| David McLean |
earning night we do not deserve night or how the silence falls an eternity of sky, we have not earned the cold, or ice freezing dreams to our lips, we do not deserve night or the distances stars pass to meet us, the night we serve we do not deserve it, have not earned its love December 2007 |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
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Red Pulp Underground
you burn you burn like a snow flake now, and you are madder and more sane than you think. words and worlds fall mouldering from your slow shoulders, through the smouldering typewriter there, like curses god hurled from heaven on the flowers, that they should bloom like cancer in its chemical expectancy, irradiating our vulgar mournings with the stultifying sun sitting snug in its smug sky, grinning its dumb unnatural lust down on us, sucking motherfucking love in these hopeless horizons tonight, bootstrapping buggery right into the hairy circle of horrid hermeneutics. O he-man Hermes! god of thieves and sodomy! i love you even less than you love me. November 2007 |
(upon (no poem intended) my shattered head, the shallow- at, the ominous beaver-rape scene stays in the poem) i censor no thing but censure everything and i shall go mad tonight again, and stab frantic the thing in the fridge oblivion it is to threaten my bitch with (but real men should just accept it if their bitch slaps them up a bit) Novmeber 2007 |
| they say they say that you shouldn't say, in poems, that the world is a fragmentary confusing bitch and soon you shall die but would often rather not; shouldn't mention that we are born old and sick and lonely together, that we shall all die alone, never having really understood much of what happened, you're not supposed to say that, it's naughty or something, at least so we're told November 2007 |
of the fiction "mental illness" diseases are words by doctors and the children nailed to their stinking crosses, their crucial fiction that rapes us, the lust for names and naming, replacing the deviant bodies now with dainty cows juggling loveless milk from mummy psychiatry's wizened udder, the boat that rows us across the stream of dreamed diseases, these psychopathogenic doctors row us thus, drunk on the obscenity of dreams, maddening mother at the rudder December 2007 |
of love love is the luscious resurrection of the dead limb, lithe night that paints its meaning through the nippled stars, the lonely jugular that takes the blade, the emptiness that resurrects itself in its playful game, mirroring our fruitful specular fictions - dreams and the body that believes them, love touching replete with nothing |