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
Soul of the East
winds from the river blown in from another century of fortune and elephants with old prosperity buildings, waiting like Victoria for the death of Calcutta
