and I m running
cause its on the page
and my knees
are scraped and burning
bleeding from the rub

and when I find my way out
I will finally be done with all of this
the fending of the night monsters
and the beings still familiar
with the underside of my bed

but there is no living here
only running
only now here
in our night time
the dreaming spaces
that we are all
far too familiar with

familar because its like the last time
you saw one specific friend
that memory of them
in your hands and head
still shaking with a weakening clarity
between the secret leaking worlds
of just me and you

� Bryan McLean, Nov 11 2005
_________________________________________

no eyes
rotting words
on the blotted page
all my marker
buried here
its out on the mile
in the sounding gun
the one left out in white sand

my echoes
ever reaching
all directions
make my sounds surround
in swirling serpentine edge

still down here
under wing
still flightless
in your hollow heart
my burnings turn me numb
and I cannot hear the sounds
I've make in these empty rooms
all this night time

the spirits drunk
or burnt from too much acid
my echoes reaching
at the dark edges of my space
where we lay our palms to ground
now head near door
angry in your summer light
now long forgotten
but still tearing at the faces
that make up the watching sounds

all our night eyes
gone out
blown out
and only our hollow sounds
replace the movements
they once made
in the dark late day

where shifting toes
reach broken boards
and sleep refuses
to find me here
nothing will put me down
nor out
inconsequential
and so accustomed
to my lack of rest

you hands break my shelter
and there is no movement now
only the ache
and angry edges
of my tangled house
harrowed by your head & hands
in bindings and short writings
that I find in letter format
under my blatant run through
abandoned now for my only calling

� Bryan McLean Jan 03 06 [first of the year]
_________________________________________

a thousand deaths
every night
during dreams
so that in waking
a thousand lives
will come

� Bryan McLean Jan 3 2006, zen pohem
_________________________________________

under the pillow
under handed
your lacking racer's heat
is eating up our light
and dismantling our sun
where we cancel our fears
to match our needful freedom
where there is no plam
holding us up any longer

tired of cupping underchin
to distract your attentives
back on me
in song works
all my weary nights
keep finding at my empty core
the hollow hearted future
thats wrought
with my bidden plams
that show spires in the glass

rubbing matchlings at twilight
our senses know the other worlds
you can see the ugly faces
that all mark the coming days
with their hungry breath
and drooling jaws
thats blurring up our semblance
and rending down our seems

but you're apart
in mirrors like your memory
where it seeths
in the thunderland
thats fading from our tones
lengthy are our shadows here
as we stand on watch
and know all dirt & dust
as familar as a friend
are aching to hold us
in our freshly ready resting places
underneath our waiting feet

� Bryan McLean, Jan 10 2006
_________________________________________

sacred knowing
in our angry placebo egos
ghosts are our natural state
outside meat & breath

where our enemies lie
and all our lies
are waking
in the nightime edges
were we seethe
they no longer require us
to hold them down
and make their lungs move

in the underground shifting
our masks are
all that are holding us back
from making the shaking words
echo out in our lingering seconds
so that in peicemeal breaks
thunder knows our names

in shapes of sound
that drum against my cured face
its pressing down
and there is no wherewithal left
to feed us all the breathy love
thats murming our endings
and kissing down our spines

feeling at our weary edges
only seen from bright blue
or sea grey-green
its our limit to the nail
scuffing into the boards

our wrappings all waxed
and now etched with lines
from your whirring passion
thats now pressed heavily
into my fore-running skin
as epic as the lines you wrote

� Bryan McLean Jan 15 2006
_________________________________________

little wings
beat against
pane & ventricle
against frosted edges
but little is still to silent
little is sacred
in your varied
hushed tones
as words still spill
out of your lips
and past your mouth
so set for drinking
little words you think
that I cannot say

� Bryan McLean Jan 22 2006
_________________________________________

no words equal
the wounds we wear
it masks our scarring
and blurs our edges
that are slowly cutting into us

where you hear my name
in the russet of wind
pushing at your lobes
under sky and skein
infinitely smaller
than the last strand
or finger tip
that touched you

harsh are my razor words
that lack sincerity
in every wanting way
and you strain to hear
all the things
trapped inside my head

where nighttime only knows
the hushed varied tones
of your simplistic sighs
up against my side
your hands holding me down
where wing & brow
furrow from the upset thoughts
that mark and marr our sleep

� Unfinished - Bryan McLean Feb 27 2006
_________________________________________

do you read what you write baby?
or is it just a functionary regime
that your fingers take flight with
against the thoughts that keep you
marking out your guess work
that edges in or echoes outside
of the lines you keep lending
that seem so much like truths
that just can't be for real
even when your singing is down
in heavy lines on the paper
you keep carrying with you

� Bryan McLean Mar 20 2006
_________________________________________

cutting below this
where we rest
because we are all in so deep
and can't breathe our breath out
without the late hours
to cure us warmly
and keep us aimed homeward

bound down in sounds
we make at breaking lights
where the traffic flickers
under fog heavy ruin
and fat waiting lines
that run the length of glass
that's keeping your faces back

handfuls of little lit bombs
like weighted moths mounds
that are bulging and shifting
and eager to flee
from my finger tips
and cutting nails
sadly knowing all this time
that they could have built me better

where your face is glowing
still wet from the early air
that's making all these stinging eyes
turn from frown and away
missing your burdened lines
that streak and coarse down
harshly finding each cracked edge
that's in my holding wake

� Bryan McLean Mar 20 2006
_________________________________________

my king and cutting
are still down here
where nothing is real
nothing we are keeping
or holding out on
as its easier to put it up
all those things for granted
up against the radio skies

and those marks
that we all still have
running down our cheeks
built from the forms of memories
which are switching our faces
like pushing echoes
of your grace and giving

but I'm not hiding in this skin
no, just keeping myself
barely above your water
that's rushing to drown us down
fighting to keep my works
from brimming over
in this stirring silence
that's rising up to meet
our final counting hours

� Bryan McLean Mar 26 2006
_________________________________________