new book

As previously planned, a book is due soon from Craig Podmore’s Antiseptic Press, Forever Emma. (I sort of changed my mind about quitting writing.

Here are some blurbs and then the cover.  

Forever Emma is easily McLean’s best endeavor so far: while encapsulating the atheistic manifestations in his prior works (ghost death blood corpse absence distance) these elements are breathed to life, as to living characters, through valid love for his Emma. Love is not a neutral topic, and David makes certain that it stays that way. Emma is alive, yet full of resplendent contradiction, conflict, confusion. Time is beaten down, means nothing at all except something that the love David writes of destroys. There is nothing past touch, the poet writes, & I say, as an avid follower of David’s work, that to beat time down, to make love immortal, is the poet’s endgame.

Carolyn Srygley-Moore, author of Ode to Horatio and other saviors & Miracles of the blog: a series


In this collection, David McLean has hit the full maturity of his poetry: a deep skin awareness/memory of every touch of mind and body. Love in the desperate chaos/shit surrounding McLean and his Emma. He/It swallows us and spits us out again, ever-questioning and re-reading. I love this collection.


Reuben Woolley, author of skins & dying notes, editor of I am not a silent poet and The Curly Mind

David McLean’s words rip through nerve collage unleashing hoodoo whispers as well as unpredictable outbursts that crush linear glide. brace yourself for a wild ride through heaven and hell collapsing in on themselves. it’s more than worth the price of the ticket.

Mark Hartenbach – author of the lost bastard chronicles & bring me the head of Marko X

 David McLean’s latest poetry collection “Forever Emma” is his best work to date. The poems scream unadulterated passion — reading like tortured fever dreams of obsession, madness, absolution, redemption.

Stripped to the bone, we find a love story — witnessing not only a fusion of selves but also a coming apart and a reassembling. We’re presented with a thirsty all-consuming love — a love beyond absences, a love beyond even death.

To quote McLean from the poem “she is insect”:

…she is madness in my disgraceful veins, the changeless divine that is Demonica the eternal dressed in words & torture; i am here to worship her, i am hers to murder

In the midst of his more graphic images of blood and flesh and scarred skin, McLean offers up images of sheer beauty that linger. The one that will stay with me for the longest time appears in the poem “gray.”

it is gray here & i love you – as if every child everywhere were playing a trumpet & nothing would ever happen again except you and i touching

Poetry doesn’t get much better than that.

Barbara H. Moore, Author of Dancing On Broken Glass

I love your word choices. “I prefer the fang.” Now the song from “Lost Boys” is playing, “Cry Little Sister” Your love for Emma really comes through. The dark god awful eviscerating truth of real erotic, romantic love in all its complexity.

Misti Rainwater, author of Bullshit Rodeo

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Michael Mc Aloran
longshadowfall
Editions du Cygne 2017
book review by David McLean

Mc Aloran’s new book is not about participating in any sort of Irish tradition, although the fact that he is Irish has obviously created an expectation that he be expected to care about Beckett & the other notable Irish writers, if there are any, especially since he does not create conventional prose in his texts. It is not evident in what way Mc Aloran follows in any Irish tradition given that he has developed an individual voice. Mc Aloran takes this subsumption of his work under the patriotic assumption of Irishness & some regional identity qua writer with some grace, since it must be very frustrating.
What the books are basically about is the circumstance that existence is extremely temporary & not driven by some fundamental meaning whereby things fit into their various places & are essentially & unproblematically what they are. We are loathsome ugly clumps of meat – the failing echo of which Mc Aloran writes is moronic repetition, it is the pathetic quest for meaning: there are no razors that do not have blood on them, nothing that does not rust, no flesh forever except the repetitive return of more worthless flesh. The echo might be an originary echo, the sounds that come out first are already echoes. The road, everywhere, is marked by shit, it is full of shit. A perfect place for the shit that is humanity to drag itself back to nothing.

I think that Mc Aloran would agree with my assessment of humanity that I developed from Homer Simpson “People do things because they are stupid &die because they deserve to” – there is carrion everywhere: people die so often that it is (almost) not even funny anymore.

The best aspect of Mc Aloran is the gloom. There is no trace of the inability that the later (& better) Becket regrets as he notices that words do not work, they just lie on the page & suck. This is because what Mc Aloran is portraying is the fact that meaning is not there, life sucks because it is meat that fails to mean.

When we die we will have failed to speak, we will have failed to mean, we will have failed to matter. This has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with modern society or any sort of political criticism, that’s just the way it is. We are left with “speech lack of claim/ words dead foreign ice encasing fathom untimely said

It helps to be mad, it helps to be drunk. Buy this book. It’s available from the usual culprits & the publishers here.