... keep asking myself when does poetry stop. I see it as a lover's hands her arms, her naked shoulders and always she is everywhere. Around
and in me. Speaking me even when I sleep. .. n the arms of night, day breath. .. box of loves. Not calculated by the 'regular' images of
armies . and breath is a blessed name. i Kiss those long legs of . Her heart and other speakers. As the day winds. Round its kissing
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... wrote this about five minutes ago.... It's the tiniest wee morsel of a thing...
loosely connected to work .... Reader the comic element of any text is always that it appears serious. Thus poetry is a love affair.
As love affairs go it's not any worse than others. But and However, it
does have its own pains and rewards.______
Call it the adventures of Liam Word.
