Headless, heedless, needlessly afloat,
the body of a king thrown off a boat
repines, expresses discontent and frets
over its loss: its crown! Cancel bets
that what’s befallen it could never be!
It’s a bit of foreign matter in the sea,
untenable, unpalatable even to a shark.
And what’s above it soaring like a lark?
What is this orange consciousness
aloft, amid rich-tinted flows that dress
and frame, protect it so it can proceed
from what against all odds – with speed! –
it now finds it has fled? A flying head.
Is this a dream? Are you in bed?
Are you floating flotsam, jetsam?
Or are you shooting off to get some
new perspective you’ve suspected
you must find, now you’ve defected
from the flesh that kept you dull.
The mind’s sole province is the skull.
You can’t accept you don’t exist.
You haven’t told this to your analyst!
You must wake up and make amends.
This can’t be how the story ends.