Five political poems by David McLean

Five poems
by David McLean

for Adolf Hitler and Leonard Cohen

and maybe the flowers really were for you, Adolf,
really, maybe you too deserved them once,
you feral leader of death’s federated armies and nothing
your harmless heritage now, a curtain you pulled down over
our dreamless sleep you used to disturb, unmentionable
heritage but not forgotten, not oblivious of this where you
munch dust, soulless dead-head who fed us
nonentity, (though you were one quarter Jew
too.
and what loss were that then for Herr
Cohen? an absolute offering, naked on his suicide’s
table, sacrificing his pride and ethnos to stoned
night? that cushioned darkness Bataille could have
dreamed on, Jews and niggers as we are today,
the abject pride you would have denied the life
that we still live avariciously as bitches
baying at your northern Germanic moon like a Viking
or, at least, a short dark Austrian
with one ball and a rather miniscule
penis
so those springtime posies he held in his young hand
then, poetries for you, a Jew and a man who might have¨
loved you, whatever you were in potential, everyone is this
cobweb of relationships, though you murdered even your own
hatred at the end of things, that and the Nazi whore
you lived with, your bunkered oblivion and a fantasy for
idiots
and you mastered your wanker’s craft, creator by nature
yet vice and hatred conspired to bugger you
loveless like Rohm the fat paederast you wasted when the waters
of life perverted courses away from the Rhineland’s daughters
(who cost many millions then for an inflated blowjob,
puffing up their bleached blond love, let alone a shag -
more than a book of matches but less than
a packet of fags)
and yet the Land is our heritage, like you said,
the land where a man stands lonely under heaven, and together
with his dead generations you hated, some African
scraping roots from eternity’s scarified ball, earth
shimmering in the riches of his destitution,
Blod und Boden and Mama Africa you prostituted
to your liar’s truth, Africa we come from, all of us,
short and dark or tall and blond, and still she loves
us, even we who never saw her. even your
German peasant in his militarised hell, proud
that Swabia resorts to fertility now and black
loam is his life, useless your thought’s whorish
abortion, and your Being’s being strife,
useless tonight
the Land is not this even, it lives
in us, our twisted ropes of fate
that bind us to the past, fate’s tasty facial
we learn through our paternity that
cums us here in some cunt, thus, the fathers’
site, inherited wealth and hearing we learned
the heartless words of the land, through
suffering silent the essential homelessness
of life, no Zion at all, just that site
tonight
and you are death’s bitch now Adolf,
and they still live, the Jewboys,
raping and murdering much less than you
expected,
and your heritage (most of us) rejected
except these failed fake socialists, a bit thick,
and that kind of unkindly cunt, your trough they still
grunt in
and i’d give you some flowers too,
just warm enough to warm you in your empty
grave, laughable carrion, your short millennium,
stubby nothing, your paedophile days
the devil’s share you cared for -
here’s to you, you sick fuck! Adolf,
(good luck)

####################

Auden's Maze

if a chance word could come true
and be night-winged beauty
in some antique dictionary,
and if a dream could be alright;
for anthropos apteros in his labyrinth
drowns in absence,
and all we know is the height that hedges
all epistemology's fences
from prying eyes,
that a mile of knowledge
is a mile of tired lies

and we do not secrete this guilty maze
all alone, but unloving mothers
and all the others who shaped society
to a ball of cripples hungering
for love's nipple
have plucked our fledgling wings
and castrated Phoenix
who should sing a paean to the flame
but drowns in his effete fag's shame

the maze is uncentred loveless Cosmos,
dissolute and empty echoing void
soundless night, light's disdain
for the frightened gods who huddle
staggered fucks round their fuddled table
and Enlightenment is not communal,
God's reasons are His last answer
and only weeping Mary knew why
we live and die
alone,
our stones our own
to roll

####################

ethopoetics (for Michel Foucault)

is this really an alternative to your wiry meshes of power;
the almost tangible relations we see flowing in and out of eyes,
looping through twisted mouths,
tearing brutally through ears:
mind-raping chains of tactile logocentrism
constraining the tired and broken limbs
of these our others, as they bear this constructed us?

constricted our bodies bearing this massive inheritance of pain,
our outsiders delimitatively denied, outsiders such as i,
necessarily expelled from the massy body of a society
that institutionalises insensitivity,
sanctions non-conformity,
and rewards the crippled ugly minds of power-junkies -
those repositories of spastic hate
wanking their lies in the face of the motherfucking
mother of ugliness; their impotent god.

certainly aesthetics can help me to forget this;
and maybe life's better with a codeless ethics:
but sometimes i regret the limited extent of it
and always the loneliness, the impossibility of friendship.

####################

taking it from there

Swedes don't exist.
Scandinavians in general don't exist,
take it from there. (Berryman)

would that it were so but no,
though existence is the finest thing there is
they miss, for inauthenticity, bad faith
and such foolishnesses
a million missing kisses,
and love dead as Luther,
the heretic motherfucker,
and his sulphurous lover, cocksucker, the dubious devil levelling
a world flat grey,
even meaning's dawning morning they anaesthetise
with sycophantic semblant psychosis
resembling loveless little brothers
complaining their day away, dodgy plaints,
straight feints at their untouchable touché,
empathy as fake as the mist in the coldness
of their hearts,
ever huddled together in mediocrity's mean
middle, Armagideon, no fire warms fingers when the heart is ice
and leaden dead, & the ugliest language anyone ever heard,
their hearts their tears their lives - absurd
just empty words
rattling in their heartless beggar's can
that pollutes the world

####################

Sheol/Sweden

Sheol is the void the dead embrace inside,
the dead who eat Sheol's dust in their misery,
their hearts and souls, so empty,
bleeding loveless unmeaning.
the needily selfish greed that feeds their sufficient suffering -
it's rather like Sweden.


Author bio:

David McLean has been submitting for the past year and has had around 300 poems accepted by 125 magazines. A chapbook "a hunger for mourning" with 53 of his poems has just been released by Erbacce Press.