Concerning The Ghost

There is a ghost memory with many arms and eyes singing reason to the wrinkles in my hypothalamus are growing heads of lettuce go until they be a massive massacre of bolts on savory finger steaks of blood phantoms and book ends unto themselves the million minds dig us a nice grave of pyramid schemes? Scanning the filters of ugly Hawaiian shirts made of TV movies and gameshow hosts of virus ballroom dancing along the ocean brain. What a fine skeleton we all sleep with. What a fine summer nightmare.