it was night and patient emptiness
like a blind man playing a silent piano
made of arrogant paper, a boat
to sail several decaying oceans
of mesmerized salt; there is a hole
nowhere in this perfect plenum
and a poem is words with cancer,
blind men and pianos are everywhere,
it is night i do not care
here comes memory, married to the sea
like Lars Frederiksen, maybe,
and turning tricks for history
where time lives its silent night
that we splinter with desire and passionate
absence, locked down or free
like nomads might have been,
maybe, here comes memory
again, and the seed of meaning
married to the sea
morning comes like a generalized
nightmare, a generic sense
of something missing
although the trees and stones
are resolute being, not needing
this despicable freedom
we bear, wound through us like electric wires
and anxiety. morning comes with a sun
smelling like an essential absence
where time is always night and life,
confusion was sex
and confusion is quite alright
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, will be released by Unlikely Books in 2014. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog More information about David McLean can be found at his blog: MourningAbortion.blogspot.com.
del.icio.us
