My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely
Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced feeling leads to excessive thinness (effete). Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies.
Frank O’Hara dixit. Yo me vuelvo a leer a Benet. La imagen no tengo ni puta idea qué pueda tener que ver con la cita. El titular es de Auden, tras abrir al azar (por segunda vez, trampa, trampa) The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, 2nd ed.
