Feb. 29, 1958 Comments

gross icky yucky gayy

poopy icky yucky gayyy

Difficult poem to comment on, something like wishful desire, feeling of greatness, yet ashamed of admitting something? A little like TSEliot himself, they belonged to a time longing for something they found difficult to express: I feel them a little like The Lost Generation, perhaps anticipating a time ahead? I love Ginsberg Howl, Kerouac's On the Road, and TSE's The Waste Land -but never felt a part of their world, just find their poems excellent. Panmelys.