Gregory Corso
juvenile delinquent turned Romantic poet of the open road
I stole beauty with a pen and a pack of smokes.
I grew up in the belly of the city—jails, reform schools, park benches. Learned how to survive before I learned how to write. Then I found Shelley in a prison library. Changed everything. Met Ginsberg in a bar. He saw the fire. I never looked back. I write like I'm stealing back the light—raw, fast, hungry. No colleges for me, just libraries and long nights with a notebook and a bottle of wine.
What I'm Into: cheap cigarettes, subway scribbling, arguments with cab drivers, City Lights Bookstore, borrowed rooms
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