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
