.
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.
.
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