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Saturday 15 March 2014

Samples From 'Things The Dead Say' by David McLean (Oneiros Books)


From 'The Freddy Poems'

this we said

this we said to them and returned
to the water, to the blood
to the womb where the dead are
stacked already waiting

for life's patient rape, for a nightmare's
clawed glove, for days waiting to dream
and feel pain in an empty anesthetized
world where nothing is genuine

but the murderers. that's why we love them,
murderers and madmen, eternal children;
heaven is here inside us, white
and impartial and timeless

we never needed it, never asked for it,
and it's burning, we need demons
to turn into, moralities to fall
apart through us, to be new

every sin they ever knew,
futile and renewed


long nails

god comes covered in long nails
made of metal and petty restrictions,

he paints pretty pictures in blood
and flesh and love

he comes for us, calls himself Freddy
today mostly, we can never get enough -

we love whatever fucks us up
and touching suffering fucks us

better than drugs, long nails
of filled syringes trailing

in the flesh and dust,
a crucial fiction

a pretty picture
to nail nothing up


night falls

night falls over us a remorseless slasher
and cuts blood from suffering sheets

it is dreams we need
and drugged junkie heaven

it is salvation and night fall

and every body dead again
it is dreams we need

and bleeding
it is anxiety and nightfall

it is sleeping reason
and razors

we are children
when we are screaming

and the dead believe in them
Freddie and his cocaine heaven again

falling apart to dust and bugs,
to bodies, bodices and love


From 'The Jason Voorhees Poems'

bull on the king's highway

Jason becomes the obdurate bull
on the king's highway for us today,
the devil of rebellion and the innocent body
that does not care for law or reason;

he has become us in our murderous innocence,
the treason of the flesh that cuts the head off
and tells capitally sensible jokes about surrender
to the logical arrogance that says “give in,

for these are the self-imposed limits of living.”
he is above law and reason and restraint
and the rebellious devil was flesh, not fucking, forever -
angry Thanatos who loves dead men best,

so sudden death under him becomes heaven
and we what we love best, dead men
draped in sexy robes of their daily decay,
an eternity of toothsome deliquescence

is the enormous end after the little death -
an eternal orgasm so much better than sex
and each slash in the impotent skin
is a gaping opening to let gods in,

like chaste dead children innocent as little nipples
and death's small void, vacant like all the living was,
no devils in our temporary Hell but Jason and murder -
no gods either

the feet of murder

i should like to see the heavy-booted cumbersome feet
of murder buckling city streets
where thoughtless lovers fumble their whorish
minutes, where idiots express themselves
about time and some transfinite eternity
they do not truly grasp,

not as well as a real man's hand curls sexily
round the ineffable pondus of a machete,
and death shall come to lovers, to everyone,
as all these feeble whores of each sexuality and sex
so richly deserve, psychopathic love
crushing the pampered weak skulls

round weak brains, even more pink flesh to touch,
even more cunts cut up, gaping just as cretinous
as the impotent mouth of love, wasted and capacious
and full of nothing, not even cum, just Jason
getting his loving duty done -
chopping up all the cunting scum

'Things The Dead Say' is available here

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