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.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Shadows in the Sun
lives that are lived songs that are sung, like a casual flick of an orange piece over the wall, laughing in the sun the dust kicked up fades before them, but in the end we are all shadows waiting for the train to come
