs crossed tanned
                with perky toes

                                              through
the window the sun falls like a dust of snow over
                the landscape

                                              let her sleep
anointed beautiful across her face her chest and
                her shin

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being & doing wormhole: you fail
C wormhole: portrait … // … reading
career wormhole: you don’t talk to me
cathedral wormhole: flat
clouds wormhole: promenade
conservatory wormhole: as
dream wormhole: red / red / air
faces wormhole: August / Adventure
feet wormhole: poetry
kitchen wormhole: 1977
love wormhole: covert being
mouth wormhole: just
muse wormhole: thar she perched
roof & snow wormhole: from the / bedroom / window
Saturday wormhole: relief
silence wormhole: at the apex
sleep wormhole: the pleasant land / of counterpane
sound wormhole: greeyn
space wormhole: patronage
sun & wind wormhole: the sun / in a clean / industrial / sky
windows wormhole: from the / bedroom / window

 

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relief

02 Thursday May 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

'scape, 2011, 4*, afternoon, Brighton, music, roads, Saturday, shadow, sun, waiting

 

 

 

                         relief

                    on a tired Saturday
                         late afternoon
                    sun shadowing broad
                         over the road
                    FM Juice plays 70s disco depressing
                         but
                    the violin of Classic FM is
                         strangely
                         alternative

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

afternoon & Saturday wormhole: Saturday / afternoon
Brighton wormhole: … thank you
music wormhole: the last piece of pop
roads wormhole: Birmingham / 030413
shadow wormhole: meditation
sun wormhole: the sea plant
waiting wormhole: sitting

 

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Saturday / afternoon

09 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

'scape, 2012, 5*, afternoon, cold, light, olive, Saturday, sky, winter

 

 

 

                                          Saturday
                                          afternoon

                     the sadness of a lighted canopy
                     at the petrol station under the
                       dark-                           en-
                       ing                              clear
                       cold                            off-
                       olive                           sky

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

afternoon & Saturday wormhole: Batman 168
light wormhole: and there is my practice
olive wormhole: thirst? / hunger?
sky wormhole: morning
winter wormhole: winter / weeks

 

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← Older posts

… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes." ~ Annie Dillard

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • through the crash
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recent leaks …

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  • time
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Uncanny Tops

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