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[ .been.sleeping. ]

setting out
where underway
we make & break shapes
of angels in the snow & glass
where everything
I've ever seen
is made from
mal-adjusted discontent

the sorrow and the overflow
where we can see a rocket
moving stars and flesh
longing for the well behind
or maybe paris
just to be someplace
that matters

I have been sleeping
for so long that I feel
I will never wake up
from this solumn slumber

� B McLean, Sunday Feb.08.04 [8:12 am]

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[ .hungry.to.be.able. ]

there is no sun
no silver moon
no dying in this life
where everyday is easy money
a suffering that comes too quick

the payload and the sorrow
that eats at uninspired marrow
where the little ones that lay at my feet
are down to nine and five

and wanderlust is not repayed
nor replayed upon the mire
my knife laid down beside my palms
these wounded hands of mine

thunder in the distance
where I'm hungry to be able
to function in the dim light
my only androgynous nocturnal nite

head to door in full surround
the nite reflections from my eyes
my dirty hands, my blackened finger tips

where my bones ache
and thunder pushes at my hurting face
the black tears crusted to my ceeks
caking up my visions that I once had

in the sun, your black sun
that won't turn off the echos in my head
and somewhere down
within my shell
I cannot sleep nor weep
or the sun will swallow me

� B McLean, Sunday 08.29.04 [10:25 pm]

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[ .in.antiquing. ]

all around the antique shop
walking past the polish + wood
hand in hand
undead, climbing crawling
the zombie princess is clear
breathing, lovely
her command
her black dress, boots or lipstick

calling all around the antique shop
unifying the dead hands, her chanting
I find myself desperately in need
of holding her down
and kissing her black smudging lips hard
to shut her up

� B McLean, Friday 09.03.04 [8:05 pm]

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[ .harsh.like.your.sun.godz. ]

I need to be climbed
like the moutain
or the sun

my hands are spires
hands of stone + glass
the machine
the mechanism
clicking into place

harsh like your sun godz
the love and longing of another life
[something they cannot understand]
my ever reaching fury
burning to tear at you

memories of light
memories of skin + surface
where my hands are working
creasing back your shaded edges
using my broken un-loved
angel-filled hands

� B McLean, Saturday 10.09.04 [11:32 am]

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[ .king.of.all.the.sad.things. ]

all the sad things
still burning in me
a nagging duty
to my loneliness
in your failing sun

migration of all the hateful things
never gotten what I wanted
so my mind still speaks
awakened to a colder memory
of light & beauty & desire
where there is no salt nor flame

things are breaking in me
around me
cracked leaves line the floor
in your own house
of desperation & deceit
no longer my lover
not my enemy
nor my memory

drawing shapes
to make you up again
in your autumn lit ocean
back lit like seas
with mediterranean scents

here we find
all that my hands will work at
are feeding the weakening dream
that is you and me

earth toned crown
build just for me
of orange and browns
made up of summer-king leaves
with sun in the dirt
in my wild-boy hair

reaching through your
gauntlet of sadlings
the ones that hold me down
in the dead grass at twilight
where ghosts like to play
where we walk
no throne nor thorn
as we hide in the shelter of my wing

my arms bound in colours
of mathematics
of used up occult or ancients
and crows
within sigils of mercury navigation

tearing down my angel hands
the sadlings know the way to bind me
to strap down the helm
and crown me on my melancholy hood

so its where we find
in the fall and breeze
I am still your king
sunken and sullen
holding onto your memory
the broken memory
of what happened to my musae

her head down and tugging
on my colour burnt arms
with her last moments
last breaths
pulling me out of the way

the wreck of her body
her dead wet eyes
always in my hand

where all a king can do
is wonder how
all the sad things found me
knowing somewhere inside its over
knowing somewhere the world ended
when you left my wing

� B McLean, Sunday 10.10.04 [3:20 pm]

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[ .a.curing.tribe. ]

we wound down in circles
in the sweating hunt
where a drum circle was all I knew
my heart gone down to meet an earth
that I had nearly forgotten

her love so hard for me
the buffalomen point the way
they know the secret moon
the one that burns in life

the burning bird, my enemy, my lover
her wings lessen the beauty that surrounds
as we gawk and stare at her star filled love

my hate and hunger feed the drumming
where love knows no more secrets
plain and ugly on your skin

a thousand faceless men, they join our hunt
they come with war and lust
spears and tenements
now I come like war and lust
a hunger that can never own you

my eyes closed against the heated wind
beads roll down our spines and faces
like weeping sap or black ink
wet from waxing the landscape
fingers broken in all the right places
from your glass and pander

a curing tribe has come
we come to bring the sleep
of one more broken culture
our song the pheonix song
the first of ash and tearing

digging out now all the faces
that have ever served as ancestors
pulling away at the corners of your eyes
to force you to see
that the citadel is life
against your blinding straps
and burning skin

bondage comes from laughter
a hunger that will own you
visions filled you tearing eyes
a somber witch and cup
holding down the drumbeat
beyond your broken love

a passion for all things
circling in the sky of thunder
our curing tribe will wash this from you
and slowly replace what you have taken
into your threadbare hearts

� B McLean, Friday 10.29.04 [11:14 am]

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[ .cluttered. ]

clutter
its my thunder inside
always with me every night
in my head pressing
still that sound
of rain scattered on wet pavement

and sleeping under the weight of lost things
where our hands have no ties
nothing but the feeding freedom
of the ghosts in your room
cold white bodies picking up kits of little toys
trying to remember what they mean
and what these things are for

I ring out towels with my hands
drying up the echo inside me
where I cannot feel a single thing I touch
its my horror
no creation nor words
no enlightenment
broken hands to the surfaces of chipped doors

just this dusty plain
that my desolate body still has become
my hands, you know, are spires
my eyes of light
and all my toughts of cinders
like the little ones still bound at my feet

their heads like matchsticks
burning out their insides
I see it in their everyday
the weakening wrath
their palor turned down and slackened
by the surfaces their palms grind against

in my shadow
shifts your light
one strike like atoms
tumble down and out of the grafting box
etched and worn like memories
that your holding in your hand

but we lay down
ladden with our private terrors
and you keep finding this place
where I sleep on needles and rough downe
to watch and wait
staring in your utter shock

your elegance threadbear and blind
hair in tangles
skin as milk
eyes in cyclic abandonment
and all you need to whisper
is your one truth in me
your one cool truth

my hands stilll hold me down
in the place where I sleep
to keep me covered from the place
that you think will finally be home
now every cluttered nerve is home

� B McLean, Friday Dec.03.04 [4:27 am]

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[ .how.close.we.are.to.becoming.night. ]

its so close now
the audible taste of the curling edges
the fringes that my fingers seek out
I can push against this twilight
the senseless power
my ever.aching shadow
begging for reprieve
as it can feel now
how close we are
to becoming night.

� B McLean, Dec 4, 2004

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[ .in.strips. ]

am the king of bondage
broken down to pieces
just one more time
in surging thrusts
where my jackboots
or snickersnack
won't cut me any more
no knife blade or
moth ever this deep
in my swallow
pulled into strips
my little passings
lost to my everyday
uselessness
your little porn in mirrors
matchless and obsessively grinding
without substance
nothing but hunger
we now ache to breathe
under your dormant life

� B McLean, 2k4

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