  Photo © Frank Lisciandro |
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
Do you know how pale and
wanton thrillful
No more money, no more
fancy dress
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