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| david mclean |  | 1. she is an empty house she is an empty house but the windows are unbroken, and children do not dare look in them since sometimes a ghost rises screaming in the night, dead sexuality in moth-eaten sheets, a void replete with cadaverous dreams. and all her tomorrows lie slaughtered there. she is an empty house, with big Louise standing leaning on her banister uncaring, on her rusty fire escape at night, waiting for children's feet to tremble there, silences to share. she is a sententious sentence burdened by missing dead words and all the lifeless lexis that every death ever left inside us, but living words might lay her ghost there - but till then she is nowhere, an emptiness the wise child fears 2. from outside it touches from outside voices in the night or bad decisions made by the other "i" inside. he who hangs his sexless flesh on a pin so we live in him still, inside this self like nightmares; this man who should not be here, gnawing these relatively temporary bones we share | |
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