her violence
she defined what violence was
for me, its daily deification
a decay of reason
into learned atrophy,
the instinct that renewed
us and enveloped love
in that taut membrane
of tawny light, night
developed under her fists
its bliss when devils chose
to die there, lonely as
octopodes or poems
no one has yet written
hidden behind their inky
injection into this needy
sea, our dream that
bleeds colour therefore.
God’s most assiduous whore
is this snoring morning,
the whore for whom we mourn
we are, as yet unborn
David McLean was born in Wales and has lived in Sweden since 1987. This month, he is “poet in residence” at www.poetsletter.com and in August 2008 will be “centre stage poet” in Decanto. You can visit him at his myspace page, www.myspace.com/david_mclean.