Tuesday, 3 September 2019

Sketch - 08/ '19

…of to the eye that guts the milk teeth from children’s nightscapes of final sleep deprivation hollow the edge of tears as of frozen parameters to taste where to bone upon frozen winds ashen absence redempt is the lung listless tar in the veins of breathless perambulance where to scars that are scattered as of dead words of blood & silence to abide by the absence of desire is to speech dies in a vault of shit & solvency in the reek of tears cold ashen promise oxide to build it as of unknown mockery collapse it to strip from haven promise the lungs cast aside in a worship of malignance scuttle as of lapse through frozen lighted collision apathetic is the eye till broken shadows piss upon a cold stone grave where to prey of which once known is to collapse the skies torn down as of a theatrical curtain centre-stage of obsolete where to breathe is to love of which frozen in exile broken bodies to dispel as lack & piercing shadows to burn in the collision build of what once known broken by speechless shadowing never having been accounted for as an open wound sky’s pelt crawls across the sands of nothing ever of where to rot is to forage in the without of terror’s lock upon some skinned appeal striation burning colours the like of which never before seen as once what of throughout at the edge of exist to the edge reclamation nothing to beg of a frozen solace of withdrawal as if to having once eye alone to speak collision frenzy a grit of teeth the jaw taut kaleidoscopic tremor an ache in the rhythm of speechless having come before as to ejaculate upon a broken body snapped of which the spinal cast in frozen mists traceless the desire of which eye longing for to ever of to carve the benign a sleepless wonder stripping the shadowing from nothing of as to tear from given of unto collapse into a pit of gilded razors bloodily to expiration throughout which long shadow of the damned to fall as the precision of final is to mockery of the once was known throughout to burn of eye as eye sees eye collapse into the anguish of extrication a bitten trace of it carving the dead lie of it to the marrow’s touch specious as if to withheld ever of to taste as speech dies down whittling out the bones from the interior out unto as if to drift in collision of what matter solace fuck it shit upon a gaping wound a dressage of gilded teeth no matter of it spoken as once frozen to the essence of reclamation one final excise to collapse into where to having been is to colourless broken slaughter as tears build in the gallows’ tongue to trace across the neck of stone haven breathless to devour as of once till shadowy demise the laughter of children’s expel shadowing a fragment a longing for in thee taste of terror at the edge of the grave where to build from is to collapse into where sufferance is to stitch the wound until it heals nothing of throughout to see of it where screams to elected to in the burn of rot nothing of the before as effortless of in a demise of scarlet offerings the hands that shake the frozen emptily to caress where to of is to rip the flesh from bones that care nothing for the exist that bind them as wounds to birth break through the silentium of traces ever-echoing an ever reverberation tide to subdue the skinned light piercing the bled for tomorrow a skeletal reveal through torn flesh of drift a shiv a testimony of shattered emblems of the sickness that collapses nocturne ice a bathe in aptitude where tremor spasm strips the night no answer of in the echoes of traceless oxide a frozen realm of pitch as shadowy nocturnes burn of bloody waste scattered frugally the bones of children warped by an absent sun dislodgement breathe skinned of eye lies down with the starved canines of nothing ever as traceless to taste a dissipating shadow birthed from some other of where to nectar fleshed of razor eclipse to taste blood a vacancy of roundelay is to given lock of speech as the skull dislodged in motion of speech kicked from solace to breathless at the edge crossed over nothing to observe there nothing of what matter in ever of dispel cold currents of lightless flow as if to mimicry of silhouette to reclamation null & void given of the once to follow breakage oxygen traces a caress in the night a folding of a blood-caked cloth cast across the absent desert to shadowing as if to echo that to turn aside to an indifference given to recall in the listless ennui of scattered fragments of teeth upon ashen sands discarded blood to sudden as if to to devour the shit of all that once held to be a closed room a sarcophagus a catacomb of graven assault the body vacant as if to burn in lapse all said nothing ever of it to close of wound a build in the iced corridors of decimation psychosial death where warp of meat upon a smear fleshed bone overtures in the sharp shock edge of recognition some dissolve adrift through- out as of a skyline foreign yet discernible through burning windows a kiln of irredempt as to loss of touch taste & smell merely the depth where breath to recognise as the boundless limit of dislocation removes the stitches that bind the membrane within the fruitless skull of in-dreaming as it speaks of else a descent into from out of which as skinned as before the lungs to evaporate the mouth to drown out slowly upon the acrid shit of being where to utter of is to collects the rag & bones from some gutter’s tread beneath the scum weight of exaltation…

…(broken emblems of eye line the sands where the bones of breath are a teasement of desire & avaricious intent an incapacity a spurious collision of extension as skinned of weight all along it matters little a before an aftermath a collage of sickness scattered aloft from the lungs of given ever nothing of it as a mockery of teeth trace violent colourings of a slaughterhouse breathe of what nectar eyeline flung to the hyenic laughter speechless tint closure of some other wound a breakage of vacant solace collects in haven nothingness to carve the adroit ever to dispel mocking the wound to a collapse of furious intend in an abort of echoing laughter)…

"at this monolith of text, poetic nevertheless, one stumbles and at first gets asphyxiated by its denseness, incessant buzz of information and at once also, the dissolvence of this information into its steroidic motorizing, dissolved as if where meaning threatened to form it is in ridicule and selective alliteration, associativism, lexicologic tightly fitted maconry of intuitive wordsuccessions (i.e.: poetry) it is poetry and at the same time its meta-poetry following it as a shadow. in micropatches we get antitactical and hence, accurate information of an Endsocius, sometimes, often, beautifully worded, often crass and unbearable hell, stench begotten circumstantial. this is the new post-post poetry. if we want to mirror the schizophrenia, psychosis of our sociuses, then here it is done with the utmost accuracy." 

Aad de Gids

Monday, 26 August 2019

Sketch - 08/ '19...

…forever it unsaid…blind reek of it is said…deeper shadow film of eye alone…what mark or other made…in foreign none…cut close to never…bled of less than other…dead traces neither blossom or…all sung as of till null…collapsed into what dark…asked of…nothing to be remarked upon…says what will…of lack all that…absent trace of some redeem…addressed emptily what could…eye trace what of inept of it…it what one cannot neither fathom or abject lapse…forever said as on it carries no…as all what be recollect breakage of it…till nothing left of before what once of never was…of eye’s remark upon…no matter merely says of eye upon it…colours of which cascade into null & voidal…frozen sun of departure little of some measure of it…it zero of where to trace of it erasure…an abort of otherwise…else little else of which to recede from…dense endless lightless…stillness yes of some nothing of to bear…passage nowhere closure of through some dispel…nothing ever of sun’s light to pierce…there goes it neither…whispers left or neither of it dissipates…all what spoken for…how it was & how it was ever measured…offal condition that must be taken where have in laughter adrift…dust of nothing more caressed by breeze…it long forgotten now to come…yet no…nothing forgotten of realm or reach of purpose or another hour of it once…no not a…hence into…furious of bloodily of no more…when now naught…nothing of before…worst of which by which given to erase it…no matter neither…sung aloft…shine a light…no truce no bounty…cold eye pupil…it what die yet die… shadowy…eye will neither of nor yes as silent as before…says naught as if were spoken of…thin film of breathe…says it not unto neither of once all said no…basks in…as if to embrace in thin lights…measured no as was before it…ease which will forgotten as of breakage never of till silence…as was in nor of in of echo of…disease of exile traces…useless forage it said undone…all that will if ever of…night & some ever of throughout it closeth…vacuum speech…cleft of…hence until…mocked by traces nothing of through which ever amassing…it all fall down…repeats after it has been uttered…dredge in of what nothing of it a-bask in detritus collapse…burn of deep edge collision artefact…as broke stone of what will…neither of/ what matter/ what matter…long shadow of devour…in broken solace of throughout all dead as absent as for nothing…burned of/ remarked upon…still yet nothing of…collapsed into what din…reflection of long storm clouds image of dead sky …it all said as of throughout…words to burn of essence of nothing ever till tidal restraint collapse…where to none of which is to fragment…is to blind warp edge a taint in eye alone…nothing of for breathe what of it collision upon where to by what manner forage forgotten…say all same…once more…nothing of it slides away to…fingers that burn it all none…solace haven solace utter shit…astray of some nowhere else to where to be is to burn black given to distinct…as all along what matters none…lightless overture of blood shed in utter dark…as trace of one or other nothing of in breach of non-descript…lapse of else a fathom of nothing vapours… cannot of/ some other than…neither of it once nor neither fade into…silence allwhile forgotten in a breath of manifest…eyes abandoned obvious detract from sense it…ever to cancel out where drought is of abandon of…eye says nothing of it yet cannot other sayeth merely to concession…cold shoulder/ absolution/ no…

Monday, 3 June 2019

Available from Veer Books, "Till Claimed", a poetry chapbook...

Now available from Veer Books (U.K), my poetry chapbook, "Till Claimed"). Samples from the book can be found here £6/ 50pp/ Matte Cover/ Artwork by me from 2003 oil on canvas/ Introduction by Aad de Gids...

Monday, 27 May 2019

The blurb by David McLean for "(dead tones)", forthcoming...

this the latest by Michael Mc Aloran, (dead tones) describes the tones that resound around the gross & repetitive pageant of carnality that actually constitutes all that is ethics & aesthetics. these tones are visual, there is little sound, nor should there be. poetry is not for reading aloud, not for noise & celebration, it is to create a discursive depressive position by painting stained sememes, all the raucous motherfucking colors.

of…till closure
eyes of the expelled diameter where breakage bone is the night’s kiss an empty travail…sudden as if to devour till lack wither in the haven speech colourless attrition nestle in marrow what have you…it stun breakage…piss upon the flame…

the reader of a poem should feel that the poem thinks that they are a cunt; that it wants to hurt them. Mc Aloran seems less than benevolently disposed, as is only fitting & proper

a child’s toys burning in a hearth of
spent syringes of clotted blood of razor wire lack

this is invigorating. there is nothing that is not a positive affirmation in this book. there is noise & pain & suffering & brutality in this world: that's what makes it so neat.

-- David McLean

Sunday, 28 April 2019

A review by David McLean of "The Black Vault", published 2018 by VoidFront Press

The Black Vault, by Michael Mc Aloran, is a private use of a public language to celebrate when words slow down and become architectonic shift. What is at issue is the betrayal by the need for hypostasizing everything, including the self itself, what people think is the ego, a need that lets the person expect continuity & rootedness.

Words are used in a painterly manner like daubs of decay, the text asks the reader, politely, to explain the shit stains on their face. Here is the conventional correct, with all its rectitude, & Mc Aloran advocates the tear, the cry, the word a fist that thuds into the jaw of some cunt.

The "vale of absent flesh" is the stable perduring body that we do not have, the missing Ka, the Akh to which we may never aspire. So maybe this book needs a Lacanian reading, in simple terms. It is of the bad baby, as PIL once put it, the baby in the mirror, the ego image formed from an idea that this body i am looks perfect and whole, yet i am fragmented and unsound. There is no unity to be found. Thus the text does not aspire to unity.

dust clad
the shed skins

The speculum of the Other is broken and cracked.

the meat of the impoverished
tongue wilts in the
of desire's quarry
the nothingness of listless stone

The psyche inside the little body watching itself struggle in the mirror, imprisoned in the fingers of some scumbag mother can never be an object like the stone or the body is. It is not ever going to be whole, and nor should it be.

All that exists outside this fragmentation that the mind is is the meat that decays, rots, stinks, all that exists is  the stone & what might as well be stone, the self, mistaken for the alleged "ego" of convention, the fucking worthless person.

A great book. Do buy it. It is available from Amazon.com

Monday, 18 March 2019

The Introduction By Aad de Gids to "Till Claimed", Veer Books 2019

There is a kind of meticulous nihilism going around and we're born with it, it is spooned in. This, then, 'organogramme', supersphere, hypersphere, antiesthetics, punksensibilities, are made possible by the continuous onslaught on our retinas of nothing but a turn for the worse the world had taken say, since the 60s. From out of this there came a reaction then of postmodernism, let us call it that. After 11 sep 2001 postirony and hypercomplexisation, psychotic societal derangement and dissociationism became consolidated. The art acting and mirroring against this were born. Mc Aloran's writings were never in another tradition. Positivity doesn't seem an exhaustive clarification method anymore. Elucidation is gone, the need for it gone, everyone walks with their smartphone to the street nowhere expecting amelioration. Just raw existence, survival as in a chimpanzee war. “I take from the dogs what will/ what will//feeding/[//]feeding//fucking the life//from the idle light’s//indifference”. To just call this as etherial as crass poetry 'nihilism' would be a reductive approach to it. It seems more an affirmation of 'what is', 'what it is'. And it is all not so nice. “I lack//I lack the colourings//I spit the dew//from an un-harvested mouth//scattered //ablaze with nothing” Here we see where our interventionism is, if still possible, allotted to. Secundarity and contingency. Here we have poetry as sublime as it is irreversibly constative. The nights are 'read' as 'nights on earth'. We're hostages of what we're surrounded by. Here we see what is left for us, as non-space, spaces as non-descript as indecisive, starkly associating with bleakness and stupor nevertheless. All 'actions' are redundant and the world is chaotic, cosmic, chemified and fraxated to mere pumice, even our deaths are buried (not: 'our deads') within unceremony and masscalculatoric machinations. At the same time Mc Aloran describes the groundscape, psychoscape of the diagrammatic contours of the space we die in, live in, not so much difference anymore. Actually, it seems in the reading of TILL CLAIMED I seem to now have stumbled upon a central axiom of this collection of concisely and superpreciously worded poems that, to live almost means to be dead nowadays. There is no difference anymore. But as Mc Aloran indirectly yet with exactitude presses a knifing diagnosis upon it it appears that, all 'communication' now is directed toward oneself; here a systemic unglossiness incorporated with the eyes of the dead, still longing to fulfill an organic deep seated functionality, yet there was not much to see or rather: there was so much to see it swamped the whole vista, perspectivist glaciality unto chill. “fluidity of death/[//]nocturne//I-skinned of breath/ aligned//& the knock turns//to the close of//the fist unsung where teeth obscene//glint in the absence//none less to follow on from//split///surface//unbridled nothing//ripping the cull from the bones of I/eye//where the winds//scattering//breath of the solace of/[//]no solace/[//]merely the silence of/…” Again, a central as acentral passus with heady content. Solace = silence. A microscript of a decomposition. Viscerality as metaphor for death = life. This point-for-point description of a decomposition at once comprises the diagnostics of our psychotic sociuses. While Mc Aloran's poetics has a rather becoming elegance this particular form of poetry runs the risk of being deemed 'hermetic'. As does my personal style of poetry so different from Mc Aloran's yet weighed with the same infusion of punk-esthetics. And where this also could suggest explosiveness and blunt aplomb it is rather contextual and semantical that we have not so much chosen, but were chosen by the language steered from trauma and posttrauma, worldparticipation and being witnesses of threatening and bleak times, that suffuses our writing skills with radical choices. In Mc Aloran's poetry there is certainly a leaning towards death but as we've seen, this at once also means an inclination towards life. Adorno in citing another: “life doesn't live”. Perhaps with new generational shifts upcoming will there be another literature possible although it is hard to see how this shall crystallize. “vague the silence//(collapsed/[//]nothing…)//vertigo breath//& the//jarring breath(en)//dead stone//vacuous I die/ I//laughterling caress//sweet night of bloody earth/ waste//& the drip-feed sun//& the night//balancing on a//crescendo//of subtle apocalyptic”. The red wavely line beneath the word “laughterling” already says it all. We have to invent new words to stay accurately skintight to the surfaces of the world. The surfaces of the words and of language are on the move. Not alone seismic shift they but glacial and uncomfortable polar...

--Aad de Gids, 16/ 09/ 2018

Saturday, 23 February 2019

A review by Aad de Gids of "Cold Zero Reflect", VoidFront Press 2019

 (while the content of Michael's 'new' book 'coldzeroreflect' isn't for the weak of mind nor for rigid formalists, its introductory phrase reveals musicality and an opening to 'sensibility', 'sensitivity', the realm of the senses as what could be heard and smelled alike.) "traceless.../vapour tones...". (the auditive entry goes on) "//all spoken for/asked of/reduced to stammering in neon exigent...". (this lemmatum [as the article in an encyclopedia] ends with) "utterance/utterance of...". (here we see that what has started with a kind of invitation to the senses and proceeds herein, an auditivity, ends with an indeterminacy, worse, an indifference, which nevertheless shall appear to be one of the accuratest mirrorings I have ever encountered in poetry, of 'what it is', this world now, this fucking world now, what the hell that is.)
(on page 8 we see the interesting suffix "(etc.)" out of which a terrific, terrifying, frightening and laughable worldvision speaks, not laughable in the sense of ridiculous but bc of its sheer radicality. to kind of reinforce that still it also speaks of an "absenteeism" and this is the delectable as horrid outlook we simply have if we look in clarity around us.) (Michael doesn't shy away to show the stuttering, stumbling, rambling of the language itself:) "an abort of....// shadow of...meat trinkets of....". (here we see the ample indifference of [he invites us to chose for ourselves] any word to describe any situation almost in inarbitrary manner, random manner. because it doesn't matter anymore. postMao Deng Xiaou Ping said: "it doesn't matter if you're bitten by the dog or the cat". and now we have TrumpPutin. in a sense Michael words the status even after this.)
"(the) skeletal peak a solace of unknown orchids...// denuded silence...". (a landpsychoscape of vegetality is sketched here where the vegetality isn't something inferior to the antropocene yet we bend, we better lay low now, in a denuded silence.)
(where we find ourselves in is in morguelike, streetity athmosphere like, environments, and the litterary voyage is an exact mappology of these catacombes, crypts, but not as how we imagined these to be. no it is what now is around us.) "echo-chamber of...
(as if to say…)".
(here an indeterminacy, an uneagerness is described. of course this is anathema to regular 'poetry'. but the gatekeepers of that poetry do not matter. here we have the
ravenous new descriptive style of Michael, for him also in a more 'aerial style', which in the mean time doesn't falter for an icy exactitude, a matter-of-factly inconclusiveness left open as the wound of the world.) "oxidate shadowings given to astringent...// cold shale of the...// bodily the body degorged of sound...". (this 'matter-of-world', a materiality, is also caught in the saturative titers of "oxygenation". the very matter is astringent. Michael discovers the sheer chemification again, even inmidst human enterprise.) "oxygenate(d)... // (“no, not of...”) // blind light of (the) electro-surreal kissing the tungsten teeth of blindness..." (we're in the mines. we're in the trenches, we were never out of them. chemification and metallurgy of the human endeavour. in the sense that we do not so much shape the world [even if we do with the climate], the world regains its place and rechemifies what already chemical was only executes a drastic redistribution. hardcore metallic ores come to the fore. [Tungsten, or wolfram, is a chemical element with symbol W and atomic number 74. The name tungsten comes from the former Swedish name for the tungstate mineral scheelite, tung sten or "heavy stone".] as hardness is chosen for metaphor, there is somewhere a softer side. here the poetry of Michael circumvents around.)
"terse light/sheared speech/colloreality unsung devouring...// spun (as if to) lies bloodily abandoned...".
(to reconstruct what with incisive poetry can be pinpointed silent witnesses can fulfill 'the descriptive landscape'. the poetic description loses itself willfully in what circumstantially is presented. then Michaels poetry helps to reveal almost as in 'écriture automatique' what is hidden in plain sight. here we have a kind of forensic research of a place delict: the world with which we grew up. a 'collaterality' is the almost accidental coincidence of different 'events', and all the other old-fashioned regulatives have become preposterous and obsolete: causality, development unto a better goal, an ethical imperative. Michael shows that these aren't still yet absolved, not met, not reached. there comes no replacement, just this accurate descriptive power to fragmentatively and in an esthetic theatrality denoted tanatoscape of "world", much more modern than what was and is offered in marketing strategem presented 'litterature'.)
"with from out of which...// silentee(ism)...// struck marrow what edge of it as given to follow naught...// traceless senseless recollect...// bind (the) wound (the) broken body vocal...// trace left neither right neither right nor left...";
(here the almost threatening [within a litteral text notwithstanding] of 'stopping the words' and the flirtation, threatening, with precisely the continuation of the words makes Michaels poetry inclusivistic and visionary, cut to the schizoid domain of our sociuses now.) "trace left neither right neither right nor left..." . (this fragment contains a hilariousness and if this is clearly visible then also a postnihilist absence of even this notion [nihilism] . it remains a philosophical question if we have builded ourselves an ontology, latticework of existence, at all.)
"trace left neither right neither right nor left...". (if there is satiricism in here, than it is also postsatiricism, postironicism. why? with satire we still try to restore something, enriched as it is now with its vulnerability shown embodied, incorporated. yet here we see the accurate desription of a socius, societal complex, hyperurbanity hystery, as it is. 'what it is'. 'what there is'. "the 'there is' is being recovered' (Deleuze-Guattari). after the causality [which still implies improvement], after irony [off off broadway has been gentrified, disneyfied]. it is postmodernism and then still also after that.)
"(the) eye’s deceive it spoken a closed fist of // empty promise...".
(there is an acribic hermetism in this formula [as with Adornos writing] but then also an irreversible cadencing, repetitionism, as in poetry. a paradoxical 'closed fist of empty promise'.)
(furtheron we have some ideomatic lemmata symptomatic and facilitative towards Michaels irreplaceable style:)
"echo-echo chamber of drought wherein (the) closure of what bitten// ever of/ bound as if unto what edge of clime irrespective...";
"(start-stop then...)...// the bitten fingernails of drawers unopened in // rooms of acrid// final waste....".
(here we find a certain stasis described ['echo-echo chamber of drought', words as 'closure', 'bound', 'drawers unopened', 'start-stop then...', etc.] which covet to encompass a kind of Endjazz. we think of Walter Benjamins "Dialektik im Stillstand" and Beuys's "Und jetzt brechen wir den Scheiße ab" in his artwork 'Grond' [ironically the Dutch word for the German 'Grund' and English 'Ground']. in neowording Michael seems to treat language as subject to vortices: "shadowling".)
"circumference of flame from which to inhale...// all sense devoured...// glisten of flesh...
// of meat cast to (the) hyenic...".
"close (the) final door to be done...// in anaemic shadow of...// silenced from (the) once to (the) hereafter-long...// cold currents of stripped flesh ever...".
(as well a dynamism as a finalism is documented here. it is the finalism of decay which isn't linear, which is quite dynamic and forensic. in this sense Michaels poetry is an entomology of the future and a futuroscope of now. "the histories of now" [Michel Foucault].)
(IF, we thought the poetry of Michael McAloran already is a dense [while the above section is written in more aerial style, both qua syntax as per semantics, as I allowed it to appear in my review in denser form] we shall be utterly surprised by what follows. WE, US, and.....me. I have read Gertrude Steins 'The Making of Americans', James Joyce's 'Ulysses' [unfinished], far more challengeing several 'nouveau roman' romans: Alain Robbe-Grillets 'Le Voyeur' [with in it, the 30 pages long description of how a seagull sat on a pole in a harbour] , Marguerite Duras's books [with in it, copious descriptions in annoying yet when acclimatised, narcotic descriptions of a life in the Mekong Delta, of a loveaffair, etc., her 'Hiroshima mon Amour' [as well as the almost unbearable film made of it], her filmed book [by Alain Resnais] 'les Années dernières à Marienbad' plus Géorges Pérec's 'la Disparition' wherein he describes an entirely intelligible book WITHOUT THE LETTER 'E'. Robert Musil's thousands of pages of 'Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften' [man without features] [unfinished] and Célines, Célans, Ciorans resp. vindictive journey to the end of the night; hermetic poetic figments; quadrupulted nihilistic aphorisms ['de l'Inconvénience d'être Née' -- of the inconvenience to be born],
Kapielski's 'Mathematisierung des Todes' an almost brutalist, dadaist, nearly webby incomprehensable tractate of death, foreseen in formulas. so I have read some of the most austere, weird, estrangening, outerworldly texts but nothing, NOTHING, could have prepaired me for the immensely textual onslaught which awaited me simply by turning a page. and ploughing through this text of Michael I got accustomed to the sheer linguisticity of the language. a BALLISTIC influx of seismic trembling avalanches of language nowhere and seemingly never to be stopped anymore. and alone already in this, we find this genial, supermirroring, [Hubble] telescoping, Zeisz's microscoping image of 'what the hell is going on', and even a supplementary dimension outside of this emblematum, this enduring flood of words so intricately as also indifferently mimicking [fill in any word] the disappointment, approval, reinforcement, fracking, undermining of all the developments which make our geodesic, geopopulistic, geopolitical barrenscape visible in this extraordinarily FORM.)
"…asks of…ever of the bind-breathe…fallen unto measure of…spat out the wings of long forgotten else…night for blood & a…cold depth of denuded all stepped alone…breakage nullity of herein where not of a in or of nor nothing be…strip solace…broken bones scattered across rotting floorboards…dense will end rising up to splendour eye’s disregard…a sentence a frenzy of…turns into cannot other than where to have neither of the held close the door…bathes in the eclipse of meat…hyenic/ the blood to flow…effortlessly consumed …where traceless of what in of/of the desire for the garotte…spoken of through silence break/ shrift…the shattered teeth of exodus & the laughter of echoing in the core of breath…reflexive…taint without longing breakage colours of all spoken for…silence as if there were any other than where to sever/no/a ghost-limb fallen silt…passes through one surface unto another…till trace forgotten never of the spe/cial bound by walls constructed of…glass works & the snare of teeth breakage valve of purposeless driven by the desire to final…laconic…no nothing of that yet of the disappearance of yes what matter as if to choke unspoken…dead as…rip of flesh in an outcry of blood & meat…the vocal of it sounds out from out of severance…nothing of the matter a taste of for it forgotten erasure pageant depth kisses of the forgotten…the null light permeate…there go the fingers useless implements…flung to the dogs of…as all that be was never once…neither from the outset nor the outset other than…plumes of…reflections of…nothing…of…".
"…of meat sink further unto…to the…gathered up in tune in turn of bereft exigent…breakage languish as the phlegm fills up the lung of pulse…strips away the skin of it the eyes ablaze some circus dreaming…shard upon shard swallowed down to birth the echo of redundant soundings…all blackened of where nothing…sacred teeth & the skin tacked to the fence-posts of some sudden desire…as close all tongue in dense apparition of expel…through which…from out of…dead-end traces & of/a to be gone…all is of one unsaid as an echo breaches…extracted fingers beseech upon one knee in the dark as the screw bites into membrane’s children… cannot…nothing ever…there nothing there in a stance light end of broken fallen sickness to caress as of the flesh that carries it as an unwanted foetus…it eye lapse…here the eye this is not the overture merely the…casts out yet no answer…none shall…frozen limbs caress the endless night…till sickened of & unto the flight of oblivion where to have is to bruised fruit meats the colours of which…cast out yet no other of…as broken the body vocal is the shit-stained garments of speech unclaimed…as if to…not a…of…it closure speech lost to the non-being in a head of dense sand it dwelleth…shiv tight blend of razor syllabus unclaimed…till broke frozen…pissing as if to say it upon the papyrus claims of sheets crumpled like broken swans…till further nowhere…endless nowhere…zero as the reflect in the… exhalations of cigarette smoke…nothing onwardly exhalations into a transparent room of spoke unspoken…
…cold reflect of blood shed where to…genuflect of some final reaching for…slap to the face begins again…having forgotten cannot…it-surface of blind light reflect of null that cannot…broken glass rupture through which it can or only through the eyes of the silence broken only by…torn to shreds in bask of territory…spitting out the shit force-fed it can only…never yet as…tension light arrested flesh the body broken entity of nothing ever in where trace of languish collapses into foreign…taste waste attrition…bone dice a winter pageant…the roots reach for the nothingness as if else were to be of any…spit tongue lapse…dense accord…there is laughter yet no more…begins again false promise remembers…rat reflect…rat from out of which…keener the eye of some ballast a frozen fragment …dense what will in salve no nothing of the blood…froze light breathe…black casket room of nowhere out as if there ever could have been…spills of entrails from eviscerate a soundless speech neither the speechless nor the following after…hyenic the blood continue to flow until…bled out…nothing of it black polka soundless penetration vibrate of…sees eye see…not a…nothing for this… nothing of that or…ever of the taste of shit in the mouth in the reek of fumes arising from the virgin sands freshly placed before in any given hourglass…as kicked from once of one throughout kicked from one until what of in ever till…as the bleed of which is ever the closure wound non-viable…all as sung through a talus closure of the bloom of razor discharge cascade of breathless speech of the words that never could… ".
(in my, so generously by Michael to me presented book, this absolutely breathless as asphyxiating, overpowering as intravenous, mining operation project desire rapids narrows, textual detextualising attaque of any unprepaired 'reading', goes on page 20-47, instilling in the mean time an attunement as in listening to unforgiven music, free jazz, Yoko Ono, Plasmatics, John Cage études australes', all, aleatoric music with clangs dissonantly following upon other dissonant clangs, etc. that music and this text accomplish a kind of druginduced haze, narcotic high, Dublin (Lyon, Phoenix, Bangkok) bad drugs mosaical night, postmedicated stupor, torpor, rigor, crypsis, stasis, chorea, pogo, epileptoid episodic ellipsophobic Endreading.)
(followed by a tome of again aeronautic, LSD-cosmonautic, chaoscomatose aperçus to the equally stupefying stratagems of neoCapitalist, neopostTrotzkist, neopostMaoist, designs of DubaiBeverlyHills societies with their SaoPaulo, Rio, Manaus, Medellin, Caracas, Djakartalike favelas, barrios, slums. so if there is any violence in the text so much the better. its relevance as poetry is measured after this: a supermirroring of the
hypercomplexisized weave of our leaden, thungsten, besnowed societies, the valutas covered in the finest nanodustings.)
(we have taken any encyclopedic or narrativistic or metatheoretic lettrist work and shaken that up so its words came tumbling down into a big pewter vessel,then took the words randomly in Adolph Wöllfli-style as disregulative dense (nevertheless) figurative lemmatum [think the articles of an encyclopedia], then, this, was and is a new (satiric dynamic) lemmatum, tome, of the world, now, 'worldling'.)
"...cold chase of breakage what of till dense ocular closure tomb dissolve listless design of what which seethe in black light whereof of broken collapse into dread what matter vacant to pose upon in shattered mirror of recollect a dry season of a teeth of sky where once closure discharge effortlessly outspoken a deft eye claim of which desirous embalm what as if to echo-none cold chalice of forgotten bled as it must whereof some talus lightless stricken of what speech reclamation from dregs what sudden nothing of to gain all spun alack ever of if to ever-fragment steel closure effortless design not a trace of lung extinguished in rot of rat where being rot cold zero reflect stillness unto breach birth nothing collect spun lest of will it all whittle it all down to a point of light displaced seemingly to adjust a shudder a mockery laughter of upon where none only surface tension of some abort closure discharge eats where in nothing in or ever much cold spasm disregard it none stammers upon whereof in eye of spectre disregard it once more a recollect a breakage of light ever to return to swim in nothing ever of beyond surface tension that cannot be altered other than through breakage point cold syllabus a nothing more once more as once in dread what speaketh to get it over with till once more in hyenic a body a pulse a strip of null redeem in surrogate waste in absurd closure of unsaid ever of reflect a temperate bloodless field of a scattering of murder of outstretched wings black as was or once whereby till fragment shatter of bones to silenced never a sound of in purity of expectancy expel where drift of is intent given through desire it-lock nothing drift of eye what wither of cold once more cold temperate it shines in broken nocturnes null to flow throughout in vibrate of steel shimmer breakage nothing repeats itself cold once more steel once more an it sarcophagus & lock turned bustle of here & now erase all reduced to whisper tangents null & of till turn beyond into none a closed reap of winds cascade of where scrags of meat devour themselves subtle temperate not a trace of less than was before eye dies it what forgotten bitter pips of forgotten resurgence sickness to breathe beyond nothing of in vocal that compels desirous after-math closed wound in excreta bleed a rim a shattered sun a leakage of transparent blood impenetrable ice inserted into where fresh wound & drift of null echoing out forgotten spasm dead end a pit a nothing ever of ventured lack no nothing ever of it…".
(iconisation of classic use of prose into the haphazardly placed words [here and there and then more here than there] as daring new esthetic plazas, nevertheless demanding space as newer punkfunkier niche of s(t)ayingpower. we can take any slice, choose random beginning and accidental end and illustrate herewith the urgency of both prose, poetry, world and art and the reversal and negation of it.)
(after this as terrifying as releaving BLOCK in the third part of aperçus we find a now almost enbalming formula wherein the language immanently [imminently] destructs itself in usage:)
"the scattered teeth of syllabus arch devouring its own purpose".
{I can now safely conclude my review of Michael McAlorans 'coldzeroreflect' with some zealous words about how the threatening of the teeth of the night embody a sure affirmation of any evenementiality. the brutalist suddenness of certain catacombic surfacialities form the microaccurate as well as visionary universe indigoscoping of what happened before and has never left.)
"…in a strip of skin neither pressure nor dissolve/ as final out of in echo-echo neither the valve the circus pageant/ a dressage of tears flung to the dawn light echo in of which/ flung to the dogs the hyenic the amber naught cold chase some never of laughter all long/ a bitten cleft into where to into/ feeds upon/ struck out…".
"…astringent teeth of a bled carcass of kaleidoscopic waste/ given to where nothing of a whisper a breathless desire for the one thing adamant/ a steel of clipped wings ablaze as catascope revisited births a nullity of breathless landscapes & corridors meshed as one till closure of final door/ as form stare cold white flash of…".

"Cold Zero Reflect" is available to purchase via the link here 

Wednesday, 2 January 2019

Now available, "cold zero reflect", (VoidFront Press)

//Michael Mc Aloran writes a book about recurring themes such as the void, the delay, the
absence, the irreal. (“the skinned animal crosses the street across”) he writes, and this, as
elsewhere in the book, makes me think of Bacon. Not narrative, not figurative, but figural. The book prefigures utterance & the impossibility of dialog by such passages as

& (the) calling one home of candied
a-breathe of shit…

The figures are abstract, not figures depictable, & the mouth of the corpse is immobile forever, they utter as little of interest as the average living person. The text simulates transmission of information & opinion, “as if to say” it is not the “want to say” of meaning, but the simulacrum, yet with the gusto of the Baconian meat being presence, these words, as is the wont of words, depict the lack & the absence that is language. A great book, buy it. – David McLean//

"cold zero reflect" is available from Amazon.comAmazon.co.uk

Monday, 17 December 2018

Further pieces from "Code #4 Texts" -- Aad de Gids & Michael Mc Aloran (Oneiros Books 2014)

17...recoil step trace/ trace non-step/ recount can one/ the eye‟s recount roving in the X. of/ meld till trace of what has yet/ before having come from none/ not knowing of the how many or/ taken yes no or of the/ claimed claim a desire for breath/ non-speech/ nothing left of what what matter/ yet still/ still the grind of lack/ exhale what for as if to/ or/ still no recoil no not a trace/ recount of X./ how many yet the steps unclaimed/ to claim no/ eye spies with the little left/ some substance or other/ knock knock there goes the light of the once hereafter/ lock trace/ recount/ nothing none of it/ no nothing more of it/ until again/ not having moved yet having/ all the while/ recount can one/ am or of the is or eye/ split/ spillage/ what laughter else of the hereafter/ having claimed/ no nothing/ X./ parameter/ a sky streaked with excrement/ doused the lack till fill/ recoil yes or none of the above what matter/ non-speech no never once more/ in-dreaming of the never uttered/ yet still the ever-final grind of emptily/ once more until lessened/ claimed not claimed as far as the eye can/ see-saw/ oceanic swell of tears having forgotten one‟s place/ as if to gift the nothing of/ recoil step trace/ not knowing of the how many left/ it matters not yes it matters like pissing on gardenias/ final clamour X./ night spillage/ day‟s light/ perhaps some other eradicate/ bone times none in the algebra of silences/ whispers of the trace/ not a stitch/ cease/ claimed claim a desire for breath/ in the absence of breathe/ defined by/ spoken of what whispers/ nothing anymore/ paring away yes one pares/ the eye‟s recoil is perhaps September it matters not a fuck/ X. or no/ a bound reach/ skin the/ an abound of reaching skin the cat out of the bag no not a trace/ knock knock there goes the light again what matter/ on and off/ a pulse almost/ no/ some substance or other here comes the blood rising in the parched throat/ some distance to trace/ as if to/ recoil step trace/ as if to say/ non-speech is best/ ever clear/ not having moved yet having/ inhale what for as if to/ claimed or unclaimed/ spattered/ some substance or other/ ten times none in the arithmetic of nothing/ in syllable of/ nocturne blind yet in what fashion/ bled dry as of departure yet nothing has/ this is the station of/ recoil of X./ it marks the spot/ ( a naked eye pares away the night‟s sky bind away of all significance or shadow/ gesture hurling out the blind light of the exhume till splice cut close the flesh‟s silently…)…[54] times [17] will be a nonsig-nificant determinant towards claustrologicism and phobic calculatorism where X stands for a vector within a nonroom of indeterminacy still. "a pulse almost/ no/ some substance or other here comes the blood rising in the parched throat/ some distance to trace/ as if to/ recoil step trace/ as if to say/ non-speech is best", X also a shifting feature each time an obtrusively illustration of possible blockage yet rather the sketchy microtraceology of a mosaicing tableau forever gliding absorbant matter of exorbitance signifying nothing. heed the world in its poker-chambers dig the earth until its granular soul unhidden lays bare an ore of aired ochre shubewise unearthed the granite holes fracked. here we're already vanished or,ore,here the reminesce of this mythic pancontinent monotectonic paragaea with the great dead center an endless desert the size of our big ocean the silence of what never heard was these nonantropocene stretches of uncoordinated magnetism and needless as evident disdirection. the X marker each time of arrival again of what then was unto these new massive geodesics chemified earth this short phase of putrid antropology disappeared already forgotten almost before it hadtet begun. the grace the contingently sprawled out patches of postvegetation as seen by the restanimals now clotted in arcane vacuoles in almost residual antitheatre moaning and migrating to newer grounds unseen and nonscientific strict for ages to come the meteorology and protopostpaleology like mists falling over neopresence and pasts postcataclysmic hyperevents unseen. the world a place of desolation destitution after the halfly halted unstoppable entropic spasms laying bare almost the magnetic grid and its irreciprocal deaf shiftings and disheveled patterns seemingly following more solar regimens than the inner fireiron amendments. we're long gone now having become one of the Xes a calibrative moment on the rim of the ruler of time hovering inbetween unseen stardust and what forgotten is. flagghelative flash within an unruly cosmic ocean not exclusively of hydrogendioxide and black seasnow in drafts of black treads endlessly sinking,that,as also less directive and imaginistic in unheimlichen voltage nettings webbing around hijacking a possible future bereft of all probabilistics just numbed out floating in insignificant etherspheres seeking nothing nevermore the vanishings.

18...“Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one…”

…string dangles as of gallows/ noose/ snap shot pull/ light absent/ exhume of dark/ non-flesh of gathered of/ (breathes)/ nothing but/ out reach of/ stench retch/ bile of some disclosed obstruct/ vomiting in dry silences/ snap shot pull/ having searched/ light again/ shear of carcass kisses to the eye socket/ bleeding of/ strangled air of closure headless as if to ask/ string dangles/ silence either way/ a dead scream of echoing teeth/ clear no/ snap shot pull/ exhume of dark/ pulse yes or no/ irreplaceable sickness/ blind as if to murmur through a brail of frenzy/ nothing but/ viewed by none/ removal as/ (exhales)/ a sneer cut from the cut of flesh/ raw meat flowerings/ string dangles in the dark/ perhaps the static/ hence/ showering abasement/ drift of lack/ snapshot clear/ ever-night/ balm of/ light what light a cadaver‟s silence in/ vibrating yet/ in horror of/ asks what none blind light of see/ pulsating all the while/ extravagant/ shadow yes or no as if to bind by the or of it/ (breathes)/ walls of shit/ blind cum/ blood/an asking of/ echoing piss of laughter/ give or take a spillage of/ syringe of night/ the razor clarity of mutilation/ string dangles as of noose/ (exhales)/ snapshot pull/ flash and then undone/ bowel collapse/ the pulse‟s momentary collapse/ lays down stands up again/ not a step/ bound by the snap of shot of light of/ until static again/ laughter again/ echoing out from out of/ utter dark all the same/ what trace to follow/ bitter snap dark of shot else/ marked by the/ opulent as death/ in utter dark of glimmer naught/ none of which till absence of/ silence erased in the chamber of eye's forgotten/ momentary/ a trace of carcass and the blind sight horror of/ embrace/ step forth no not steps to take/ paralysis all/ as of…/ snap shot pull once again/ once more of the blind circumference of/ steps forth in light of disregard/ impress of/ gauge/ nothing but yet stillness arc of the benign stepping forth in the/ (breathes)/ raw meat blossoming out of the cage of rib what of it/ no end in that or of/ distant lights/ pace pace no flowering head of/ till illuminatum of scream slashing out in to the light what light or of/ ever the distance/ sinew yes and the bone exposed/ the shadow of which having fallen finally/ snap shot pull/ utter dark…[49] where the relevance of bacon shall always be a disrespect for the own medium a punkesthetics really to,not revel in or in modii autosycophant swimming in endless cycles of selfpornography yet with either large knifings or red over black and black over red brushings redefine the endproduce timely,a painting,of what it is this neoplague of the twentyfirst and what it is a "denotation",a downward notation much like the solely transscriptions of medieval monks and the fixxed iconology of the hinduist pantheon or buddhist figures and taoist watercolours of cherryblossoms ad nauseam yet,a very defined and nowhere flattered image of "world" "world" "world". the daily dairy produce will however rather be that of "war" "war",the depiction, downward directed imag-ination of these "worlds in war",ever so charred so visceral graphic mauled dismembered where precisely the crassness of this beholds mirrorings of a turmoilworld,an endworld, world which even can loose itself in cinematic vaudeville of unforseen childrens' gamemovements of "triple jump" the world presenting itself in pornoramas of erratic advertisement terrorismsequencings and variative billboardover bearingcrypsis the world no place anymore as with the zoovegetative vanishings slowly and gradually, documented and quantified the antropocene will dwindle and disappear at last too. there is an automutulative trace of events ad hoc and serially informing the machinistics of these last sociuses under the guide of "improvement" and "progression" and "completion" working from the outside in and from within out,as robert kennedy wrote in "the enemy within",a kind of entropy mercurializing our selfbloating and selfaggrandizing environments made to measure of an all-encompassing fatal-futile,radical-ridicule,economist-ecologist,historic hysteric hyper-machine of antsociety on steroids not aimed for littler worth or honorary heritage just speeding ahead towards a hieronymus bosch filled world of dragons demons and draculas,with straight faced conservatists santorums and pinstriped suited upfucks with sleek merchandizing snaketalk,as brilliantly imagined in the paintings of both bosch and bacon and now we have now and their psychotic prophecies seemed to have gained a weighty evidentiality. 


I abandon myself to peace, to the point of annihilation…‟
--Georges Bataille

…exigency of/ as if to snuff the shadow‟s reclamation/ dense ruthless blinded to the point of tears/ a head cupped in skin-stripped fingertips/ blossoming from out of the blood what nocturne given less or less of it/ ashen as/ split the writs or of in reclamation/ the centre cannot hold/ (in-breathe of shadow‟s claim)/ the night‟s miscarried lung aches of the solvent disregard of the teeth/ as if to say of it what speech as if to say of it died down till reverberate of echo‟s retract of disappearance/ in collide it seeks the outwardly of some solace of/ closer to death yet further than/ like the locked spinal affluence of some stun approximation/ says no the text it does not matter/ it rests easily upon the sliced the eyeball sliced across indefatigable image/ a restless coil of disharmony/ where the word is jag/ -ged/ spit ragged/ shard of/ dense black of/ tatse-taste/ locked of what else to follow on from given no/ begin again/ given no/ as if to snuff the shadow‟s reclaim/ to the point of tears therein the echoes of what it may or may not be become/ dead waters/ emptied bottles strewn like bled lights across a dusty shelf/ or the discarded concentration of/ all melded together asking of the bridge that was never crossed and the love that was never lost of or or/ the centre has never held/ in or out of speech what a gift till claim/ something lessened as if to say/ to the point of annihilation wiping the bile and bloody vomit from the chest/ here one has passed/ idolatry/ snuff movie finger tips and the ice of some given bled or disregard as if it matters a fuck/ the cold sharp stamp of shadow biting into denuded flesh what matter/ it continues/ it is said/ it continues it is said/ having abandoned oneself to pieces/ to the point of utter inebriation/ regret locks the door and burns the waxen key/ what matter/ live or of the other and yet of what pace/ climbing/ as if the sky were attainable/ give or take a step or two/ this is a dead text it will not suffer itself it is riddled with the maggot of the pulse‟s aberrations/ it kicks up the bloody dusts up into its own face it kicks its own teeth in it does not matter to itself/ it is a barrage of none/ the easy jagged petals of what/ blinded of eye the eye sliced devoured this is no arithmetic/ or/ not a trace/ give or take a/ aching for the/ yes or no no call to choose/ to the point of peace/ to the point of annihilation/ devouring one‟s own fingers alone in the dark… [55] 'das Bedürfnis,zu den Gräbern zu laufen und auf den Gräbern zu frieren wie ein Hund. '--Thomas Bernhard "the center has never held" "this is a dead text it will not suffer itself it is riddled with [the pulse of the faggot's] aberrations" acenters of hollywoodian nightlife whirring moaning roaring more,like a sheffield pittsburgh factory,an ijmuiden lille factory of ironore distribution cinematically falsified unto filmsets ironsatiated wests and easts and their "once upon a time",souths and norths,an endless nightlife in deserted santa monica-and beverly blvds yet with the debris,the afterset,the late shift still scuffling on normandie ave whereever the bars are open 24/7 the sleeze crackling forth like som  landcatched amoeba an acenter of dissociated members producing nonsignificant yet loud noise and non-descript pissbehavior for starlettes and pimps, hustlers and divas. even the tarset on laBrea never held so much layers of memory and intrigue,seedy under-ground and inimpenetrable vacuoles of furlined vaults and dead chimps,walls of max factor's facial cake and jose ebers dead lacquered hairbombs. the cities of angels and new highrises,european cities of metal eyes and over layered biblicisms,nineteenth century iron-welts and bolts extending earth toward an ever-changing sky,the cities then of movies and butch-eries,gambling lore and purification and consumption of gin unto korsakovian limit/s/lessnesses,the acenters of the cities then all splayed out on everchanging maps with covariative geodesic urbanoradiary discoordinates give the surfacial zone of life or the layer of mould we form (horkheimer) temporary noneffable frozenness as techniqued in area 51 cryogenistic cryogenome labs of coma and stasis,crypsis and catatonia,the dynamic immobility (benjamins 'dialektik im stillstand') of which some asymptote representant of 'life doesn't live' (as cited by adorno) forms a forever incentive to keep searching for a neopostnihilisme éblouissante. max factor made up the waxen faces of hollywood the future executives masklike faces of modern time, nonstaring you in the eye bc "there is nobody there" and 'in his diaries Pinsent wrote about shopping for furniture with Wittgenstein in Cambridge when the latter was given rooms in Trinity; most of what they found in the stores was not minimalist enough for Wittgenstein's aesthetics: "I went and helped him interview a lot of furniture at various shops ... It was rather amusing: he is terribly fastidious and we led the shopman a frightful dance, Vittgenstein [sic] ejaculating "No—Beastly!" to 90 percent of what he shewed [archaic spelling] us!'. "Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muß man schweigen. What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence." (W.)  

You can get "Code #4 Texts", here

Sketch - 08/ '19

…of to the eye that guts the milk teeth from children’s nightscapes of final sleep deprivation hollow the edge of tears as of froz...