Submission Guidelines

Sunday 13 April 2014

David McLean


the bar is closing
unpredictable elision
and safe predicated
the precise incision

the incurable insufficiency
of being, the horrid wait
of freedom, no locus
where everything desired is

and no getting there; thus
nothing to forgive

this is

this grows close to the grass,
earth and absence
wherever “i” has been
hiding from the sky

where the dead sleep
their unreason, graves
and maybe, nothing to need
or be

we are sleeping here,
mourning and memory,
some potent hopeless
osmosis, heaven to be


there is nothing to stop us
the peregrine madmen
wandering our disconsolate
desire through night;
the broken socius
the vulva invulnerable
and the need we never knew,
falling like autumn leaves,
like meanings unneeded;

there is nothing left to bless
us, nothing we need to be
everything but free;
nothing to believe
and everything to be

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