David McLean

claws and answers

memory dozes like claws and an answer,
the dreadful dead wait of the past
sleeping, one possible nothing coming back
to all the children and kittens,
we are made out of blood and dust.
there are claws and there are answers;
but they are not as good as drugs

 
sun does

the sun does its mourning pause
because the sky is made of insinuation;
the worst things never forgotten
to be a slow dive and a lifetime

much too long, the art means nothing
and the life is intolerably protracted
like all the best sorts of torture
so anxious grows boring

and we know to hate these things:
memory, melancholia, morning

 
the night was 1970

the night was 1970 and seems grayer today
pinball and not even Space Invaders yet
just depressing greasy tea and small dreams
the gods are not ever returning

the night was 1970 there was passion
perhaps, but nothing was burning
except the occasional city street in London
and otherwise a world was sleeping;

i had never noticed being
there was too much freedom

 
here is slices

here is slices, flesh and the ungrateful dead
and this our dishonest resurrection

one mirror we turn into because nowhere
the idiot unblinking gaze of moons enough

and a skeleton loveless, sickness grows
until heavenly its moment the burgeoning

is answers broken to no questions
whatsoever; here have been dead men

and nothing like heaven, irreparable
they are and we have been them

 
one happy cancer

the madness grows one happy cancer
and we left out faces on the bedroom windowsills
like some divine invoice, a succulent nothing
where every incubus invents his loveless,
and a day at school is a lovely excursion
for every little zombie ever,
he has forgotten all he has ever known:
it is simple everyday perfection
as long as there is no such place as home

 
it is the mad in us

 it is the mad in us,
time and a voided contract.
here the recalcitrant children live
their incurable. we are not answers
and this is not a television heaven,
we are not mad or dead men,
but nor are we dreamers
or an everyday expectation;
and the ordinary a corpse in ever cupboard,
a god broiling in every pot.
it is the mad in us enough
it does not stop, it does not want
or need to be forgot

http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

Things The Dead Say from Oneiros Books

nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die from Oneiros Books

laughing at funerals from Epic Rites Press