an ancient bizarre railway mourning comes like an email from an ancient bizarre railway, love and the sun coming up and spiders scuttling over ice playing at time. mourning and memory their anorexic heaven is everything missing; the melancholic vampire and the unforgiving simian, i prefer not to listen to them, the absences that invented dead men and the self. mourning per electronic post: spiders make themselves at home in love and the sun, a web of stone abandonment their name is abandonment and desolation, not the student standing his ancient twilight on the stairs but the necessary curtailment of analysis and observation as they climb their greasy absences to be memories where time is always stored carefully and history stays dry; so they are humble like dust in a dead person's cupboard, infertile dry bones and homeless they are a future they are time, they need nothing inside, there are positive laws, but no real crimes, except such as those laws define silence might be silence might be a distorted scream that got broken between the stomach and the teeth, night and the dreadful deficiency of noise worthless like the tattered banners armies trail behind them, like skin ripped from a corpse by the fangs of beetles, like wounds that don't know how to bleed because time has dusted them insentient and the body has forgotten the due suffering that smells like anxious love on dead breath; silence might be a scream in empty heads EFQ poems present their rusty arguments and therewith EFQ; it is nonsense to say that nothing is, however much it listens behind the corners of words; poets pretend those words need to refer. i know books are like bodies, they love to burn what do you want behind the nonsense but a world? in every childhood in every childhood a dark house where a stranger with a straight razor and secrets touches doorknobs silent like torture with black leather gloves or a duster, a retrospective scar of meaning, anamnesis and amnesia, or a bucket full of blood and dreams; in every childhood sleeps a victim to be they steal scars like memories but what the world needs is weapons distributed to the starving or to those who are otherwise angry or feel some undefinable need to write history redder yet, every body needs a death the witch the witch in her ancient cottage abstains today from her passionate praxis, forgotten obligations and morals grow in her like turnips in a field where they might sew dreams. she is less stupid but equally unfree. she has just one body to be and infinite absences to need a ravaging wolf the ravaging wolf is voracious love and needs no lectures, he professes nothing and nihilism does not feature in him. it is not interest that determines beauty and value anywhere, so he runs like love does, low over the tired hill that listen to his paws move slow or swift or listless to leave meaning there, just life waiting to touch or hurt where nothing matters much but rending flesh and warm blood, innocent memories to touch.
David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. Up to date details of well over 1200 poems in various publications, both print and online, over the last three years or so are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. There you will also find details of several currently available books and chapbooks - including three print full lengths, five print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook.