What can you do to me now in this hospital? I am the greatest survivor
there has ever been, I am the strongest nutjob the world has ever seen and I am not
stopping—no way. It is sterile in here
and I am convulsing and crying, but if I wanted—if I wasn’t
a twinge worried of them thinking me still mad—I would start
a sing song on the ward: I am quite mad. Did you think this would be my end
in here? Did you think anything would happen other than me winning?
You didn’t bank on my pen, did you. You didn’t bet on my body
being an archetypal suit of armour or that I’d be harder
than anything you could do to it, even while it froze stiff
bearing your perverted shit, it only hibernating
temporarily, then smiling: I am not stopping. I am not stopping
my battles here until this war is won and you are dead
and dead and dead—eaten—and they’ll say
nothing more about you because I do chew quickly.
And I am not even angry yet! Imagine this, plus anger! No—
no I am writing this with a biscuit, waiting
for a leaflet while the nurse gets me a blanket, and I am spitting you out
while I’m lying here and smiling, because fuck me, you picked the wrong one, didn’t you.