and here is cold and boredom,
all the inadequate secular sexualities
night has given the dead children
pretending to be special
and affecting empty
soi disant art
another nothing inside each me,
saws and mostly boredom
and everything for free,
nothing to be
for Plath wrapped in torn sheets
burning up in snow and dispassionate
because corpses know all the absent answers
and shut up very much
because the birds stand at the seaside medieval
or Egyptian cryptic
they are dressed like laundry and torture
and we have no faces whatsoever left us,
just these empty idiot identities, cunts
and thumbscrews where the air hurts
because of breathing and being,
dead children sleeping
with everything to be forgiven
and nothing to mean
beyond the passionate semantics
of fever and dreams, autodidact
orgasm is solid doctrine, to bleed
is to be
as memory was words and grows to silence
or a burden, suicide becomes sufficient nighttime
and a natural part of life like time
and all its illicit missing,
the dry dusty skull of an impossible child
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with his dog, Oscar, and his computers. In addition to seven chapbooks, McLean is the author of four full-length poetry collections: Cadaver's Dance (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), Pushing Lemmings (Erbacce Press, 2009), Laughing at Funerals (Epic Rites Press, 2010) and Nobody Wants to Go to Heaven But Everybody Wants to Die (Oneiros Books, June 2013). His first novel Henrietta Remembers is due in 2014 from Unlikely Books. During 2013 a seventh chapbook Shouting at Ghosts is forthcoming from Grey Book Press. More information about McLean can be found at his blog MourningAbortion.blogspot.com.
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