Monday, October 4, 2010

Untitled #28-

Untitled #28-

…Turning, turning aside, from the blossoming flowers of dusts sprouting from empty sockets, so close to the tomb, yet never near enough in my dying, the hands made of bloody soil caress the teeth of the black sky, wilting, without question, as the seasons depart, fleshed fallen upon the crest of night, endless night, where tongues dissipate and are reduced to words, stricken by defeat at every corner turned in the labyrinth, where tears are less than nothing, and the winds expire, where the baseness of flesh spits at the soaring wings, here now and ever more, shredding laughter splitting the sky with burning tears, from the stench of longing reaching no end yet every end, every end a skull-clad wall, I know this, I forget, my bones warp and I am forgotten, here in this realm where nowhere lays decaying meat down as gauntlet, victorious, yet without hope, these walls are made of human skin, something best forgotten, I lay down in those flowers of dust and breathe in their opiate silence, I sink into the jaws of the earth, where I lose all sense of distance, yet the whip draws me on, it cracks like a silver wing, a butcher’s knife upon bone, unto this never having been, a caress, my dying, something lost never to be reclaimed, from the ice of silence to the gut of the maggot’s lie, scattering seed upon powdered bone earth, which the wind births unto some other distance, the confetti of silence and the nothingness of it, beneath which ever the resurgence of nothing, the breath of the sky and the life spat out into this place that awaits no-one, has no need of the unknown, the dark meat smeared across the walls like shit, like bloody waste, like garbage, here, then, in the velvet hollow of the sun, having stripped away the dark, still knowing the bones, still birthing the scarlet, there is no mystery, birthed unto the shadow, into death’s open arms, the steel exhumes the light, the light from a cadaver’s smile, laid out like a desert plane, all and all over again, in this, severed unto atrophy, severed unto exile, in the cold grip of translucent jaws at the throat, as water flows as naturally as blood, where the death in me sings its’ mounting overtures, here and now never but to rage, or to concede, spilling out the lightless webs, forever may we lie, I love death no more than I love life, I love life no more than I love death, and all that comes between, I love only the debris of the shadow…                   


--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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