ghosts burn in the singing world
where they crossed all the borders
to sleep or be

as they became one burning hair
stitched still to an innocent skull
charred to wakefulness

again. they burn their hasty
holocaust of tortured spasmodic
dead men's orgasms, ancient organs

whispering their dry strictures
against the son and the infinitesimal
Other, werewolf women

and their extraordinary nipples
spilling milk and murder.
ghosts burn like cigarettes

in heaven, they smell like butter
and love, there are too many ghosts,
relatively few categories of grudges

or drugs

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About David McLean

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David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large lake called Malaren, very near to Stockholm, with woman, cats, kittens, and a couple of dogs. Up to date details of many zine publications and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, more a few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at
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