Wednesday, 5 December 2018

Samples from "Code #4 Texts", by Aad de Gids & Michael Mc Aloran, (Oneiros Books, 2014)

9...of the here or thereafter an excess of drought what spill the knotted tongue the closed fist raging till gut spill of shadowlike in blend of the redeem yes or no/ of the here or thereafter what spill the knotted teeth the split tongue ravage of desolate clear cut the night’s balm ochre drift apiece here or there hereafter yes or no/ yes or no these dead prisms of light’s accord as if to say it whisper or recede split the blood vessel no heart left no nothing but ashes here or there hereafter an excessive absence of all a closed wound an empty fuck/ yes or no what said till gift of exile so so far adrift in bask of till fashioned else the clamour of distill here now of the breathe-else the stain of dreams like cum upon a handkerchief given to offer up to the echoing drought yes or no the emptiness of some adroit silence/ silenced the word the voice given to burn in the aftermath of gutted fields says yes or no the drift what claim till shadow felt in dream of nectar ash and the eyes or no of the here there or hereafter distancia of foreign sands stretching out/ an outpost of bone winds ache of the pulsing cock till trace the cleft discharge of blood laced with semen and musk/ here there or fuck it it does not matter the crushed spasm the lightless flowering into savage the knotted drift adrift in the blood’s lack till claim redeem not a trace of the sun left in a clear skyline/ vacancy of/ in nocturne of species clipped the wailing does not fade yet is silent/ it reverberates throughout the flesh the eternal scream taken from belonging no this was never ours we were not wanted here we were wanted no/ say yes or no/ “did you give him the works?”/ “yes”/ “what did he say”/ “he said nothing” there was nothing else/ yet the breath lack won over the laced filigree of/ bask what till the here or there or of the hereafter/ etched across the skin the meat beneath of its own accord till taint of dreaming all forgiving rage in the impetus of given blossoming/ yes or no/ what then/ upon the precipice of blade not a stitch of it damaged in the recession till craft of blind a head of stone what scar till scarless scarred beyond this is the gift of final nothing to retrieve from out of this no not said it has never there will ever no not yet of the here there or of the hereafter till blind reckless of it it is set apart…[50] eh [49] eh [47] the "silenced the word the voice given to burn in the aftermath of gutted fields says yes or no the drift what claim till shadow felt in dream of nectar ash and the eyes or no of the here there or hereafter distancia of foreign sands stretching out" is the emblematic formula to these poems and at once the evidence of total indifference of where these poetic trax tracts tricks trucks will lead to such density more revelatory of the "becoming-world" than any fucking purism would ever be able to pertain,the above text a stupefying tantalizing psychotologic tome of the endworld in its translation 'traductore il ineffibile' as the unmen-tionable yet is dressed in sounds as in an effluvial stream of insemantics insyntaxis the postpostmodern postironic neopostsyntax of the incessant bombard-ments with gruelling news as also horrific history here we're in a stasis of no escape which in itself can be affirmed as the "auschwitz sociuses" cocooning around and vitroviroinvade from within the vile ineffort of subconscious hydrodynamic spill and ganges gavials and debris non stop 24/7 ghats-burnings of emaciated corpses surrounded by mourning family and morning people and pyroclastic ashen casts of untouchables,the dalit,plus then even worse,an echelon lower,the people who eat ashes and drink out of skulls yet nowhere any,any difference to our fucking western nazist campy societies proselytizing for its own deathfields of highways and low ways, outskirts and banlieus, milieus and deleuze,serial social buildingprojects to accredite and gettoize the chanceless contingencies of people without work to go hunting for heroin and alcohol, cocaine and xtc,amphetamines and bath salts/ bad salts,in russia the search for "krokodil",crocodile a drug so asphyxiatingly strangulous sexually addictive while your extremities rot away as in liberia the eternal referencelessness gained with the civilian wars which surmounted in disdirectional rebellion driven on "the communities in Liberia with the highest drug use as Congo Town, Chocolate City, New Kru Town, Clara Town, Duala, Red Light and West Point".


14...white snap of/ sheer edge white of snap of some given orchestrate of bone/ garret of/ a clear eye/ break of not till severance/ over again and yet over again once more/ till traceless headless mocked by the offal onset/ of the offal obscurity/ the teeth of it in a bind of electric colours/ no nothing more/ the piss of this or that no nothing else/ still yet the clamour of until undone/ paring aware the garrotte of tears as if to utter it says no nothing that’s the price of it/ settled then till breath of plumage/ (asks of the dead traces/ the blind light’s balm/ colour colours none/ absent of/ absence of the unseen laughter of the laughter’s echoing triad/ speech unspeech/ gathering the deft rat of pelt once more/ in the given welts of tongue given to impart welt)/ dry stone/ perhaps stone winds perhaps/ nothing no not ever/ not a chance/ never was/ no not from the outset/ the outstretched palm seeks to be filled with blood as the sky wrings tears from the…/ in garret of/ bones no not a chance/ shadowed by/ a cold cut a sneer/ as is said/ drained of yes/ drained of the no/ knowing of the nothing/ traces memories of breathe escaping one never recalls enough to etch them down in…/ no not a trace/ blind ash/ a sickness from which one can never/ a sleep from which there is little of/ clear eye or no so it is said/ the hands shake before the clasp-knife of desire before the clasp-knife of absence/ till tint of oceanic/ spun lack of the cracked jaw of feel/ yet not a trace of it/ given unto drunkeness and the absence of feel/ mocked by a silence that does not observe/ excessive/ yes/ damage yes/ the sounds rail up in defeat and the cold ash of absurdity scatters them to the fields where absent flowers grow/ blossoming from the cold ash of absurdity scatters them to the fields of scattered absent flesh/ yet sharp as a tack the breath inhaled lights the beyond of which/ given to spurious abound and the lack of which/ in the laughter lung of it/ a breathless deform/ absent lights of the atrophic/ a filigree trace of/ scattered the dead pelts long forgotten/ this is the death of speech/ so it says/ there is nothing left to gain from it/ perhaps a bite/ a break/ a whistle of some abject tune/ criss-crossed by purposeless/ X.d out/ give or take a void or two/ this is the atrophy of/ given unto the abound/ the hands drop to the sides/ the game is finished/ the game is over/ it is not complete…[52] hence the desire to catch in numbers and chiffres,in numbing and shipments,the "dead traces/ the blind light’s balm/ colour colours none/ absent of/ absence of the unseen laughter of the laughter’s echoing triad" the unspoken wish for the possibilty of cartography, as it is now the time,of the empty fields,the solipsism of desolate plants,a terrain abstained from,the mineridden killingfields of pol pot verdun movements in northern kongo,cartography of the open desolate musicsheets of yoko ono,playing an endmusic always,broken notes and tokens of "street", uncinematic graffiti- tokengalleries,with lost numbers, "hotel 14" a fuckhotel a brooklynite brown stoned building,"stoned" building the shootinggalleries budding and sprawling everywhere,the watering holes as visualized in T.A.D.s "stumbling man", http://, actually the never mind a fuck anymore, ne' chiffreless fields of unaccidentality, non identifiable, trackless endlessness, fields and rough patches, debris and derelict buildings, mappology of the endtimes, with new markers, fukushima, haiti, new new orleans,well tsjernobyl, ground zero however filled in with antimu-sulmania immobillière again in I-towers,101 TAIPEI, 2 international finance center, 7WTC,1WTC, these all vectors in an endworld,where we have to unite the crass diversification between the low and the high,lowlife and madison ave-élysée filth,over the tracks and far away and "from party to party" which in itself is life as if in an inbetween-sphere, a nonplace, nonplaza, sens-ationalist the same as we would scale a home or officecubicle in one of those cadasterial vectors on the endmaps,"we're now nowhere",as the question "where are you",the penultimate question triggering the virosis of the touchphones,isn't any longer relevant as we're now as well at horizontal as vertical as also as nonexistent levels,(not) there anymore,we're already not there anymore,if we haven't left the building either in obscenely drunk or drugged out of your fried out brains or, hyperacutely crisp, calculatory urgent, insectoidely sterile presentist,we've in any case left our locale which wasn't a locale in the first place but forever in transitional state,"work in progress",as in the desolate field the solitary postneonuclear vegetative specimen we're kind of supposed to be not there,even in the ultrashiny mall the sensation of decrepit existence will not falter nor fail. 


CODE #4 TEXTS is available from ONEIROS BOOKS, here

Friday, 30 November 2018

A review by JG of [unspoken], (Black Editions 2017)

'[unspoken]' drags the reader--wary or not, no difference--through pathless scapes of abandoned rooms and ruptured anatomies, through dead light and undead words. Though in appearance this text seems to be a patchwork of prose-poetic fragments and dramaturgical scraps, literary form is, as ever, a formality at best for Mc Aloran and, more often, even less than that. The relentless flux of decaying bodies and dubious voices stares between the pages' blank spaces as if they were hemorrhaged eyes gazing through Ed Gein's dead skin-masks: to further the already-great distance always separating the idiotic pageant of Appearance and whatever assumptions one would like to make of the impersonal, ineffable "real."

Still, there is always plenty of room for "hyenic laughter"--that somatic signification of a communication-limit having been reached--and the voices which appear more frequently in the book's latter half provide occasions for such laughter. These voices, even though presumably disembodied, stutter and stumble just as much as if their breath were still mounted in meat. The dialogue in itself, of course, amounts to nothing, so much so that its presentation as a "play" might remind one of an intentionally bad puppet-show in which it almost seems as if these fragments of voices were sheer babble echoing from the depths of some ontic asylum (far from that word's etymological sense of "refuge"). And the parrying among the disembodied voices moves along with such anguish and futility, leavened with glimpses of meta-mockery, as to suggest that the inadequacy of language has always been at least as much a problem of consciousness as it is of mere anatomy. And should a return of the voice to the body be possible after such severe displacement, it bears the cruel gift of "ventriloquist illuminations...".

As it seems Mc Aloran has been finding new ways to alienate the "I" via language in his other, more recent books, this text is no exception. Whenever that battered pronoun appears, it is always, according to traditional grammar, verbally mismatched: "'I' asks, breaking through the teeth of sudden disavowal...". The pronoun and verb is in as much disagreement as all of the miserable traces of beings spreading throughout this text appear to harshly disagree with the illusory, though no less onerous, business of selfhood. And, of course, Mc Aloran sometimes states the matter as frankly as anyone could: "'I' is a dour cunt...fluctuating...obsolete, an assault..."; "I" could just as well be "it" for how much of subjective experience remains unspoken and, most likely, unspeakable.

While perhaps not so consistently potent as the also recently-released 'All Null Having', this is yet another example of a feverishly-active poet who is thoroughly unwilling to let the reader rest on the well-cushioned though long since-abscessed assumptions regarding meaning, language and selfhood; a perhaps not-so-generally-welcome alternative to whatever trifles any given laureate might be writing any given moment...

You can get it directly from Amazon, here 

Monday, 26 November 2018

The Introduction by Chyna Blac to "stance light end", (Black Editions Press, 2018)

...this text, 'booque', textLab®, intent of Michael Mc Aloran's newest (or new or it eschews categorizations, representationisms) uses language as a vessel yet seemingly foremost to mirror the pastness, postness, of all. and this mere mirroring, which isn't also so random as to render unintelligibility, has a lot of, yes, being there or even, when the case, being dead and never the divisiveness between the two was lesser. content, meaning, intent, semantics, linguistic characteristics, repetitionism, omittances, meant misspellings or uneven metaphor or whatever the fuck needed to distress a traditionalist poetology, it is all stuck upon this coral reef of lexicologic forms or deformations with partially contours. there are registers in the text and then there is a shift, radical or peripheric, which brusque cantilevers the whole reading and herewith, the mood of the readeuse or and readeur. radar. so the text is a vessel with which Mc Aloran (and reader) offer conspirationalist possibility to fuck up what is around us and suffuses us in viral critical loads the titers of which covariate with the density of language of his 'book', his text, his expenditure. medical metaphors do well with characterising Mc Aloran's texts (and the art of other 'modernists,postmodernists, postironic complexisists, postJazz imaginistes, postArt performers’) etcetera. these medico-esthetic, antiEsthetic-performist, societal-[trans]specietal, evenemential-social medial transithubs seem as aptly represented in their leucemic-fractal-temporal-metabolisticmetaphysical-unoptimistical (Mists) yet mystical features all coming towards us as biomass beleaguered by such viral-technological-informational overload, critical mass, redundancy, entropy. Michael Mc Aloran seems to address this all however not in any scientific casus but in sheer masterful poetry, much in and abandoning radically Beckett, Malcolm Lowry, Thomas Hardy, Sylvia Plath and wider seen, Gertrude Stein, Margarite Duras, Alain Robbe-Grillet.

"fingers upon cold glass...gazes in or out am...breath upon cold glass...of... traceless...a trace of this...what this echo no not of...forgotten...yet echo was it was before having unremembered...yet no not of there...given ...taking from or else of...of the all not a...white sound of...of static abounding yes or no..."

'fingers upon cold glass', the mindset is within the

iciness of societal abandon whereas there is always the (futile but palpable) tactile interrelatedness. there is corporeality, carcass theory as gathered at the 'BodyFarm', and inmidst of this viscerality there hovers 'unremembering' as at least an instance to be part of what whirls around us. the repetitive denials of denials we already found in Adorno, the repetitiousness in Stein but here there is added modernity and fashionista/trashionista stream of motorizing skills in the writing, the reading optional."   

-- Chyna Blac

"stance light end" is available here 

Sunday, 25 November 2018

"stance light end", (Black Editions Press, 2018), reviewed by David McLean

Michael Mc Aloran
stance light end
Black Editions Press
Mc Aloran’s newest book resumes the breakage of syntax and rupture of language that characterizes his earlier works. The repetitive what obviously situates the book within ontology, in that it discusses the ontic (there is no meaning behind any of it). beings, as opposed to Being, are scumbags. Mc Aloran’s text attempts to ascribe them some axiological status, or pretends to, to these scumbag beings, then tells them to fuck off.  Weather, blood on the walls, glass, fingers, sunlight – all a bunch of cunts. Whereof, one assumes, the tendency to abstraction on his paintings.
wound till gift of speech reclaimed dead hence nothing of
till matters none...stance light end…
 The gift is the Es gibt. The giving of Being in beings through logos, better of dead. No posturing any more. The taint in the eye is the tain of the mirror, the black sun, that which is impenetrable and refuses transparency. We do not see what is, humans – again I use “we” out of sheer politeness – and this matters little or nothing, none matters, no one, it matters not an iota – already this here is absence & the final fucking outrage of speech and words is that the cocksuckers can survive our deaths and seem to express our selves that then shall be lacking. The point of the exercise is to rape syntax repeatedly until the meaning will be seen as through an ass darkly.
 ...what to founder of where null abounds it not...what
whisper unto...what fleshed as it escapes...what cannot
frenzy lack...
Words do not serve, they become a vain statement. What is left is the vain gesture, the Potlatch frenzy that is writing without being fucking retarded. Mc Aloran is one of the few to do so.
You can get it here 

Monday, 19 November 2018

From "The Black Vault", (VoidFront Press 2017)

dying nectar
adagio of
collapsed sky
spinal column
of teeth
shiv of absence
a glut a silent feast
of voidal tears
of blood
the sky denuded
elegant dew of
a cracked skull
velvet key turning
in the vault
harlequin of
warped smiles
a dead tongue
burning in the silence
of catacombs
skeletal wound open
as a cunt
restless light
the death of sleep
drunken vile
reek of
hollow eyes
maggot of night
dressed in silken cum
crescendo of
collapsed earth
the candle
snuffed out
finality of useless waste
decibel artefact
bloodied pared fingers
trace pale flesh
breathless the night feeds
milk tooth fossils strewn across
black floorboards
in the ghettoes of nothingness
dusts of all salve of all salvation
broken trinkets
a neck snapped sharply
embroiled existence a
shattering skull of
amphetaminal discourse
the pulse spits flames
death spits out the dirt &
gristle of time
of memory
vague light
the burning flesh locked
vacant absolution
but for the Shadow
its rotting teeth
cast across the sensual
like a shroud
a finality of drifting leaves in
the winter of becoming
of failing
of kicking back the waxen cloth
the eyes
the eyes slow silent
burnt time
what once was held is held to be
fervent the…
desolate the…
shattered glass
breath of frost
the breath of the damned

‘The Black Vault’ is available here

3 Further From "nowhereon", (VoidFront Press 2018)

…not a sound where claim what wither dance of cold speech from echo of meat’s vibrate where dredge what fathom sudden as if to trace across nothing to expire ever of night breaks where bones decline their outset onset of nowhere traceless of forgotte where stone lights a turn of soil of memory distant headlong into what/where given that of eye expire in shadow-bite electrical outpouring of demise as cold dim vapour shed a-lack breakage of glass shatter of reflect till obsolete in some mirror as fade from view till turn of nothing in glut passage from inward outwardly specious as what closure collapse bites down upon collapse dead tomes of frivol night vomitous exodus a broke valve nowhere of in of where closure fist of never have nor utter of casts aside whereof where naught claims ever as if to toothen spit it out in exile laughter long what matter if where sicken purposeless a syringe taste of closure vellum of dead ocular rove spasm of forgotten of nocturne cast into whereof some flung to some without listless fragment words dead hollow breathe of some expel as if to say that all that fall is never of nor once have of some non-speech in realms what held oxide of powder-blood try trace of echo of desire where corridor is vast overgrown with foreign & meat petals as on nowhere as if to perambulate draw breath drag of final weight in struck from no until no other option other than in process thankless as in-dream struck from some book collectively worth nothing more than scar tissue a suitcase full of cellars of bone dust open then outward to reveal some reveal of origin forgotte where nothing was in ever of spoke as if onwardly where nothing is of transpire rupture in what fashion lapse mock of plumage reveal to black unend spits them out vacuum of solace never peel away of skin devour cold pelts of once what of in-dream as fade as if in vapour trail of shadowing nothing ever nothing if nor of what nor of engrain decline…
…acid light burn throughout where skin is prism headless devour of skull in bellows of contain a stretch where solace nowhere of is other than whereof in it locus of abort in an outstretch out wings devour lest there be of other what what circus of expanse nothing claim what shift it as lack of some direction seeks beyond blind-sight of collapse stretch of purpose let of blood a brush of some emptily dissolve close of door no slam it shut floors walls caked in shit a mouthful of flies whereof till sickness dredge of some white lie bankrupt of in some nothing ever gives of unto nullity its colourings breakage of follows it onwardly till breathe sinks into never of no nowhere as of as seek to climb it a vanguard of toy soldiers restless final of vibrate of flesh of veins expose to an azure skyline of blood-streak intermingle of breath expiration nothing of no not on in glimmer of where all fall down in some what where of syllabus decline dust it off cleaner a wound less than of from outset process of malign lack of colourings for it of where breath upon till closure nothing of in wound’s collapse where trace what trace sequence after another of into where nothing into no nothing have nor have not a collision merely of where triumph aborts its children in a fade of lungs cough of bloody phlegm into some abandon latrine cast dice in whereof of echo of lock jaw laughter no respite no other option to sear of flesh in gutter of spent longing headless attrition a seeker’s sought brick wall of null turning of in else some grind of tears of some suicide arrest in sum of deregalia bite down upon as have or not have where gnarled fingers break & lapse of ice what foreign throughout (unto) nothing of what matter in lapse of no no lightless breathe of it vanquish without trace…
…bask/bask in distance thereof where no answer beckons striate of blade cut close to rarefy of parchment death of in some nocturne of confetti cast what have less than ever fade out of phase collision with in lack ground not covered in an absentee of orchid sentence for some all where final shimmer is neither foreign nor other if cannot balance of in frailty of broke tomorrow never of where rot & syllabus curtail no nothing of some curtail spill of degouge of eye spat out cast whereof what will it is not it is a lie it repeats where clamour expose meat torn away from stylus of butcher’s hook bless opulent desire for never breath sicken lock not a trace of exist of being little than in mockery yet impale upon in tryst of ocular speech dead trail of self-erase of foot-prints nowhere bound/in/another lapse into from out where nothing ever was fingers to break some breath torn out as salt in wound nothing more it says never a word spoke not a as on into nowhere bound some drugged light a fragrance of blood & shit of rotting bone all hidden from surface tension of vibrate of skin of flesh where dreams cast steal their lock one or another it is climate never effortless where totality inhale smoke neither vapour a lack of oxygenate in a reek of some non herein where bled some sun is a mimicry of once what was where laughter roams as if to prey upon in silk weight despair knocking once then thrice no answer ever in jocular none in dissipate of prayers form of in psychotic lapse until weight stun of parallax where deathly flesh it fade collapse into neither hope not for of the nascent medium of splice non-splice follow hollow hollow follow yet nowhere on in sickness to traipse cutting with some depth of measure in shadowplay of dead stone time break of thin stole strips it down a carcass measurement yet as if it could further on what of nothing ever-if blank process in some semblance of where onset be further on what claim to follow on from where no/no not a…
"nowhereon", published by VoidFront Press, is available here 

From "Untitled #2", (Black Editions Press 2016)

…in an actualization of the blood/ distemper light collect in bask of rotted symphony/ dense accord the traceless unbecoming lapse/ tide of one thousand pelts in the moon’s reflect of eye/ of pupil shared/ trace +1/ ache/ dissipating sound in an echoing room but one/ here or there as if to trace-erase-reclaim/ sudden shock shrill of tint of teeth a-grind bitten by obsolete in any dying hour/ the spit in the eye of it gifted spasm/ lock/ knocks once then thrice collective smear of an outpouring wailing in the dark/ the face illumined else as it dreams of else/ no dice/ in-dream/ stripped skin of an electric cable frenzy/ the hands dead the heart dead/ in an abort of restless unto-follow/ the sky is there the sky is a cataract of azure silence/ no trace for tomorrow/ tumour/ close/ too close to touch it/ the fingers smear also/ the black in the mix of blood echoes of tears spent gilt of the obscene devour/ till shredded once again/ begin from/ step-asking of/ then else to follow in the banality of/ a shock-white-amber nothing/ searing out the/ from out of the/ night’s circus kicking the shit veritable out of from not of then until/ (aches lest it must)/ all breath aligned/ zeroed out/ obliterated/ the shadow vanes the sky as else/ ejaculates nothing but the rent flesh the harboured in-step/ blindly/ mercury dust/ amphetamine salve/ alcoholic abandon/ speeched travail beyond the given trace/ as walls shimmer in the collective smashed in skull of tidal/ all tide of oceanic escaping/ the blood never truly having/ nestling in the bones of the unbecoming sense what of it/ till grace it is said it/ in-step/ discoloured/ silence/ the obsolete remark/ traceless/ scuttle of unspoken tines/ words collapse/ in the out-step/ there or for/ …stun lack/ else what/ in the none of in/ dead-centre prism/ ash upon dead/ forgive-me-nots/ I asks it follows from the out of which therefore/ it cannot/ bask/ black bask colourless pupil sting/ vertebrae of silenced absolute/ the teeth kicked in breaking from fear or favoured sense/ in an echoless verbatim/ (this is the sun)/ till trace of/ locked/ the voice crushed violets/ violence of the incisor emblems/ as if to say of the I what held/ bereft/ sickened unto breath/ sickened unto breathing/ till skulk in hidden corner evading the dark resin/ of night endless/ a menagerie of teeth sunk into blessed restless/ claustrophobe of none/ again once again one naught of trickles down/ step/ non-trace/ step non-trace blind white abort/ fucked frozen/ emptily as if to/ murmuring the dead point from out of the silent point/ axial/ shadow tide of else/ (it is a lie)/ said once/ enough/ blessed rip of blade internal axe of phallic stream/ scream/ dead point/ bitten/ stun lack aborts/ in a toothless aggravate/ hence as if to/ derailed/ shadow upon smashed fingers/ upon self-mutilated flesh/ the given exile of/ fields of rotting grass/ of blackened grasses set to flame in the distant/ the moon shedding light upon/ so falleth the blight ghost limb from out of the carcass of the membrane/ dense tide/ collapse/ caring not for the jot/ extracted/ I bites the nothingness/ in the midst of else/ a piss-stained beggar/ a junked-up emptiness/ settling in to fall…
“Untitled #2”, (2016), is available from &