the visible dead outside me
the invisible dead inside;
they are not memories
to which i may lay claim
as mine, they are others
and nothing forgotten,
forgetful themselves as time,
absences and lies
the light burrows through the sky
like a demented vole
intent on torturing us
by showing us everything,
all there is or ever was,
and screaming "this is very little,
children;"
so the light screams at us of demonic dreams
and the shortcomings of reason,
but though we may be children
we are blind and deaf,
we do not listen.
we are perverse and love our nothings,
so go on living for beer is in each bottle
like a nipple equipped for war,
and time is there too, a spinster aunt
with memories
so we are children high on dreams and glue,
we do not care what the vole saw
for we are myopic little moles
and perspicacity is boring,
we do not listen to him—
we assume he's kidding
when we escape it is from nowhere
and no body gets in another body's
way, there is no shortage of space
to fall, we are going nowhere
fast enough from no place
at all
just memories and departures
and waiting desolate
on dusty platforms
where once there were trains
that did not wait for us
and there was love once
we escape but memory
remains, the blood is lost
on carpets, forgotten
a memory stains
David McLean has a blog at MourningAbortion.blogspot.com where he gives details of several books and chapbooks, as well as two forthcoming chapbooks, a forthcoming novella and a large 300-page anthology, laughing at funerals, due 2010/01/01 from Epic Rites Press. He edits a couple of zines and the chapbooks at Epic Rites.