"There
is a kind of meticulous nihilism going around, and we're born with it,
it is spooned in. This 'organogramme', supersphere, hypersphere,
antiesthetics, punksensibilities; Mc Aloran's writings were never in
another tradition. 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 very nice. Here we have poetry as sublime as it is irreversibly
constative. We're hostages of what we're surrounded by. All 'actions'
are redundant and the world is chaotic, cosmic, chemified and fraxated
to mere pumice. Actually, it seems in the reading of TILL CLAIMED that I
seem to now have stumbled upon a central axiom in 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. In his
poetry there is certainly a leaning towards death but as we see, this at
once also means an inclination towards life. The surfaces of the words
and of language are on the move. Not alone a seismic shift but glacial
and uncomfortably polar..." -- Aad de Gids
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