burning womb

night is the burning womb of nothing
and smells like the slit throat of memory
where all the mothers deserved to die,
skull-fucked by all the mass-murderers

they turned into children, ignorant nipples
waiting for salvation, and absolution
trickling down all the seedy faces
where nightmares were waiting.

we killed them because we were dead men,
we killed them, so there were memories again.

by David McLean