David McLean is a pervert from Sweden who has books out you can buy, or buy or even read for free in a couple of cases.

He is stoked to have a large book of 250 poems coming from epic rites that will be called laughing at funerals unless he or Wolfgang has a terrible change of mind in which case it will have an offensive title. Chaps are forthcoming from Poptritus and Rain over Bouville, along with a novella from ISMS Press.

Even a chap from epic rites about Japan's number two sex symbol, the gorgeous Pinhead and the cenobites (McLean himself prefers Cuntthroat of the original cenobites, Sister Nikoletta). 

I have a chapbook on sale at Erbacce called a hunger for mourning, reviewed by Ceris Dien here and Marie Lecrivain here.

There is also a full length from Erbacce called pushing lemmings, 128 pages that can be bought signed with possible body fluids, vague ejaculations, direct from me. send £10.95 via paypal to regnruta@gmail.com.

pushing lemmings is reviewed by Pablo Vision and Constance Stadler.

our walls, according to Butters Stotch (also in Lit Up zine)

the walls that hem us in
are words, and stone piled,
fragments of void,
empty we.

once they asked for
gods to besiege us,
called on creators as ancient
enemies, and no crevice

for us to crawl into
as snails or insects,
unhidden and bright in his light
yet, evasion fruitless.

so they burned their youths
as sacrifices torn in their callow
monkish desire, twisted
away from life.

and the true seed, the meat's
naked faith, is all we believe in
now. passion is our timeless
duty, empty banal replication

casting forms again
we stay in. sinless
oblivion the body is,
fateful mating

predisposed to nothing.
and yet love a minute
is our truth, like Butters
said. then we are empty

husks. dead.

 
a cold beach (also in Pocket Change zine)


somewhere is a cold stony beach
where waves like lemmings on ecstasy
suicide on their nothing

somewhere a childhood is mine
where stones on beaches are cold
and wracked with nature's bladder.

here there is just this wood before me
where i sit, and there is risk of fire
looking at summery Swedish woods

so i pour coffee in the ashtray
like they once believed in fate
and Oasis, a band i actually still

listen to. i am just Chef's “children”
in that sense - drinking coffee,
reading, sweating, listening to

“rehab,” waiting for death

from pushing lemmings

There is another first full length book at Whistling Shade called Cadaver's dance here. it's available through Amazon here and is reviewed by Rachel Kendall here.

the patient cancer waits (also in The Delinquent)

like bloody beef tied up in string,
king of the sharks, my fish gnosis
is laid out before me -
the table i stole from the house of my enemies.

the shore sweeps ungainly down to the fertile sea,
her mumbling rumbustiousness, her greed,
savoring the ex-lives fed with
the strange exigencies of death;
drawn stretched in white and sparkling sea-green
the end of feeling, mysterious beauty -
we were a box of apples with truth in.


if i open the window

if i open the window in this recalcitrant flat
the dark is there and full of snow -
white and night and black.

behind our broken and blinded window
grow floodlight pylons
and the desperate fingers of grasping trees
clutching our need -
the only things we dare to see

and my embarrassing before-seen is truthful too,
posted here on solitary stakes,
the weight of wallpaper and curtains
as brutal as ethics, as tumescent,
defacing the beigey colors of culture
and leisurely dis-spelling the lines of proud that poets have written
with the pungent truths of solar systems,
displacing the structure that love is,
the trembling erection

from Cadaver's dance

There's another third full length at Lulu called eating your night which he wouldn't mind you buying here. It's very cheap as a download. 

eating you

i like to open beer cans
because pulling the ring-pulls
breaks the backs
of memories and nights
of being me

i like to fuck
for similar reasons,
it disturbs some cats
but it frightens dreams
quiet where they hide
with the cats under
the bed, the bed i might die in
tonight,

i like to eat your cunt
because it makes me an incarnation
of my meat, and the flesh
grows bigger and less
lonely, more
me, just generally,
i like to eat, like children
dream or mourning
bleeds


she’s lost control, again


she’s lost control
because love’s insistent kitchen
was inaccessible behind a sheer wall
of regret and frightened her father said

she’s lost control
today’s displacement meaning
tidy life uncoiled here a while
at least, devils feast

she’s lost control
of the rhythm blood beating neat
that her eyes are read and dead
as heaven’s letting, her eyes she said

she’s lost control
because the sun. because nothing
is, all of this, and panic remembers
her dismembering, because she’s young

she’s lost control
because God retreats today
and hides sly his face that Mary veiled
as Isis is, this cross too big for us as love

she’s lost control
because agnostos theos over us
demands her known gnosis
this worm-eaten crucifix is bliss

she’s lost control again
because this miss
just is

from eating your night.

There's McLean flavored Instant Pussy up at Lulu here.

There's also a chapbook at Shadow Archer Press with sales page with blurbs here.

A free sample is an e-chapbook at Why vandalism? called poems against Enlighhtenment here.

A new chapbook called "of dead snakes" coming from Rain Over Bouville.

There's another chapbook at Shadow Archer Press called "La morte vivante"

Other chaps are forthcoming as well as a first novella. look for breaking news from david mclean at his blogspot here and new work here.