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
Yak
old yak of the mountains sits with crippled antlers whilst he sings from the last staggered trade post to clouds of bluffing willow, just Everest’s lonely pillows in a vast and empty parish
