Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

What I admired in e.e. cummings Was his departure from the sanctity of the word With charm and audacity, he crafted lines That cleaved through the muck. How desperately it was needed! How we languished in the antiquated, weary ways. Naturally, the imitators followed, Mimicking him as others had mimicked Keats, Shelley, Swinburne, Byron, and the like. Yet, there remained only One e.e. cummings. Of course. One sun. One moon.

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