Monday, September 27, 2010

Untitled #9

Untitled #9


…A bouquet of severed fingers, offering a final caress in the night, emasculating joy torn from the book melds with the smell of fresh blood, I feel nothing in my flesh, the shutter snapped down in dislocation, then rage spits leaden bullets at the obscenity of the sky in the deliria of my deathliness, bones kiss bone, fragile foetal flowers bleed in the denuded moonlight, something sickly crawls up the spine like vines of teeth, my touch, my beloved my astral scars, the blood comes to my mouth and spills forth into the parched soil, the desolate earth, yet I am concrete cold, the vomit-drenched city streets of early morning isolation, there is nothing left, I whisper unto myself, I curl up into a ball in corners and I wait, I am waiting for something I know not what I am waiting for, the surface of the walls peel away to reveal the searing meat, I am kaleidoscope, I am the absence of reason, my shiv glints in the night’s gilded charms, there is nothing to be found and all questions have erased themselves, tunnel of endless dark, the candle slashed out in my blood and in my sight the teaming shoals of foreign traces of memory, I am dead, I am alive, from one minute to the one preceding, from where was my laughter still-born, unto what chamber does my silence dissipate, I have not spoken a word in days, I have nothing left to say, the cavern of the mouth spills leeches of impotence, my scars are timeless, my flesh is nothing but shit to become, I looked at you and found the same question, as if it could matter what else in that could be in how and ever now, I breathe, you are the laughter give me back my rage from out of this spent night in which the severed light cuts sharp shadows like daggers into the flesh, with a razor’s clinical smile, I elect, I concede in virulent absence, I observe myself seeping into never having been, where once was this, you are the dead sun, the fragrant laughter, fuck it I cut myself I bleed my teeth chatter I remain silently the sharp sting in the cleft fist a broken stamen, your lips part and yet still I am dead, the words they mock us, a smile can obliterate, a silence…kill…I devour my shadow as it speaks, as it lends a severed ear to the cleft winds, I will live alone, my limbs severed, crawling about on amputated dreams, -our stitches define us, the sky will not cease to be, and I will be gone, having felt for nothing, and having dreamt of less...


--Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His work has appeared/ is forthcoming in various print and online zines, including Carcinogenic Poetry, Sex & Murder Magazine, Horror, Sleaze & Trash, The Medulla Review, Media Virus, In Between Altered States, Graffiti Kolkata, Prothomoto, Tehlia, Pratishedhak, Negative Suck, Danse Macabre, The Stray Branch, Counterexample Poetics, Heavy Bear, etc. In the past year he has authored seven chapbooks, including 'The Gathered Bones', (Calliope Nerve Media), 'The Black Vault', (Calliope Nerve Media), 'Debris', (Erbacce-Press), 'Final Fragments', (Calliope Nerve Media), & 'The Death-Streaked Air' (Virgogray Press-forthcoming).

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