today came
today came like a hole in memory
where the ghosts stayed, phosphorescent
truths to remind us of nothing,
that we were once, not love but little,
animals scrabbling blind in the dust,
scribbling blind about heaven above
and slyly biting slices from life, a dusty pizza,
not only under the sofa but
under the carpet, covered
with fluff.
today came, but that's OK,
for no day comes to stay;
days are like faces,
they rot they
go away.
David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there in a cottage on a
hill with a woman, five selfish cats, and a stupid puppy. Details of his three available full
length books, various chapbooks, and over 700 poems in or forthcoming at more than 300
places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog,
mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize,
whatever that is. He would very much like you to buy his books so he can drink more.
Home
Issue Two
All rights reserved.
Chickenpinata
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| a journal of poetry issue two |