David McLean


He has round 370 poems in or accepted by 163 publications in print or online since December 2006. Details are in his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com  He has a chapbook "a hunger for mourning" published by Erbacce press, on sale at Lulu @ http://www.lulu.com/content/1338495 and a forthcoming


old soul

when i was a child
my soul was old and tired
as the night

only now it grows alive
and wakes a minute
a foetus foul as light

maybe the souls of the dead
are brittle fleglings
gone forever

to wait there
in the final night
they share

nowhere

these trees

these trees that starve here
and freeze in their poverty
are life too, they stand here,
arrogant in their admirable
stupidity, and wait patiently
for the loving spring to touch
them with sun and rain -
if it can be bothered
to come again, as always,
and hurt us
with the obligation to touch,
and love something, the plain
inexorable demand that fills the sap
that roars in the trees, and the humble
blood that mumbles in us

it is life that lives a minute
and wants forever and that's
enough, we call it
love

the bone and the dust

instead of just the bone that binds
the red earth to the bloody dust,
there are pictures inside us
formatted as memory and love
and nothingness.

we are a veined topology carved out of quiescent
night and void by these fragile mechanisms
of tumescent desire that are the power we strive
for, like a cat who wants to lie higher
than the others, like all the mothers
who pinned the dark sun once

in a child's eyes, blind
as the sullen obligation life,
entropy's painful ghost
that haunts our spooky
night

the fountain we reel around with Morrissey

class="tip">
time is the fountain we reel around,
it is real to us, we thought once,
and remembers its recurrence
forever,

it takes us as children into its warm
coldness, contemporaneous solitude
and this devilish desuetude hearts
fall into after each fifteen minutes

is up again, but always the clock changes
us to love in its stomach, morning mourning
its last night again, tonight, and all the children
ancient and beautiful as days

while eternities remain, these days
unchanged
 


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