Three Poems
By
David McLachlan
Submerge
What still breathes
in the rotted soil
under the moon-glint
of a broken sky--
pipeclay-bright eyes, a fevered eon
which drags among the banks
where an innocent sings.
The words a plea unsaid,
sounded in the muddy chamber of the heart
in the obscene cathedral
of lust. Drawn to the edge
wet hair dripping
black.
Follow
it has come, the fire
sinks further, the ripples
under the glade, the panting
bed of reeds. Drown, a song
deep in the undertow.
Befoulment
laughter, calling
across the black shores
the waves a lapping whisper,
the dancing shadows of men
against the growing night
where the howling crawls
from black-blooded lips
broken teeth, chittering
pleading, to be loved
they come with sewn eyes
seeing, my loving void, see
as i open my mouth
the pale fingers, the rooted
taste, deeper the world recedes
A Black Throne Reigns
City,
stars shattered over lost nights,
a silver glean like sunken coins.
The mountain rises black,
the vanquished procession
snakes among the contours.
A dead gaze of broken glass.
The steps are always the same.
Broken steps. We find no
panacea. In the tower
eyes watch, eyes of midnight.
In the silence of the steps
—the spiked crown shines
a white fire. Drunkenly
the damned enter the threshold.
We dream lustily,
in a rent sky, pleading.
David McLachlan lives and works in Northern California, a place that inspires much of his fiction and poetry. He has degrees in mathematics and economics and an MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College. His dark stories and poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous magazines and anthologies. You can connect with him at DavidMcLachlanWriter.com or on Bluesky: @davidmclachlan.bsky.social.
By
David McLachlan
Submerge
What still breathes
in the rotted soil
under the moon-glint
of a broken sky--
pipeclay-bright eyes, a fevered eon
which drags among the banks
where an innocent sings.
The words a plea unsaid,
sounded in the muddy chamber of the heart
in the obscene cathedral
of lust. Drawn to the edge
wet hair dripping
black.
Follow
it has come, the fire
sinks further, the ripples
under the glade, the panting
bed of reeds. Drown, a song
deep in the undertow.
Befoulment
laughter, calling
across the black shores
the waves a lapping whisper,
the dancing shadows of men
against the growing night
where the howling crawls
from black-blooded lips
broken teeth, chittering
pleading, to be loved
they come with sewn eyes
seeing, my loving void, see
as i open my mouth
the pale fingers, the rooted
taste, deeper the world recedes
A Black Throne Reigns
City,
stars shattered over lost nights,
a silver glean like sunken coins.
The mountain rises black,
the vanquished procession
snakes among the contours.
A dead gaze of broken glass.
The steps are always the same.
Broken steps. We find no
panacea. In the tower
eyes watch, eyes of midnight.
In the silence of the steps
—the spiked crown shines
a white fire. Drunkenly
the damned enter the threshold.
We dream lustily,
in a rent sky, pleading.
David McLachlan lives and works in Northern California, a place that inspires much of his fiction and poetry. He has degrees in mathematics and economics and an MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College. His dark stories and poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous magazines and anthologies. You can connect with him at DavidMcLachlanWriter.com or on Bluesky: @davidmclachlan.bsky.social.
