and this great seeming streams out at us
a numb and implausible torture,
television and methadone memory
or the magazines little old ladies read
instead of ripping strips of flesh
from dead loves with their cruel teeth;
or this seeming assumes the form
of a suicidal god upon his deviant
cross, the form of all the other nothings:
of countries and classes and corpses to love,
of everything that is not
and the worlds spreads itself again,
night and day two sexless
desktops on a meaningless
screen;
nobody is screaming much
and we have everything we need
always, sound and insufficient
vision, nothing to touch
are a cigarette forever,
a broken flag, missing banners
and the eternal realized possibility
of not that still only fucks with us
and messes some people up.
they have shed their bad faith like scarred
and faded skins, they are nothing now
and no longer obliged to exist
so predicates no longer apply to them;
not is a dead man
and nothing is to say of them,
not standing erect in their graves
expectant idiots, this twisting Tao
has unsaid them well, where we are
forever, nothing is
David McLean has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on a small island in the Mälaren with partner, weather, boat, 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). More information about David McLean can be found at his blog: MourningAbortion.blogspot.com.
del.icio.us
