Sunday, October 10, 2010

Review-

Michael McAloran - Final Fragments reviewed

Final Fragments
Michael McAloran
chapbook review
Calliope Nerve Media

This is what it says, it is poetry as it expresses the last things one can say about the void, it is what a suicide can say before actually dying. “I am too patient, with my own death” says the protagonist. Aren't we all?

The book depicts the love of death, the “will to desist” as it grows and burgeons within the voice of the poems. It is, as Connie Stadler says on the cover, full of the heritage of Beckett and that existential tradition.

He shows the splendor that there is “to be had” in the world as a real possibility, but frivolous, just another chunk of nothing, and wants to join the darkness and its “earthen caress.”

Ultimately we all, in our fascination with death, approach it “as an idiot child approaches a silent clear infinite lake, yet without wonder” because there is no locus called “death” where we will “be.” There “is” no void. What is fascinating with death, however, as McAloran shows, is the alternative to saying no to life, this “tomb of idiocy.”

This book also touches the dark pleasures of the death-madness, “my heart vibrates...I piss upon love as if I were scratching at a festering wound..I find joy in the obscene..There is laughter, also, at the heart of the stricken void”

The book depicts a memory of a love and its abandonment, the memory of the woman seeming to become a corpse on a bed, because memories are corpses, ultimately, no use to us.

This is a very short review and the fragments are short, it's a fragmentary review of a book of fragments, and in it Michael McAloran becomes “the closed fist of the night” - a fist of poems ready to punch away some illusions from the reader's complacent face.

Get it from Calliope Nerve Media here. Or direct from this link.

Prose Poetry-

'Untitled #25' up at 'In Between Altered States #5'-http://inbetweenalteredstates.wordpress.com/

Links

A poem at 'Negative Suck'- http://www.negativesuck.moonfruit.com/#/mc-aloran/4539972184
5 of my poems & two reviews by David McLean of 'Debris' & 'The Gathered Bones' at 'Sex & Murder Magazine'- http://sexandmurder.com/_____current_issue.html

Reviews-

chapbook review
Debris, by Micheal McAloran
erbacce press, 36 pp. £5 / $7.50
reviewed by David McLean
 
Stench
Rip of silent blood
Torn veins of the skylines
Atrophy
My skull a death orchard of bound bones
In the sickness of my laughter I vomit scars

I cite here Scars, one of the poems in this collection in full. It is one of an impressive collection of short dark poems here that follow a specific form, in that they are apparently nihilistic in the axiological sense, and the language is very rich in images, stench images, the odor and color of blood and shit given us on the chipped plate of the new millennium's psyche. The richness of the last line here is typical

in others last lines may be

I am disgust
(Reek)

The debris of my tears ablaze
(Ablaze)

I am the spit of the sun's vulgarity
(Spit)
 
So each poem is a little jewel cracked from the modern cancer, the malfunctioning spiritual pneumatics in each one of us. I don't feel that Mc Aloran is looking for some nasty god in the details, he is showing what there is if one seeks something allegedly more, some holy source of values. His sort of “nihilism” - like most others – is only nihilism if we feel that the question of a source of transcendent values is an open or interesting question. If we don't mind vomiting scars then we're home free.

Obliterated skull you are the
Silence of tombs
Rest rest for in your fatal flowerings
I am breathing
 
(Rest)

There is a promising conclusion here, as we hear at the end, we fill the world with our whatever

Tearing out stitches with my teeth
The echoes
Fill the skyline
 
(Stitches)

We can live in the shit and learn to see the aesthetically appealing in the amplified roar of self-mutilation. This collection of aphorisms or sketches, almost a haiku feel to many of them, is one that I can heartily recommend. Get it at: