Thursday, May 24, 2018

Now available via VoidFront Press, "all null having", my collection of experimental prose poetics, which you can get directly from &

all null having a careening plunge thru strangeness of serotonin amplified perverse conceptual integrity/futurity caught up in the vectors of cerebral collisions/words railing against the Cartesian grid/space of thoughts hollowed out ungrounded heresy of linguistic discontinuity/an enciphered probability of multiple meanings defying de-construction pushed to the threshold of the limit of Blanchot’s Book to Come/A post human masterpiece/”

Lee Beckworth, author of ‘Savage the Warning Signs’

all null having” is a joyful apparition from the future-in-us, an Artaud/Guyotat-inspired example of feeding-forward fatal-error performance-writing, and a masterful poetic fictionalization of the meandering ways of non-rational logic. Deployed as patterned assemblages of seizing sentences that challenge the illusion of both continuity and discontinuity, “all null having” explores the continuosly emerging bursts of unnatural, beyond-risk decay embedded in the perceived order.
Germ├ín Sierra, author of “Standards”

“here Mc Aloran is not being obscure, & if the reader thinks he is then i do not know how much they should fuck off but it’s quite a lot.”

Now available from Editions du Cygne, "longshadowfall"

From the first sentences of Michael Mc Aloran’s book: "longshadowfall", I recognise all the themes that this Irish poet has developed, which were always simultaneously paleophysical, infrasocietal, postland-striatical sojourns of our postneo cataclysmic sociuses. Still this is a progression: after the last, after all is lost, after such metapoetical questioning. Mc Aloran is a rebel and sets forth that great Irish tradition of "furthering the edge". If the "psychoscape" stretch seems bleak: this is what it is. Mc Aloran’s language has evolved along with the scorching, cryogenic catatonia of the social, personal, around us. He has gone all the way. We are not yet unable to laugh, and are intent to move on, even if into uncharted terroir.
– Aad de Gids

You can get it directly from the publishers, here

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

A Review by David McLean of EchoNone/ Michael Mc Aloran (Oneiros Books)

Michael Mc Aloran
Oneiros Books

EchoNone by Michael Mc Aloran further explores how the original imprint is dislocation & homeless. there is actually no nothing, there is no void or vacancy and absence is something that might have mattered, but somewhere else. there is no nothing to hypostasize & it does not noth, & everything is here all the time, often smelling funny, though you might not want it to be.

apart from the failure of the eye and sensibility, the book records the emptiness of speech. because meaning is broken by nature, it does not attempt to simulate a world created like a stage set to record the author's lunatic contribution to the pitiful attempts people feel obliged to make to sustain the stifling illusion of normality that the modern system, the system of modernity, demands.

i do not speak of social injustice and the inanities of fundamentally conservative identity politics, since these are completely insignificant compared with the basic & archaic truth that we are all always already completely fucked. 

if no collapse bile vomit of dead hence elective breathe insertion of expels worthless distance opiate in in of lack traces never of/ a head/ a body yes/ dream-lack forgotten breakage dense as tears illumined sky of upturned eye’s resolve strip-skin all breath’s denude cut close to restless skull exigency dark what dark in/ collects dried bones from fit of origin escapade no life in them appearing as shadows nothing claimed struck out spat out/ fucked fallen breakage dense regard non-sense of gilded tumour lights brittle as disregard obsolete in final what/ death word/

there is very little to be said in favor of a world where we are obliged to be only apparently aware of it, when it is designed by others & words were obviously invented by degenerate idiots.

the seeming continuity of linguistic conceptualization is a shallow lie to hide the psychotic break, the point where the real creeps in & leaves its traces.

words bled out as of slaughtered wombage catascope regard of desert nocturne churn of obscene disregard all laughter’s return/ spoke yes or no has it/ dreamed of nullity yes/ nullity in which given sacrifice of all else/ un-sky/ clarify dense as shit reek of unbound bones dust of entrails shadow preface forgotten asking in present sheen/

this book is well worth reading, & it may be purchased from Oneiros Books at this link

EchoNone -- Oneiros Books

Now available from Oneiros Books, my experimental poetry/ prose poetry collection, 'EchoNone'. The book itself is 69 pages and available here

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Outburst Magazine #15

A section of pieces from my forthcoming project, 'EchoNone', (which have since been reworked/ expanded), were published by Arthur Broomfield of Outburst Magazine, and can be found, with thanks, here

A New Ulster May Issue #32

A selection of pieces from my forthcoming project, 'EchoNone', (Oneiros Books), were published in A NEW ULSTER #32, and can be found here With thanks to Editor Amos Greig...

IN DAMAGE SEASONS -- Michael Mc Aloran (Oneiros Books)

A revised edition of IN DAMAGE SEASONS -- Michael Mc Aloran, with new cover art by D M Mitchell, is now available from Oneiros Books, here

'Prose poetry more anti-matter than literature, shards of glacial beauty, words bleached of context and affect decaying in space.'

ISBN: 9781300874164

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The Introduction to 'The Bled Sun' (Prose) by Christine Murray

Seething in the dark spitting dragonfly seeds into crimson mists head snared the body limp skeleton of mud ashen blessed skyline of the fall there was nowhere else

(Ah to the shithouse…going on and never returning… better for less…) from ever unto

Michael Mc Aloran’s selected prose, The Bled Sun, is a departure from the thoroughly developed symbol use that is inherent in his poetry and poetic prose. Those familiar with Mc Aloran’s themes and poetic voice will enjoy his selected prose. New readers will find an energetic anti-poet of sure economy.

One of Mc Aloran’s prose protagonists is the HCE[1] of feral alcohol addiction, whose swansong is a lingering and desperate thing in final fragments. While the seedy underbelly of the drug-raddled and nameless city of dissipation mirrors the voice of its protagonist.

The Bled Sun is almost beautiful in its sheer repellence. Affliction goes beyond our necessity to speak, it is a state from which the writer and reader both know that there is no return.

I sit and drink, the rats scratching behind the skirting boards briefly entertain me…The room is filled with cigarette smoke, and fading, vague light…I refuse to entertain the memories that have brought me to this point, sustained me throughout the rages, unto this utter desolation…I snatch up a bottle and smash it off the wall to silence the bastards…The silence, returns…I clasp tightly at what glass remains, it bites, the blood flows, the pain elevates me… (from  final fragments)

These then are Mc Aloran’s works of prose necessity. Here is both the  swansong and screaming hope of one who has seen too much casual death through final fragments, dissipation, and ever unto. The final section of the book, from nowhere, is a novella in itself

The Bled Sun is sometimes nauseating in its expression and yet the reader cannot look away, the nadir of the human condition is just a burning hit into a collapsed vein away.  If we do not speak its hellishness, how then are we to recognise the most unmapped zone of the human psyche ?


From the Notebooks of __________ )

closed flesh, a wound seared by the closure of the scream, in my death-dreaming skull a closed fist of madness: I was alive tearing at the limits of the sky…a prism through which the facets of nothingness, discoloured as bruised flesh: I long for the heartless wonder of death, for the absence I may never know…in my translucent skull I fade out of laughter unto the intoxication that is non-being…time has no essence, here, where, where the fuck ever…I am waste unto my becoming, I will be waste in this…as if to spray the sky with blood cum and spit were not enough that I might fall back upon that which I cease to erase…(from dissipation)

Jean Genet put images of serial killers on the walls of his prison cell, he masturbated onto his pages,  he worshipped these men with their blank and appalling gazes. Here were the pimps and demons of Paris in endless and narcissistic display. Our Lady Of The Flowers was torn up by a prison guard, Genet rewrote it. In the masturbatory filth and human desperation of his prison cell Genet wrote a great classic whose influence reverberated like a hammered nail through the work of future poets and writers, especially the Beats.

We don’t want necessarily to recognise the nadir of physical desperation, because it is worlds away from what we project about our cities, their literature. What hides in these alleys and torn up bedsits is not the business of the book club really. We avert our gaze from poverty and desperation because it illuminates what we think we have rejected. How stupid we are!

The final chapter or section of the book, from nowhere, is an entire novella in itself. Here, the writing has coalesced into a story about a man on the verge of suicide.  from nowhere is stand alone in many ways, looser in theme and less experimental than ever unto. There is a likeability about the protagonist, or maybe his resignation is compelling,

…Ah the whores, they were out tonight on the promenade, I almost choked on my laughter. An auld fucker like me, staggering, half-lost, they’d have robbed me blind and the Caribinierri, well, they’d have probably laughed until they shat themselves at me and the condition of me, drunk and dishevelled, and not a note in my wallet, smeared with lipstick from some gristle bone and flesh. No I just kept walking, that was enough to contend with. Back to my shadow upon the wall and the half-light of the candle and the headlights searching the walls and then across the ceiling. ( from nowhere)

The reader has in The Bled Sun an extensive selected prose  of diversity and intensity by Michael Mc Aloran which holds interest and is unencumbered by the necessity to fit into traditional publication structures.

Simone Weil writing on affliction describes a hammer driving a nail through wood, its echoes circling the globe, still,

In the realm of suffering, affliction is something apart, specific, and irreducible. It is quite a different thing from simple suffering. It takes possession of the soul and marks it through and through with its own particular mark, the mark of slavery. (Simone Weil)

The thing about creating such a vibration is that it can be incredibly difficult to sustain it, and such a writer who does must answer to it and develop his theme outward can become lost in attempting its expression. These are large themes that require the lived/livid approach to their verbalisation. This book is not for the pussy reader.

Not here, the rag and bone shop of genteel horror at coming age[2], but the wound of necessity making itself known to those of us who may have watched in blind helplessness the transmogrification of the human to the feral animal during the course of heroin addiction.The masked face, the bottomless black pits that were eyes. The emptying of the human being and his replacement with the salts and metals of addictions. That.

But McAloran would laugh at my simple attempts to place his work in a literary context, it is his own. The Bled Sun is lived/livid with despair, scorn, deep anger, the voice of necessity. This book had to be written or vomited- and we are the better for it.

An Irish society that is so terrified of its own shadow that it deliberately denies human experience and puts on this mismanaged and terribly trite front that permeates the too-pretty, too genteel literature that clogs the shelves and pushes out the Genets, the Batailles and anything that gives a whiff of being a bit too dark, a bit too cadaverous, maybe a bit too chiarascuro or baroque.

I don’t give a shit really about critics here. A lot of  current critique is pattern book, as if there were a mean. The glorious technicolor of the self-affirming seeks only to alienate a generation of young and radical writers who will find their material through the independent presses or online. Questioning the established modus operandi is the work of the writer and McAloran does so extremely.

--Christine Murray

                 H.C Earwicker / Here Comes Everybody /Humme the Cheapner, ESC,/  Huge Chain Envelope al
                Finnegans Wake by James Joyce.

                 Yeats The Circus Animals’ Desertion

THE BLED SUN can be purchased here

New blog at Wordpress, "Against the Dark Distance"

I am no longer using this blog, and have started up another here: Against the Dark Distance Feel free to follow if it pleases you...