David Mclean		blood in a bucket time is blood in a bucket nobody minds, and it is the timeless finitude of eroded eternity, like scraps of paper on a pavement where holocausts have happened, uneventful yet like heaven. time runs out of me like light so i am empty, the scratching stylus that inscribes my crippling history in me, so i am a palimpsest defacing children i was already, forever. no death lives forever in a bucket of blood, where nerves and hormones and subservient sinews punish nothing through indecision, and deface the fatuous statuary of life with night and abortion, insecticide and torture, since heaven was invented for men who are dead already, forever – death will not make them better, but the flesh and skin shall fall from me dreamless like rats deserting a sinking ship whenever forgetfulness of “i” is - bones, a brief stench, all this		vagitus words' worth is this quavering vagitus, whereby we inscribe a child's unknowing, a cry, the empty authority of nothing here, these emptinesses inside our night notoriously able-bodied murderers like every saint, every sinner, provokingly invoking sanity, and the sound is the lustful blood of the brutal etymon, resounding silent like our timely void that means this abrupt nothing, copious semiosis filling greedy gullets with meaning's seed, time's logical sodomy inside us, suckers, just lust and, thus, a quavering vagitus of these vagrant babies “we” is, just dead bodies in the dust, empty life, empty love, just us and nothingness