We who write the poetry of life, many of us are very tired, sad and tired and almost defeated (though not all). However, even we know that we do not need God to be divine, we do not need lines of garden to be saved, we do not need the war to be free, we do not need any Creelys to admire, we do not need to crumbling Ginsbergs monsters become vociferous, but maybe all we need Lagrimillas Lovely girls aged, the spilled beer, fights in the front yard for nothing but the intoxication of our sad love. Indeed defend our poetry, we live Lumped generation, indeed defend our poetry and our right to recite, and our right to write. No costume. Without a magazine raided by police as "obscene." Employment without losing their nerve. Do please understand that the do not claim that anything I write is immortal, not claim a special price, but everything is really beautiful: when I wear the shoes only see 2 feet down there. But let's say it: the few men I have taken that as an option, we or talent, we are tired of continuous game of death, we are trying to transcendence through arms and noses and brains and bones and broken lives that little touch of sanity and sun cojonudo: LIVE? Yes, living, that which touches us all, to you and we undead living alive.
C. Bukowski. Fragments of a wine-stained notebook . pp. 89-90
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