Poetry 1 McLean

broken paths

by David McLean

they are looking for evil
on broken paths
yet all there is is trees,
Gothic and emptiness,

inside is just absences,
husks and nothing much,
teeth and no meanings
toothless and meaningless

they are looking for evil
finding the corpses of dreams,
dank and dismal,
nothing like freedom

and your daze

by David McLean

and you days were a temporary empty,
missing being the message on the tablets,
Valium and gibberish from Switzerland
said Joe Strummer, another dead man today,
a message saying wherever it is the dead have gone to,
carrying their desperate broken Argo
all the way up some arrogant hill, worlds
where whole mythologies lay down to sleep
curled up with writhing Wyrms
where words say nothing much
where the medium is a massage from bony fingers
and what touches us is powdery pills, living
is cold hopeful smoke over lonely water,
and nothing is streaming out of some Eastern Eden
where God’s victims slept disconsolate and hungry
their timeless exile, a murderer and his willing victim,
longing for merchandise like death and opiate
memory, sex to be an intolerant burden
on my empty bed, that first and best of last nights
when time was not yet really part of life,

just love not having become wound up in ideology
and still flaunting its bold lesion, one dream
in front of all the quotidian nothingness,
nothing left to torment and being not becoming
the for-itself that Sartre meant, soul-seekers
dreaming death and sex and twisted emptiness
and frightening survival in spe, monkeys
who misplaced our faces in the suburbs
in mirrors, masochism and pools of dusty drugs,

just warriors and witches existing their absences
without being them, we had them inside us the,
and your daze were always these, full of temporary
empty, and there was God in his second-hand heaven,
not really any such thing as dead men;

there were worms and woods and night
evidently happening, cushions and nothing
to touch us, no hell or dust;
and we had memory, its heaven in us,
the latest lack looming above,
we had oceans of blood
and loveless, of nothing
being too much

maps where nothing is

by David McLean

there are maps where nothing is,
they tell us, showing absences
and conceivable creatures,
love and dust
an anthropologist in shops that closed
before they ever opened them;
maps and broken photographs,
a gleam in the eyes of dead men

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David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with partner, dog, and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: Cadaver’s Dance (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), Pushing Lemmings (Erbacce Press, 2009), and Laughing at Funerals (Epic Rites Press, 2010), His first novel, Henrietta Remembers, is coming soon. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com.