A post by Aad de Gids, HOW MMA WRITES. LEE KWO, AAD GID, DAVID MCLEAN, of which I share here the section about me, having been obliged to correct Facebook's challenging formatting. I would only observe that I have adopted a new and more positive point of view recently.
Here is CODE #4 TEXTS, a collaboration by Aad & Michael Mc Aloran
Acryl Lacquer Lost in the Forest by Aad de Gids is here at Bone Orchard Poetry.
poetry of disdelusion DAVID C. MCLEAN
all vignettes of
classicism,and then a new one. the derivational poetry of what it all
not is, leaves us piquant poems
unveiling dead centers. often a bit fucked up as plazas. David
Mclean's poetry spurs toward such
comments. his poems are concentrated lemmata in which a certain, or
two, "truisms" "get's it", can get it. and it
gets it. all confessionalism, thought of an afterlife, heaven or hell, the thought or
idea of a god, even of spirituality, of solidity, are all heavily
under fire or yet, refinedly attacked with arsenic and mould. hell
rather is the here and now. only however when the heavily
ecclesiastically burdened notion is bereft of all that: what belief
and faith and confession have made of the world. the poetry of david
is certainly post-Inquisitional,if this means all the fucking
christian notions and lexicological or exegetical acribic bullshit is
cut out of it. perhaps there is even a new inquisitional impulse
here. it is the never ceasing curiosity about which moronic actions
the society has entangled itself into now,again. if belieflessness
acquires contours of zealousness it is also thrown into the dustbin of
no return.
perhaps this could
be an idiosyncratic feature of the poetry of david mclean. at first
sight, also after having read more poems of david,one could be
tempted to place the topology of his poetry within the
ideological-postideological-nonideological cloud of nihilism,
ascetism, logicism, antitheology, agnosticism, fatalism, hermetism,
antipoetry, postpostmodernism, postironicism, neoclassicism, flarf,
antiflarf, anhedonism, deathpoetry, poetry of the endworld,
antihumanist poetry, posthumane poetry, poetry of the dead socius,
poetry of the psychotic socius. i think it is all of this and
more,yet to name but one of the above monikers as the exhaustive
declarative clausule would be excreted by the poetry itself, and,
asap. and this abjective reflex seems an idiosyncratic impulse in the
poetry of david. an abhorrence of the mundanest things of the world
where they show their mediatic poise: as "élan vital", as
a vitalistic yet presumptuous assertion of what is often or and
generally thought to be the regulative of the conventional and
correctional societal mechanisms as eversomuch "motors"
keeping our fucking economy together thereby ruining our fucking
ecology as these in accumulative measurements is antropofected
detrimental to all other livelihoods on the planet. this, would never
be entamised as such in davids poetry yet can be easily derived as
one of the major factors driving his poetry. then now we shall leave
it at this abhorrence.
the poetry itself is
written in an impeccable style of often mere global assertions, or,
lighter, hunches, with which the poems softly begin,and weaving
further on these introductive sketches, we are launched along almost
atmospheric trajectories, whereby the following assertions each time
annihilate the latest one, so that we perhaps hover within a certain
nihilist realm, yet if this was said to be the solid regulative of
these poems, david would minutiously make clear that perhaps in our
perception may lie a nihilism dormant, but that he preferably shuns
any "isms", and leave us with these consecutive derivative
denunciations of overly happy-merry-systemy-styley-schooly pinpoints yet that his, this
poetry rather resorts under, well, under nothing really, this not a
devaluation of any sorts and if it is paradoxical that such poetry
with that haughty of onset in any which way shall keep puking on
whatever system or unsystem, then that is o.k.
the dead
travel insanity
safely, this
distorted world
is twisted faces
and no sense of
location;
it is flux and
nipples,
death and the living
waiting
we are: memory and
empty
falling too far,
it is remarkable
that we could take almost any quote out of david mcleans poetry and
we then have a prism, representative, immediately,of the lucidity and
at once (david put the plugs in your ears) a kind of mysticism, of,
"what there is", and it is kind of an endgame, hilarious
more than tragic even if it is tragic, this, all so masterly written
is nothing more than a wonder. yet nothing divine!
