on disappointment
- WAS it for this I uttered prayers,
- And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
- That now, domestic as a plate,
- I should retire at half-past eight?
- - Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Grown-Up"
Labels: poetry
The moment I inject discourse from my u. of d. into your u. of d., the yourness of yours is diluted. The more I inject, the more you dilute. Soon you will be presiding over an empty plenum, or, rather, since that is a contradiction in terms, over a former plenum, in terms of yourness. You are, essentially, in my power. I suggest an unlisted number.
Labels: poetry
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