That short--potential stir That each can make but once-- That Bustle so illustrious 'Tis almost Consequence--
Is the eclat of Death-- Oh, thou unknown Renown That not a beggar would accept Had he the power to spurn--
1874
One hundred years before I was born. . . I hope you don't mind my fetish for Dickinson. Belated sorrows for all our sudden disappearances, marked tenderly or furiously with "my"
personal in-flight log [culture + post-politics + satire + travel + bad poetry + things not (necessarily) meant to be understood + identity as theory/theory as identity]
3 Comments:
Sweet kitty.
By
Minerva, At
7:52 AM
My beautiful orange baby. You are already missed. I will always smile at the thought of you.
-Blanche
By
Anonymous, At
11:59 AM
That short--potential stir
That each can make but once--
That Bustle so illustrious
'Tis almost Consequence--
Is the eclat of Death--
Oh, thou unknown Renown
That not a beggar would accept
Had he the power to spurn--
1874
One hundred years before I was born. . . I hope you don't mind my fetish for Dickinson. Belated sorrows for all our sudden disappearances, marked tenderly or furiously with "my"
By
Miguel Murphy, At
3:38 AM
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