of things and denotata

david mclean   of things and denotata   objects are denotata and no more than exactly that for us even when fucking now, the grunting “Cartesian subject” was not the “subject” for Scholastic Descartes but the ob-jective sub-iectum projected like an objectionable orgasm on the raped face of religion   or probably fumbling a fuck at Nothing, to which i hereby surrender, give this “me” to blood-thirsty Buddha and the Nothing we are the Lack of, and came into, as we crept out greasy as Oedipus from the stealthy cunt that fucked us up.   there are no things only … Continue reading of things and denotata

pseudo-reflexive haikun and pseudo-reflexive tanka

david mclean   pseudo-reflexive haikun     words are indices signs of the gaping Nothing – the Lack that we are   this pointing at poems is a point of pointlessness deixis qua shit   pointing at a poem will hopefully always miss (endeictic this)   pseudo-reflexive tanka   my probative lie (reflexive endeictic) localizes this – the shit that misses itself (usually very truthful) Continue reading pseudo-reflexive haikun and pseudo-reflexive tanka

the aetiology of mankind

david mclean   the aetiology of mankind   the sickness language translates us from bodies to a diseased dream Being just a spot of Nothing   conventional signs like poems are indexical glyphs of tomorrow unwritten or cryptically unliving, an open coffin funeral for meaning   meaning reborn as a memory and a whore   (poetic use of semantics is a castrated cat fucking, he still sort of does it but there are no kittens losing loaded mittens or Mitsein)   (or time   “Being itself” the strife is not within this not “His”)   Continue reading the aetiology of mankind

mental health

david mclean mental health   what fails us today is not a psyche raped as a baby but a whole rapist society inventing the obligation of the raped and taken   inside us is nothing a box of nothing, a mind inside the body that defines us babies   what fails us is the listless fingers of the state touching places they do not belong in, its children abused and used to feed factories, factors drugged by society’s evil dealers, psychiatrists are priests and policemen, devils and the lies they feed us inside   problems are is this succulent stasis, … Continue reading mental health

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. He has a BA in History from Balliol, and an unconnected MA in philosophy, much later, from Stockholm. Details of his three available full-length books, various chapbooks, and almost 800 poems in or forthcoming at over 330 places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He never submits by snail mail since he has little money and since he loves, or … Continue reading David McLean

Painters’ Exhalations 18

Painters’ Exhalations 18 —after John Everett Millais’ Ophelia a poem by Felino Soriano Your elegant mouth unfastened, poised to speak a delicate discourse outlining the answer to its palpable question. Humid whisper, absent from the tongue unable to tremble reason for such a finale. Breaths reside haunting on horses galloping across the hours deteriorating your remains. Flowers and tearful willow mounted above your constant looking north. Encased by womb of watered arms, the shiver of you no longer causing ripples of a terrifying language. Truncated mangled wings attached to your precious stillness, disallowing flight from your new home and past … Continue reading Painters’ Exhalations 18

Painters’ Exhalations 19

Painters’ Exhalations 19 -after Pablo Picasso’s Harlequin and His Friend a poem by Felino Soriano Four eyes trapped on a fixation writing itself naked in a sentence of space. Such a beautiful lean atop a table’s muscular back, the points of elbows massaging and resting within a classic collocation. Drinks evaporated, changing containers of glass to the sliding silk of moistened throats. Absent as emotion in thwarting killers is conversational mazes leading to awkward obstruction, a forcing to excavate. Paired in planted quiet, they’ve alerted others with concrete stares, alone, leave our style of abstract togetherness. Continue reading Painters’ Exhalations 19