the houses stand clumsy

the houses stand clumsy stone and concrete,
under a sun where they were wood once
and no devils lived in them, just insecure
resurrection; and their memories then
were like the dreams of children, smoke

curling lazy from a pious and lascivious
chimney. but we have forgotten everything
and torn the seconds from the clocks
to leave them dreamless, like dead people
when nobody is listening. no body

living in them, just the life they lied about
that never continued forever, like no body
genuinely expected, some sultry eternity
for fingering grannies and grandchildren,
until incest almost seems disgusting.

but the houses stand clumsy, without loving,
and no ghosts live in them; except the living
dead already who work for their sustenance,
imagining God could be bothered to resurrect
scumbags, adventitious bastards that have fallen

from time's womb like a tranquilizer, like a
nighttime, bastards that have fallen asleep,
that have forgotten to dream, or how to dream.
their God does not believe in them - he is dead
but used to believe in women and men -

not these people, just real women and men


David McLean
David McLean is Welsh though he has lived, rather reluctantly, in Sweden since 1987. So he knows what it's like to be dead. He has a couple of chapbooks out, one a free download, here, at Whyvandalism. The other, in print, can be ordered at He has a full length poetry collection available at Whistling Shade Press called Cadaver's dance. It can be ordered on or on A second book of 128 pp is coming from Erbacce-press in August, "pushing lemmings." There is a self-published book of 109 pages at Lulu called "eating your night" - There are round 600 poems now in, or forthcoming, in just over 250 magazines online and/or in print. Details are at his blog at htpp://