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...
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