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