Saturday, September 9, 2017

Phenomenal industry

I have, by dint of consuming large amounts of coffee, spent the better part of three days editing & ordering two novels as well as a 200 page collection of shorter pieces by my very talented fiancée Jennifer S. Chesler.

I seriously believe that nobody alive is writing anything even remotely comparable to her work. I am enormously proud that she considers me worthy of her affections.

I hope that these collections reach print form swiftly, & her works will be read for many years


Friday, September 8, 2017

Down & Out in Muncie, Indiana

After being in a psychiatric ward & a suicide attempt, Jennifer S. Chesler describes feeling like she's nothing. There is no nothingness, though, so ultimately one has nothing to say or feel.

Original post at this link, this is one of the pieces we put today in her resurrected book fragments. This is very intense, it's basically autobiographical & I love her & am enormously proud of her. Here the piece is:

Homeless shelter. I could have had fleas, but instead I have hives. Everything is about me. There is no deviation from the pain of existence. I remain consistent in my efforts to avoid writing about it. I don't write. I write nothing. I remain closed to my pain. I no longer have the same buffer against reality that I had when on drugs. I don't know anything anymore. I know nothing. That is all I can say. Even writing this is difficult, and it's not about anything. Listening to music hurts. Everything is a reminder of having had a home. I have nothing. I hate everyone who has abandoned me. I hate the world. A better way. This is where I am. The name is a euphemism. I have a typewriter in the corner, but I don't use it. I have no paper. I have no home. I have no cat. I have nothing. These words get me nowhere. I am nowhere. I have nothing. I can say this with all certainty though I know nothing. Nothing is certain. My neck hurts from bad pillows. I can't shower. I have hives. This is what I have. Hives. The kind induced by stress. I am allergic to stress. I am allergic to my life. I have nothing. My clothes are second-hand. My coat is a pimp coat. I went to New Jersey to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins. I wore a pimp coat there. It was embarrassing for me. I hate T. I hate my parents. I don't have enough money for anything. I have nothing to do. I am unable to work. I am unable to do anything. I can barely write, barely. "I I I I I." Everything is about me. The music I listen to makes sense to me, but I don't know why or how. Nothing is the only thing that makes sense to me. The void of existence, this having nothing. I am at a loss for words. I write out of necessity. There is no substance. There are women with children and lovers getting out of prison. They need to hide. A better way hides them. This is the undisclosed location. I met the taxi at a McDonald's. I was in the rain. Were you partyin', she asks. What? Partyin'? Partying? No. Were you workin'? No, I was sleeping. Someone woke me up from a bad nightmare. It wasn't a dream. I struggled to wake up. There was no other world to wake up to. I was amidst pure chaos. My whole being is called into question. I don't know who I am anymore. Maybe I never knew this. Maybe I was staving this off for years, this fate of mine. I don't know. I don't know anything. I only know the pain of nothingness, of having nothing, of being nothing, of writing nothing. I am the pain of not knowing or being anything. None of my old friends associate with me. I am loss. I am pain. I am nothing. I am the remainder of an odd subtraction of being and nothingness. Sartre didn't know anything either. I tried to kill myself twice. I thought I'd have been dead. Have been. I thought I'd get past this part. I thought I could get past the inevitable fate of the nightmare. I thought I could escape. I thought you were dead to me. Nothing self, you came back to me. She ain't shit, she says. She's nothing. I am nothing. I am not even shit. I don't exist on a map. I come from nowhere. I go nowhere. I have lost everything. I can't think of anything else. I am disgusted by myself but can't shower. I smell like a homeless person because I am homeless. There are mice running about here. No one has seen any in the sleeping rooms yet, yet being the operative word. Yet. Not yet. There are not mice in there yet, not in the room where you sleep. The children seem to have gotten used to me though. Two of them will call me by name now. Since I went to New Jersey. I am disoriented. I have a shelter cough. I have hives. These are things I have. I do not claim them as my own though because these claims mean inevitable loss. Maybe I should claim them as my own then. I claim shelter cough and hives. These things are mine. Do say rape as well. Rape. Don't say rape to T. Rape. The opposite of rape. Angel. She wants a distraction. Chooses the stripper over me. I want a distraction. I am the antithesis of possession. I am the antithesis of Angel. I have nothing and am nothing. I am the year of my birth. I am a newborn nothing. Sartre and Henry Miller were nothing. Chaucer was nothing. Nothing that existed exists now. The void of becoming. The apparent heir of nothingness. I am a newborn nothing. I repeat myself to save words. I am thrifty in my solipsism. I am alone in the mirror. I spell mirror in French. There is a remnant of my past. I would take you out with me. I would take you to the mirror and make you look at my puffy face next to yours. I would make us look at each other in the mirror until our faces turned blue like corpses. I would make you die with me, slowly and by part. First our faces would die together. Our extremities next. Our trunks last, and in our trunks the hearts finally. Not our hearts anymore, just the hearts. They come last. The hearts come last. There is nothing in the brains so they come first. We've been emptied of thought. We are death incarnate. We love ourselves despite death. We love our suicide attempts. We love you and hate you. We love nothing and hate nothing. We tried to asphyxiate ourselves with plastic bags taped around our necks. The suffocation was extreme. We stop ourselves from becoming. We are death. We are asphyxiated anyway, this time by existence. Life is a trap for death. There is only a wish for death. I try to stop myself from wishing for death, but I cannot wish for anything else. Death, yes. I want to come with you, into you. A lover for eternity, the rest of decomposition. I am everything and nothing. I am love and hate. I am nothing. I hate these words. I love these words. I hate and love everything. I hate Angel and T. I hate my parents and sometimes my brother. I hate them more than life itself. I hate life. I hate lists. I hate waiting for nothing. I am always waiting for nothing. I wait for nothing to end. There is no peace and death. I am forced alive by not killing myself well enough to die. I am a failure. I have failed to die successfully. I didn't take all the pills in one go. I should have taken more. I had them. What was I waiting for? Two goes. No discernible death, only a semblance of it in life, the mired existence that remains in the traumatic aftermath of failed suicide attempts. I am nothing. I breathe even though I tried not to. The asphyxiation was too much for me. Why do I hate my brother sometimes when he has done nothing? Because he has done nothing but take me to the hospital. I didn't want to go to the hospital. Once there I didn't want to leave. I don't understand myself. Someone got shot by his father. The inverse of patricide. It lives in me, the inverse of self-creation. I want to destroy myself fiber by fiber. I want to die. I want to stop existence and get off the bus. I am not waiting for a bus. I am waiting to halt it. I am waiting for the bus to crash. I wait for the waves to drown me. But there is not an ocean here in the middle of the country. I wait for nothing. No waves drown me. I want to leave the country. I have nothing. I am nothing. I wait for nothing. The ocean was a symbol for life. I was drowned by existence. I was nothing then as I am nothing now. I was always no more than nothing. I saw myself as interminably verbose. I was articulate. Now I look forward to bad potato salad, the kind that is sweetened. I eat Cheez-It crackers. I splurge on empty calories because I am empty. I am empty and full of shit. I lie to everyone about everything. I am running out of cigarettes. About that I can tell you the truth. I am even good at typing. I am even good at sitting in bed. I am even good. I am even good. One day we will laugh about the parson's coat. I will not always look like a pimp. I will not always wear my father's clothes. I will not cut off an ear or even two. Even two. Even two. I know nothing. I am nothing. I am the inevitable consequence of my actions. I tried to commit suicide. I understand your wish for death. I am coughing my lungs out over it. I spurt up my insides. I cough them onto your plate. Here are my lungs. Here is my heart. I have no brain to give you. But take my heart and lungs, please. Take them and run.


Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Horror Sleaze Trash

Four texts by Jennifer Chesler & myself will be appearing in Horror Sleaze Trash, which is another highly recommended publication.

I have never written collaboratively before, but am enormously pleased by the things we have been writing.

At this link there is some stuff from me there in 2011. At this link there is some stuff from 2016.


Sunday, September 3, 2017

work with Jennifer Chesler from Creative Destruction Press

Jennifer Chesler my hot fiancée, & I have been writing what we call pornoetry, filthy texts, because that's the way we roll, motherfuckers.

Creative Destruction Press have been kind enough to accept five of these for publication in their forthcoming anthology Gutter, Grimy, Scumfuck, the title of which naturally attracted us.

Not sure when it's forthcoming but submission are not closed yet, so in a while.



Friday, August 11, 2017

The Licentiam

Five poems about fiancée here at The Licentiam, an awesome zine for experimental erotic work. 

Jennifer Chesler

Here is a link to the blog of my brilliant fiancée Jennifer Chesler. There are old excerpts from novels in progress. She shall, however, be writing again soon, so new awesome work will be available there.

EDIT: Jennifer & I are preparing an MSS of "filthy literature"/"pornoetry" which is neither erotica nor pornography, but simply about the details of human existence as they manifest themselves in good hard fucking between decent everyday perverts.


Friday, August 4, 2017

Full of Crow

Thanks to editor Lynn Alexander, three from forthcoming book in Full of Crow.

new book soon

As previously planned, a book is due soon from Craig Podmore's Antiseptic Press, Emma forever. (I sort of changed my mind about quitting writing.)

Here are some blurbs and then the cover.  

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, as 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 & 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 & 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 & bring me the head of Marko X


David McLean’s latest poetry collection “Forever Emma” is his best work to date. The poems scream unadulterated passion -- reading like tortured fever dreams of obsession, madness, absolution, redemption.

Stripped to the bone, we find a love story -- witnessing not only a fusion of selves but also a coming apart and a reassembling. We’re presented with a thirsty all-consuming love -- a love beyond absences, a love beyond even death.

To quote McLean from the poem “she is insect”:



…she is madness in my disgraceful veins, the changeless divine that is Demonica the eternal dressed in words & torture; i am here to worship her, i am hers to murder


In the midst of his more graphic images of blood and flesh and scarred skin, McLean offers up images of sheer beauty that linger. The one that will stay with me for the longest time appears in the poem “gray.”



it is gray here & i love you – as if every child everywhere were playing a trumpet & nothing would ever happen again except you and i touching


Poetry doesn’t get much better than that.


Barbara H. Moore, Author of Dancing On Broken Glass


I love your word choices. "I prefer the fang." Now the song from "Lost Boys" is playing, "Cry Little Sister" Your love for Emma really comes through. The dark god awful eviscerating truth of real erotic, romantic love in all its complexity.

Misti Rainwater, author of Bullshit Rodeo






Thursday, June 22, 2017

longshadowfall review


Michael Mc Aloran
longshadowfall
book review by David McLean

Mc Aloran’s new book is not about participating in any sort of Irish tradition, although the fact that he is Irish has obviously created an expectation that he be expected to care about Beckett & the other notable Irish writers, if there are any, especially since he does not create conventional prose in his texts. It is not evident in what way Mc Aloran follows in any Irish tradition given that he has developed an individual voice. Mc Aloran takes this subsumption of his work under the patriotic assumption of Irishness & some regional identity qua writer with some grace, since it must be very frustrating.
What the books are basically about is the circumstance that existence is extremely temporary & not driven by some fundamental meaning whereby things fit into their various places & are essentially & unproblematically what they are. We are loathsome ugly clumps of meat – the failing echo of which Mc Aloran writes is moronic repetition, it is the pathetic quest for meaning: there are no razors that do not have blood on them, nothing that does not rust, no flesh forever except the repetitive return of more worthless flesh. The echo might be an originary echo, the sounds that come out first are already echoes. The road, everywhere, is marked by shit, it is full of shit. A perfect place for the shit that is humanity to drag itself back to nothing.
I think that Mc Aloran would agree with my assessment of humanity that I developed from Homer Simpson “People do things because they are stupid & die because they deserve to” - there is carrion everywhere: people die so often that it is (almost) not even funny anymore.
The best aspect of Mc Aloran is the gloom. There is no trace of the inability that the later (& better) Becket regrets as he notices that words do not work, they just lie on the page & suck. This is because what Mc Aloran is portraying is the fact that meaning is not there, life sucks because it is meat that fails to mean.
When we die we will have failed to speak, we will have failed to mean, we will have failed to matter. This has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with modern society or any sort of political criticism, that’s just the way it is. We are left with “speech lack of claim/ words dead foreign ice encasing fathom untimely said
It helps to be mad, it helps to be drunk. Buy this book. It’s available from the usual culprits & the publishers here.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Stray Branch

Delighted to have poems in The Stray Branch this fall. The issue maybe purchased at the link or downloaded. Huge thanks to Debbie Berk for taking the stuff.

Here is the hard copy at this link.

The digital download is at this link.  

Monday, March 27, 2017

The Curly Mind

Delighted to have five things at The Curly Mind

she is insect

here is beasts

suicide fingers

if i were to sleep

&

confusion was

Thanks Reuben Wooley.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

"The Gods are Dead" - Joanna C. Valente



Joanna C. Valente
The Gods are Dead (2015)
(Deadly Chaps Press)
review by David McLean

This book by Joanna C. Valente is like a naturalization of Tarot & occult symbolism reflected in the bizarre unlikelihood of real lives since the symbolic figures of the major arcana are used to symbolize something of contemporary relevance. It's beautifully illustrated by Ted Chevalier & the book itself is very well made.

Valente is good at titles: “The Moon is Always Horny”, “The Hermit Used to be the Guitarist in Your Favorite Band”, “Judgment Promises Life After the Internet”, “The Hanged Man Will Ghostwrite Your Life”, & so on;

I am dead as a forgotten
man, no mind / I am a broken vessel.
(The Hanged Man Will Ghostwrite Your Life)

says the lamb, before he “spreads, purrs into a shit/ angel”. These are poems of sacrifice & the futility of sacrifice, the necessity of ritual, & whatever heaven a religion imagines might exist will not fit us.

He measures his life by expiration
Dates / Milk in the fridge has two
weeks til death / bananas grow
black as the inside of a coffin
(Death Rides a Pale Horse)

I have mentioned titles, & the next excerpt is from a classic:

... He wakes alone
the next morning, his back

rough from ropes. Lilies
spread across the bed - petals
of who he will become
(At Night, Temperance Works as a Dominatrix

Landscapes are supposed to be desolate, & the imagery of these poems invites the reader to conceptualize themselves more creatively. The most pivotal poem seems to be this one:

the air streams
stillness as if someone
died while making
love

He has never made
love.
Instead he cuts up
books
to orgasm. ...

......

Someone could stop;
instead chose to be
somebody.
(The Hierophant Builds the Bridge Between Deity and Humanity)

Again this book by Valente is an excellent read, & heartily to be recommended. You don't need to know or care about the Tarot, the poems create their own symbolism & the archetypes are more universal. The books is on sale here: http://www.deadlychaps.com/joanna-valente/


"Marys of the Sea" - Joanna C. Valente


Joanna C. Valente
Marys of the Sea
ELJ Publications
review by David McLean
Obviously with a religious reference in the title, this book is full of powerful poems that create an alternative mythology for the female body in the face of abuse & the exigencies of motherhood together with the obvious alternative, abortion. This is important, since conceptualization and categorization of items within a reality influence how one feels able to interact with and/or challenge that reality. I shall refrain from discussing any feminist message since i am rather old-school & consider that a man does not have a feminist consciousness since he cannot, & feminism involves conscious awareness, with an epistemological privilege that a person possesses qua oppressed. Were I to do so, then Empire would speak, not really me. But the dispossession & lack of rootedness & reality is a general theme, it speaks of the lack of autochthonousness that marks the deconstructed self, as bodies scramble in the dirt for identities worth having,.
We are only human, says Valente, when someone is looking. The self is not something we have, just like problems aren't something we have outside of a social context. The main problem with the late-capitalist socius is that nobody gives a flying fuck who you are: everything, everybody, every body is an object to be used & exploited; it is a resource. & again the oppressed oppress best. It is “some of the women in town” who want Mary punished, just as it is women who very often insist on FGM.
The book is full of perfect references to other poetry. I want to quote in full one short poem that like one that I myself did more verbosely is a tribute “Lullaby” by Auden. Valente's sampling is much better, though:
Humans, yr sleeping head lies
on arms with no bones.
burn beauty away
with time. Children prove it true.
For now, lie here in my arms
our guilt entirely beautiful.

(Lullaby on the Half Shell)
I don't read much poetry anymore. This might sound exaggerated, but Valente's poems are a sort of belated consolation for the death of Sylvia Plath. I think they're that good, & you would be a fool not to read them.


"at vacuum's edge, Michael Mc Aloran


Michael Mc Aloran
at vacuum's edge
Black Editions Press
review/blurb by David McLean

this chapbook concerns what we have as if to say. when faced by the other than. it is no alienation exactly but the necessary incongruity of the being human with the actual instantiation of all that within the brute meat we sort of want to torture even if the other may conceivably be rather like us

it is also of collisions – a collidescope, as he puts it, mirroring where the worlds minds drag around to imprison them bump into the other cunt.

again/ upon/ sodden crimson red recollect of
bounty’s trace of unforgiven/ dries the eyes what
depth till following lack abort what sung as if to
drift matter of forgotten as before once said
eradicated/ engulfed once more/ yet mocking the
reek/ (tread from this life disease what will stake
claims upon the ocean’s filtering lights)/ and the
bitten song/ a neck snapped in a gild of apathy/
nothing of the tears that demarcate the surface/
bore holes into the surface quadrant/ nothing
known...

the problem of epistemology is not that nothing is known but that maybe what is mostly worthy of knowing is just the nothing/ that which one should designate almost imperceptibly by the via negativa.

whatever is in some sense given is not the significant. we cannot signify what matters which is not that nothing does. this chapbook is as far from nihilism as it is possible to be & whoever says it is just that is as ignorant as those who attribute the same alleged perversity to me.



Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Unlikely Mark V

The three poems promised over the weekend are now up at Unlikely Stories at this link.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Unlikely Stories

Pleased to say that three new things by me are coming in Unlikely Stories, Mark 5, probably next week.

I have had quite a few things there before but, as noted, am remiss about submitting nowadays, unless asked. 

I take this opportunity of again mentioning the review for of desire & the desert here by Dom Gabrielli. The book is linked at this blog, feel free to buy one.  


Saturday, October 29, 2016

The Stray Branch

With great thanks to Debbie Berk, editor, I am pleased to say that there will be six by me in The Stray Branch, Spring/Summer 2017 issue. I don't bother to submit much nowadays, but I've had work there before & Debbie is cool, so I thought "wtf" & sent some. A great magazine, & I'm very  pleased to be there again.

Here's the 2012 issue i was in (Vol 10) at Amazon.

Here's Vol. 5, from way back in prehistory, 2010, also at Amazon..

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Curly Mind

Pleased to have some poems up at The Curly Mind, thanks to Reuben Wooley, the editor there. Here are the links

what is forgotten 

the old men

in the evening

as Object A was saying

winter slides

These were only written a few days ago, so great thanks to Reuben for his speed there. 







Saturday, October 8, 2016

latest three at Amazon

Pleased to say that i roused myself from my degenerate torpor long enough to get the last three books, all from Black Editions, posted at Amazon.

Here is the latest chapbook, too much human, a book about overpopulation & the necessity for less human in the world.

& here is of desire & the desert, a sort of reaction to the second main book by Deleuze & Guattari, Mille plateaux. This is reviewed by Dom Gabrielli a little further down in this blog. Also a blurb there by Carolyn Srygley-Moore. This one is a full length thing, since the book that it was written while reading is a long fucker. 

& last, & undoubtedly least, we have passion is dead flesh, another chapbook about a variety of different & unrelated things. but as always based on the philosophy of desire & an unholy combination of vitalism & nihilism, as books should be.


Friday, August 19, 2016

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/

Monday, August 15, 2016

Dom Gabrielli reviews "of desire & the desert"


I must thank Dom Gabrielli copiously for this enormously learned review of of desire & the desert. Said book is on sale at this link. As Dom will know, Deleuze, above all else, was enormously fond of Benny Hill    

Deleuze and Mclean, unlikely bed partners, A Thousand Plateaux and of desire and the desert.


it is not tools but the horrid state of masturbatory technology & intellectual impotence that makes us such scum//

The ‘Deleuzian’ century closed and its successor brought a dramatic return of the repressed as the scared masses took fright and clamoured not ‘with’ the tremors of Being but rather ‘for’ the One and its demonized Opposites, all the dreaded identities. Because as all of us know, closet Deleuzians or not, we are never one nor another, but certainly many, a mass, a crowd, a bunch and no one is supposed to win this life-game which only despots take seriously. With this return of Identity came necessarily the society of control. Deleuze had correctly predicted whose model was the motorway where freedom becomes solely an illusion, where everything one does is visioned, catalogued and potential to be used against us at any time. All that ensues is clockwork orange, and we as citizens are all decidedly lemons!

A Thousand Plateaux, written with Guattari was probably the most overwhelming non-poetic reading experience I had as a student and many evenings were spent reading it aloud with my fellow students at NYU in my ground floor flat in the East Village, 3rd and 7th to be precise. Certain plateaux were read with a fine tooth comb, others were ignored and returned to at a later date. Deleuze and Guattari had after all encouraged artist-readers, non-philosophers, to take what they could when they could, to create their own machines, their own assemblages with whatever was at hand because after all the question was always: how to get out, how to let fresh air in, how to evacuate the suffocation of despotic institutions like universities which already back then (1990) were fabricating professor-business men-vendors with theories for sale and ideologies in suitcases to spread over willing student minds for pricey diplomas.

Deleuze and Guattari were unteachable in those days and any mention of them provoked chaos in the lecture rooms. Frequent adjectives were ‘unreadable,’ ‘incomprehensible,’ ‘dangerous’… That is when you could have real fun with concepts such as ‘deterritorialization.’ Much laughter was had at the expense of the advocates of the fashionable doxas of Lacarne, Derridar and Barrethes…

M
cLean I imagine had many a roar of laughter reading A Thousand Plateaux and as good poets will, his readings and impressions made their ways into notebooks and pads. Lucky are those today who can read these immensely enjoyable vignettes which not only play freely with the spirits of the glorious nomad thinkers but place their concepts firmly in the society of control, 2016.

It is the destiny of thinker poets to be overlooked and ignored because they fall between categories, foul of classifications and ideologies. Are they really poets, these folk who cite Hegel and Heidegger? Can thoughts be expressed into poetic form anyway? Let’s face it, the same arguments have been raised against many an illustrious predecessor. No need to mention names. But today, I am told, we are all poets. We all have little secrets to share. We have emotions to dress in romantic script. We can take up poetry, like a gardener picks up his spade to dig his first vegetable patch. Deleuze himself hated French literature for its psycho-analytical bent, for its obsessions and perversions. The superiority of Anglo-American (and he forgot to mention Irish) literature being its lines of flight…. its becomings…. But language is a recalcitrant field. The act of writing reminiscent of Sisyphus, push a frosty boulder upward, ever upward, to the unattainable star. He probably won't enjoy me saying this, but in this regard McLean is a traditional poet, as much as any today. He perfects his craft in solitude. Book by book, the idiom improves, singing, laughing, thinking. “One must have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star.”

McLean's diagnosis is spot on.

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

here there echoes the cretinous giggle of the pornographer
priest with his active camera, his hymns to null & the absent…
there are no honest warriors left today

(face of the despot)


What perhaps even Deleuze in his aristocratic brilliance could not presage was the rise of the pornopticon which from priest to bureaucrat, from the Kremlin to the Pharmahouse, enable the States of the world, all together and without exception, to re-territorialize desires and ‘pervertize’ the young, tying their memories and developments to a morbid technology which handicaps sexuality and puts resistance to sleep in a nihilistic heaven where even the worst fanatics with furious machetes cannot escape their immediate return as cartoons. ‘the men who police thought are not actual policemen who/would hesitate to think, were this so much as possible in their/ debilitated condition, preferring to the lick the sweaty nipples of/ evil & devote themselves to a smarmy fascism//‘

In his most recent tome, McLean comes to terms with Deleuzian concepts in a 21st century world. The parabola of the boomerang of perversion is minutely plotted by McLean using the concepts and assemblages of Deleuze and Guattari as tool boxes. This is no mean feat and we must applaud vociferously, just as often laughing at the flippant tangles which the poet inextricably ties the reader into.

let’s axiomatize indeterminism
to make the crazies go away
& keep the right white faces in mental
heaven; there are shapes to show
maybe, we do not want to know them
mostly, forever sounds so lonely
you know, like nightmares
with nowhere to go

(of axioms & other monsters)


If Outside is Desire. If the Open is constantly recaptured by ‘answers provoked’ and twisted into a ‘smarmy fascism,’ leaving poetry the only right to destroy the ideology of the Inside and resist against the grotesque State machine, folding onto imbecility a simulacrum of a poem which can be read as both flippant self-indulgence and fulgurance and illumination, because both low and high culture, pornography and art, co-exist like the evil and the good sister in Bluebeard’s cave. The simulacrum so good, you tire to distinguish one from the other.

If all of the above, the desert? If Desire is the adolescence of thought, its necessary madness, its rites of possession, its myriad becomings, then the Desert is wisdom, becoming imperceptible, the right to breathe in words. Finally amid the One which is everything. Here is the Desert.

& it is the futile Peyote Dance resurrected again for all the
madmen hanging like bats from the rafters in some
disingenuous midnight temple. they have torn the scabs from
their arms to wall up the seven devils dead & eternally
protected accordingly, they are losing all their memories to be;
they are forgetting memory & learning to be // they want to be
everything but no body wants to be free


Rarely has such lucidity pinpointed the hypocrisies of Self and glorified selves in Collectives clamouring for Freedom and needing corpses and morals, when they haven’t been mad enough yet to see the futility in their madness, when they haven’t collected enough matter to find the Desert in themselves, in the cold North, where ingenuous temples grow for the night amid dunes of Nothing.

Who speaks desert speaks Nomad. But who knows society knows that ‘eyes are for spying with not seeing’ and that collective hope is an alias for suffering and ‘they are watching the children the prisoners the madmen in the distorting mirrors of this disgusting cunting panopticon’ and we are probably not ready to be nomad and we are probably not ready for Deleuze or Guattari or any of his one thousand distorted plateaux. Society is not worthy. It is just killing and destruction because the State ensure ‘they are born crippled,’ and ‘death is better than labour.’

Who reads this book knows hope is extraneous to matter. The physics of poetry, the immanence of the dissecting pen, imply the end of all forms of transcendence and a mockery of all their avatars. Difference and repetition of the whole history of poetry. ‘Structure is for vermin.’

I looked in vain for the Desert. I saw some animals passing the dunes. I spotted Artaud. I will keep an eye out for the nomads as i keep reading, backwards, inside out, dancing and laughing. There really is no need to be sad in this hell, because ‘the outsider comes undone.’

I heard some echoes.
I saw some footsteps.
I know the desert will burn again one day.




Tuesday, June 21, 2016

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.





Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Horror Sleaze Trash

Great thanks to Horror Sleaze Trash who have just posted five poems by me at this link. Great zine from Australia with much great pottery in it. 

Don't forget to buy the latest, eighth & greatest full length with poems "about" Mille Plateaux by Deleuze & Guattari, available very inexpensively for its 148 pages from Black Editions Press at this link.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

desire & the desert

Thanks to Michael Mc Aloran my latest 140 odd poems are now on sale at Black Editions Press. Here is blurb that Carolyn Srygely-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."

Thursday, May 5, 2016

dead snakes

It's been a long time since I submitted much, but sent out a few subs recently. As a result, three things by me in the zine dead snakes at this link. Thanks to Stephen Jarrell Williams for taking them.

Friday, April 29, 2016

the curly mind

Thanks to Reuben Wooley at The Curly Mind, for posting three poems from the current chapbook. They are posted here, & here, & here.

Excellent zine, & the chapbook where the poems come from is available here from Black Editions Press. 

& here, by the way, is the whole of issue 3

Monday, April 25, 2016

passion is dead flesh

I haven't done a new book in a while & haven't done a collection that's all prose poems, so this chapbook from Black Editions Press is out now, it's all prose, & it's forthcoming at Amazon too. 

At Black Editions Press there are also a couple of books from Michael Mc Aloran that you might like.


Friday, March 25, 2016

the life & times of Henrietta

The life & times of this person are chronicled in two novels by me, both from Oneiros Books. the first, Henrietta remembers, see link, is about her dubious identity & matricidal tendencies, as she lives the pointless non-events of a postmodern Nausea. The second, flesh & resurrection, see link, is about her relationship with a sort of zombie, who is a pleasant enough fellow.

Nothing in either of these books symbolizes anything, and i try to avoid plot & dialog as far as possible, since they distract from the futility.

They are also available at Amazon & other places.


Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Queen Anne's Revenge

Three poems just posted in a new zine Queen Anne's Revenge at this link.

Monday, August 17, 2015

flesh & resurrection at Amazon

Now more product by me at Amazon :) 2nd & last novel now up there, at the following link, flesh & resurrection. It costs a mere seven dollars and is artfully constructed out of paper.


To avoid the evils of large multinational corporations it can be bought at publisher's website here.  



Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Queen Anne's Revenge

There's a new zine called Queen Anne's Revenge. Couple by me due in first issue on 10th September. Thanks to editors Carolyn Srygley-Moore and Joseph M. Gant.

Friday, August 7, 2015

flesh & resurrection

Now available from Oneiros Books, here's my second novel & last book for quite a while, available at the following link, flesh & resurrection

Thanks to Michael Mc Aloran & Dave Mitchell.


Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Pussy, get your instant pussy here!

Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites is going to reawaken her Instant Pussy, and one by me is due in the forthcoming issue.

Suffering acute nostalgia I googled and found my issue of the fast twat from 2008, out of stock at Amazon but available POD at Lulu here.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/instant-pussy-numero-once/david-mclean-flavored-instant-pussy/paperback/product-3673834.html

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Echo/None


Michael Mc Aloran
Echo/None
Oneiros Books

Echo/None by Micheal Mc Aloran further explores how the original imprint is dislocation & homeless. there is actually no nothing, there is no void or vacancy and absence is something that might have mattered, but somewhere else. there is no nothing to hypostasize & it does not noth, & everything is here all the time, often smelling funny, though you might not want it to be.

apart from the failure of the eye and sensibility, the book records the emptiness of speech. because meaning is broken by nature, it does not attempt to simulate a world created like a stage set to record the author's lunatic contribution to the pitiful attempts people feel obliged to make to sustain the stifling illusion of normality that the modern system, the system of modernity, demands.

i do not speak of social injustice and the inanities of fundamentally conservative identity politics, since these are completely insignificant compared with the basic & archaic truth that we are all always already completely fucked.

if no collapse bile vomit of dead hence elective breathe insertion of expels worthless distance opiate in in of lack traces never of/ a head/ a body yes/ dream-lack forgotten breakage dense as tears illumined sky of upturned eye’s resolve strip-skin all breath’s denude cut close to restless skull exigency dark what dark in/ collects dried bones from fit of origin escapade no life in them appearing as shadows nothing claimed struck out spat out/ fucked fallen breakage dense regard non-sense of gilded tumour lights brittle as disregard obsolete in final what/ death word/

there is very little to be said in favor of a world where we are obliged to be only apparently aware of it, when it is designed by others & words were obviously invented by degenerate idiots.

the seeming continuity of linguistic conceptualization is a shallow lie to hide the psychotic break, the point where the real creeps in & leaves its traces.

words bled out as of slaughtered wombage catascope regard of desert nocturne churn of obscene disregard all laughter’s return/ spoke yes or no has it/ dreamed of nullity yes/ nullity in which given sacrifice of all else/ un-sky/ clarify dense as shit reek of unbound bones dust of entrails shadow preface forgotten asking in present sheen/

this book is well worth reading, & it may be purchased from Oneiros Books at this link.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

A New Ulster 32

Forgot to mention that the new A New Ulster, with work by me in it, is up here. Check it out.

On another note, get yourself a copy of Henrietta remembers at Oneiros Books, there's a tiny sample up on at this link to fucking Tumblr.

I have recently finished a new novella things, called flesh & resurrection. This is even more of an anti-novel that Henrietta, though Henrietta is in it.

Monday, May 4, 2015

the art of being human

Thanks to Daniela Voicu there will be three by me in The Art of Being Human XV. Here is the fourteenth volume, and here they are on Wikipedia.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

A New Ulster

Thanks to Amos Gideon Grieg, the editor, for taking some stuff by me for the next A New Ulster. The current issue and back copies are at the link, my things are due in the next one.

I have not been not submitting much, but noticed that they were open to subs. Progressing on second novel, which is turning into a lengthy prose poem with even less plot than in the first.The first Henrietta remembers, is here at Oneiros Books.
    

Monday, March 16, 2015

Henrietta tumbles

There's an extract from Henrietta on motherfucking Tumblr, which i firmly believe that nobody actually uses. 

Here is the extract. (There's a word missing near the start.) 

& here is the actual book, at Oneiros Books.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Henrietta @ Amazon

Pleased to say that Henrietta Remembers, available from Oneiros Books, my first novel, is now also at Amazon at this link.

 

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Henrietta remembers

Pleased to say that my proof of Henrietta remembers came, & was OK. Accordingly it is now on sale at Oneiros books at this link. It will be on Amazon and so forth shortly. Thanks to Dave Mitchell & Michael Mc Aloran for doing the fucker & cover art, respectively.

Do get a copy, it's free of plot, dialog & everything else that fucks up traditional novels.

Here is the cover.