three advance blurbs

These apply to the book forever Emma forthcoming from Craig Podmore’s Antiseptic Press at the end of this godforsaken summer. Check the link out, you can see Craig’s films & order books too.

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, in 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 and 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 and bring me the head of Marko X

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a sample from “of desire & the desert”

here are five poems from of desire & the desert. they happen to be mostly prose poems; the book is a mix of poems with & without more or less arbitrary line breaks. the book is reviewed in the post below by Dom Gabrielli & is on sale here at Black Editions Press.

the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels

night becomes timeless & the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels – here the children have died their paltry eternities & become obsolescent gods dancing & lighting the nothing with their hairy stars becoming mourning as it gets over melancholia & acknowledges the empty where no gods have ever been nor been needed except in the bizarre fantasies of shepherds & demons/

here we have lived forever, since Radio Caroline was a ghost in a threadbare cupboard on the worst transistors like a word stolen from nowhere or a broken guitar not playing in a graveyard/

we have lived forever already & eternity is here if we wake tomorrow, we have all this incessant madness to share, a radically empty world

lie & the face

a lie deploys the overall motoricity of the face,
a bizarre & subtle weapon;
with sexual potential like leaves falling from trees
as dreams//

it falls through history its inexorable apposition;
all the supple lumber
we have left scattered under the holy wind
everywhere, drops of water

& some antiquated resurrection/
the impotence of expressive potential
is a broken tower, a hanged man,
swords & the impossibility of murder//

we have every memory to reiterate patient
before the heart goes, also broken,
no longer working, a worthless motor,
subtle dead engine//

lies like becoming/
here we are nothing

temple destroyed

the temple is destroyed today, left us is the nasty ark of pornography not carrying many words worth mentioning but the sublime semiotics of flesh & the empty// words are no longer over any still waters, they drown in the mouths of morons & the world is always already forgotten

we have become the creature that both eats & is eaten, a night forever completely devoid of dreams worth having or any conceivable meaning// gormless Godot is drunk again & snoozing somewhere in the worthless heart of being

the nihilistic machine

& what we uncreate is a nothing machine ticking over nicely its voiding values its stretching out new lacks, vaster absences. there is time & space & all this empty content saying so little, nothing moral anywhere better than the neck of a priest or a policeman opening itself as the most perfect & decorous target ever. (he had a hard time at school, poor dear) & here is his worst enemy, words, & an unforgiving world//

there are many flags here waiting to burn

language messing around

language is not messing around being implausible freedom the play of the text intent upon enchaining everything else. the telephone is not talking itself, it is the ghost in it, uncanny & homely psychosis/

there is obviously nothing outside the text in a very specific sense, apart from that there are plenty of things, in the sense most idiots are thinking the dead man meant, there is everything else. the gods of the hearth are dismal dancers they are not Drogba running his perfection they are symptoms that are decaying of an empty that is ending & has always tended to want to end whenever a child played with a kitten or got down to some serious living/

 

too much human

There’s a new chapbook now out at Black Editions Press, too much human, with an intro & 30 poems by me, poems that for once are consistently about a particular theme: the decline in human intelligence consequent upon dysgenic fertility & the necessity for radical depopulation & antinatalism in order to preserve the ecology.

Here’s the blurb from A.D. Hitchin.

A beautiful hand grenade of a book that would probably serve as effective population control for the hysterically reactive and weak of heart. Throw into a crowd of SJWs and watch them die.

//A.D. Hitchin, author of CONSENSUAL

The book is available at this link.

desire & the desert

140 odd poems “inspired” by Deleuze & Guattari’s  Mille plateaux are now on sale here at Black Editions Press. Following is the blurb that Carolyn Srygley-Moore wrote for it:

“Despite the innate rationalism of the traditional philosopher ..something I’ve never excelled at … David McLean’s poetry does not fall flat into any sort of rigidity. An atheist, David, when asked, says that principles, & secular humanism, are not obligatory tenets of atheism, indeed, are counterproductive. Humanism presupposes a higher notion of the human, a reverence for it, yet David & his work retain and glitter with an irreverent & delightful disdain for humanity, the devolution of the human race. A scholar of and practitioner of ancient, modern & postmodern philosophies, the “body without organs” trembles in his poetry, inviting the reader though millions of conduits into a sensibility of ghost death love childhood in a voice original such as few modern voices I’ve confronted in my reading. Vistas open.”

It’s not very expensive for its size, so get one if you like.