since the children

by David McLean


since the children have been loving absences

and things not moving, working seven to eleven

at murdering themselves more or less

competently, more or less because

there is no such thing as infantile,

or any other kind of, sexuality


predefined; since then there has been a slow rolling blues

playing inside them like spiders on acid with heroin

eyes, though they might not know what the blues is

though they might never have listened to it,

since the children have been living

suicide in slow motion,


the skull in them has been singing,

but no body will ever listen -

after all, they are just children,

new things are always living