David McLean

Post image for David McLean

by horrorsleazetrash on August 4, 2011

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He is an atheist, an anarchist and generally disgusting. He has a BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much later and much more seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of well over 1100 poems in various zines – both print and online, both degenerate and reputable – over the last three years or so are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. There you will also find details of several currently available books and chapbooks – including three print full lengths, four print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook. A new chapbook is due out in spring 2011.

inside the murderer’s breast

was dark stuff, goo, and sexy
death – murderers
are just like every body
everywhere else

the old ones

their red eyes were tears
chipped from psychotic night,
and the moon they slew under
woke oftener

than the one above us
who sleeps still and silent
in her gaunt passion for oblivion,
and misses the dead forefathers

that built the wicker man for prisoners,
and wore their blue nakedness
like an insult to the feeble flesh
that bore the liberating sword

in torment, though it freed souls
from the power of the heart
that forces us to live this nightmare
nothing longer, though death is stronger

that life, and deserves more allegiance,
yet death’s meanings slept for them
for trees spoke to them and were friends
in their madness, though for me

a tree is the insentient stupidity
that failed to evolve murder
and stoops to using the wind
to rape its victims,

even the stones that rose
so easy to their grasp and
meaningful manipulation
spoke to them and remember

them from the dust that loves to cover
nothing, the shoddy coffins
we throw memories in
like emptying the soiled vessels

of the night, the sullied mentality
of modern man, who cringes
like a whipped dog before cancer,
who welcomes stinking senility

as a delightful boost to his
stock of sweet stupidity.
these are not my fathers,
the Celts knew well that death is

sweet insentience forever,
and yet never feared it,
refused to propitiate heaven’s
whores with the yapping

mantras of nihilist Buddha’s
morons, or the cocked gob
of Jesus’ gibbering believers –
their gods were psychopaths

who gave us quite enough
for us not to love them
but wish them well – absolutely nothing
but whores to the slaughter and glorious

eternal non-being, every sane man’s dream

we assumed

we assumed time itself was suicidal in them,
but just too polite to ask nicely,
there were memories, i suppose,
but they were not in me

so memories were largely irrelevant
and without probative force.
it’s a bit like a policeman, he witnesses
without a mind to process the information

slurped through his little piggy eyes. “oink
oink” he says. forgive me, good nuns,
if i do not listen to butchers and pigs.
i listen to beasts, though, to the silent sea,

to everything that lives and listens
back, with whom dialog is somehow
possible. but not to policemen, doctors,
dildos, or all the other categories of vermin.

i can respect a murderer with body
temperature, no education, and a terrible
temper. but doctors, priests, policemen –
never

sticky meat

life is just sticky meat
wrapping death round the skeleton
a minute,
love like
shreds of leather
skin left us
by the kind indulgence
of death.

we are walking corpses
yet still we fuck
and touch rattling ribs
and blind unskilled skulls
this while
tied to life
a time
at least,
till beast death
takes us,
at last, assuages
his hunger,
breaks his
fast

like an LP

like an LP playing dull music
in a static monochrome flat,
before television was religious
obligation; mourning is an easel

to paint easier being. vision once
was the prerogative of eyes and empty
minds it filled with sight, holy water
from a dirty well. but time is a whore

today and spreads himself frantic,
as if he were the sky, not anesthetized
but totally wired on his table. time’s
eyes are bulging out of his head

and he needs more nothing
to touch; superficial feelings,
simple like drugs. time is a child
who’s high, he likes to get fucked up

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