Jim Morrison

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 and wanton thrillful
comes death on a strange hour
unannounced, unplanned for
like scaring over-friendly guest you've
Brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
& gives us wings
where we once 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
I will not go
Prefer a Feast of Friends
To the Giant Family