Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

Sometimes The Soul Takes Pictures Of Things It Has Wished For, But Never Seen.

Fear / A Motor, / Pumps Me Around And Around / Until I Fade Slowly.

Everyone Has Left Me Except My Muse, That Good Nurse. She Stays In My Hand, A Mild White Mouse.

Perhaps I Am No One. True, I Have A Body And I Cannot Escape From It. I Would Like To Fly Out Of My Head, But That Is Out Of The Question.

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.