bitter poems

reap now, sweet child; my rooms are spare,
whose scarce horizons cry you clear,
of strangest sermons; reap these years,
sweet child, whose eyes I mould.

In open mouths, these caverns spark
caves of canine devils; barks
strip of them, blind interludes,
vulture gullies, cloven hooves.

reap now, sweet child,o, sweet child, reap,
these babbling years; my rooms are neat,
whose scarlet ruled horizons cry
you clear of strangest sermons; DIE!

or reap & spear me, mother, child,
whose eyes are rolling cold,
in the open mouths; the cavern ducts,
where the boy in man blows old.

reap now, sweet child, reap now, & spear
these idylls; reap, my girl, since I,
am blind with you, your bark, your stare,
who mould of me this cloven lie.

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