Friday, October 1, 2010

Untitled #17

Untitled #17-

…Reflection of star-lit eyes upon the surface of a lake of blood, a fleshed kiss, the sky starved of benign whispers, in the dense lack, the bones shaved, a shimmering sky I gather the debris of that same sky, death courses, I fade away, my fingers trace the beauty of the night, the lightning, I breathe, I compressed, I dream of nothing, yet nevertheless the distant sun persists, image of a bloodied corpse dragged along a long white corridor by unseen hands, the trail is of love, the enamoured, I am silent, the corridor is silent, also, then the echoes, in my dreaming they meld with the onslaught of the death in me, something is fading away, the abattoir’s kisses abandon me to graceless bleeding, slashed at the throat in my deathly flowers I lay me down, drugged to the absence I am laughter flourishing yet erased, there is blood in my cum, in my spit, the earth cracks like lacerations before me, I no longer know where I am, so much the better for it, I love death, my death my love, this nothing and the spasms of never having been, I remember, -how could I remember, I remember the dead waste, I am my dead waste and the gilded tongue, within these walls, spitting the shrapnel of nothingness, barren ocular roving in the silence, where tombs are the only willing teachers, I am scar, my limbs are dust I laugh, I am nothing ever to become, and so unto this, breathing the dead air of my brutal flesh, I reverberate violent tears, struck by the sun, I cannot leave, spilling out the fragments, I am…this freight I am in flames I dream I dream I am laughter, not that it ever could ever for what matter having changed all that it could and ever having become undone, as this silence, dragging its’ cadaver at my side, I am as empty as a bled carcass, I am the spit of the night, the dissipation at the heart of all things, my hands leave traces of the benign, something was spoken never yet known, the sky inverts, dusts cloud the sun, where, where and what then ever having stripped my barren raw, my death in that same sun, yet the winds cannot find me, concrete bound as a recollection of despair, there, in death, the black light illuminates, I drift I am fleshed I am the absence of flesh, something, hollowed out I die I breathe, a point of light explodes into the vacant night so much the better for it, I remember the reek, I erase, having been eroded, where now my death, I have spilled the speech of my shadow unto the soil, as if in that final lacking, I could…the silence, spills from the ashen dawn…



--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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