Sex and Murder Magazine

By David McLean

their bellies are big with mourning
and the pornography of suicide,
since time in them has become
a celibate burden. this is

a scented emptiness where their deaths
grew into laughable lapdogs, rumbling
in their stomachs. poodles live
in all their mincers, eating sin.

the sun goes down on them
as psychotic sister moon like a knife
slides in. they remember
the stench of sex which every death

expects, they are cadaverous
vultures picking the fingers
of children, the red dead meat,
the scarred but empty skin,

and their evil in us always wins,
the old ladies seldom sing