October 20, 2004

Happy Birthday, Dear Rimbaud

Rimbaud, my favorite poet, becomes a sesquicentarian today. (Look it up.) Sometimes I think that my choice of literary idols might seem reckless, since my favorite poets seem to die young, save for Rimbaud, who, at twenty--my age now-- set down his pen and never wrote for the rest of his life.

I shudder to think of any reason for me to stop writing, though the grandiose statement he made by doing so is totally something I would do. Although, if I were to stop writing poetry now, I doubt that my body of work would inspire some young punk, 150 years after my death, to post a naughty ecard on his blog in my honor. I can hope, but I doubt it.

Also, I am well aware that Rimbaud sort-of had a thing for guys twice his age, but this is my blog and I'll post whatever naughty pictures I feel like. Besides, Verlaine wasn't much of a looker.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.