…bone bite snare is a post-Beckettian series of fragmented yet interactive experimental prose poetic texts. It stammers, glides & bludgeons its processes through landscapes & visions lacking either redemption or hope. A hallucinatory cavalcade where linguistics are warped & erased in frenzied, vibration tones of lacerated subject & abject, textual bodily eviscerations & evacuations. This is endworld writing feeding at the jugular to the point of abort, decimating lights, cold cut, breakage bone, snare feed bitten thrice shyer than what hold of dust clogged veins a pissoir, a vantage point erase…
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"In bone bite snare, the jagged necrotextures of poetics are not only anatomically exposed but let of fluids through a cosmically conscientious mechanism not dissimilar to Pollock's 'drip technique'. This raw performance of a past and predetermined doom is here recorded and thus made infinite in its recurrence."
-- Elytron Frass
“this,is neonoir,a new kind of nihilism,where even the language,even if highly poetic,cannot be attested to certainty or absolutism or essentiality. everything is loose now,shifted loose by geodesic and societal schisms and shiftings. it really is the endworld,now with the appropriate acuitry sketched in a language befitted to mimic thefragments,the inconclusiveness,the w/hole.”
-- Aad de Gids
"In his texts Michael Mc Aloran curates [the impossibility of representationalism anymore], the last esthetic mirrorings of these wastelands through which we wade, in bleak necessity, in machinationmechanistical catatony, our arts following sinister paths to follow the porncinema our world has become. The paradox is, and it also isn't a paradox anymore, that Mc Aloran conceives this inexplicable, indiscernable cryptolinguistic curating [holidayjob] documenting in exactitude that it is no longer possible to follow these worlds of the world like we sit on top of it but we're deeply indebted to as well as prey to its capriciocity and haunting presentism. The world over us that is, and Mc Aloran bears witness to exactly this precarious position, point, to which all end-arts and anti-estheticisms must dwell, finally, in unironic splendour of a glitzing decay."
-- Chyna Blac
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