my ghost drives around with a bag of dead fish falling neutrinos drift through the trees he staggers and reels, runs up credit card bills and clogs up the toilet with bottles of pills
here in the bipolar ward if you shower you get a gold star but I'm not going far till the Haldol kicks in until then, until then
I'm strapped to this fucking twin bed and I won't get any cookies or tea till I stop quoting Nietzscheand brush my teath and comb my hair
days pass slow in slippers and robe but my ghost still bangs on the roof like John the Baptist in the rain while the nurses play Crazy Eights
