Tuesday, October 5, 2010

I am a stranger in a white tiled room
there is a bed and a chair and a shelf
And a brain, mottled and bruised, grooved
but still and filled with formaldehyde, where
resistance is cushioned, leather straps
leave no survivors but the deluded while
Nurse Ratched runs her slaughterhouse
and raises headless, blind chickens
with their meat full of pesticides
And me.

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