Olson's Maximus poems seem very self-indulgent to me and too much focused on Portsmouth. Likewise, Creeley's often play at self adverstisement mixed with peek-a-boo. Rarely in my recollection does Creeley strike out even as far as W C Williams with his chickens and peignoirs. This one though is like the cry of the Spartans at Thermopylae: "Come and get them, scumbags!"
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