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.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Journey Pumps
raced to the places of the sacred traces mountains misted before my eyes all signs visible in tastes metallic pumpin’ out shakti is imbecilic when masters of the past raised it to ride
