The Works of David McLean 

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there in a cottage on a hill with a woman, five selfish cats, and a stupid puppy. Details of his three available full length books, various chapbooks, and over 700 poems in or forthcoming at more than 300 places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog at htpp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, whatever that is. He would very much like you to buy his books so he can drink more.


All Poems © David Mclean


orgasms and lobster

we stitched together memories from orgasms and lobster
because we where whores, and it seemed like a good idea
as the nineteen eighties grew more and more indistinct
and our breath smelt more like paint and amphetamines

like life again. we had no idea what happened to all the knives,
we had no idea why there were trees everywhere.
we stitched together memories from lobsters and telephones
for once there were orgasms there. not that we cared.



this conscious membrane, forgotten cloying celluloid

this cloying membrane of words,
thin spit on a nipple or a film of light
we have forgotten, playing our black and white
memories of a dead cinema once, film noir
and death, then resurrection in absentia,

these were all the deaths i went through before,
being bored. for ennui is an exhausted
task master who happily tortures us,
like seeing the same million cooing
turtle doves he gives to us as minutes

to live, never knowing which is which,
or who or what will wind up within us
to love forever like children did, so ghosts tell us,
yet children centuries dead, and we eagerly use
dangerous words like “forever,”

just to make death smell a little like heaven,
a safe haven that's a little like living
for all the dead people propped up
in this dusty uncomfortable cinema,
lifeless as children watching a film,

listless because nothing much happens,
except all the deaths already within them
cast in the roll of living things, all villains,
and noticing at last when the film ends
that the actors were all themselves



Water Frozen

the frivolous water that frittered away its summers
is frozen now, and so silence is enforced here

where it lies under the frightening morning,
as though it were night, and devils

were still walking over it; this lake
lying patiently and raped,

and waiting for some coming sun
to wake it up. it knows warm bodies

are love, and it knows nothing
is the same thing as living,

night and dreams and eternities
and the time that is written in them

like stone, the fingers of children
where memories end is heaven,

this water, and all the devils
who walk on it are men,

are memories since each childhood
ended, each heaven

just memories again