of desire & the lesion that is the ego

Next comes this one, my third from Oneiros Books, based on a reading of Anti-Oedipus. Now, I am more inclined to write in terms of libidinal energy & its folds of perverse intensity than the philosophies of desire per se, but I like this idea too, anyway. These poems were actually better than I remembered them.

This book, of desire & the lesion that is the ego is here at Lulu.

We find it here at Amazon too. Och, som utlovad, här får vi köpa den på Bokus, i vanliga fall, fast den står nu som slutsåld. Återigen, ska detta åtgärdas så fort jag kan. Och då kommer den stå som tillgänglig på AdLibris med. EDIT: Nu finns boken tillbaka på Amazon

Blurb follows

Here are words to somewhat deconstruct your daily lives. McLean delivers sermons of a beautiful nothing(s) enriched by perceptions that pervasively cover the very lives you follow inanely day in, day out. He dissects the mundane and the superfluity of existence (if any) with a hacksaw and without much anaesthetic. His language is cutting, divisive, insightful, deploring, archaic but strong with a fleshy boldness that should and will be revered. David McLean seeks out the plastic and then tends to look underneath the plasticity of what man has made; the absurdity of god, the hilarity of societal values and the hypocritical agenda of righteous folk. The lesion of what McLean explores in this collection is indeed the nonsense that dominates us all whether aware or unaware however, after you read this blistering book, you’ll be sure to be angry at something in this dying world.
Craig Podmore (Author of The Origin of Manias, Oneiros Books)

 

Again, thanks to Michael Mc Aloran for the cover.

Here's some free samples, chosen at random.

indeterminate date of ever present death

it is indeterminate
so only a wicked old man with sharp swords
has all the answers,

cold as his fingers
he never touched with yet,
not with this flesh

straw and meaningless

You're a ghost on the highway
you're trash and meaningless
(The Gun Club)

and the honest rock we are
their words never moved an inch -
it remains this dreadful empty

skin shaking under sexual suns
and bowing down before nothing
their stupid forgiveness

is the inessential remembered -
not the decent murderer
and her dismembering:

this means nothing and no time
is left us, just one second
and it is heaven

stepping out

the ghosts have fallen outside where skin is
leaving the children we have never been
naked within us, a strange beast made of distances
and the insubstantial

staggering off to some scuzzy Bethlehem
to be ambitiously aborted, manky
matrix where little lives; and here is
meretricious potentiality, acne

and masturbation so dead god
is not even insane, just perverted
priests picking the flesh of children
from their dreamless teeth,

the ghosts are stepping out today
we are pretending not to live;
there is sufficient sin to simulate
and nothing to forgive

EDIT: Very grateful to Aad de Gids for the following review

of desire and the lesion that is the ego

review by Aad de Gids

the best yet rather difficult notion derived from:
Capitalisme et Schizophrenie I: L' Anti-Oedipe
Capitalisme et SchizophrenieII: Mille Plateaux,

by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari is, that there wasn't an ontology displayed here. here we found not a theory of being,a philosoohy of being,an art-text of being, rather a toolbox with elements of "what there is" (as such they summarized it), that left pretty much out all of the fucking theoremas about psychoanalyse, psychology, (conventional) sociology, (conventional) psychiatry, conclusivist Nietzscheanism. they said they were dead now, "we ourselves are already old", fuck them all and look at how all is suffused with machines of desire. dichotomy of sexuality is bullshit, there is a "microscopic transsexuality". instead of the "ego" (which is always Freud's ego,or Marx's,or Nietzsche's), we have a "pack of wolves". to system theoreticians they said: "there isn't a system that doesn't leak on all sides". with "corps sans organes", body without organs, they meant, avant la lettre, for instance Fukushima, Soudan, the machinations around (and from) Iran,this "multitude" of disinformation and profitist background politics of the elite countries (US, France, England, Germany, perhaps Japan, Russia and China) who fuck up the so called "news" (like the American conservatives do) and make it a sleek glacis upon which all falters and stumbles and get disdirectional and wrongly proportioned. this, in short about d-g.

David McLean is deeply informed by these insights, and has written a "hybrid" book filled with "postpostmodern" and "postpostpositivist" poems and longer text to again break the codes in the sense of really breaking all conventionalist and societal and poetic-theoretical, codes, even the poetic codes, to nevertheless come up with a formidable and fun and challenging book.

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enfolded

we are enfolded in the broken wings of time
stretched sad pinions holding birth and nothing

together, resolute and useless we are this inutile
futility – raging and permanence imagined
like bizarre statues insane on a shore
where inadequate birds swim a sickness
over us

we are enfolded in the nothing the soul sweats
instead of love, nothing is as nothing does

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i think the poems of David also do not found or postulate an ontology rather they point at "what there is" as i notably still remember in a poem of his an old computer standing in the surf. "meaning" somehow erodes here, while the artefacts do still hold contingent resemblances with objects that "define" our world now, or at least we assume they are defining us. i think David's poetry kind of sits in between this post-Adornean and post-Wittgensteinian position where they said, respectively: "um zu sagen, was sie nicht sagen kann, während es doch nur von der Kunst gesagt werden kann, indem sie es nicht sagt" and "wovon man nicht sprechen kann darüber soll man schweigen". i have always believed the ensharpened differences between these two adages in fact were overrated and one could detect a common ground here. there is definitely an affirmation of "world" in both and they wanted to make sure its expression wasn't fucked up. i think the poets of our generation do just that. we're not so much indebted anymore either to the old whores Freud-Nietzsche-Marx, nor to the somewhat newer theoreticians of the Frankfurter Schule, French post-structuralism or even Rorty-Apel-Searle-Habermas-Dennett-Žižek.

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all the mad grannies

and it was all the mad grannies, dozing depressive at home and sewing psychosis, little mittens to cover the fingers that are not so very innocent today, and a strange fern smelling occidental and time travelers, the Victorian answer, guns and butter.

the houses are made of gray and tomorrow foreclosed by the nightmare wait of history. all the mad grannies chasing wicked cats that come through angles and corners, the homeless evil that needs bodies to be in it, essential freedom and all the generations hopeless psychosis needs to grow healthy enough to upset a doctor or some other moron, all the deep fried suicides and god in every little wooden box a granny's granny once forget when a more serious sort of history was, and the contracts are missing and absence. all the dead men and Christ in a sweaty sidecar riding sexy and erect beside them; all the mad grannies have Valium to believe in – they do not need men or gods or the superfluity that is feeling, they have overdosed on the weight of Being; they have drugs but they do not really seem to need them – anything is better than freedom

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now, after David's sublime writing, it is obvious a lot of things became superfluous.
exactly this could be of weightless liberation,to have dumped all lexicological offal: "and the contracts are missing and absence. all the dead men and Christ in a sweaty sidecar riding sexy".