Musings on Naught, Michael Mc Aloran's new chapbook from Erbacce Press
Aloran's stance, awkward as it might seem, is ever clearer: the
stubborn pursuit of his own difference. In this sense the poet is a
geographer of the self, writing an intimate cartography of sensations.
Such is the polysemic and molecular complexity of the land of Naught,
the landscapes of this minutely individual world are becoming ever more
fascinating to those of us who have seen Mc Aloran grow in stature and
confidence. Of course the superficial diagnosis is gloomy and one can
imagine the smirks as prudes and show-offs run for cover at the
inglorious images of ungainly becoming which populate this world of
poetic spirits. But in the fearful agony and pain, black too folds, its
grey tinges weeping freely in the liberating drunkenness of release.
Nursery rhyme ritornellos remind the fellow traveller of the coordinates
of profound fear when personality can no longer help, where identity
has been long gone and sensations are free to roam, to run, to sail. Yes
there is another newly regained time, one which is a very well kept
secret. Not a time to reminisce or pine, not a time to lament. Such
Times are irrelevant. For the new nothing is a time of the surface, a
time of moments immediately undone as they happen. Of minuscule events
whose beautiful (in)significance is only apparent to those who have
relinquished all forms of ideological bombardments in a world without
ideals, hopes or purposes.
Surgeon scalpel to
hand, the poet explores his own wounds and kicks dust into the
voyeur-reader's judgemental countenance. The book? The narrator? The
poem? Nothing so grand, barely fragments, barely sentences, barely words
in this decidedly post-Beckettian cosmos. Hence this tongue in cheek,
this lick in wound, humour, sarcasm and buffoonery. Irony died with the
subject. Some internal rhyme, some petales du mal, sprinkled with black
pollen, in a sunless desert. Mc Aloran guides us through Naught with
malicious brilliance. There is no entitlement to hope, no body, barely
these living wounds inscribed with the pen scalpel in the writer's land
of affects, and some abject vomit and piss. The bile of centuries of
literary invective has been learnt. Many past writers have been buggered
and bastard infant-poems birthed. Critics and philosophers
surrealistically ingurgitated. Poem dogs have been noosed to the eunuch
totem of anxiety's future.
So the poet gets up today
relatively free. He writes on the tympanum of futile tomorrow. He
carries on despite the apparent apathy and indifference which surrounds
his valiant efforts. He doesn't give a fuck that everyone seems to
prefer poet laureates and Oxbridge graduate's effete musings about 'the
truth,' 'first loves' or 'daisies and buttercups'. The poet is an animal
and like a tick's essence is to suck blood, a poet's essence if ever he
had one is to bleed the arteries of nothing. The counter-productive and
counter-cultural vocation of the outlaw is to write the law of the
future, a brave man once said. Even if there's no future? Why carry on
then? Because there's little else to do, once you've travelled this
place of Nothing, but to sprinkle this negativity with the dust of
I find these mutterings beautiful and fascinating, I
encourage you to read them, to live with them. To chart this country
and live with the patois of a beautiful vagabond.
and amid great guffaws of laughter, the agonistic struggle of the
ephebe continues. Beckett, Bataille, Popa, Rimbaud, Cioran can be heard
in the interstices. The gauntlet constantly changes colour as any decent
painter would will it. There is no fear of going mad. Literature has
long been on the pyre, in the abattoir, in the pit. Artaud has burnt the
interpretational masks over this chaos-cosmos.
are cast and sail freely through highly digitalised space. Messages are
sent in real time. Tribes of like-minded poet warriors gather and
disintegrate instantaneously. Spies and madwomen follow from acute
vantage. Luckily Naught cannot be photographed. There will be no films
or clips. The only trace is the one you read, inscribed in your blood.
The poem without author. The bones without body. Precursors have failed
miserably at such attempts because wounds must remain wounds in this
world of anti-words. Why try to heal in a rotten and sick world? How
absurd is that? Speaking as the last, after the last, in the impossible
lasting, words are shattered, fractured, bludgeoned, infected, painted
with venom and silent sickness and lovingly posted into the world become
asylum. Silently they shall live in this laboratory for saccharine
dependent patients with unlimited diseases.
Mc Aloran is a
leader without followers. The best we can do is buy all his books and
collect this marvellous and futureless opus.
This infectious book can be found here:
Thursday, 21 July 2011
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