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.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Oink of Sinbad
clouds divide stars appear shinin’ bright seem so near, on the roof with achin’ feet oink of Sinbad drinking beer a nice retreat
