‘trip’ by Will Maclean





Open mouth and start sifting

Open other biomedical places and the mass

Drifting across mouths. Pieces of people

Of me I am the sponsor. No,

The sifting is what I can, so allow me

To try to say what gagged pieces I use

in the mass


Mouth open. Time to begin the slow

Drift toward the marshes. Do the bad thing

Slowly, with a drifting mouth, because

Time began slowing down, because you

Are only a puppeteer, me, and if

I could write I would start

fading, tissue





The movement is the goal so

So it doesn’t matter. I was once

Matter is the goal, bitty real hard

Walking stuff into your genitals. Suitcase

Empty is the goal, its emptiness is

Golden, to aim at not remembering

it’s approximating


If I could write it away I would brackets

So I could if I wrote away. Approximation

Is the love of my figurines, deeply glowing in

The love-writing. If I knew what it meant

So could I approximate the gauzy kiss

If I am what love means. The confusion

the flurry of leaves





Juddering on trains hides my yawns

Juddering in metaphors hides my

Something else. Hiding means sifting

Something else means lies and tears. Trains

Are the writing of movement, but metaphors

Writing love, it all wafted away in

the arrogant slipstream


Arrogant but moving mocking, because so

Conscious. Metaphor prefigures our happiness

Conscious of capital it spits it out and

Something means of no value. Writing

Means, no value, valueless, but

Somehow everything. I am a liar

but only about myself





Buried there is an object. Find

There is a burial, anyone, or something

Not object. Come with the means of sex

Something… value? Maybe, but writing

Finally is found. That she held my arm in fury

No woman no something not found,

not understood


Find me laden with basalt pillars, saltmines

Recede like tears or tears in the earth. Maybe

Found, or reduced into woollen warehouse. But

The girl is not metaphor, the woman

Objects. My suitcase is empty and unnamed.

Unnammed is you, something of buried value

diggers, we orgasm alone



Will Maclean lives and writes in the West Midlands.



Image credit: perceptions (creative pause)

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