Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
"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
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
i dwell in the instant
which distresses me
by constantly pissing
off, like a faintly scented
you can not dwell
there, if dwell was to remain
in place and abide,
just corpses do that -
we live in distances, absences,
and timegiving 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)
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
On one very special day, my Mother brought me into this world; She only wished for a healthy baby, no matter if boy or girl. Learning so much from my upbringing, education was in session; I was taught life's twists & turns, I received so many lessons. In no time at all, I quickly sprouted up like a tree; I received the toughest discipline, because I needed to be the best I could be. When I completed my real life schooling, it was time to branch out on my own; I needed to take my life to the next level, I needed to prove I could make it and demonstrate what I was shown. It was no easy voyage, there were lots of bumps in the road; But remembering what I was taught, I took on some heavy loads. There were many many rough days and I may have been down, but I was never out; Figuring out and correcting my mistakes, now that's what it's all about. Never give up and never quit, that is the motto that I live; I may not immediately reach my goals, but my best step forward is what I give. Life is a big journey, and sometimes the trip can be a real drag; But one thing is for certain, I shall never raise the white flag.
THIS IS WHY I WRITE
Writing makes me feel happy and writing makes me feel free; When I pickup a pen and paper, expressing myself is all I like to be. Whether it be an article or a nice poem, when I focus, the words just seem to flow; It's like a time machine, going back in time, I just relax and let the thoughts go. Sometimes I like to write about happy times, but mostly I just like to write; The visions & memories that I write about, simply reminds me that life is alright. I can travel on a fantastic adventure, and I can venture through memory lane; As I visualize about creative journeys, I see a beautiful world that is still untamed. Escaping this crazy world, if even just for a short while; Feelings I haven't seen in a long time, not since I was a child. Oh what a wonderful feeling I have when I write, so many stories to share; It reminds me how good life can be, what others think, I really don't care. When I get lost in my words, I feel like I can conquer the world; Even if you think you can't write, just try it and give it a whirl.
WINTER IS NO FRIEND OF MINE
It's the changing of seasons and here comes the snow;
No more birds are singing, I wonder where they all go.
I miss the butterflies and even the bees;
The grass is turning brown and there are no fruit in the trees.
The days are short and the nights are just too long;
I miss the sunshine, oh I wish the snow was all gone.
Going to miss the wind in my face, can't let my rag top down;
I love car drives, but until Summer, there is no cruising around town.
Oh it's a very frosty morning, I hate putting on gloves;
Wish I could wear my shorts, but I see a snow storm brewing above.
So much for a picnic in the park, I'll have to wait awhile;
Until Spring is in the air, the beaches will be deserted for miles.
Ice cycles on my window panes, the sight alone makes me shiver;
If I don't light up the furnace, a chilly night is what Winter will deliver.
Eggnog may be a good touch, but I rather be sipping on ice tea;
Cold weather doesn't appeal to me, year long summers are for me.
Until it’s Summer again, I will be inside by eight;
Just like the bears, Winter makes me want to hibernate.
"I do not prefer to speak of myself in third person. Christian
Your lips, your heart speaks of kind.
You wish a wish of contentment: a friend would stay
around and talk of the day, maybe the weather and how
it is just right for a walk.
The lillies distictively cultivated to their taste, medicinal.
The characteristics of erect stalks and yellow common sunflowers.
We are growing.
I knock twice, a musical tone for the light hearted.
Would you like to go for a walk?
Gold. I know nothing of gold. I heard there was gold in
I pray, and Angel's talk to me. I walk, and Angel's walk beside me. I speak, and God speaks through me. I listen and God knows, I am filled with gratitude, and God blesses me again.
Monday, July 14, 2008
my eyelashes are admiring
the hazy reflection drizzle (by)
christs, fights, and latch-stick watchtowers.
kites, Roman Candle pipes, and neither bridge is
this row found hero’s cliff rolling
and cigar smoked hum-lightly
there are various starry assessments
to be carved by the
while the green soldier grips
pound grenades, treats the ground kindly,
and loosens the wooing moon.Nihilistic glass elsewhere remix 2
Swing bike skin tight binge kite spinning and I don’t believe in the outcomes
that were made-- the eyes make shifts the little. Baked break parade for
dinner outloud over an orange candel service. wildebeests playing dice in
the alley, dice of eyes and tattered feet to back, barder and bargain,
reek of all trades. my dear and cratered caves made of cainborrowed bruise,
sage black plaques hide on the walls under plate-glass protective covers
singing for the rain to fall and me to once as drunk stumble over a pile of
rickwack wagons, and rain black or white searches for its twin only on
yesteryears, and leap years. Phantom pigeons In some vein are a hundred
merry-go-rounds. lideadale footprints aside from the moss fern outline
written closed by a distance circle, bulge at the business stressearners.
coyote sewn quilt of a father wed around the birthing stone
Nihilistic glass elsewhere spread the berry beads for the dog and cats
of the world.Stanford Introduced
caught and wear
the axis knocked the fist full of silver butterfly wings watching from the mistglance moon
then signified before the ground like a truck running over a body
the halo from the venomcollar snake hammers on the bolts of white cloth and says,
“we all had to match at first…”
“…chanting with ink on our tongues when the wide world is resting”
the clocktower explains out and the wire in the walls finds that
loose lacestring bleeding foxblood around your neck like a
fin on the whim with the wing and the
halo sweats ahead and says,
“if I have to resist the tugboat in the water”
“you’re not going to solidify!”
we sit in the patch of dark yellow lakeside flowers in the treecove
and watch the trapeze wave performers misunderstand goodbye
the knotting in your head tugs the vacant blue cubes from the river
into the quick of the lance marrow
the lance of the quakemarrow