nothing lives

nothing lives forgiveness, as nothing
she lives her tedious forgiveness
that is simple replication of a day

in the middle earth the sea changed
we put there, the sea that rips variation

open, the spacious grace gave thus this dubious
us a hope or a caring nightmare there so devils in heaven
fall back to sleep after the rude awakening orgasm
that tempted again them, temporality is splashed
in the face of them, a ”then” again or a ”now”

how now in the black ring of dusty light eternity was
tonight, red as the eyes of heaven
reclining on the times that lie here
supine, these climes most prone to inversion of
perverse god changed the rules, blessed

us at the behest of nothing, the question, at least
he said (nothing was nothing) wait
until you’re dead, my friend - eternity quivers us
lust lost, again.

love proffered

love proffered qua oblation
belated vocation now is night
of naughty unseasonable reason

it offered what It gives (Being) gives
it itself, the auto-affective self, shelved
selves (us) given thus lust like
two ill-fated portions of falafel on mourning’s

raped plate. the sauce that juices us savory
as lust comes nothing again sin, “is” is comatose
within a building Derrida designed as if he

had existed his jealousies behind the jalousie
blind as night where kittens have bitten the cords
twice that bind the blinds, they have bitten this

twinned time twice

as days refrained

as days refrained from judging once we left less supple loves there
where mourning marked us with her insufferable sufferance
ice-cream crept over the dreamless surfaces of night
of naught taut stretched over the sockets eyes in the numb skull tired like life. We tried to pretend that quantum indeterminacy might jump up and become something motivating us, as were the clinamen freedom, as if anyone ever worried about stuff even once

as days refrained from being before we were human
we believed in duty tried
to leave them

nothing really left to laugh at after Farrah Fawcett disproved Hegel's major ontological theses
by being number four of three making Derrida terribly
pleased, with every reason

and yet there are pigeons filling every waiting room at the train station when they want to, and i still do not know how many there are, exactly, or even if their number is odd or even, the world over. I know that the tiles there can rapidly turn dirty. Numbers do not exist in us but we know that there is no real infinity, we know that there are vast gaping modalities where dreams curl up to go to sleep. there is or is not necessity, depending on who you're reading. there is realitas but no reality, when we are gone there will be, but no truth that there are,
trees

resonance

as if this body resonated
to being, and the reasoning
brain vibrated to the violence,
to the gentle motion of the beings
around it, resonating with the dance
of atoms and particles, partial
to storing their limpid truth within
sinless cognition, words, or limp condoms
without dicks in them, memories
where orgasms were, again,

and yet it is this torture
at the hands of sadistic whores
like words, carving blind eyes
into the meat, impregnating
our incarnation with the slimy
seed of dreams; as if gobbling god were
greedy for meaning, semantics or semen,
his horrible cognition otherwise nothing,
and yet, there is no truth in us
or him, so fuck him, his holy
logos is us, this void and nothing

a train stopped at an empty station

history is a train stopped at an empty station
where there is no water. no body ever pretended
corpses are going anywhere, and souls are going
no further. philosophy teaches us more and more,
or would be much obliged if we said it did, analysis.
thus there is both progress and a growing corpus
of answers, the corpse of meaning, in fact – not
very sexy considering it is acknowledgedly a dead
body;

whatever deconstruction, which, as it grows old and ill,
gets compromised by religion, like lots of other cripples,
might think. (and whenever Derrida says “the proof of this
can be formalized” he means “by someone else,
who know how to formalize things; e.g.
not me.” who would actually stop to do that?
not he)

nevertheless, teleological explanations are only ever valid
in the biological sciences. these are not real sciences
either. they are full of shit, just like living animal
things

this is because of striving and departing orgasms -
none of them an appropriate theme
befitting a man

or the inanimate insensate grave
that just is, operationally defined
as “anywhere we stuff rubbish”
and thus it understands
exactly what befits a man.

in the only sense that ever mattered
“and” and “but” are exact synonyms -
just like “corpses” and “children”

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 Oxford, and an unconnected MA in philosophy, much later, from Stockholm. Details of his three available full length poetry books, various chapbooks, and almost 850 poems in or forthcoming at 340 places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog, AUTOEROTIC ELEGIES. He never submits by snail mail since he has little money and since he loves, or at least doesn't have anything against, trees. There's a new chapbook of dead snakes atRain over Bouville, another is coming from Poptritus Press in the summer sometime. A novella Henrietta forgets is forthcoming from Isms Press. Round the beginning of next year a large anthology of his poetry called laughing at funeralsEpic Rites Publications, as well as a 50 poem chapbook called Hellboundwhich is appearing sooner.

Read more work from David McLean.