she is my knife and my absence,
everything missing, broken bucket
rolling down a slow hill
our dive through time. here we poured
blood and nothing, assembling
suffering love and other values
to call them new. we knew knives
and dull love, blood and sufficient
dust, western values dressed sexy
in death and latex and leather,
a bucket rolling broken down god's
vapid hill. we assemble absences
and time to kill, our will as good
as nothing to love, broken
hopeless buckets and knives enough,
time to touch
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.