a poem by David McLean

life is a predictable nightmare

life is a predictable nightmare
brown like the defective trousers
of the dead, imported
from a world nobody cares for,

except for believers and unambitious
whores, pimping nothing
and nonentity, the sad credentials
of memory left on a dusty cellar

shelf. listless zombies finger them
and we are the dreams of dead men,
forgotten. life happens a little
and then time is through:

bad trousers, broken dancers,
boring nightmares, you

© by David McLean

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #13 ~ January 2011