Archive for all the stuff I call poems that I have written over the last 30 years and that I still continue to write, oblivious to the fact that they might be little more than doggawn atrocious in the eyes of those who might not know how to generate within themselves the bliss invisible.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Ben Hurt
the sun scorched hair in witch-like locks coarsest camel’s hair coarse as Bedouin tent-cloth his hands up as a signal utterly boats dropped repentance and baptism stripped hissed crushed crying in the wilderness
