winni9We sat for a second in silence surrounded by squeegee kids with tall beautiful Mohawks smell of marijuana in the air on the corner of Stradbrook Street and Osborne starving artists university students with their pointed shoes and spiky hair we was playing the slow lament tune wind whistling Dixieland blues, firetruck making its run old drunk walked out of sleazy hotel he stumbling poor desperate poor, punk rocker hand stretched out I gave him his bread man Barney adding a few coins we was hillbilly intellectual riding the death-ship unafraid bloody and cornered,

“Let’s forget about it” I said,

“I hear ya, there’s The Toad In The Hole, is it open yet, let’s have a dozen”

The Toad was an Irish pub I think Jake already there taking in the fumes could hear Louis Armstrong in the background Jake sitting in a corner by a window facing the Osborne Village with all the freaks parading their shit up and down the street while Satchmo played the blues, sorta dark place emblems from U.K. soccer teams all over the walls fish and chips kidney pie young people hanging out at the tables old guys at the bar, not kidding when I say Jake could have fit in to the early jazz era perfectly with that thin mustache cigarette dangling from his lips man insecure sneer hair thick as the devil’s, Barney ran to him they hugging while the music switched to Celtic room thick with smoke, we talked at light speed all at the same time words rolling off our tongues like spider-web fantasies, good friends listen closely while piano plays solo at the midnight serenade, cool cool movement running down Bourbon Street, love that clarinet she plays as I pack my suitcase Jack green-grass telling me shit doodle dandy, got the blues mama he tells her street corner hooker laughing in the rain, “you like jazz?” she saying “you like blues?” as I dance through the grim sunlight church bell ringing, feeling easy street under my shoes jazz-man old and wiry smiles crocodile beer and crucifix wine,

“…christ man (in mid-conversation), you’re like Indiana-fucking-Jones” Said Jake,

“Seen the world twice over” Said Barney,

“But do you really think you guys at Greenpeace are accomplishing anything?”

Music plays on feel Bessie Smith eyeballing me crotch heavy with sensation, two lesbians making love-electric, love-electric tornado valley brimming sexual movement that girl shaking her THING to that fucking crazy Ska beat ass rotating Wildman-blues, she slinks over red red lips wide open long moody thigh slips in and out of black dress, “what’s up baby?” she says old drunk leaning forward gives a wink and a smile “what’s up love-thing juicy?”,

“Look Jake, it’s not really about whether we’re actually stopping anything..”

“Well then what the fuck…”

“Let me finish…it’s about raising awareness to an issue so that the people with the real power will do something”

“You guys are both talking shit” I said,

Walking the sweaty Winnipeg summer streets man see the long-distance-runner copping a feel, see that old crazy broad on the corner giving head in rhythm bop bop bang, she got one tooth missing she beautiful and distant, hear the muted horn as it sings that sad note early Sunday morning, can you hear it? off-key love all there is, she banging those round wild hips all over the world, she got sleepy overbite mouth closing over it like rose pedal madness, you gotta see Paris in the moonlight she says, don’t give a damn about Paris I say her ass in my face telling me stories, touch her lips with mine softly explode while running the gauntlet,

“All I’m saying” Said Jake “Is that I can’t stand futile efforts that are really, really, just an attempt to appease your own conscience…it’s like someone saying, ‘I will not buy any stolen car stereos, that’s my part’…what the fuck does that do?…is that going to stop the theft of car stereos?…of course not…this is futile bullshit that solves nothing”

“You couldn’t be more wrong man, think what would happen if by setting the example more people, a lot of people, maybe even most people, would stop buying stolen car stereos? you see what I mean?”

“He’s got you there” I said ordering a few shots of Sambuca,

Waitress 5 foot tall big hips and breasts like the atom bomb brown eyes large beautiful round thighs genuine smile 18 or 19 years old T-shirt says ‘hug me’, who wants anything more I think, who deserves anything more keep the music going she fall down lovely she got it electrifying old man trouble we in love I say, oh yeah she says we cooked in lust cuz you know it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that yeah-yeah,

“I think both of you got it wrong” I said, “you’re missing the bigger picture”

“Oh yeah?” Said Barney,

“Yeah, all anyone has to do in life, their only obligation, is to live in character, to do exactly what comes naturally to them, know what I mean?…when you live OUT of character, that’s when depression sets in and the whole world goes out of whack”

Night always comes from a distance purple and grey, out in the graveyard the devil sings in the moody dusk he got the midnight blues guitar out of tune wails forever, forever lonely and beautiful she winks like madness, she smiles happy discord silent wisp in your ear goes nuclear baby baby baby please don’t go,

“Besides the fact that I get chicks from all over the world” Said Barney,

“You got me there man” Said Jake shaking Barney’s hand,

“Yum yum googly-fuck” I said,

“Tell him about Jasmina” Said Jake

“This tall French chick Barney, goddamn almost indescribable beauty man, sexy sexy, 18 years old”

“That’s a bit young, wouldn’t you say?”

“Normally I would agree with you but she’s different, very intelligent and mature, and experienced…it’s different in Europe, you know?”

“More mature than you” Said Jake wiry grin,

“Sounds funky” Said Barney,

“I’ll bet” I interrupted those fuckers “as soon as she sees you, Barney, she’ll make a B-line straight for you”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting her”

Then his head went down for an instant thinking about someone else, someplace else, she crawls into your mind nothing you can do pal, brain tilts to one side and slips out your ear tough-looking wise guy butts cigarette on the face of the world gone far far insane, slinking down that filthy back alley with the garbage cans like tombstones she winks goodbye, goodbye cuz the sky’s blue and lonely, goodbye cuz the punk-rock jazz beat can’t last forever, goodbye cuz there ain’t nothing else to do in a smoke-filled room but keep singing honest lies about love and hate as the sky turns red/purple and dances fat-ass wanting to the end of the night…

Tony Nesca



calabr 27Gassino was its name, Italian village on the outskirts of the northern city called Torino and it was in the foothills of the Italian Alps built on a slope stretching up and up to the top of the town where old villas sat facing the village below them lights twinkling like fireflies at night looking for love, sex, vengeance – mountains loomed over everything tall and majestic clouds like gentle explosions framing their peaks just outside my backyard you felt like you could touch them, like you could spit on all their holy bullshit and the hell with everything, when you’re fixing to die it all comes together anyway, all to an end and everything in the end and to the beginning and back again, I lived there, in one of those villas, a particularly modern one built out of orange bricks and just about the size of a small school, fucking big thing man, but welcoming and warm and always full of people lit up like firecrackers fixing to die…
Mother there, grandmother, great-grandmother, father and brother back in Canada, myself a kid of 14 just coming into puberty and digging all the young Italian chicks walking around the village and trekking up to the mountains right by the path in front of my house, all this beautiful rendering of flesh and youthful desire some kind of torturous heaven for a kid my age, man oh man…from my place the journey to the village was all downhill a twisting narrow road lined with small stone houses and cafes on both sides me hugging the walls as cars raced by without a thought or care about my ass, and I would ride my bike down those streets hitting speeds dangerous to body and soul and thinking back I realize my damn luck cuz the road was so steep, y’see, that hitting the brakes was impossible – you started at the top of the road, took the plunge, and until you hit the flat land of the village center you were at the mercy of the gods and of those fuckheads driving those cursed Fiats like there was absolutely no time to waste, not a second to spare, life is short, yes it is, feeling the wind of cars as they barely miss you, feeling the rush and the fear of near-death, and the graceful radiant luck as you skid to a halt at the mouth of the village….
Went flying over handlebars and smashed right into a fence once, car tire racing by my head as I lay on the ground wondering if god loves me….stopped taking the bike after that…but those jaunts to the town center were full of problem-free joy and if you have ever been to Italy then you understand what I mean when I describe that constant smell of cooking that is always present, that life-affirming aroma that hangs in the air like the solution to everything, especially pervasive in the small villages that dot the entire country and that are the real Italy, but no matter, the butcher’s shop and that strange looking woman hanging on the front stoop as a thin trickle of blood flowed to the street, the café with the old men playing cards and drinking espresso and brandy day and night arguing about soccer, politics, life, the bread shop – man, the bread shop – you want to talk about smell? Is there a better aroma than baking bread? All kinds of bread, flat bread, long bread, sourdough, pane toscano, French baguette, panini, pancarre, I would stop there every day after school and just hang out for a while, just smile and dig being alive, what ever happened to that feeling?
Then there was the outdoor swimming pool just a few blocks from my school, used to go there with my friends and cousins during summer break and the girls our age were there and we awkwardly flirted and dug their bathing suits and their mischievous smiles and their need to play the game, and all the village young people would gather there on a Saturday afternoon feeling like this was everything, this was the entire world, there was nothing else, and if there was, we couldn’t have cared less – this was the world, and it was fine, and it was enough – one of the lifeguards was a woman, maybe 21 or 22 years old, and she was my first crush, my first older woman, I never spoke to her of course, never even smiled at her, it was enough to look at her in her black bikini, red bikini, purple bikini, gold bikini with black dots, thick brown hair curly and wild, tan skin and painted toes and thighs as round as heaven, and it was enough to think of her when I was alone at home hand in my pants all my fantasies as real as anything and in my 14 year old head she was there, sitting right beside me in my room as we discovered rock and roll, as we listened to old April Wine records and wondered and marveled at this new thing called rock and roll…
I used to think that rock and roll made me feel like an animal, my first and truest love causing an explosion in my life beyond description, all that guitar riffing and fuzzing tearing the skies wide open, those drums banging the shit out of all things decent and holy my head snapping back and forth like war-time Ohio and Alan Freed sweating buckets spinning Little Richard records with no time left….and the walk uphill as we went home sun just kind of hanging low waiting to disappear, took the opposite way many times up an open road large field on either side town cemetery large and wild I would stop there…great-grandmother’s grave was there and I would rest back against tombstone and think – about her, about me, about my school, about Canada I left behind, about father and brother in Canada, about doing something stupid and crazy, but enough with it, I would slowly make for home my young knees feeling no pain walking the steep slope home road turning to gravel then through the woods past the wild dogs and even wilder cats, took great-grandmother there for a walk once – she was about 84 years old, very short, chubby, big nose, kerchief on her head, but in incredible shape and endurance like those old-village people are without even trying and felt mischievous started telling her all sorts of stories about bandits in the hills, and wild animals roaming the countryside, and the bandits would kidnap people and hold them for ransom, great-nonna beginning to get scared hanging on to me tight yet enjoying the trip, I could tell, I think she knew I was bullshitting but enjoyed the thrill like riding a rollercoaster, y’now, a safe kind of scare….
So 45 minutes after leaving the swimming pool I would reach the beginning of my street gravel road leading right up to our house on the corner heard my dogs barking then saw them at the fence causing all sorts of shit, German Shepperd bastard, Collie, Chihuahua all excited to see me, front gate green with long cement stairs leading up to an archway and there sat my great-nonna her thick grey hair in a bun peeling potatoes or mixing salads or playing solitaire, I walk in and she hugs me then gives me shit about something, mother and grandma cleaning or visiting with aunts and uncles, uh-huh…our backyard about the size of a soccer field but on a slope except for the flat stone patio grand and large that circled the house and there I went to kick the soccer ball around dreaming of being a professional soccer player playing for Torino in Serie A all those fat-ass lazy fans cheering for me and me fucking around with the groupies, what a life, huh, I didn’t stop until I heard my mother screaming it was suppertime and there came those Italian scents, there came that food and that way of living but just before I go in I see something through the slats of our fence neighbor’s villa being right there…I see the daughter girl my age called Fiorenza sun-bathing in her red bikini and I watch in silence and I feel like the sun is melting and I feel hidden and brave and she lifts a thigh to the sky, yawns, turns her head in my direction….she sees me….she frowns….then she smiles and winks and closes her eyes…
calabr 27


New Year Brings Friends in the Indie Writing World

ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿªThe first casualty in the so-called self-publishing revolution has been literary fiction – if it ain’t about vampires, werewolves, wizards, wargs, elves, spaceships, robots, superheroes, zombies, super-spies, dragons, detectives, car chases, explosions, then it’s buried somewhere deep and dark and beautiful and good luck finding it. I figured the best writers were all dead and gone and that I was one of the last rock and roll survivors beating on the keys late at night and writing about – god forbid – people…we are in a cultural wasteland, make absolutely no mistake about it…the geeks have taken over the world and they ain’t letting go anytime soon –

So imagine my delight when I discovered Ted Prokash at Joyless House Publishing- – this guy writes and publishes his own stuff, like we do here at Screamin’ Skull Press, and he writes like one of the Lost Generation from the 20’s – you know, that ex-pat American and UK bunch hanging out in Paris, drinking, fucking, doing drugs, reading, writing, loving, hating, and trying to figure out what the hell this thing called life is all about – he especially reminds me of Fitzgerald, but with a good dose of Americana punk-rock/rock-punk thrown in there, and a touch of Iggy Pop for good measure.

It is beautiful work man, I dug it the second I read the first excerpt and I wrote this review about his novel, A FOOL FOR LESSER THINGS –

I am reading his second novel, THE BROTHERS CONNOLLY,, and it is just as smoking as the first one – second review for Mr. Prokash coming soon, kids…so check out his site, read his work, buy some shit, and while you’re at it buy some of our shit as well, go through our site, see and feel the wonders and marvels and, ahhh, fuck it, BUY OUR BOOKS!…

Thus on New Year’s eve, 2015, I write these words, 6 Rye and 7’s in me (more to come), while listening to The Replacements, their “PLEASED TO MEET ME” album, nice and loud, alone (wife Nicole at work), feeling dizzy and happy and ready for another kick at the goddamn wheel man, more laughs, tears, triumphs and beautiful failures – I’m also thinking some good grass right now would really fit the bill, don’t ya think?





When the rain is heavy and wild
you walk the streets shining and grey
the music soaked through gleams deadly
moments torn from your sunshine-memory
and the sweetest smile –

you think heavy glory under the brick-house awnings
water pelting away up-top,
that high saxophone hangs in the air
then the piano eases its way in,
and the barroom tremors cling like shadows
their gloom making it just right –

another one for me, jack, you
say in the wild of the moment
another sing-a-long beat happy rumble,
crazy young girl in the deep throes of your night
she’s doing it on the bathroom floor baby
blissful and tragic and forever laughing –

the unreal happiness sets in with long easy bursts
you crouch low brain washed down in somber yellow
teeth bashing an uneasy truce
and what a sad-beautiful sound it all makes
don’t it?

when the rain is heavy and wild
you walk the ragged streets
soaked all the way through with that
forlorn music
torn from your best sunshine-memory…


deadly silence got me low-down-hungry
thinking about that hot-dog stand on the dismal corner
beside the old beggar hand extended
16 year old virgin in hot-pants looking mad-bad-dangerous
crimson fireball streaking across the sky
middle-aged hooker front tooth missing
she beckoning my weary ass one I love absent in world-gone-hungry
Dixieland trio singing happy songs amidst angry
downtown laughter low-down drug-mood feeding me
blue music pornography rattling my brains
wrap your lips around my broken heart happy
whiskey bottle-shards hitting the off-keys feel that
fucked-up saxophone tickling your ribs
atom-bomb-luvly feed me sin-soaked dead flowers on my grave
warm kisses moonlight smiles
her distant touch,
her long-dead-musings,
her love-gone-missing,
her hips arching in the afternoon lust-dance,
and your blue velvet beauty grinding away from me
in the gutter-love sunlight…


rain just finished
slick sidewalk tasty-sweet
neon sign singing end of days
guitar chainsaw deadly as bass goes dum dum
night alive on fire in love man,
The Rezillos cranking the stage-dive-electric
shoes tapping a beat sidewalk-hooker-happy,
round face beauty we smiling kiss kiss
you so sweet girl nicotine-teeth lovely
vodka 7 in the red-light-madness,
early morning gray waiting in the
distant bottle rocket street corner,
what do you say punk-rock-crazies?
what do you say in the dark night wanting,
what do you say on the slick corner tastysweet,
what do you say on the blue moon missing,
what do you say baby,
what do you say ’bout my melancholy





I’m walking under the trees which grow tall and wide on either side of the street overlapping up top forming a green/orange canopy giving me that eternal shade interrupted solely by the sun coming through in thick beams of dim yellow nowhere – this is the urban forest I say, this is my afternoon in the forlorn happiness, this is my clumsy ode to day-tripping, my Lucy in the Sky with Hemorrhoid Fever, my Tarantella sex trade and middle class infidelity, in my bag is a bottle of water, two joints of grade A grass, a Mortadella and Provolone sandwich and a book by Henry Miller, “Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch”…leisurely stoned I make my way down the residential streets smell of freshly cut grass and cooked meat all around music coming from backyards sounds of laughter and arguments and stale ideas mixed with an easy groove of sunshine morbidity, cars drift by lazily and not often and the busy sounds of main streets somewhere in the distance are always present, but in the forefront is the ever-present singing of birds and small things running and crawling and in those moments when there are no cars or people anywhere you would swear you are in the countryside, thick green all around of bush and trees and big houses with stone terraces and young housewives drinking gin and tonics on the front porch and me thinking about this and that and nothing and everything and Jughead and Archie Bunker and Shubert and Mozart and Charlie Parker and Billie Holliday and my old Kiss records freewheeling up and down the rock and roll hangover morning-beauty all this so calm open-friendly in feeling and movement…when I reach the end of a street and cross over the full force of the sun hits me unimpeded by the elm-tree-shadows and cars race by too often and I move quickly to reach the other side and the shelter of the green, aaaaaaaaaahhh, that happy shade like a blanket of cool easy running and I don’t like the country for long periods cuz it’s just too damn far away man, but in Winnipeg you live under a canopy of trees in an urban forest of shadow and neon sing-song baby and you can move from the calm easiness of freshly cut lawns and thick green to the bar and café-lined strips of little Italy or the downtown drunk-fest in a matter of 15 or 20 minutes, from wherever you are, from any part of the city, and for a man who doesn’t drive and despises cars like myself, it’s alright man…

Down a side street and across a busy intersection, then back in the shadows and the houses begin to get larger and I can hear a band jamming from a garage down the street, loud and sloppy and I dig it, they’re playing an old April Wine song, “OOWATANITE”, sounding almost as perfectly and beautifully lousy as the original, man oh man…that song came out in the 70’s decade I grew up in neighborhood not that far from here similar surroundings similar feeling, so I go back, back, all the way to 1973, my best friend Barney and me running the streets of Fort Rouge (little Italy) under the shade of the elm trees driving the corner-store owner crazy (name of Big Pete) crashing in and out of his place continually yapping screaming laughing stealing Aero Bars and Dubble Bubble gum, huge dog in back yard chained up to the fence and man did Big Pete threaten us with that wild animal, I swear if he could have done it without consequence he would have sicked that big black bastard on our skinny asses, but we were children deep heavy-deep in the throes of living large and happy, we were swinging in that love affair with life man, we were incompetent little fringe kids coming from poor working class families and our fathers screamed and cursed, our mothers loved and coddled, our friends threw rocks at windows, our neighbors fucked their spouses at night (only at night) and sometimes even fucked their neighbor’s spouses and grinned and watered their lawns and kept the secret, we were bastards of the young man, full of soul and daring and mischievous unending energy…back to Barney, tall lanky Native kid got me into drawing and comic books and movies from there I started reading novels and listening to music and playing guitar and my group of friends expanded as all races were represented in that neighborhood, my buddy Abraham was Trinidadian, Mervin was German, Chris was Black, Tom was Chinese, and Gordon was simply insane, Indians walked down the sidewalks in their turbans talking calmly with beautiful voices and smiles, Filipinos sat on their front porches smoking cigarettes and laughing, the Whites barbecued and drank beer in tiny backyards, everywhere you looked there was cursing and cussing and loving and hating and though perfect harmony eluded us as it always will, it wasn’t deadly disharmony either and the Italians roamed the neighborhood like old Mafia characters or hung out in front of Bar Italia Café as their sons burned rubber up and down the narrow streets in their Camaros and Firebirds us younger kids shouting, WOW, YEAH, COOL!!!…

Back to now, the 2000’s, the 21st century man, I’m 40 years old walking the streets still feeling the past all around and that invulnerability I felt as a child, hell things haven’t changed that much (at a glance) there’s even a fellow walking towards me with long hair and sideburns and bell bottoms, we pass each other, he smiles and says “hello”, I smile back, two cats from the 70’s walking and wandering and wondering feeling the lovely sadness, been told many times I look like I was transported straight from the 70’s into the here and now, black boots, long hair (thinning up top), 7-day beard, jeans, un-tucked shirt, well well, the world has dimmed and gotten just that much more frightening and art has all but disappeared, but I remain who I was, a bit more beaten and fucked-up, dustier and slower, but hell baby, I’m still here feeling sad and groovy and lovely and wild!

Just a ten minute bus ride from here you’ve got that urban beat concrete neon litter soaked alleyways bums hanging out on every corner begging for drinks as their livers fling their last hurrah, brings me to thinking about my night shift job at local college, casual employment centre across the street every morning the lost and dizzy limping their way to that godforsaken necessary evil one after the other more bent and twisted and misshapen than the next, yet every time a quarter is placed into the newspaper box in front of the college, every time to the man, only ONE paper is pulled out, only ONE when they could easily have grabbed the whole bunch, THAT I say loudly and proudly is why there is still hope…still hope in the midnight garden of misery, in the artless 21st century drowning in intellectual bankruptcy, still hope as the butchers maim the children, as the “moralists” burn one more witch on one more cross, as I work yet another shitty job just to keep a roof over my hungover head, ah yes, hope hiding out in the shadows ready for its next curtain call and I take these morbid thoughts about my job firmly around the neck and throttle them with extreme prejudice, that’s it…

I approach a small park about the size of a football field called Peanut Park take in a breath scan the surroundings, young lady sun tanning over there, a muscle-bound fitness couple laying on a blanket looking at the sun, old man leans on cane and smiles, guy walking his dog sneezes and kicks his dog in the ass, huge mansions circle the park looking dark and gray, hmmmm, something not right about this, ain’t nothing right about that fitness couple that’s for sure, I hear a bird sing sing and follow my shoes in a straight line reach a busy intersection watch and hear all the cars racing by in such a goddamn hurry you’d think the world would crumble to its knees if they didn’t make their appointments, sprinting across the intersection I find myself in another park on the river this time sounds of traffic receded to a distant drone thick trees shadow the sun few scattered people hanging around, yes, this is it I believe, sit on park bench and light a joint puffing deep and slow sun beams coming from behind I feel it on my neck and back warmth crawling right through my body smoke surrounds my head then dissipates river swooshing in the back-sounds three young ladies all blonde young nubile with one baby carriage each laughing and singing and blowing bubbles an old man in a fedora and blue tie rides an electric tricycle motor humming I look up at the sky pitch-blue-perfect large elm trees framing it in their cast-out leaf covered branches, lovely, just lovely, I open my book, a light breeze caresses my face, for a brief instant the faint smell of gasoline fills the air, I hear the river moving with the wind, I begin to read…

The slow easy movement continues, I’m now right by the river up on a rise crouching between two trees enormous trunks reaching out from the ground leaning down into the muddy water, I’m eating my Mortadella sandwich and all is quiet…a boat comes up the river slowly woman in bikini on the bow 2 or 3 other people talking and laughing I catch the glint from beer bottles and the dim sound of a radio, tiny waves crash into the bank from the boat’s wake, I hear them softly lapping up the afternoon, river winds its way out of sight high-rises sprouting up at the bend as the urban encroaches itself on everything everywhere sun starting to go down here is where I light my second joint of the day, I feel it attack my throat dissolve into something smooth and dizzy, lightheaded I watch and feel a swell of easy long-lost smiles come over me, sounds of the city so dim and far away they can’t be real, I figure it’s around 8 PM and I sit and watch for another long moment listening to the water, the sun dips slightly, the wind catches my smile, everything goes purple and orange, I hear a child laughing, downtown the street gangs fuck each other for another lousy buck, and the mayor’s gone goddamn loony, and my wife will be getting home right about now, and tonight we’ll get drunk and listen to Jazz records, and we’ll write and sing and argue and put my lovely mother to sleep,

then bang-a-gong nice and tight


the laughter


from a distance…

Tony Nesca



Okay –

People have told me to do this for years, ad nauseam, as a matter of fact – now, for someone who is trying to become a full-time writer and leave that endless filthy string of one shit job after another behind, giving it away for free didn’t make sense, still doesn’t really, but “one thing leads to another” they say – ad nauseam – and here I am…


What you’re getting is a bi-weekly collection of stories, poems, articles and rants, some brand new and unpublished, some old and already published, all just a bit crazy, uncensored, vitriolic, curb-stomping, street-happy/sad free-flowing vibes described by many as “word music” –


So let’s go for a walk down Action Strasse in the dark, and watch the circus come alive –


Tony Nesca

September, 2015