Friday, September 10, 2010

David McLean - One Poem

Medieval Monk

like a medieval monk
pissing on the ancient fire
in his flesh
we have been dead for centuries

as we wake at gray dawn
tasting of its incessant repetition,
an insistent tang of eternity
in the morbid air, the ring of dust

and cobwebs that is history,
stacked in the attic with memory
and that same flesh resurrected,
slicing like a knife through us.

we wake up at laughing dawn
like all the other dead
medieval monks, love and a grimly
grinning skull, and we are dust

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with woman, five cats, and a couple of dogs. He has a BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much later and much more seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of over 1000 poems in various zines over the last three years or so and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at

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