I'm sick of doubt.
Live in the light of certain south.
Cruel bindings.
The servants have the power.
Dog-men and their mean women,
pulling poor blankets over our sailors.
I'm sick of dour faces staring at me
from the T.V tower.
I want roses in my garden bower. Dig?
Royal babies rubies, must now replace aborted.
Strangers in the mud.
These mutants,
blood-meal for the plant that's plowed.
They are waiting to take us into the severed garden.
Do you know how pale and wanton
thrillful comes death on a strange hour?
Unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring
over-friendly guest you've brought to bed.
Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings where we had shoulders,
smooth as raven's claws.
No more money, no more fancy dress.
This other kingdom seems by far the best.
Until its other jaw reveals incest
and loose obedience to a vegetable law.
I will not go.
I prefer a feast of friends to the giant family.