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the sullen metamorphosis of man to ghost
is just the pallid skin with a few forgotten meanings
written on it, the skin that whispers its twilight
degenerating again, stealing words from the air,
and passing itself of as life, while the moon shines
memory maybe for everybody else,
and the sun sleeps like a criminal's conscience
passing dying off as waiting for night,
passing death off as killing time
our nights were an exotic memory
halfway between a nipple and a pizza
and i was involved in them like a smell
of faint resurrection, like living again
because i loved you like dusty attic
that let me mean what i said
perhaps for the first time, and fuck night
like an animal, like amphetamines and vodka
were going out of style, and so
was growing old, so was time
and pizzas were like the womb of a cat
full of kittens and nipples and moons and life
the stubborn world is here again
and the perverse obstinacy of this incorrigible
slut unfolds itself here around us, the trees
on the obdurate mountain insist on
their persistent being, spat once
like love from the face of the void,
where life is just time coming,
where thought is the froth in God's
semen - and this stubborn world
swallows the seed and its reasons,
nothing to believe in, just
living, just this incorrigible
being
David McLean has a book, pushing lemmings, published by Erbacce Press and a new chapbook from Shadow Archer Press. Details of these and several other books and chapbooks are at his blog, MourningAbortion.Blogspot.com.