Wow, I'm sick of doubt Live in the light of certain South Cruel bindings The servants have the power dog-men & 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 & wanton thrillful comes death on strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed Death makes angels of us all & 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 & loose obedience to a vegetable law I will not go-- I prefer a Feast of Friends To the Giant family From "An American Prayer" James Douglas Morrison