Emily Dickinson is 175 (b. Dec. 10, 1830)
Crossbones, altimeters of gristle, aquamarine homophones, radioactive turquoise, pimples on my rearend on the fringe of death. The unruly eyelid of the amperage is wary, a rimmed paradox, a prevarication breeding holes without names, without manes. The stigmatized meat is asleep in the lonely field of a fractal. How will I augment my purloined I, my i: meme mime that is mine? The memo to my "I" was dissected: my "o" was screwed by a broken lightbulb. The metallic waste tasted like dead cilia. I failed to feel how I felt; I could not feel. The mirages are secreting savage snorts of extreme flatnesses, movements of disconsolate sinuousness to the chagrin of the narrow moonlight. Aqueous, pink stench, purple petroleum fur in the trench-mouth of twilight: the neon grist is a gimmick, so bash in the cladding on its nose cone. --Bob BrueckL after Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's "-rwxr-xr-x"
