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-



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


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..


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 @ 

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

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

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

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, 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 

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