BUT IT IS NOT YET TIME

Had they made as good provision for their names, as they have done for their Reliques, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and be but Pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in duration. 

Sir Thomas Browne, Hydrotaphia, or Urne Buriall

now more than ever seems it rich to die

and be an everlasting mummy

and in a gorgeous manner

to rule over cats in the dark

and crocodiles stuffed with papyrus

forever

bathed in the deep, blind un-gleaming gold

that sleeps with me

to ride the narrow boat of sleep

on sweet moonlit waters

to drink wine and eat strange drugs

and keep my guts in separate jars

and to forget

and let the world forget 

one's worthless name

that accident of syllables

that metrical shipwreck

that jackal's cry

whatever it was 

its obliteration

will be no error

fame in any case is fleeting

while obscurity lasts forever

i've already forgotten my address

my brain has been carefully

removed from my head

already i am talking

the nonsense talk of the dead