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The ghost who sells memories
— midnight’s feast of shame —
Lurking around corners — on groggy-druggy, laudanum-lit
gas lit nights, whispering death came to this age of the machine,
he has much drink taken, he’ll be dead soon.
Never mind.
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 am, immeasurably.
I am the ghost who sells memories.
More fool me!
Old Lady Darkness — with her fondest acolytes: death, birth, darkness
creeps through this midnight’s feast of shame
on a drear black night, over and over again;
I possess gross infirmities of mind,
sometimes reminding me of the arrival of Poe’s
coal-black shiny raven, sometimes not
Her soul and her heart leave me gasping
like a man in icy water, as the false lucidity of life
begins again to sink in deep-black night, when sentient beings’ grieve,
hold their tongues and cling to the merest…
