How MMA Writes, a section from certain observations by Aad de Gids

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!