— “I should much wish, like the Indian Vishna, to float along an infinite ocean cradled in the flower of the Lotus, and wake once in a million years for a few minutes — just to know that I was going to sleep a million years more.”
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

 

Lurking around corners — on groggy-doggy, laudanum
gas lit nights, whispering death to this age of the machine,
he has much drink taken, he’ll be dead soon.

See the tender white crosses-row-on-row
so-many windswept nights of swirling snow.
creaking branches catch the whiff of Lady Fortune’s
croaking of a pleasing freezing breeze, 
and pleased, I remain, immeasurably,
the ghost who sells memories.

More fool me! 
old Lady Darkness — with her fondest acolytes: death, birth
creep through midnight’s feast of shame
on a drear black night,
 I possess gross infirmities of mind,
sometimes reminding me of the arrival of Poe’s 
coal-black shiny raven

and soul and the heart leave me gasping
like a man in icy water, as the false lucidity of life
begins again in deep-black night, when sentient beings’ grieve
and hold their tongues and cling to the merest tincture of belief
that they will sleep a million years or more. 

 

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