david mclean, five poems –

And They Scratch

and they scratch at us like vampires,
morals in us, we who are their troubled
coffin, because they wish to come out
and reach for the moon
and reach for the sun,
reach for something light
to touch

they are wearing cheap crumpled suits
of dodgy epistemology, threadbare
off-the-rack nightmares, since there are few
scripts for dreams left, mostly stuff about sexuality
and emptiness, about ambition and death,
people dream about sexualities
and ambiguity instead of good wholesome
incest and violence and sex

they know too few borders, too much death


Knives In My Eyes

time is knives in my eyes
and a god feeling slightly stabby
today, looking for His victims
and inconceivable nipples,
running luscious blood
from them like some body’s
bad debt

time is knives in my eyes
knives in my head, their god
our ungrateful dead


Dead Man

the dead man dressed
in worms and ants,
his flesh stinks.

he grows closer
to the socius,

but is not yet
his death within it.

dressed in this
flesh, we live.


Time Goes Down

time goes down on the sun
and subtly crass scholastics
nailing an indefinable need
to their hairy tree

confabulation and memory.
“oh look, a vast fucking
absence, let’s avoid the void
inside by writing poems

and lying to all the children
so they think we are real men,
whatever they may be.” here cums god,
licking the side of his bizarre syringe;

“He” is a sadistic lesbian today,
evidently, and her hair is on fire
in her autoerotic funeral pyre.
god gives good head, does good drugs,

the fleshy fons et origo of love


I Know

i know that you assume you live
and believe that trees speak,
in some way assigning meanings
and asserting a terrible natural traction
(sucks your brains right out,
stupid people need it special)
and there are jars under your beds
full of liquids and heaven –
i know that you assume you live,
i do not care where
(i noticed you are dead men)

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1 Comment

Filed under david mclean, heroin love songs

One response to “david mclean, five poems –


  1. Dead Man

    the dead man dressed
    in worms and ants,
    his flesh stinks.
    he grows closer
    to the socius,

    but is not yet
    his death within it.

    dressed in this
    flesh, we live.

    I don’t know what the fuck a “socius” is and will probably never bother to look it up in the dictionary – but this poem rocks!

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