David McLean

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 7, 2016


David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with his dogs Oscar, Costa, & Wendy. In addition to various chapbooks, McLean is the author of seven full-length poetry collections. The last four of thse are from Oneiros Books and called NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (June, 2013), THINGS THE DEAD SAY (Feb, 2014), OF DESIRE AND THE LESION THAT IS THE EGO (May, 2014) & ZARA & THE GHOST OF GERTRUDE (Oct, 2014). Two novels HENRIETTA REMEMBERS (2015)and FLESH & RESURRECTION (2015) are also at Oneiros Book. More information about McLean can be found at his blogs http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/ & http://davidcmclean.wordpress.com/. His latest chapbook is from Black Editions Press: https://blackeditionspress.wordpress.com/2016/04/25/passion-is-dead-flesh-david-mclean/


the abject furry god


here was the abject

their furry god

dressed in vomit & rejection

his suicide visionary solitary



& a night opened up

an earth inevitable

to stand on a rooting & a home

not some empty idiot history

to edit


but whole murders to grow

& furries have got to go



under the sun


under some sun they grow retarded

an ax


submissive sun with sexless sememes



bukake absences is hagioscope



dripping from god’s raped



inevitable, dressing as dead

men, as vengeance


& heaven, under

several suns


is dead already





all the gormless gods


so this is books religious and books

scribbled by this glorious pornocracy

of gorgeous if somewhat gormless gods

swilling words over tortured water


and night becomes every sexless

resurrection, all the decrepit darlings

dancing again and nothing cumming faster

a fateful fist in silent skies, here a null class


falling into act and time, all the gormless

gods who never bothered to be alive




evil fingers


night is filled with evil spirits and fish fingers

taking wild guesses at history

like the popes and their imaginary friends,

boring walls spattered with the blood of children,


and the toys are all angry, they are livid

and vengeance living, revenge is a dish

best eaten with the help of hammers

and no living fingers whatsoever,


it is made of memory and regret

which are both plainly forms of death

though not quite as bad as sex is,

as dead things that listen:


night is revenge and evil fingers;

it does not want to be forgiven

or lived in




Raptor Jesus


The kindly way to feel separating is to have a space between. This shows a likeness.

(Gertrude Stein)


the sun comes up over us and probably Raptor Jesus

intent on flesh and sexy death


and no rapture beyond raped by talons and absence

thirty pieces of sickness and look!

nothing is coming –


there are beaks and beady eyes,

no such thing as love




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