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Saturday 12 January 2013

David McLean

pragmata are 

pragmata are not only entwined in discourse but discursive too. things are text and trees answer their warm meanings bound in the cold stone. the suicide's rope sings victory to the hopeless cold bone, and blades greet blood happy lovingly. a little book implies the capacious sun wherein it burns to burn in, the rapacious bin. just so the womb recites particular paeans to the pragmatic penis, the creatrix and her insolent forgetfulness insular abortions taught us. the taut wire incites cigarettes, time alight. the lamp post remembers the learning hearse and trembles an answer to it, arrogant shit

as all things sing forgiveness of the others, their sin, the artifact remembers its owner. the lamp post knows the cars are lonely, it consoles them.

the flight 

the flight from death is a moral death, flight i flee, i flee my turpitude me, fast fantasy over fast. nothing lasts. imagination sowing seeds in us loveliness through the holy hole a minute. though reason reminds us everyman dies appropriately alone (reason acts like a swine, most of the time)

tomorrow temporary 

tomorrow is temporary too. another bone in the temporal soup of gristly minutes - love grizzled like children bears gnawed beyond repair – we assemble our heavens between the seconds, a ring of complacent frightening light that devils blew out of the universal ass, thankless as a memory and grateful as a goblin nibbling nipples from the stone that grew over the thrilling hills who stretch their sluttish backs to the nothing that glowers down on us like a lover – ugly as a mother or a decade, for god conscientiously pays us enough suffering for us to be able to pretend that we are living, that we are a nothingness an emptiness an impotence but nevertheless there are things happening in us beyond fucking and being fucked. there are kittens children devils and love. this seems enough and there are not eternities but they would have been too much.

queer as nothing 

queer as nothing or consciousness, snot on a timely teacher's handkerchief (he observes it, it is his absolution and nonentity's blessing) the nothingness we blow from us under golden mountains and time, clouded cotton-wool and suicide, night rigid under our fingers, the supple subtle lie inside us, night and time and the darkness gaping before our whorish mouths, ready to swallow everything, death and the living, the fingers father that float before us, god's open throat spitting out love's juice and hoary hope, another slut dressed in morning, standing erect again at the parapet but not hopping yet, dawn boring as mourning when all we have to regret is all this living, all the forgotten children and every meaning misbegotten. for we are them. and everything is always forever.

night waits 

night waits as we wait, for it is empty as are we, a reflection of the stars it does not care for. it cares for nothing as do we, the nothing the night that nourishes anxiety needs, the words that feed it nightmares are time running through children's fingers, lies about god and life and meaning, and how we should believe in them tonight, when the truth is just night, just time, the blood and the life

the light washes us with caution 

the light washes us with caution, it does not appreciate that it is rationed here by heaven and all the mothers are dead. it never expected less than that mankind should change its names enlightened. out of respect to our colleagues with twats. but time deals the smelliest septic skepticism out, with ladles not loath to fill our plates. they are labeled truth and beauty and they are a burden of abundant lies and fallacies. we cannot look at them without cringing for they have obviously been knocked off by a gang of pedophiles and retards, dreadfully deviant and foolish enough to find life nice.

if i were to look at the branches of these leafless trees where there was shy sun and sly winter snow, and if i were to notice my dog's sweaty breath beside me and suddenly, with no warning,  passionately love the day, even though i am generally pessimistic, then i would probably never say so, and certainly never write it down as an insolent inscription, maybe here. that would be madness.

the juices in me that make me happy are foolish glands and insatiable hormones, reason need not listen to them, though they may not be a bad thing, advantageous but a trifle insane. (there are no angels of light except in nightmares)

the trees and the birds 

the trees and the birds in them and the animals under them all writhe life, they tacitly assume that being born and hearts beating is what counts, not that they will fall away and, ultimately, everything will have fallen away, and time and the universe reached a point that is a smallest where not even an atom is, just a bare point of potentiality where nothing lives. but the trees and birds and animals all say to me that potentiality then will become act. that being born will again be all that matters, life's cruel and fatuous fact

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