I am the white rabbit in the moon

I am the white rabbit in the moon
I come down to Earth at night to scoop out the brains of children with a spoon
I steal the feet of left-handed men
to wear as charms around my neck
and hurl the rest of their bodies away
into the void of outer space.

This was my confession, not in full, there was much incoherent babbling inbetween, but this was the text that was shown to the jury.

The lawyer sumarised for their benefit, I was confessing to murder on a grand scale and displayed psychopathic tendencies that posed an ongoing risk to society. This was my lawyer, the prosecution lawyer didn't even need to show up.

I will never be released from prison, not if I live to be 111.

Aged 112 I would theoretically become illegible for parole, though only if I am perceived to have behaved myself, to no longer pose a moon-rabbit spoon-based threat.

In the Dangerous and Deranged ward I share my imprisonment with many genuine psychopaths, people who have murdered or attempted murder. There are other many others like me, who have committed no specific crime, other than the violent verbal scream of their confession.

Yes we were tortured, beaten, deprived of sleep for nearly a full week and had guns placed against our faces and the triggers pulled to reveal an empty shell,but even the tortured and beaten and sleep deprived don't convince themselves they're moon rabbits. That was all due to the drugs.

Every day they would roll up my sleeve, four of them holding me down while they injected me. What with I don't know, but the effect was similar to LSD, I really did believe I was the moon rabbit armed with a spoon down here on earth scooping up the brains of children. Why would I think otherwise?

In one sense it was stupid of them, to drug us up that way. it meant we were too far out of it to experience the pain they went to such great lengths to inflict on us.

After the confession the torture stopped, though the marks from the cigarette burns, razor-slashes and bruises remained as souvenirs.

The other scars remain, the mental imbalance, the aftereffects, the withdrawal, unseen mementos, like so many postcards on the mantelpiece.

Sitting on the mantelpiece
looking down on the world
like a rabbit sitting on the moon
burrowing bunkers in the moonrock
lucky lefty feet curled around my neck
never ending
for moon rabbits never die
never ending
for I am the moon rabbit and I will not go away