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.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Mung Being 60

Pleased to have six in the latest Mung Being, but sorry to say that it is the last one. Mine are at this link. All my work in this great zine and a bio are linked here. Good luck to editor Mark Givens with Pelekinesis Press.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Unlikely Stories

Implausibly, i noticed four by me in the latest Unlikely Stories. Thanks to Jonathan Penton & Michelle Greenblatt. The poems are here at this link

Three of them are from Zara & the ghost of Gertrude. That is on sale at Oneiros Books.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Henrietta remembers

Pleased to see the pdf for this, my first novel from Oneiros Books, Dave Mitchell's company now run by Antony Hitchin.

It's due quite soon. It's 209 pages of maniacal gibbering by me, very little plot or character development, much complaining about all sorts of things. Henrietta is still pissed off by stuff I tend to forget. 

At the link above there are several other books by me, much other good shit to read


Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Michael Mc Aoran Un-sight/ Un-sound review



Micchael Mc Aloran
Un-sight / Un-sound
130 pp. gnOme books
review by David Mclean

The latest by Michael Mc Aloran is one of his better works. It also treats abortion & the shit-smeared eyes as its subject matter, it tells of the deficiencies of structure & the empty that is not waiting, but always already here,

Francis Bacon is quoted as nothing that we are always a potential corpse, a dead thing, which is the glory of meat, it might always just as well be me. This is not an invitation to some limp-wristed condemnation of the cruelty of butchers, it's a good thing. The eternity of our condition as possible corpses should be relished. People who are of a “spiritual” bent should not read Mc Aloran (& it is sheer politeness that makes me call them “people”).

Mc Aloran's project is to reveal the terrible tenacity of words that stubbornly persist in meaning when we deliberately set about using them as weapons to torment the angelic cadavers strewn about where the happy holiday camps of the mindlessly grinning flowers & summer brigade used to poison the mind. These corpses would praise their feculent gods when they weren't busy raping children. For some reason writers like Michael Mc Aloran (or myself) are accused of being nihilists, usually by people who only have a tenuous grasp of what the word “nihilism” actually means.

i cannot say what Mc Aloran means with this book, it always strikes me as the mark of an arrant dickhead to explain what a literary writer means, but the text questions the possibility of assenting to any given meaning, of believing.

Words, we are told, are “like abandoned pissoirs”. Around us should be silence. All the words that are spoken, that are repeated on the TV with all the insane arrogance of a defective child screaming in an asylum, all these words are empty if they are not used like weapons, like whips to thrash corpses.

Daniel Dennett said that all philosophers want to find the perfect argument, one that would work as a weapon, that would set up a vibration in the mind that would kill an opponent who failed to assent to it. I don't know about Mick, but I feel that the perfect poem would be one that instantly made all the fatuous “flowers, sun & summer” motherfuckers instantly commit mass suicide.

Probably never going to happen, I don't think they read very much outside of Fakebook, but this book is on the right path. I can strongly recommend it.








Thursday, October 23, 2014

Clockwise Cat 29

There is a new issue of the Clockwise Cat up again, the pussy open for business at its new improved site.

The verse is here, with some by me in it.

I was evidently busy, in some sense, & there are five reviews

Alison Ross.

Michael Mc Aloran.

Puma Perl.

Reuben Wooley.

Wolfgang Carstens & Janne Carlsson.


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Zara @ Amazon

The latest book is now at Amazon too, at this link, Zara & the ghost of Gertrude.

It's also still at Oneiros Books.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Mung Being

There's a new Mung Being out, it's themed "celebration", whatever that is. Four poems by me at this link.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Zara & the ghost of Gertrude

Pleased to say that my seventh fill length is now available from Oneiros Books. It is at this link, Zara & the ghost of Gertrude, & will be available elsewhere online later. It is inspired by the writings of Gertrude Stein. I am seldom inspired by poetry, but she was cool enough. 

It is edited by Michael Mc Aloran, with the help of Dave Mitchell. They also have work available from Oneiros, as do many others, and the whole poetry catalog is linked here. There are also comics and novels available from the links on the main page.

Here is the cover, the painting on which is by Michael Mc Alroan .



Saturday, September 27, 2014

Of/with

Much thanks to Felino Soriano, the first issue of Of/with is out. There's a poem by me in it. It's a great new zine.

On another note, my next book from Oneiros Books is out very soon, the proof soon to be sent. It's called Zara & the ghost of Gertrude, & is inspired by that Stein person, although she is neither a philosopher nor a character in a horror franchise. 

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Mung Being

Happy to say that the para-penultimate Mung Being will include four poems by me. Here is a link to my older work there.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

ITCH

Googling myself out of insane vanity I was chuffed to see those, submitted many moons ago with a photoshopped picture. Bio hugely out of date as well. But anyway, here they are, in ITCH magazine.

Anyhow, buy a book or something. weekends are boring, so you know you want to.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Puma Perl - "Retrograde"

Puma Perl
Retrograde
Great Weather for Media

http://greatweatherformedia.com/puma-perl-retrograde/
128 pp.
review by David McLean

This is Puma Perl's second full length collection of poetry. Moving backwards through memory, but not getting worse, as the title might imply. I am assuming that it is not used in the medical sense or the original astrological sense, but maybe in the musical sense, of imitation, or the metamorphosis of organs in botany that assume the appearance of those outside surrounding them. As I remember, in Tristram Shandy the word is used just to mean slow or remiss. Maybe Puma feels her pen has been “a little retrograde” - having written all these things after the event.

The book is for those who do not wake up screaming, but wake up wanting to scream.

Some things the writer relates to belong to what one might call “modern love”:

I know you don't love me anymore.
Your text message was in small letters.
It used to be uppercase.

(p.70)


Everybody knows about caps and computers. The use of caps is not good. A man who writes all in uppercase is not to be trusted, he may be an ax-murderer. & Puma is brave enough to mention Failbook in a poem, the consummate circle jerk for morons where I, along with everybody and his/her grandmother, greedily and gratefully participate. It is a world where people fake orgasms even when they masturbate, and where Puma is one of the very few who actually write poetry that deserves to exist on paper.

One good thing about Puma is that her poetry doesn't particularly remind the reader of anybody else and is never reluctant to refer to popular culture, she even refers to writers from the Facefuck emptiness, which may restrict the book's appeal if potential readers don't know who they are. But this happens relatively seldom, and most of the references are to people like Nico, and there's no excuse for not knowing who she is.

The poems in the book span everything from years of addiction, long ago, to the now where there are “social media” and cell phones. It is a a world where “it is always sometimes, never forever”: as it has always been, it's just a world where it is more glaringly obvious. The poems are both psychologically insecure and artistically secure:

I am a broken basket.
Don't put your eggs in me

(p. 106)


The poems are written with exact confidence, however:

Do not believe
my spoken word,
read my scarred
letters, they crawl
down my arms
like predators.

(p. 31)


Puma asks if the life was all worth it, all the problems and anxiety, just for some poems.
runaway dogs
dead kittens
dark glasses
splintered mind
broken windows
purple dress
bare feet
cold linoleum
seventeen
patched jeans
ripped shirts
burnt years
welfare cheese
dirty decades
stolen checks
lost kids

was it worth it
just to write
some fucking poems?

(pp. 121f.)


If you buy the book at Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/Retrograde-Puma-Perl/dp/0985731729, then I'm sure you'll agree. Well, yes, it was. We do not find ourselves by worrying and reflecting on the “self” - we find ourselves by thoughtfully engaging with our world – and this is what Puma does here, she paints the being wherein she lives.



Saturday, July 19, 2014

Reuben Woolley - "the king is dead"



The king is dead
Reuben Wooley
Oneiros Books
review by David McLean

we are all

we have ever been. print on pages
are survivors
out of context. it is all there is
& we have caused too much pain
I burn the past
in making it & the future
is none of my concern.

Reuben Wooley’s new book, his debut collection from Oneiros Books, is a collection of poems that detail the plight of the individual as s/he responds to the fatuity of the vocabulary that repeats itself through her/him. Everywhere where statements have been made and unnecessarily preserved in some psyche a king has died. These deadbeat decedents have constituted the warped psychologies of the young.

I will not say “existential” in this review – sadly I am excluded from suing the word since I know precisely what it means in its many affiliated uses. The word, like “phenomenology”, may only be used in reviews of poetry by people who do not know what it means in most of its formal usages, they know it as a straw to which one may desperately clutch. This exclusion, however, should always be borne in mind. For all the dead kings were pedants, too.

they took meaning from us. all
these words are just
empty hieroglyphs
to play with. I hear you
so sound exists. no song
the music stutters
but cannot end
repetition does not hold
our attention is on
burlesque dancers
who forgot to can
can

This is a poem called “theft”, in its entirety. And the question of course arises as to the identity of the accused, the general they. Is it the dead king(s), is it teachers, parents, politicians, priests, psychiatrists, any of those who are ill-disposed to the children we have been? Or is it just the words that may not say anymore? And here I surreptitiously cite myself. Because this is how identification works when it comes to poetry; the emptiness of the words in the sense of a missing hidden true meaning means that we insert our own interests.

Like the poem of modalities, potentia summa, since summa potestas is an obvious way of saying “god2, the sum of power qua potential is not god, but zero, and zero does not even indicate the void – it is a placeholder, nothing with which to trouble ontologies.

In Reuben’s poetry the focus is not the existentiell, as is the case with the poems generally referred to by the forbidden word – nor is the focus indicated by the word that I have chosen to forbid myself, stubbornly refusing the inevitable misunderstandings. The focus is the godless psyche as it meets the ontic and tries to achieve the happy, and it is how this may be in fuck, flames and farting. Not to raise a dead finger to some holy wind to see if you are forgiven.

Buy these poems in their book, they are songs the meat might say in order to be free.  It’s on sale here: http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/oneirosbooks/the-king-is-dead/