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.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Cut Up
pocket pasteboard inner secret little slip finger and thumb particulars quite by the case quite innocent quite we haven’t the faintest faint or premonition squarely huskily the very word
