Submission Guidelines

Friday 28 February 2014

David McLean

broken social

it is worlds broken and the words that tied the together pottage and impotence, rubble and ruin an ancient temple withstanding its forgetting all of this degenerate secondary forever, here we have put the unforgiven like rulers and children. the moon shines her mindless slight light to silver blanket a land where perverts might inhabit their eminent territories made of forever and forgettable; where de Sade and his loveless cutlery dwell full of temerity, terror and not touching, nothing immoral or needing forgiving. the castle is an arrow intended, a progressive sense of heaven, incarnated again in us tonight like Bodhidharma dancing, the Bodhisattva vow broken like a bow intent on missing. what it feels to lose everything you ever had or wanted forever is ecstasy and madness. traveling is a question of lost and disembarking at random; the goals are targets are all broken. happy is the homeless.

there have been gods and seas and lakes and water and sweaty Dagon sleeps his days dreamless to arise from some sullen sea formless, like words jumping up from being like startled values falling apart stupid as a family of partridges; the mirrors are fragile and unforgivable like nightmares and impossible, this is the quotidian listless the anxious razor waiting. here is blood and dead skin, the arms of ridiculous children.

and the sick kids

and the sick kids are told they are trains pulling into mother and it is dark there, dammit, this is dark as Oedipus is and there is no desire in us worth mentioning, no temporary sort of heaven empty, no nowhere to be.

traditionally priests have lied to children like mothers and teachers do, they have lied almost as well as doctors and psychologists and the other women and men who make all sort of fleshy coffins for kids to live in with all their vaunted innocence that tastes like disingenuous and oblivion, the junkie touch of nothingness like a deviant corpse creeping from his heaven again to do things dazzlingly inappropriate, the moribund hopeless. this is the survival kit, the god box, the zombie carnivorous abstinence, the ascetic demons are eating memory or sleeping, there is light time here and the sleep of reasons. the children have appointments with death and convivial demons.

More about David McLean can be found here: 

laughing at funerals

No comments:

Post a Comment