All Stepped – UndoneMichael Mc Aloran
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In this new collection from Michael Mc Aloran we are granted a glimpse of what the obscene dead hand scribbles before, having writ, it rots back to the complacency of the stolid tradition that tells us to love the nothing since it does not exist and we are what we are a short promise of eternity. Mc Aloran's poetry insistently directs its empty indexical dead finger at this recalcitrant nothing coming to fuck promises up.
Incarnation and the corporeal is a disease whose dreams readily assume the aspect of inevitable nightmare, we are condemned to be meat, not free, we are condemned to our ration of idiocy and there will be suffering enough for almost anybody, even the most demanding of masochists.
settled as if to fall/ absently
a meat hook absolute
The point is that the author is “laughing my suicide unto death” - there is no good except what we can extract from the humor of the situation, the repetitive emphasis upon the gory detail and the stench of the shit. The shit is to be found everywhere, of course. How many things are we presented with, from preschool and onwards, that are not, in some plain sense, tending towards the brown?
The history of ideology, education, and culture is more or less a story of sewage, told by sewage and sweating its cowardly stench of survival under a feculent summer sun. Little turds marching over the onwards and downwards creep of humanity like mindless little Orangemen screaming their psychosis through the blind eyes of all the sexless virgins that ever birthed a meaningless love of Jesus.
There are many references here just to the whole progress of everything through nursery rhymes - all falling down, I spy, and so forth – the eye/i is repeatedly present, the dumb observing sense that devours, that eats the shit it sees according to the gustatory epistemological metaphors that Sartre said. The author, the poet, should be a dodgy and resentful cook or waiter who whacks off copiously right into the nosh that is presented to the reader as she sits there, a dreadful idiot anorexic awfully hungry for knowledge. And all the knowing s/he gets but nothing.
of thin dreaming-
the whittled speech of
in ash of unbecoming airs
a sleight of
a dead echoing
the eye’s thin
For what is given is less that the gut of the ego needs, the replete guru will never climb perfect out of the skeleton and become more than the skinny hunger of words and the sketchy stick figure that missing Psyche is. and there is nothing beyond this. Everything that the nothing is the specific nothing of has always been nowhere and not available to us because man is always and forever the lack.
traces/ lights excluded/ there’ll yet be another none/
basking/ in the air of// climate as of unknown breath/
the sky’s emptiness/ coating the absent tongue
After the meat malfunctions there is interminable nowhere where we are not, until then we are waiting for Godot rooting around in a pissoir with knives looking for suffering to cut into, obstinately not being the other.
excessive night/ of the abattoir/ how the laughter
builds in the pregnancy of none/ birthing a whore of
silence/ and words/ to slide finally away from
coffin of blood/ coughing up the artery’s
It is almost conceivable that the reader will be oppressed by a certain sense of negativity in this book, but in that case I will have to ask her whether she lives in a world where the children who play on summer's meadows in fact play thus for all eternity. A world where we are not snatched from psychosis only be the happy accident of death from some disgusting cancer or murder.
gardenias/ death’s heads/ a serrated edge/ nothing
less speaking so clearly as was/ hence life pissing blood
laughs the leg off the sacrificial lamb
There is no eternity, but there is some fun to be had pissing blood. Here is your order and where to obtain it. It'll be a few minutes, sir. Would you like some cum on that?
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