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David McClean  (email) Stockholm, Sweden


About the Poet:

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. Details of his various books and chapbooks available for purchase, and round 700 poems in or forthcoming at over 290 places online or in print over the last eighteen months, are at htpp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He cently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, whatever tha

January, 2009

everything becomes dead ends

everything becomes dead ends and only
no through roads plowed by hopelessness,

though chemicals and all the electricity
taste sweet in me tonight, like a neuron

thinking about nothing, its impedance
impeded by love. its part in the dance

a trek through this emptiness, a dead end road
that led us once to love, nothing to prove,

no path to lose

i put night away

i put night away tidy in my pocket
since dawn was breaking pretentious
as heaven, pretending that the clouds
it did not disperse belonged there
in me, and tasted like strawberries,
shone like mahogany

i put night away inside me, a tidy void
where all the light falls, mornings
and memories, the womb wherein
i cultivate my nothing, i put night away
a while inside me, in case i dream again
or in case you believe me

or all the dreams i needed to be

we left

we left like refugee children in 1939
at a gray railway station waiting
in case it rained in any way,
memory in battered cardboard
suitcases. boxes that held
no truth within them,
just dusty attics and our footprints
showing the bones in naked feet,
showing dreams

we left and knew nothing inside us,
just that we were surfaces
like the floor in a dusty attic,
rubbed wood and never enough
love, we knew that it was good,
because god had already told us,

he said he was the one who dreams us up,
ghosts and love