This is pretty amazing. I don’t know if I’ve posted it in one of the old blogs or not, but it’s worth posting again. And I’m too lazy to check. And it’s getting deleted from the bookmarks:
Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.
His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.
He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.
He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.
Why is it the so-called defenders of the white race are always the worst examples of it?