Friday, 9 October 2020

"in dim forgotte(n)", (Infinity Land Press 08/20), reviewed by Aad de Gids

 






MICHAEL MCALORAN LATEST BOOK
(he would gladly say 'last') is quite the thing. reading Michael's texts requires the right mindset beforehand. not a (as a queer moronic Grande English Poet had concocted before one could even read his frêle poems) mandatory listing of 'thou shalt not' and 'thou shalteth' [a 'CAVEAT', I suddenly remember*], but rather is it better to be prepared for a dense poetic form and content A/FRIVOLOUS and particularly NON/HEIDI/ESQUE. content is specifically black, bleak, offered with sharp beaks of relevant than shocking and heinously beautifully worded content regarding the Endworld, escatologic nonplaces and dead worlds, teratologic graphic scenographies for 'everyone to read' eagerly !
[*a warning or proviso of specific stipulations, conditions, or limitations.
"there are a number of caveats which concern the validity of the assessment results"
in LAW: "a notice, especially in a probate, that certain actions may not be taken without informing the person who gave the notice."]
'in dim forgotte(n)', already with the title Michael leaps into a kind of artificial or, what mayeth I know, real Victoriana of lexicology, of malformations and dreamy reminiscences of the old English, Irish, language. (I am the Dutch European.) (I am VERY VERY tolerant.) within the book we find more words maltreated, modernised while antiquated, adding to the strange etherspheres and concrete inframural morgues that are described with as explicite as poetic descriptions. funerary 'cavates', excavations, but in the End-Now world. we're already living in a dead world. the manifestations amass but this is no sign of vivacity. (I am also a devolved complexisized nihilist.) Michael gives text to empty corridors, where you don't know if you're in- or out, up- or down, before- or after, above- or beneath. this affirmative displacement is this status (stasis) texted within thousand formulas.
"an eruption of lung in a roomscape devoid of presence but one...silence otherwise...". "a vague amass of soundless emptiness...". "where to elected to this there was no question put forth nor ever yet asked of...voidal as...struck out...". (19)*
[*within regular double quotationmarks I cite out of Michaels 'in dim forgotte(n)'. pagenumber added.]
the language used here gives reminiscence to Adorno's notorious 'acribia', a dense, tightly cryptic and or undecipherable codex of sentences, within which he spoke in a contradictory and with double negations complex affirmative content with ominous cling. Michael still goes further. where Adorno's last 2 books: Negative Dialektik and Ästhetische Theorie still hoped for new lines, after horrific times, Michael just gives a mimic of 'what there is', the artificial, hegemonial, monomaniacal, hysteric and corporate infantilistic jargons. with Adorno the contradictions gave off meaning of a 'World not living', it was fired by WWII and 'after Auschwitz'. we have experienced hyperevents even heinous after that Horror and thus the texts, in anywhichway Michaels text, give expression almost sideways, if he describes exactly what has happened, what will happen, and even the expectations to those vistas have become obsolete.
"...all manner of sounds to collect the unknown absence a-breathe burns of in sickly vibrant air...blackened the bones collect the rejection of time...ice as...the walls peel slowly revealing a vague texture of nothing...". "bled stone a collapse into what once never was...". (20) "breakage collision stealth of acute dissolve...". (21)
the text gets form after postmodernism. if we follow the sentences in conformatist, conservative, classic ways we stutter upon 'breakages', slits, discontinuities. the sentence, begun in conformative manner, suddenly seems more of an associationist manifesto slice. neologisms document the situation as it has evolved 'in situ'.
I have to reconsider my strategy to review Michaels book. if I continue with this format, it becomes a book about a book. I will find the contoured citations and my comments made then and there. the review will be finished today, to make Michael happy, no ? (a KarlLagerfeldism I picked up on.)
an arrival of Tomorrows targets more the senselessness of it than the 'modern' adage 'this Tomorrow is smoother than that one'. "moth wings aglow in cavity of gait sharp shut...".(22)
"...bled out where to final is to breath's lack of absolve...underwater skull of what once was...". (23) we certainly have here a diagnosis of our time. I have remarked this before but Michael reaches here a pure 'listing' of texted events where they lost almost an informative value but constituate more of a postmetaphysical status of stasis. then to list what there is to [sense] gives an accurate cinematic image of the abandoned, postTschernobyl-Fukushima plazas of irreversible damage. "...carrion equations of silt scuttling across light's streak of tidal unknown" "suffocation of lack...star shadowing...limbs burn in chemical absolve as the blood it coarses...".(24) this all isn't journalistic report. doesn't add to the informational warfare. rather than decryptisation, decipherability and even intelligibility these texts are more instinctive, more connected with the senses. in long associationist hauls they leave an impressum on the earth and on the retina. "...semblance shadows cold electric lights that never cease...". "...child wanders the nightscapes of the forever lost...". "...Child forgets all it seethe...barred the windows of a lifeless room from which to view there never should have been...".(25)
'child forgets all it seethe' can be read as 'all it sees' as also 'all it seeths'. an indifference given in by the vulgar times we live in. in the interview preceding the text of the book 'in dim forgotte(n)' the interviewer mentions this child as a new 'character' in Michaels Œuvre, but as I noticed this child is a human remnant in the 'Postworld', sec. the book is edited in four parts with vivid graphic illustrations by artist Martin Bladh. a shorter Ouverture to get to the taste of it; a long, junglist and almost inimpenetrable (yet if there is want, there is result) incessant stream of wordweave and sinister as macabre mise-en-scenes, leaving one not so much tired but surprised by the catascopic catatonic catharsis all exflected in one Haul. UHaul. to finalise still the 'preface' '(i)', there is presented a forbodening eventplaza of becoming.
"...walls everywhere...cigarettes extinguished in the flesh of dawning...yet dawn is nothing ever ever...the screaming never ends....it rocks back & forth in sequence...distances from which unknown...where black is the colour & none is the number...trace of liquid burning..." (28).
(I)
is the thirty page outburst of textual furor, stupor, dolor, noir, torpor, the magmaic chiasms of inintermittent wordstreams and diagnosis infaustus. it never abandons its poetic roots: "..as if were fallen/a candelabra of crystal bone dice turn in grip of ashen sun light gripped by longing spat out upon what once was shadowing/". (33) the speak is of corridors, rooms suddenly awoken to, a scent trail, the Deleuze-Guattarian 'CorpsSansOrganes', a substrate. linguistics bump into it: "/as if to say that/", "till words cascade into void of vacant nullity/". (33) linguistics, either linguistics, lexicology, textLab is as ridicule as radical. we are in the realm of postText. in this stretch of text, in which I had the pleasure of tracking through in my les Tropéziennes purple mules, toenails lacquered in Sally Hansens, Hollywood, acrid acryl yellow, language is the material in exhaustive similarity with what is written, is viscosity, viscerality, visciousness, bijoux boutique visagiste expenditure.
a Postmortem forms an Incidency of what emerges. "/bites it once till regalia of castrated purpose/fingers of dead long rot of all that turned throughout a shadow a minced heart cleft by nullity/". "laughter yes but no/on but no/nothing of on into/static stasis/wrists to slash in psychosial flames/".(37) adverbs gained the power here. their fractuality pythons with what the hell is going on much more acute than the 'Grande Political Words'. language as Necropsy of ourbpostneo tribesociuses: "-speak spells it all out as if to wound stitch shut to burst revealing sinew/". (38) 'Dawn' subsided to a diMethylVinyloid Dawn: "/stone to taste as if to bled mock dawn what light colours of like of which were never claim hereafter solace of one dead tide what secrets to unravel in dim forgot solace nectar of blade bite skinned tide of mercury asphyxiation". (40) 'some sun' catapults us from geocentrism-->antropomorfism---> heliotropism---->alldirectional zonosporo trancedimensional lavaflight. "to eradicate all sound from which foetus echoing bled flays bankrupt necessary an open parameter in some sun". (40)
the Cogito of Michael has its place in a landscape Necroplaza. "into some landscape where to never have never knowing of never being". (41) [Cogito, ergo sum is a philosophical statement that was made in Latin by René Descartes, usually translated into English as "I think, therefore I am". ... The dictum is also sometimes referred to as the cogito.] I have to skip tranches of the text while I could with the same aim cite the whole thirty pages of this Monologue Expulseur. it is part Wordheap, in the most modern way: that it doesn't matter anymore what to say, yet notwithstandingly formulated in an exquise way. intent and content are obvious but possibly not to everybodies liking. it is to mine. that it doesn't anymore matter what to say, to the background of our era. to expulse this, therefor we need this textform. no other would suffice.
'light': "/blind by light's intone breakage film of reflect in mirror chase what of sickness of/" (43). where we can superimpose the text on profitist, sciencetheoretic rivalry: "mechanic broken of where to equate where numeral closure jack-knife upon some gilded crucifixion of malignant streak of blood upon/dead as dead sun dead/". (44) another Cogito summons "to be is reject following onwardly some silenced obsolete it skin of damned weight of pregnant pauses of razor psychosis spitting plumes of scalded flowers of lacerate of dead time of weight of lack/". (45) if there are grammatical, syncopal, omissions than we have to remind you that we bend the language as we like. now I have to edit/quasify, some more. "where to breathe is to vomit". (50) here is a good photography of what a Michaelean text comprises: "...waste attrition it all of less than ever breaks forth to collect of banquet skull teaming with nectar toothless toothed whore of broke jaw emptiness where spe/cial is to outstretch rhytm all sunk devour as of where belittle blood is out of focus nocturne of drought/". (52) 'heap of words', ingrammatical, spellingissues ['broken jaw'], vile content and postPolitic intent: for me this is the Post-Post text required to at least copy paste shards of a putrid social etnology. cataleptic extortionism [a physical condition characterized by a loss of sensation, muscular rigidity, flexity of posture, and often by a loss of contact with surroundings. Also catalepsis.]. "/ideation skins sky abandon of none bleak turning of throughout non-space as momentary corridors dissolve/text+2/not a/not of/nothing in this/fades laughter hilt expels dusts from gilded lung/sickness hunger avarice..." (56). this BLOCKTEXT mirrors Gertrude Steins The Making of Americans, Marguerite Duras l'Amant and Hiroshima mon Amour, Musils der Mann ohne Eigenschaften, Kapielskis Mathematisierung des Todes, Rimbaud, Celan, Celine, Cioran. the Nouveau Roman with Duras, Alain Robbe-Grillet with his 20 pages of description on how a seagull sat on a pole; Georges Pérec with his roman La Disparition, written entirely without the letter 'E'. the word in 'in dim forgotte(n)' (61) 'collideoscopic' we can compare with Guattari's 'chaosmose'. there are also glimpses of Dada and postNeoDada.
in (II) we find a 9 page tome of the same eruptive fumarole of untamed but micro edited texts. "...walls much the same are papers peeling are vellum traces an unintelligible child's drawings in heavy black crayon..." (67). "...eye speaks unknowing as what of till matter stripped of light calling forth where nectar of is the pissed upon from great heights as if there were ever any...meat to collapse into..." (68). the sentence has a knack. Deleuze wrote a book of the Crack-up. Deleuze-Guattari mentioned the geste: 'Connect-I-Cut'. so the sentence moves like a branch. journey = stasis. "...a long dead distance of through corridors of bleak surrender..." (71) which echoes Walter Benjamins Dialektik im Stillstand. a total expressionism, with streaks, smears and holes superimposed upon the text. "time burns deep through a colossus of endless night...cylindrical the breath is vacant...flesh to writhe to meat to bone to marrow turning in an absence of colour...static disclosure to when genuflect is the rot of being in as rat gathers...absentee pelts scattered across the floorboards stained with paint..." (75).if the text is stuttering it is the obstructive transitcongestion and the abstruse of tranceplaza flightlines plus no educational probabilities.
in (ii) the 'postscript', more aforistic than the previous texts, it becomes clear that, whichever definition is given to the text, it is uncalled for and noninstructive. there I found postreligiosity, insectoid prayers, affirmative areligiosity (Michael is born in Belfast), lemmata describing the void of whichever flights. "tendency to trace a given nocturne/absentia of/what once was never once/through the cracks in the sky come silhouettes of amber prayers returning to the host of it/insect sickness claims/" (87). moreover: absent postReligiosity, as religiosity has no weight, had no and will never have one. "...to erase of it/cold fragrance of artificial lights/burns of foreign sentience of/here the nothing there another of/bound bones in winter gutter/striation of what once was pulse/absent secrets of the/slashed out/all sung all to be sung for as if to gift the night its treasury/in the vicious air to taste of it/bleeding out the one once known...
I think this is another fantastic Irish poetic book by Michael Mc Aloran. he loathes such qualifications. let's say: I've read around his book philosophically, read his books and the ones with similarities. it is the genre that is my cup of tea... 

The book itself is available to purchase here


Monday, 24 August 2020

Sunday, 21 June 2020

The foreword by Dr Arthur Broomfield to "Obsidian Flowers, (selected)", (forthcoming)...

Those who look for meaning in Obsidian Flowers may think in terms of Obsidian glass, the sharper than cut diamond material used in the manufacture of surgical instruments that is derived from emissions from the volcano. They could argue that Obsidian Flowers is the sharpened essence of a flawed tradition that has suffered its Shivaistic fate, the birth of a   literature built on the embers of one overtaken by events. Derek Attridge, referencing Jacques Derrida, in Jacques Derrida Acts of Literature, argues that ‘literary criticism has operated…within the bounds established by classical Greek thought, taking for granted the rules of syllogistic reason, the ultimate priority of meaning over its mode of articulation, and such fundamental and absolute oppositions as the intelligible and the sensible, form and matter, subject and object, nature and culture, presence and absence’ [Derrida 3]. If literary criticism for the most part is still beholden to  the Platonic and Aristotelean approach, and one can argue, in the light of Historicist and Post-Colonial theory, it is, then Michael Mc Aloran’s Selected will be to it as quantum physics would have been  to our Palaeolithic ancestors. Mc Aloran, rather than critique or quarrel with notions such as representation, meaning or the oppositions that so exercised Derrida’s thinking, gets on with the task that drives him, the creation of a masterful work of art that shows, rather than tells where literature now resides.
Mc Aloran confronts, not the failure to represent, in language, our perceptions [ often misinterpreted, especially in Beckett studies, by literary theory know-alls as the failure of language] but the failure to perceive. If words are ‘all words, there’s nothing else’ [Beckett  407], words cannot fail. Meaning and the impossible task set by philosophers of trying to apply words that mean, that represent perceptions, will inevitably fail. Words without meaning, freed of the context of subject and object, nature and culture, presence and absence will continue in the omnipresent where they are ‘all’. Cognisant of the situation in which the artist now finds him/herself, Mc Aloran, like Mondrian, disavowing futile attempts to re-present perceptions, presents. He presents unmediated, unrepresentative, form without content language. Language lies through its teeth ‘till din of the non-received’ non receivable perceptions awakens the narrative voice to the lying project that is exposed as such by the ‘surrogate of no purpose.’ His is a voice that proclaims itself in a world that is non- beginning, non-ending:

‘what word there was it is said in the beginning there was
nothing lying through the teeth…till din of the non-received in
the pissoir tide asking of the non-beginning the non-
ending.  

Like Samuel Beckett ‘words are all’ to Mc Aloran. Yet his work justifies the claim to be post-Beckett. Let’s look at this passage from Mc Aloran:
‘flesh/ spun silk of the night in the nothingness of having actualised the
sky/ and yet still/ absent/ wandering far from the here or there/ never
returning yet never having left it behind/ in a pageantry of silent
discourse’.
Like Beckett’s it can appear, on a shallow reading, to over-dwell on the nihilistic in e.g. the affirmation of nothingness in
 ‘flesh/spun silk of the night in the nothingness of having actualised the sky/’,
   but like Beckett he negates the affirmation in ‘never having left it behind’ only to invalidate the negation in
‘and yet still…never returning’.
So far so Beckett. Where Beckett’s texts are underscored through a rigorous logic that argues for the permanence of the word, in spite of  his insistence that the permanent  cannot be presented by the transient i.e. the body -  ‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on’  - even if that logic challenges basic tenets of grammar by reinventing the definite article and the neuter pronoun as  nouns; removing the implication of question in where, who and when, importantly, in the opening lines of The Unnamable,  Mc Aloran  ‘goes on’ from Beckett to defy logic itself through texts that in structure and syntax exceed Beckett’s. In his literature words are elevated to a state where they are all in their stress-free state of absolute equality:
 ‘the purity of none eye’s […] dark what dark what light.’ that often dismiss the distinction between the abstract and the concrete noun:
‘shadowless all spun in the absence of the word to grace the emptily of the meat’s futility’.
When Mc Aloran insists on the absoluteness of nothingness he turns his wrath on the illusion of the material world with an Aristotelian precision that excoriates  all apologies for the horrors of existence in grim detail.   A ‘vein [is]  a voice collapsed a tryst a-bleed sunk eye incapable of/ sense ‘The ‘nothing [is]  invisible [where] sense commenced from lack origin’, pure nothing is even ‘absent  dark’ and ‘none’ is abandoned.
 Mc Aloran’s works are not for Mills and Boon readers. Obsidian Flowers is for the mind that could spend hours divining short passages like
  ‘endless ever as if to detrace/ trace/ retrace following on from gathered onward/ eye lights it is un-skied to hilt drop sheen reflect non-speech vocal as collapse stillness,’
to marvel at an approach that goes beyond the Derridean trace, the ephemeral ‘skied’ world of the perceiver, and the staple diet that has sustained literature for two thousand years, to reflect non-speech in the endless ever, the absoluteness of nothingness..

Bibliography
Beckett, Samuel, Samuel Beckett, The Grove Centenary Edition, vol IV, New York, Grove Press, 2006.
Derrida, Jacques, Acts of literature, ed Derek Attridge, New York and London, Routledge, 1992.

Monday, 25 May 2020

Forthcoming: "obsidian flowers (selected work)" -- reviewed by David C. McLean



OBSIDIAN FLOWERS, by Michael Mc Aloran
book review by David C. McLean

a rattle of soundless/ head of spun and virtuous lock of drained
breathing meat/ still-shadow/ spun alack yet breaking none and falling
excavated/ where the wings of speech burn effortlessly/ scattered
vicariously into a pit of excrement/

Mc Aloran's latest is about words & immediacy, the failure of textual representation, whether verbal or literary or whatever, to be unmediated & actually represent. We re-present icons & signs, they are not the blooming buzzing confusion of being there.
The book ends with an emphasis on repetition, the retraced step, the "practice makes perfect" of the pretense that texts capture reality, fading into the "not a" where the world ends, not with a bang but the insipid flatulence of codified & sterilized memory.
The book includes the incongruity of the immediate adumbrated, the raw feel of shitting, fucking, whatever, in contrast with the white page, the written sign, the textual representation.
shadowless all spun in the absence of the word to grace the
emptily of the meat’s futility
Because where the futile meat is active, the word is not, it is an afterthought, verbal represented thought is always after the reaction, the body being nauseated, excited, or reacting with healthy brutality to things that impinge upon it.
Pageantry recurs in this text. "Pageant of silent discourse", "soundless pageantry", &, somewhat elucidated,
scarred without longing there’ll be the stasis of it the hearse of
the ever-laughter spun lest from out of darkened/ choke/
dead space and an empty pageant’s shadow

For it is an advantage for a text to know its emptiness, for the empty is where texts dwell. Great book, & I recommend that you buy it.
 

Sunday, 10 May 2020

Forthcoming: 'in dim forgotte(n)' -- Infinity Land Press -- 08/2020



in dim forgotte(n) is a post-Beckettian, hallucinogenic, surreal passage through absenteeism, dislocation, memory & estrangement. The book also deals with language as a malleable substance, which is warped & fragmented throughout the course of the body of texts. Meaning is not absolute, images of endworld landscapes drive the main body of the book, which is a darkened, claustrophobic & violent procession of segments concluding with a series of abstract & poetic aphorisms. ‘child’, in the first instance, a continual motif throughout, vaguely categorised, awakens to a psychiatric, heavily medicated shifting parameter of scenes of existential abandon & the echoes of foreign, lost entities. Furthering on from this is the associative, non-narrative passage of fractured, psychosial visions, where descriptions of bleak, hopeless scenes of futility & corporeal imagery meld & transpire. There is a pulse of force & vitality throughout, emboldering an embrace of a submerged, ‘exhilarated despair’, at the edge of where the rational breaks down & perhaps, reveals a more denuded sense of what may be, & ‘what it is’…    

The book also contains illustrations by Martin Bladh, who also conducted an interview for the book...Layout & design by Karolina Urbaniak...More details can be found here

Thursday, 9 April 2020

"Attributes" reviewed by Dr Arthur Broomfield




"It needs qualification to claim Michael Mc Aloran is a post-Beckett writer, which he is, no mean achievement and rare itself in an age when the narrative is being dragged, kicking and squealing, to its long overdue death. Like The Master the existential experience is a dark place for Mc Aloran, albeit, accessed through language that cuts to that which drives him with a searing contempt for representation: ‘…there is nothing else to observe / but the razorblade's chime dancing’. Like Mondrian he strives to present: ‘Colour me/I am erased/ else there will be no sky left,’ grapples with and entertains the notion of presenting what it is to be; ‘the light is an inaudible cry’. Mc Aloran sees hope in the life as it is, [unlike Beckett’s perception that existence is a transitory experience], it is ‘crying out to the dead god in us’. That god responds in Mc Aloran’s vision of an elsewhere that is rid of meaning and ethics in a cry audible to the perceptive ear, in language gifted by the gods." -- Dr Arthur Broomfield

First published 2011, the book itself is available @ Amazon.co.uk 

Thursday, 6 February 2020

"(dead tones)" -- Michael Mc Aloran


“…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


"(dead tones)" is available to purchase here





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...




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
shattered

The speculum of the Other is broken and cracked.

the meat of the impoverished
tongue wilts in the
after-birth
of desire's quarry
the nothingness of listless stone
whispers

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

The book itself is available here







From "nothing ever", (#2), @ X-Peri

  HERE