Cigar smoke and rum
nights under black sky.
The International Poetry Festival,
a world wide collective
streets filled
poetry flows through microphones
to spill onto the streets
and pool in the gutters.
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About Me
- Dale Hunt
- He's become comfortable in that ol' civil war jacket. What would compliment that mess of hair? A sage cigarette, a bottle in his hand and a book in his pocket. A hobo at heart a drunk by night and a rambling pain. Tired and old before his time. Studying the greats Bukowski, Tom Waits William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson, Kerouac and John Steinbeck. Drinking Brandy and Cockspur rum from the bottle. Hiding down South for the winter months running from the cold and consequence.
1 comment:
You know they say; nothing lasts forever - except poetry readings.
underswansea
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