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| Doors An American Prayer A Feast Of Friends Wow, 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 it's other jaw reveals incest, and loose obedience to a vegetable law. I will not go. Prefer a feast of friends to the giant family. |
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