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Thursday 11 October 2012

David McLean

sexual “healing” is vast scars

it was sexual healing and being
absences and pasta,

a box of matches is all our unstable
vastness, dead men
and dancers,

sexuality the whole shallow
monstrosity, dreams and becoming
and assholes to be,

nothing comes for free
and if god ever comes
it won't be on me



we misremember this dismembering
as borders to live on, the liminal
is slices of tidy night, wrapped up
with the dispassionate fervor

of incontrovertible fiction, sublimely
dismissive missives to every god
and all the nevers before or after
her. because it is death and finitude

that directs intention and glues desire
harder in place; otherwise melancholy
the undead might burn their passion
a hellishly short eternity, straw and sand

instead of pretended memory, nightmares
grubbing in their dust, lies and homeless
holiness, because the flesh is a ruthless
computer; night is holes in her, nowhere,

a twitching stump


abandoned children

time is abandoned children
and approximately three ribs
sticking from the sand;

the thoughtless Argo
looking for crass indulgence,
sold like shallow sheep

for no gold. we burn
because of nothing
and there are no words

worth repeating, boredom
is repetition tolerably long.
the birds are not singing

and hymns are not love songs;
nothing sits listening, so prayers
are just words that go wrong

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

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