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, 3 January 2011
Peculiar
summer-house mountains scientifically knotted humbly waiting the pang pang hard and beady black, black as stormy grapes in a sea of propaganda
