street song for Edith Sitwell

David McLean

even the skeleton is not forever,
and the good night that flakes flesh
away, falling like fading snow to the decay
that eats the sorrow that is life

and the death we store in our granaries
of weapons' harvest—that night shall
gnaw the naked bone to dust, the bone
that hungers not for lithesome peace

but to feel the meat fall piecemeal
as it writhes to nothingness again;
and the Bone is not silent but screams
in me its sadistic duty, the dismembering

in its jointed sinews and that dull truth
that shall hang in the wounded dying sky
its pale lesion, white eroded beauty
eaten by its own truth—

our lives that die mad as the moon

David McLean
was born in Wales in 1960 and has lived in Sweden since 1987. He has a little over 300 poems in 134 magazines both online and in print. A chapbook, a hunger for mourning, with 52 poems is available from Erbacce press and Lulu. He has MySpace and a blog, where there are links to various online publications.