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David McLean

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


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

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


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.

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