After opioid and unction,
after heart-attack or crash,
when the brain has ceased to function
and the flowers are in the trash,

may the dead be conscious still—
weeping, waiting, having fun.
Nauseous at the thought of nil,
I don’t want oblivion.

When our weight is nulled by fission
or an asteroid has struck,
when contagion spreads through vision,
when our race is out of luck,

may we all be self-aware
somethings once we are undone.
Just imagine: no there there.
I don’t want oblivion.

After Ramman, Baal and Dagon
get their asses kicked by Christ,
when the Seven-Headed Dragon—
Satan!—finally has been iced,

may we live as goats and sheep,
moon-spooks, angels of the sun.
Suffer me my soul to keep.
I don’t want oblivion.