longshadowfall

Michael Mc Aloran
longshadowfall
Editions du Cygne 2017
book review by David McLean

Mc Aloran’s new book is not about participating in any sort of Irish tradition, although the fact that he is Irish has obviously created an expectation that he be expected to care about Beckett & the other notable Irish writers, if there are any, especially since he does not create conventional prose in his texts. It is not evident in what way Mc Aloran follows in any Irish tradition given that he has developed an individual voice. Mc Aloran takes this subsumption of his work under the patriotic assumption of Irishness & some regional identity qua writer with some grace, since it must be very frustrating.
What the books are basically about is the circumstance that existence is extremely temporary & not driven by some fundamental meaning whereby things fit into their various places & are essentially & unproblematically what they are. We are loathsome ugly clumps of meat – the failing echo of which Mc Aloran writes is moronic repetition, it is the pathetic quest for meaning: there are no razors that do not have blood on them, nothing that does not rust, no flesh forever except the repetitive return of more worthless flesh. The echo might be an originary echo, the sounds that come out first are already echoes. The road, everywhere, is marked by shit, it is full of shit. A perfect place for the shit that is humanity to drag itself back to nothing.

I think that Mc Aloran would agree with my assessment of humanity that I developed from Homer Simpson “People do things because they are stupid &die because they deserve to” – there is carrion everywhere: people die so often that it is (almost) not even funny anymore.

The best aspect of Mc Aloran is the gloom. There is no trace of the inability that the later (& better) Becket regrets as he notices that words do not work, they just lie on the page & suck. This is because what Mc Aloran is portraying is the fact that meaning is not there, life sucks because it is meat that fails to mean.

When we die we will have failed to speak, we will have failed to mean, we will have failed to matter. This has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with modern society or any sort of political criticism, that’s just the way it is. We are left with “speech lack of claim/ words dead foreign ice encasing fathom untimely said

It helps to be mad, it helps to be drunk. Buy this book. It’s available from the usual culprits & the publishers here.

“at vacuum’s edge” – Michael McAloran

Michael Mc Aloran
at vacuum’s edge
Black Editions Press
review/blurb by David McLean

this chapbook concerns what we have as if to say. when faced by the other than. it is no alienation exactly but the necessary incongruity of the being human with the actual instantiation of all that within the brute meat we sort of want to torture even if the other may conceivably be rather like us

it is also of collisions – a collidescope, as he puts it, mirroring where the worlds minds drag around to imprison them bump into the other cunt.

again/ upon/ sodden crimson red recollect of
bounty’s trace of unforgiven/ dries the eyes what
depth till following lack abort what sung as if to
drift matter of forgotten as before once said
eradicated/ engulfed once more/ yet mocking the
reek/ (tread from this life disease what will stake
claims upon the ocean’s filtering lights)/ and the
bitten song/ a neck snapped in a gild of apathy/
nothing of the tears that demarcate the surface/
bore holes into the surface quadrant/ nothing
known…

the problem of epistemology is not that nothing is known but that maybe what is mostly worthy of knowing is just the nothing/ that which one should designate almost imperceptibly by the via negativa.

whatever is in some sense given is not the significant. we cannot signify what matters which is not that nothing does. this chapbook is as far from nihilism as it is possible to be & whoever says it s just that is as ignorant as those who attribute the same alleged perversity to me.

it is on sale here: https://blackeditionspress.wordpress.com/2016/09/06/at-vacuums-edge-michael-mc-aloran/

a sample from “of desire & the desert”

here are five poems from of desire & the desert. they happen to be mostly prose poems; the book is a mix of poems with & without more or less arbitrary line breaks. the book is reviewed in the post below by Dom Gabrielli & is on sale here at Black Editions Press.

the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels

night becomes timeless & the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels – here the children have died their paltry eternities & become obsolescent gods dancing & lighting the nothing with their hairy stars becoming mourning as it gets over melancholia & acknowledges the empty where no gods have ever been nor been needed except in the bizarre fantasies of shepherds & demons/

here we have lived forever, since Radio Caroline was a ghost in a threadbare cupboard on the worst transistors like a word stolen from nowhere or a broken guitar not playing in a graveyard/

we have lived forever already & eternity is here if we wake tomorrow, we have all this incessant madness to share, a radically empty world

lie & the face

a lie deploys the overall motoricity of the face,
a bizarre & subtle weapon;
with sexual potential like leaves falling from trees
as dreams//

it falls through history its inexorable apposition;
all the supple lumber
we have left scattered under the holy wind
everywhere, drops of water

& some antiquated resurrection/
the impotence of expressive potential
is a broken tower, a hanged man,
swords & the impossibility of murder//

we have every memory to reiterate patient
before the heart goes, also broken,
no longer working, a worthless motor,
subtle dead engine//

lies like becoming/
here we are nothing

temple destroyed

the temple is destroyed today, left us is the nasty ark of pornography not carrying many words worth mentioning but the sublime semiotics of flesh & the empty// words are no longer over any still waters, they drown in the mouths of morons & the world is always already forgotten

we have become the creature that both eats & is eaten, a night forever completely devoid of dreams worth having or any conceivable meaning// gormless Godot is drunk again & snoozing somewhere in the worthless heart of being

the nihilistic machine

& what we uncreate is a nothing machine ticking over nicely its voiding values its stretching out new lacks, vaster absences. there is time & space & all this empty content saying so little, nothing moral anywhere better than the neck of a priest or a policeman opening itself as the most perfect & decorous target ever. (he had a hard time at school, poor dear) & here is his worst enemy, words, & an unforgiving world//

there are many flags here waiting to burn

language messing around

language is not messing around being implausible freedom the play of the text intent upon enchaining everything else. the telephone is not talking itself, it is the ghost in it, uncanny & homely psychosis/

there is obviously nothing outside the text in a very specific sense, apart from that there are plenty of things, in the sense most idiots are thinking the dead man meant, there is everything else. the gods of the hearth are dismal dancers they are not Drogba running his perfection they are symptoms that are decaying of an empty that is ending & has always tended to want to end whenever a child played with a kitten or got down to some serious living/

 

too much human

There’s a new chapbook now out at Black Editions Press, too much human, with an intro & 30 poems by me, poems that for once are consistently about a particular theme: the decline in human intelligence consequent upon dysgenic fertility & the necessity for radical depopulation & antinatalism in order to preserve the ecology.

Here’s the blurb from A.D. Hitchin.

A beautiful hand grenade of a book that would probably serve as effective population control for the hysterically reactive and weak of heart. Throw into a crowd of SJWs and watch them die.

//A.D. Hitchin, author of CONSENSUAL

The book is available at this link.

desire & the desert

140 odd poems “inspired” by Deleuze & Guattari’s  Mille plateaux are now on sale here at Black Editions Press. Following is the blurb that Carolyn Srygley-Moore wrote for it:

“Despite the innate rationalism of the traditional philosopher ..something I’ve never excelled at … David McLean’s poetry does not fall flat into any sort of rigidity. An atheist, David, when asked, says that principles, & secular humanism, are not obligatory tenets of atheism, indeed, are counterproductive. Humanism presupposes a higher notion of the human, a reverence for it, yet David & his work retain and glitter with an irreverent & delightful disdain for humanity, the devolution of the human race. A scholar of and practitioner of ancient, modern & postmodern philosophies, the “body without organs” trembles in his poetry, inviting the reader though millions of conduits into a sensibility of ghost death love childhood in a voice original such as few modern voices I’ve confronted in my reading. Vistas open.”

It’s not very expensive for its size, so get one if you like.