"David McLean is Welsh though he has lived in Sweden since 1987. He has a couple of chapbooks out, one a free download at Whyvandalism.com. The other, in print, can be ordered at http://www.erbacce-press.com/#
Aside from being our first international poet megastar (everyone else is just a regular megastar,) David McLean has a name eerily similar to Powerful Women of Wrestling / Women of Wrestling / Glorious Ladies of Wrestling promoter / schlock hawk David McLane. But enough about unimportant nonsense: we have a READING coming up on AUGUST 16, and POEMS RIGHT BELOW THIS PARAGRAPH!
god's mouth we go down on the absences, and it is their juice that waters us like passions and night's replete non-sense. the night is a body straining for the plenitude of being that is an incarnation, the meat itself seeks souls to fill it and holes in the darkness wherein to exist, a god's almost irresistible mouth to eat that being
a Kantian confession Kant's ghost sat on the sofa and admitted the deception, the ploy to pull the sheepish wool over moral eyes in “the form of a law in general," - whence the pious idea came he was clearly not saying - “we were all believers then, or pretended” - he said - a bit of specious reasoning was plain sailing
blades anxiety's rusty razor blades lie between the lids and the eyes, they are like dry dead flowers waiting to decorate that mourning decay, the blood just blackness glowering in the flowing veins - for our gods are flatulent old men today, they shall stand naked in their graves and misspell salvation on their feverish fingers, plucking the drugs from dead eyes, collecting fingers ears and nipples, greedy souvenirs of life. harmless cannibals these amateurish scavengers stand around us, vulgar as vultures, they count psychoses like dinner bells pealing, and wait for us, their well-dressed lunch, they are anonymous mostly though their names are plainly listed on midnight's insomniac ceiling - excuses are seldom sufficient reasons
of dwelling
we do not dwell here but
live, eat, fuck, shit, breathe
and all that crap, but dwell
on the earth here,
in the presence of missing
gods, we do not
fuck no!
i dwell in the instant
which distresses me
by constantly pissing
off, like a faintly scented
memory
you can not dwell
there, if dwell was to remain
in place and abide,
just corpses do that -
we live in distances, absences,
and time
giving it all away and we gave everything away like memories absences and anxiously lingering fingerings. we donated it to a future or a past that was so ancient the very dust had deserted it, and sought better deaths and loves for the worms had tunneled us to a ferocious cannibal fiesta where god gnawed the knuckle bones grown clumsy as lust in reason's luscious skeleton tumbling through this sweaty nothing, a night and its appropriate fucking washed in vulgar vodka, skillfully stolen from tattered words unheard though geared to roll slow over the slimy waters god invented himself under drenched in a minute's oblivion or a devil's loveless cum the meaning and the reason sinking like a penis or a sweating sun (some cum thus undun)
