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Sunday, 16 September 2012

David McLean

not bleeding

the sky is not bleeding for these deserted streets,
and any melancholy that is there we have put there,
for the rats themselves are evidently
happy with every imaginable suicide
clenched between their winsome teeth;

the rats find little prettier than the dead
with all their hungry and noisome obligations;
and that is why this sky does not bleed
any more than dead men might feel;
these living human children have all the raw

torn flesh that history needs

carved names

the names carved into the graves
are incessant repetition, and their nemesis
flesh returns to them in a puddle of gormless
blood, muddled memory and dusty love;

there are corpses behind the names on graves
we are not supposed to touch

not suffering enough

we do not suffer enough
so they sell melancholy and abject
nostalgia, apt suicides to which to aspire,
and time enough not to love

very much, we suffer fools
easier, and would love some of Sheol's
dust to munch. memory's severed intention
does not pretend to touch

such groovy gurus and ghosts,
it only hopes to die alone
with centuries spent and worlds to hold


David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on a small island in the Mälaren with partner, weather, boat, dog and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming shortly. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog

1 comment:

  1. marvelous work rightfully first up for the re-opening of much missed Bone Orchard