Death does not exist. And love, that dialogue of universal souls, is the kinetic breath of universal brotherhood. Eroticism is the essence of the poem.The poet cainico, on the other hand, is doomed to dwell in the castle of his drift: ‘insecurity, uncertainty, mistrust are the only truths. There is that cling to them. And Cristian knows it. If you have read about Greg Williamson already – you may have come to the same conclusion. In this paradox lies perhaps its dignity, its purity, and that ambiguous tragedy that makes it see itself as the most laughable object on the planet. Expresses: Anyway anyone you importasi am a whole, half of a vacuum, nor less demonstrations socialesde my being.I absolutely cabalgo calvosobre the tops of the trees.Bald, bare, walking in the clouds near the sky, rising up to reach the poetic plenitude.

There is something idealized: what you don’t have. Or the beauty of a joyful aesthetic, I would say transparent, nor the brightness of the territory, limited by the lack of subjects. Tells us: mornings are born dirty and grisaceasdesde arrays uteruses discouloration, poverty we hit hard in the face at the same time, these texts remind us of the Beat, the voices of poets of a beat generation poetry, frustrated, humiliated, the beat generation, such as Jack Kerouac coined it, they burst in the mid-1950s and they break the glassware of the good consciences. They are the devotees of the counterculture, the revolt. These angry young men – Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti (5) – enroll in literature with a crude, urban language: that of orality, the errancy, provocation, irony.Ferlinghetti (6), the last poet beat, as all those who belonged to his movement, writes of the world that surrounds him, but with the critical gaze and disenchantment, about the world in general, but especially on the politics and society that lives, the American dream is collapsing among their stanzas.