Michael Mc Aloran

Post image for Michael Mc Aloran

by horrorsleazetrash on September 4, 2010

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, Negative Suck, Danse Macabre, The Stray Branch, Counterexample Poetics, Heavy Bear, etc. In the past year he has authored six chapbooks, including ‘The Gathered Bones’, (Calliope Nerve Media), ‘Debris’, (Erbacce-Press), ‘Final Fragments’, (Calliope Nerve Media), & ‘The Death-Streaked Air’ (Virgogray Press-forthcoming). he can be contacted here

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…Meat petals and the slashed eye, a clock face smeared with blood, the shadow of a death knell, ice in the veins of the death of air, mocked by the crumbling walls of dissolution, a trinket, a casket full of rotting teeth, the death of air is a flock of diseased birds sprayed across the ashen sky, the waste and the frugality of tears, nothing changes, no, not ever more, I am a dream, a figment in all of this, the shadow pierces like none other, echoing, drunk upon the intoxication of blank stone walls, at which were stared in starvation, hallucinogenic, some kind of dreaming, yes…I can taste the sun, yet it is of no use, still I dream of the dark that will wrench me asunder greater than what came before, -hence I laugh, knowing, bathing in the rotting teeth of that casket, in the silence of the infinite, parched, bleached white as boiled bones, I am skull and nothing more than his hunger, this absence, this dreaming undreamt of, never having been, a gaping veranda, a dying dirt death scream from a mouth full of dying dirt dreaming screaming a dying dirt dream, how now my absence, still-born as this, letting the blood flow softly from the slashed eye, I know, I forget, for the dead are not born, something in the opiate, in the velvet salve of heavenly smoke, the silence was the lie, an opened wound spilled flies into the reeking air of this abattoir’s lies, from the gallery’s tongue the violence of the immediacy of stripped meat, reflecting the sick light of the sun I taste, a nub, the flow and the ebb the ebb and the flow, my screeching teeth, I burn black, someone has wept, in my dreaming I am forever alone, wandering through the absent light of death, as if this exile were for the living, in these catacombs, something is eating away at my reflection, it is the Unknown…tra-la-la…

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