Friday, December 5, 2008

Five poems by David McLean

Five poems
by David McLean

disciplinary eroticism

it was like disciplinary eroticism
when the sun came up
over us chickens. and the nurses
patrol nothing, for us, as they imagine -
in so far as a pig or a doctor
ever imagined anything
in their harmless and
murderous farmyard.

like cleaning ladies all of them,
picking away at ethnicities and fag
butts, the Nazi mentality these morons
can not see in themselves, their
whore's organon full of orgasms and
organs, and surfaces of desire
precisely delineated in their blind
all-seeing eyes, the children tortured
who struggle to be stupid and boring
enough to please them, regulatory
fingers that hold the dainty rapist razors
in the most scientifically approved way,
the whole farmyard wakes again -
just another day


as you learned

as you learned to resemble your death
it grew larger within you, and whimsically
fingered at life, like a word lying,
like a medal, said you were brave
so you stayed a minute longer,
every century you bore your burden
through, cracked like an omelet,
addle-pated you, broke years away
from your history, fragile shell of time
white as a star sleeping at night.

as you learned to resemble your death,
to remember it, the sullen obligation
of today we carry like an abortion
in the living flesh today, as we learn
to resemble our death it dismembers
us, like you, the life the death
you loved


the sky is not red

the sky is not really red
and there are no words written
there, not by the wings
of the birds who fly dead already
across it, dropping from heaven
like a mourning
or a depression, the dull light
is always gray and tired, it shone
centuries, apparently,
and there were children in it
and gods, like fish under
the sea, like memories.

the sky is not really red,
just slaughter and murder,
so it is never night
either. it is dull
nothing, loud as dreams
and empty as a song
or alcohol, it is dry
as tears or wine
before heaven, yet
night forever, red
unread letter



we surreptitiously kiss our deaths
behind this glossy surface, life
we live in like nightmares

we want this, the nothing once a minute
and then forever not there, abrupt
cessation no pain no sensation

waiting. we surreptitiously stroke
our coffins like our murky members,
death in them. thus more corpses come

and we call them children.
we stink of the sin
we left in them

death's itching orgasm


blowing a ghost

writing a poem is like blowing
a gross writhing ghost.
the cum in my mouth is dust.
whatever thus lives
and loves in us
we take on thrusting
trust. death well

Author bio:

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there in a cottage on a hill with a woman, five selfish cats, and a stupid puppy. Details of his three available full length books, various chapbooks, and over 700 poems in or forthcoming at more than 300 places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog at htpp:// He has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, whatever that is. He would very much like you to buy his books so he can drink more. A new chapbook "of dead snakes" is due at Rain over Bouville in Feb 2009, and one from Poptritus Press in the summer.

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