David McLean

our dead fathers are memories
and orgasms that made us
once, we came from their nothing
which is their eternity now

and our flesh is all they are,
poor bastards, forgotten
by the murders they left
behind them, mothers and other

dead lovers, our incestuous embrace
that wakes devils in the walls
and crawls like a million spiders
wild with love and nothingness -

just devils to resurrect us
and memories to touch

suffering and its proximity

they write that our awareness of the suffering
of others is deadened by distances
and i agree, you really have to see it
for it to be funny, that's why we have
TV

like memories

like the memories we used to live in
had wings, and years were in them,
like god was listening
and we were children.

but the years have crumbled once,
they carry time tattered in their horrid
pockets, like drugs or beans or
lentils, like forgetfulness,
or like a sullen resurrection
of the meat we misremembered,

time's tireless objection to everything
put together again, like there was
God, living in his several heavens,
and we were his friends,

but just happened to have forgotten

of writing poems

to write a poem is to make an assumption
that words can do things they can't,
like trapping time in a net of lies,
and making nostalgia sigh its seeing
through the dim doxologies established,
by listening to other idiots gibber;

it is to assume mastery with a direly tiny
meaning, it is pretending to conjure nothing
to leave its crippled children in your pocket,
it is hopelessly foolish like loving
dreams, it is a whole hospital's
stored abortions, a line of chopped time

and the cheap semantic seed's con-trick -
that's why i do it

nothing waits

nothing waits on the pavement
smelling like memory, and there are satellites
spinning slowly in the sky above even me;
and the satellites do not like
the cold, they do not like the cold
light tonight, the night they neither like
nor dislike, just slow metal motion
neither lonely nor not lonely -
the perfect life

the truth of nakedness

when we strip truths from subjectivity,
we see that there is no “we”
or “me,” no existence under the thin skin,
just the flabby flesh within, meaty me
with meaning raped from him;

animal man and woman we are
nothing, the light a sadist, sadic
in a maniacal eye, naughty night
inside this stripped skinny living,
some scopophobic God is the whore

we grope for. She wrote her words, slimy night,
and the surface we are, bundled
fucking subjectivities, is a thin film
that shines no light like lunar membranes

or cum on a stomach, Something
is not Us, God's defection
reflected on the seedy waters
he spread his lies on, his superfoetation stinks,
Miss, so the meanings have gone from them,

from words like “humanitas”
and “existence” - the book i read
is in your eyes and daddy God does not
wait for us there, He does not live there,
just nightmares

Biography

My name is David McLean, I have round 415 poems in or accepted by 187 publications in print or online since December 2006. Details are in my blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com.

I have a chapbook "a hunger for mourning" by erbacce-press on sale at Lulu @ http://www.lulu.com/content/1338495 an electronic chapbook forthcoming with Why vandalism? on 15/3/2008, and a forthcoming full length book with Whistling Shade Press in April or May 2008, "Cadaver's Dance."

	David McLean
Home Archives Guidelines Contests Letter Links Tips The important words are underlined by Maurice Oliver Did I ever tell you about the time oil from/ a leaky canister seeped into my thoughts/ then expressed its dissatisfaction with my/ sexual life. Nonesuch Dreams and Wills by Ray Succre Her discovery of him will also be gradual/ [X=X+1]; she does not startle anymore./ She has been alive [cavity] before. The Mob by Doug Draime He: How we gonna do it? She: Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the gun He: Can’t use the gun. She: Why? He: Never bought any bullets... Spudadelic by Jeff Crouch visual art centered around one dietary staple Sometimes Suicidal by Aimee DeLong Sometimes a suicidal person fixes her hair. Sometimes she looks in the mirror to smooth it. Sometimes she goes four days without washing it. Last Night at Southport by Justin Hyde tell her i'm a butterfly with sixteen wings beating in succinct anarchy. Categorical Imperatives by Maurice Oliver Try to imagine a small room where the only/ furniture is a TV. The TV has a hundred/ channels and two sets of memories. Beerwigs by George Anderson 1. A canoe full of moose meat 2. Beerwigs 3. The Great Vodka Massacre 4. The Bootlegger & the Professor 5. Puke-O-Gram Visual Art by Claudio Parentela Poverty by Papa Osmubal I saw a handful of dead cockroaches/ on the floor this morning./ You must have filled the house/ with your endless litany of dammits’ and ‘bullshits’/ while chasing them with last week’s paper/ you borrowed next door for the purpose. dance a line by Sophia Kidd i get stuck thinkin' of words/ and meanings of you and of him/ the smell of leaf/ on dirt Contagion necessaries: sensorial numb by Kenneth Mulvey reach into pocket/ for a light/ to find I pissed/ myself again Pamela in the Spring by James Dilworth I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder. The lost art of visualization by Andy Riverbed Now that I think about it;/ I’ve realized I don’t like poetry/ and I don’t like literature; I/ hate movies and music is nauseating;/ my job is a boring mind-/ numb. Dream by Cecelia Chapman A short movie	our dead fathers our dead fathers are memories and orgasms that made us once, we came from their nothing which is their eternity now and our flesh is all they are, poor bastards, forgotten by the murders they left behind them, mothers and other dead lovers, our incestuous embrace that wakes devils in the walls and crawls like a million spiders wild with love and nothingness - just devils to resurrect us and memories to touch suffering and its proximity they write that our awareness of the suffering of others is deadened by distances and i agree, you really have to see it for it to be funny, that's why we have TV like memories like the memories we used to live in had wings, and years were in them, like god was listening and we were children. but the years have crumbled once, they carry time tattered in their horrid pockets, like drugs or beans or lentils, like forgetfulness, or like a sullen resurrection of the meat we misremembered, time's tireless objection to everything put together again, like there was God, living in his several heavens, and we were his friends, but just happened to have forgotten of writing poems to write a poem is to make an assumption that words can do things they can't, like trapping time in a net of lies, and making nostalgia sigh its seeing through the dim doxologies established, by listening to other idiots gibber; it is to assume mastery with a direly tiny meaning, it is pretending to conjure nothing to leave its crippled children in your pocket, it is hopelessly foolish like loving dreams, it is a whole hospital's stored abortions, a line of chopped time and the cheap semantic seed's con-trick - that's why i do it nothing waits nothing waits on the pavement smelling like memory, and there are satellites spinning slowly in the sky above even me; and the satellites do not like the cold, they do not like the cold light tonight, the night they neither like nor dislike, just slow metal motion neither lonely nor not lonely - the perfect life the truth of nakedness when we strip truths from subjectivity, we see that there is no “we” or “me,” no existence under the thin skin, just the flabby flesh within, meaty me with meaning raped from him; animal man and woman we are nothing, the light a sadist, sadic in a maniacal eye, naughty night inside this stripped skinny living, some scopophobic God is the whore we grope for. She wrote her words, slimy night, and the surface we are, bundled fucking subjectivities, is a thin film that shines no light like lunar membranes or cum on a stomach, Something is not Us, God's defection reflected on the seedy waters he spread his lies on, his superfoetation stinks, Miss, so the meanings have gone from them, from words like “humanitas” and “existence” - the book i read is in your eyes and daddy God does not wait for us there, He does not live there, just nightmares Biography My name is David McLean, I have round 415 poems in or accepted by 187 publications in print or online since December 2006. Details are in my blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. I have a chapbook "a hunger for mourning" by erbacce-press on sale at Lulu @ http://www.lulu.com/content/1338495 an electronic chapbook forthcoming with Why vandalism? on 15/3/2008, and a forthcoming full length book with Whistling Shade Press in April or May 2008, "Cadaver's Dance."
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our dead fathers

suffering and its proximity

like memories

of writing poems

nothing waits

the truth of nakedness