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.
Monday, 20 December 2010
Gale
trees were torn from their roots fencing was blown down the streets, in the middle of the night the wind had struck like a god on it’s way from the deep sea to far hidden mountains
