a poem by David McLean

narrow bed

their eternity, a narrow bed
emptiness. in an engraved
soul, promissory notes

and canceled checks
drawn on no account,
counting on heaven.

because meaning is not
waves on a beach carrying
truth or beauty,

just a sentence's method
of verification. fuck coffins.
i care nothing for the dead

or the already dead walking.
the dead stare at me often.
(that sentence is false)
they are waiting for god.
(that sentence is nonsense)

© by David McLean
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010