On surprise

I’ll half remember anything:
Descartes the ditch-digger
tells me I dug on the wrong side.
Metaphysics has no memory
save its fools in recital,
and all the morbid fantasies
of England’s nineteenth century
reminds me I, too, shall sleep.
Poor De Quincey, his chin
gnawed in, his portrait sallow,
tells me what I half-know:
mysticism educates, facts degrade,
& I behold in others shades
of the lilting neurons in my brain.

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~ by Jeremy on May 20, 2013.

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