The children pelted apples at us.
Besides the Animals which I have before mentioned, called by the Natives Kangooroo, or Kanguru […].
Did you see that? Paula pointed a lit cigarette. “No table-talk!” Alex snarled.
Did you see that?
Jack Kerouac, standing up there and improvising poems to jazz, was a lousy poet. Not as bad as these guys, of course, but lousy enough. Lamesters attract hordes of imitators: it’s much easier to imitate a flamboyant asshole, bully who gets by, essentially, on intimidating others, than to take the time to really learn what an art is, to really redefine an art for yourself, to learn a craft and find/create a voice. So you ask what I want: I want poetry to be brilliantly written[…]
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