The Trouble With Therapy Is That It

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

Home Is My Bethlehem, My Succoring Shelter, My Mental Hospital, My Wife, My Dam, My Husband, My Sir, My Womb, My Skull.

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

God Has A Brown Voice, As Soft And Full As Beer.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.