The attribute of the misfit is to live out of time and against the current; Raúl Casamadrid insists on exercising such a strange way of life. Raúl composes at his own pace, standing. He refuses to be the demiurge poet, the architect, the little god who ruminates about boring immortality. He has chosen to be the man of the street who writes poems that are not the luxury object of the bourgeois but, as the anti-poet says, they are “a product of prime necessity.”

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