you shall be safe one day we shall live our blood
our empty & love is together, meat
this is shallow security, just what you feel
not reason; i shall touch you
& you shall obey me you are law
to me, freedom, dominant
too; everything i say is to make you cum,
everything is to make you safe
to make you mine
too; & i give you me, forever, blood
& punishment, Jennifer,
come to me
is appropriate & we count now
down, here our tomorrow
delineated more precisely
your insolent suffering
to touch you brutal, lover,
& we have this perversity
& callow understanding
our every absence, nothing
we live in & i have forest
for you, nipples & nonsense
this sterile reward, precisely
this history, i have pain
for you too, love & punishment.
& i shall hold you memory
forever, together forever
& world is madness
we do not need, impotent
language, we have flesh
intensity & earth; bodies
& meat we are, fingers
& inappropriate; we burn
the little girl Marx, offended by the perversity of the polymorphous body of capital, requires a great love
Jennifer, world is shoddy
answer, you wear night
& absence now, & we
fists & fingers, love
enough to punish
meat we shall be,
a crippled dancer;
& there is love here
madness, you i see
come to me,
& submission, soon
love in us, manic
slut i need you
for me, meaning
Out of the motherless cunt I shall make an obscure, total, obtuse and absolute soul
i shall cultivate your motherless & disordered cunt to make us a terrible heaven, Jennifer, & we shall live there a hope & a broken soldier i shall hold you forever pinned & listening as we do the things the pervert does in us, love.
it is Artaud’s dead little girl who blows her horror into the legs of living girls her monstrosity you shall spread before me my murder, the dead we pledge our allegiance, empty meaning arrogant as your nipple is that i may destroy you better, makes yours the vaster heaven we both may dwell in as i slap the shit out of you so love turns into truth & bruises, everything necessary as pain is you ever wished.
whatever you swallow is my existence i shall make you cum till nothing exists for us, slut, nothing but the skin the meat we blood we touch & sprint is blatantly nonexistent, it drowns itself in the ditch dogs piss in as they celebrate flesh & the genuine foul breath & the glorious filth that is living - & here we are the cunt, the cock, the balls the unforgivable stiff nipple.
we is one heart a genital death-wish & you shall torture me the stinging fingers of my hand to span the crack of your ass while you grin simpering humiliated ecstasy & trauma becomes oblivion i shall make nothing that ever happened really matter, not to me not to you; & you shall become my answer, i shall become your answer, we shall be the only answer: cum to feed on nipplefruit, there is history this & we are leaving.
& i shall lick my filth from you spreadeagled & tender a mercy hold your bruised flesh your glory your sex you shall before me, we shall worship the bruised & swollen cunt, the errant cock, for there is nothing more than the meaningless, the suffering patience of the intolerant flesh, that i love you more than sex or death & the world of the vanilla idiots is cum in the eyes of their forgotten god, every monstrous mother we have ever forgotten – memory murder the happy Apple of Sodom.
“under the tourniquet of pain”
So go on with your overblow of modest and erotic tonguing, the modest orgasms of the middleclass
bloodless poem, she said to me: “get butterfinger lube & more extravagant orgasms, consumption & inertia” because the revolution should scarcely be political for perverts “we have absence here, i tell you, Jennifer, & fucking bills to pay madness.” we dismember night the resident erection “our bodies are not filthy holes of blood the spirit washes its feet in & yet they are held by us disgusting” she tells me freedom, “pussy & the stench of pestilence”.
yet we have this courteous torture i would put up with nothingness enough, cake & sodomy romantic a memory, i wear you, Jennifer, a torn dress, a cozy psychosis - i need to look after you, i need to be you.
“it is what we do that creates us” she tells me “so we become cum & precum & what you eat of the bleeding, what you call meaning”. i have straps & canes memory to paddle your ass my brutal beast, my beautiful dreamer, my revolting poem.
“we hurt because we love”, she says, “otherwise there would be mediocre nothing – big cock, tight cunt, no fucking.”
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with three dogs. In addition to various chapbooks & two novels, McLean is the author of eight full-length poetry collections. Four of these are from Oneiros Books and called NOBODY WANTS TO TO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (June, 2013), THINGS THE DEAD SAY (Feb, 2014), OF DESIRE AND THE LESION THAT IS THE EGO (May, 2014) & ZARA & THE GHOST OF GERTRUDE (Oct, 2014). The eighth is OF DESIRE & THE DESERT at Black Editions Press. Two novels HENRIETTA REMEMBERS (2015) & FLESH & RESURRECTION (2015) are also at Oneiros Books.
Two recent chapbooks are also out Black Editions Press: PASSION IS DEAD FLESH & TOO MUCH HUMAN. A ninth full length is due from Antiseptic Press & called EMMA FOREVER. More information about McLean can be found at his blogs http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/ & http://davidcmclean.wordpress.com/.