I want roses in my garden bower

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
and 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
and loose obedience to a vegetable law.

I will not go.
Prefer a Feast of Friends
to the Giant Family.

Qué puedo decir, que no se haya dicho ya con más arte?