Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Zero Eye

The Zero Eye
Michael Mc Aloran
Oneiros Books, 2014
84 pp.
Review by David McLean

This collection by Michael Mc Aloran is condensed and highly idiosyncratic, perhaps his most experimental collection thus far. It is equipped with an introduction by Aad de Gids that brings out the direction taken, that the poetry laments the absence of something it very well knew was missing all the time. It is of the “itch of the redeem” and the knowledge that the itch never gets to be assuaged.

The book servers as a key to the others in a sense, a description of what happens “in damage seasons”, a summary statement of the pointlessness and the beauty there nevertheless is in all of the emptiness.

the silent light/ the light by which no light may be seen/
hence the distil/ the teeth of it/ the bones of it in a
slaughterhouse of all/ mocking the lung lock/ awash with
bile and unspeaking reckless nothingness/ no prayers for
the now/ silenced/ shine a light/ here a breath there a
breathe/ in damage seasons/ having breached/
absconded/ not a bloody chance/ no nothing/ no not from
the commence of/ no no other route…

Mc Aloran, says de Gids, is expressing a point about the development of the polities and sociuses in which we live, that their ultimately arriving at this dreadful impasse where everything is excused in the name of political rectitude is what we all anyway wanted, the endgame, the terminus, the final fucked up destination. I see the point of the poems as more ontological, that if we were living in a perfect Utopia life would still suck balls because of finitude, and the fact that the fuckers have remorselessly destroyed any chance of jouissance anybody ever had is just icing on the suicidal cake, as it were.

Still, the book introduces itself as “a book of misunderstandings” so the vicissitudes of interpretation are all well and good.

Mc Aloran is also a visual artist, thus the “eye” is deeply involved in the book, the function of seeing, usually taken as the exemplary sense for humans, and the comprehension of light and color, the conquest of color being something Deleuze regards as fundamental and a source of great anxiety for the visual artist.

…the eye recalls it does not recall/ stratosphere of bled/
sun light of asked of promise/ spat out/ sheen purpose of
the whole/ locked to the might of virulent/ a-breeze/
shattered frozen flesh/ dead light what of it/ the half moon
circus of redeemed purpose/ knocking the teeth from the
broken jaw what laughter now/ fingers yet/ yet fingers
hands to caress/ there is blood beneath the fingers of the
unearthed/ the earth clogs the lungs there is nothing in the
hands of breaking lightlessness/ as if to say/ what speech/
what of the voice that imparts the dead colours/ the
tourniquet heart/ spasm/ spillage of blood/ asks of till
given silences mocking the reaching purpose/ which is to
bile less than ever was before/ a syntax of shattered bones/
till ever-dreaming in the shadow’s longing/ as if to be gone
were the only crosshair in sight/ and yet/ subtle the
change in the pulse/ here or there/ dead light what of it/
spit forth/ the raped tune of these silences that cannot be
acquainted with/ less or more/ dead songs/ dissipatory/
struck shine/ some detritus of light.

Thus the book develops its reach into the emptiness from the most fundamental percepts, from the bottom up, instead of from the abstract and at an already and exclusively semantic level from which the text never departs, as I would have done.

All in all, a splendid read, well worth buying, and it's coming soon from Oneiros Books.

Edit: Here it is.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Gutter Eloquence

Great thanks to Jack T. Marlowe for having these poems by me in the latest issue of the great underground webzine Gutter Eloquence. Also poems there by Travis Blair, Mike Meraz, and many others.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Mung Being

There is now a new issue of Mung Being posted online and there are, i am pleased to report, five by me in her.

Here they are. There's a new bio up there too.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

More boners, people

Delighted to have more work in the Bone Orchard, thanks to Michael Mc Aloran. Here they are at this link.

A reminder that I have a shiny new chapbook the children without guns at Bone Orchard Press, where you will find many other great chapbooks by such luminaries as Mc Aloran, Chris Murray, Craig Podmore & Aad de Gids. Yay! Half of us have the same sickness, hail Satan, prince of darkness, and his old mate Deleuze. 

Deleuze really loved Benny Hill. & I regard that as the great philosophical conundrum of all time.

Sunday, April 6, 2014


Never noticed this when it came a couple of weeks ago in Luciferous Zine

A poem by me with a Burroughs reference ;)

Friday, April 4, 2014

Blind Dog Press

Bling Dog Press have put together an anthology called fierce invalids which is devoted to poems about or inspired by Rimbaud, and there are some by me in it. Here is their announcement of the release today.

If Rimbaud is good enough for Cantona then he's good enough for the rest of us :)

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Disorder Anthology

Pleased to announce that my poem "the impeccable dead" will be in the Disorder anthology from Red Dashboard Publishing, and it's an anthology about mental illness. 

Today Reuben Wooley was kind enough to say that my book Things the Dead Say seemed similar in tone to R.D. Laing's anti-psychiatry movement, which is cool since I am actually influenced by Deleuza, and Guattari whose idea of schizoanalysis is affiliated to, without being the same as, the ideas of Laing, about which they had some reservations. 

Anyway, huge thanks to Elizabeth Akin Stelling, boss person there, for inviting me, and to the editors who selected the thing for picking it.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

the children without guns

Pleased to note that this new chapbook by me is out at Bone Orchard Press. It's linked there and called the children without guns. I'm rather pleased with this collection and think you should buy it. As I say, it's perfectly OK.

It's sort of themed childhood which makes it pretty depressing, here's one poem from it:

they fell into night

they fell into night, a pit full of scars
and so few memories, a gray schoolyard
with raindrops on dusty windows
washing away nothing

because memories do not touch
and night is a recurrent childhood,
nothing to do with love

And here's another:

more than one voice

more than one voice in the loveless
skull, ghastly fat absences
and death to grease the flesh in
with memories and sex;

time to be the portentous cripple
who spells out his inadequate answers,
as if suicide were never a solution
and dwarfs might be giants

if they had been luckier in the gene's
unjust lottery. there are legions
jabbering in each one of us
so we are not exactly bored,

just a little fucked up

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Mung Being

There will be five by me in the next issue of the excellent zine Mung Being. Thanks to editor Mark Givens, who later this year is closing the zine and starting a book publishing project that will surely kick ass.

Here's the bio with links to work currently showcased there.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Gutter Eloquence

Long time since I submitted to Gutter Eloquence and am pleased to say that two poems coming in number 30, due on or just after 1st April.

Great zine, and always excellent selections by Jack T. Marlowe.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Craig Podmore - The Origin of Manias

Here is a review by me

Craig Podmore
The Origin of Manias
Oneiros Books 2013 162 pp
novel review by David McLean

This book by Craig Podmore is a novel that charts the career in perversion of a man called Anton. As in the novella that preceded it called The Symmetries of Pain, life here is a sort of sexual cannibalism and the book acquires its effect and natural tone where it lists the epitomes of human depravity. Eating, fucking, torturing, raping and killing are all basically the same thing, the same function, the expression of the self.

Anton is brought up as an orphan in a religious environment which he naturally rejects and he instead embraces what he perceives as the opposite of the religious, sadomasochism and “evil”, the latter being seen as something very generalized. Of course, if evil is very general and widespread it stops being meaningful to categorize it as evil.

As with the novella, which is the conclusion here, the cruelty of Anton is “resolved” by standard romantic love. However, love in the Sartrean analysis is just as much as the sadistic solution a victim of the inevitable dialectic of the relationship with the other. But love is just to want to be loved, to want to be loved is to have them want you to love them, ad nauseam. The only love that Sartre seems to agree to was love as an enterprise, part of a concrete project towards my own ends, not involved completely in loving the other. That gets to be basically like Anton’s project, but without so much fun. As the victim of torture winds up as just meat, looking at you, so the lover is just another body there to challenge your place as master of your world. There is nothing to save you and make you whole in any of it.

Maybe the solution is no more than the primitive Hobbesian contract: “Kill all these victims and the state will probably come, sooner or later, and fuck you up”. Or the solution may be desire as multiplicity, not desire as courtly love, even though in courtly love one may only have been, as Deleuze and Guattari suggest, playing Taoism and masochism and scampering after the BwO. (Though they explicitly state that the equation of courtly love with those things is meaningless). If there is desire everywhere, not power, then getting the desiring machines working right is (part of) the answer.

As said, the text here is at its best when it is engaged in grossing the reader out, challenging his/her boring conventions and moral debility:

Some are eaten, some are fucked, an intestine nailed into a wall,

“Sieg Heil for vagina”, a madman protests, the crucifix now severed into parts, the feel of violence is tactile, it’s beginning to exist as a, “something”, a being, it’s growing like a living organism, it’s there, I see it, I feel it, inside the vulvas, inside the mouths, inside my own genitalia!

I can strongly recommend you read this, whether or not you think love is the answer, that there is an answer, that an answer is even needed. Get it here:


Saturday, March 22, 2014

Bone Orchard Press

Not only is Bone Orchard Poetry back in business but there is a new press too, Bone Orchard Press, that is devoted to chapbooks by the authors published in the zine. 

Here's the first offering from editor Michael Mc Aloran, one coming by me, the children without guns, 40 pp.

EDIT: one minuite later here it is :)

Monday, March 17, 2014

of "nobody wants to go to heaven"

At the Oneiros Books blog Christine Murray has been kind enough to post a selection with commentary from nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die, my last but one from Oneiros. Good for her, though I am not a rationalist and not very influenced by either Williams or Sitwell. :)

Read it at this link, links to buy are on the right hand side of the screen.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

the dead are rambling again in the cemetery

What do the dead mumble about as they lie in their noisome holes?

Direct from the bone orchard - here they are at Bone Orchard Poetry.

Here is the book at Oneiros, and here the dead float down the

And, by the way, here is the same book at Barnes & Noble.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

of desire & the lesion that is the ego

Soonish, a book of that name, by me, is due from Oneiros Books, edited by Michael Mc Aloran. The things is written while reading the great Anti-Oedipus, and is accordingly, according to me, really cool, or - as an alternative way of putting it - full of shit and very pretentious.

This picture is of the cover art. like most paintings, it shows the plain pudenda totally openly, if you look at it wrong.

There is an incredible lot of excellent new poetry at Oneiros Books, as well as prose and comics. Check it all out.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Gillian Prew, "A wound's sound" reviewed

A wound's sound
Oneiros Books
74 pp.

The latest by Gillian Prew, who is the best currently active poet in my opinion, is a short full length that is inspired by the predicament of domestic animals and the meat industry. Fortunately it does its work by poems that gravitate around the theme, and adumbrate the problem, rather than preaching. The best argument for vegetarianism is purely aesthetic, like Freud's prediction about why war would get less popular in the future, that one simply dislikes eating dead things, rather than the hedonistic or preferentialist utilitarian arguments that are not exactly probative.

This Poem

This poem has blood in its ears/
it is being hauled up by a hook/
it is losing consciousness.

works better than the linguistic imprecision of the wooly arguments that sometimes purport to be reasoned defenses of the position. Prew presents the case as a subsidiary part of a general lacrimae rerum, the hardness of the conditions of life and the factitious emptiness of death. It is hard enough that things die anyway, in the blooming buzzing confusion that is also cruel and rather vulgar.

Droop-eye, me, lodged in a hole/all my sisters weightless now. White, their gums, from blood-loss/their lost lowing high blue. My one whole hoof shod with shit/my best bone a blade. Clamped to the carousel with its thieving cups/its horror/ my udder droops milk for a week of babies. Fucked and forced with this life/this breaking will hooked in the end in a concrete bowl of slaughters. Shoved with drugs my blood is still mine/still flows in the green country. What is this penance I have been set?/this unholy torture prized from the bloody human hand and visited upon my sides. Sore, I am/clamped here with misery/with a hell of bars biting about my head.

It is undoubtedly so that one may reject this latter without refusing to eat meat humanely produced. The factory farming procedure is Gestell. It is part of the remorseless appropriation that understands the world as things that are there and for use. The cow is standing reserve, for technological farming, it is there to be used as meat and the products of its body are also for use. It is part of growing human blindness not to see the cow as it is as organism, with presumably its own Dasein, its own presence in the world and relation to the same, and perhaps even some little mystery, that is not accessible to scientific appropriation.

Heidegger didn't fuck around and said that “[a]griculture is not a motorized nourishment industry. essentially the same as the fabrication of corpses in gas chambers and extermination camps, the same as the blockade and starvation of nations, the same as the hydrogen bomb.” (Bremer und Freiburger Vorträge, “Einblick in das was ist”)

Distances shrivel he said, and distances grow too. The scientific farmer thinks we are close to the truth of the animal, scientifically speaking; I would add that, emotionally speaking, we are miles away. There is no distance from the standing reserve (Bestand) but nor is there any proximity, it is the facile grabbing of the outward and obvious, the extraneous and the blindness to the essential – in this case Gillian's cow.

And how great is the distance of a lady who worries that her cat kills animals? In what proximity does she dwell to the natural and the cat itself?

Anyway, the poems here are excellent, the book deserves buying. Before concluding I must point out that the fundamental problem is that there are way too many people. 500 000 000 seems reasonable, the same number as there are dogs, a far better animal. A deep ecological standpoint would make everything better for humans as well as animals, and there wouldn't be so many humans to piss us all off.

Sun Trap

World, damned hieroglyph,
your skin is not mine nor
do your fuchsias bend like bells for me.

It is hot today. I meet the sun alone -
more intimate than being born.
Too hot for human reason, yet
ants bear colossi round my feet

World is “a chandelier of hooks and throats” but under the world is the earth whence nature burgeons and blooms. When mankind learns to shepherd the world, to guard and watch over what there is and pass it on in all it surpassing excellence then maybe the chandelier can be dismantled, recycled a little. And there could be less cruelty and still cheeseburgers. Don't forget, children, LESS PEOPLE PLEASE.

And while we await this signal improvement, buy this book.

Friday, February 28, 2014

as promised, bones

Here is the link to a couple of prose poems by me up at Bone Orchard Poetry. More coming, but those aren't prose.

Thanks Michael Mc Aloran. 

Thursday, February 27, 2014

things in the Bone Orchard live again

Here is the unholy new life at the undead Bone Orchard Poetry. I have had some boners there already and more coming. The dead are smooth talking little fuckers.

Got a review there of Christine Murray, as below, and some blurb for me new book, things the dead say, which is also here at

Nice work by perverse sexton Mick Mc Aloran, still digging 'em up and fucking 'em.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

a review of She by Christine Murray

EDIT: Book now available here:

Christine Murray
forthcoming from Oneiros Books
82 pp
review by David McLean

This book is splendid in its conception and execution. Purporting to be a poetic narrative of the process of madness that led to the catatonia of a lady called Constance, a person who has encountered a being called She in her dreams and become imbricated in a pattern of psychic events involving She. She would seem to be an archetype. She is the force of death in life, life in death, the essentially female and thus, one might speculate, then (1858) to be regarded as fundamentally evil. The character Constance notes in her introductory letter that the dreamworld is equally real to her.

I do not expect anyone will believe me, but I know that my dreaming-life is as real as my waking life. Indeed, I have learnt not to call these sleeping narratives anything other than a different part of my reality.

We can go further, there is no “different part” - she means “another part” - and this because dreamwork is fundamentally productive and creates reality, as real as the real external world is, for there is no real world characterized by the production of real values set against the fantasy world of desiring-production, as Deleuze and Guattari note. The “madness” os Constance is but creation of a world where she/She may live for the socius has given her a world that stinks.

The poems in the book are situated among stones and wood, in a petrified forest of sorts. They are set also in an Irish fogginess, gray Celtic and dour is the world and without the fatuity of small joy. The lady Constance accompanies She in her observations of the environment

The second half of the book concerns dreams set on a small island. Not the mainstream mainland that belongs to patriarchy and the males.

This is a switch to “another terrain” - it is another world but on an island that is also part of the normal dreamworld where the alleged “laws” of nature do not apply. She is the “embodiment of your unexpressed deeds” and thus in some ways maybe like a fury. She is real here for the first time, it is her element and an internal truer world than the false world wherein we live

Just as the pots in which I have cooked
have caught blood in steel, just as
Those very things used again and again
In places where there is no memory -
The tremor in my hand is not of fear at her unmasking
it is of age /ages and that recognition
I wondered at the time if my hand
My eye could tell /
Would live to describe
This thing
This memory
Of our meetings
Her cloths

(from “She is here now in her reality”)

It is an enlarged reality where the quotidian, even the meaning that we create for it, is without much meaning. She seems to be a creature reclaiming debts. Even words and what words signify are revealed as devoid of value: even if they continue to signify, what they signify is shown to be less than nothing by the revitalized sight Constance acquires by encountering She, and She herself does not use or need words

To look at each thing anew 
Those books on my shelf /
The empty vase that bookends them
They were there /
They still rest on my night-table

Each a signifier and each without
A value to it
Standing on this beach of skulls in gathering dawn
Is what I have always been doing /
Bit by bit the /
Treasures of my existence are losing mass

I look again at the shelf/
My hands cannot trace the
Names of the books /
The place where my letters were
Slotted-in /

As an archetype of female life - sex and bitter love, death and mourning, futile- nostalgia for the lost - that She is, that maybe Constance becomes, she is standing on skulls, a beach of skulls, defiant relics of death. She is words and words celebrate nothing and the emptiness. Maybe She is fundamental truth and maybe Constance could not handle this, perhaps her 25 years in a coma were a sign of her failure, maybe they were a reward, a 25 years spent in an internal heaven.

Buy this book, Chris Murray is one of the best currently active poets. Here is a link to a preview.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

corpses are reasonable people

Pleased to say that Amazon were quick to list the new one from Oneiros Books, things the dead say. Here it is at Onerios, here it is at Amazon.

At Amazon it's an accessible nine bucks for 128 pages of prime pottery.

Monday, February 17, 2014

things the dead say

Awesome and gratifying to see that the proof copy of my latest (fifth) full length collection from Oneiros Books looks fine. You can order things the dead say at this link.

Huge thanks to Dave Mitchell and Mick Mc Aloran for their work and to everybody at Oneiros Books and Paraphilia Magazine.

The book is about several things - futility, drugs, mental illness, emptiness, horror characters, the odd mass-murderer and Bodhidharma, mostly, so thanks to them too. Nice work, fuckers :)

Friday, February 14, 2014

Kind of a Hurricane Anthology

Pleased to announce that one poem by me that was in Pyrokinection will be in the annual print "best of" anthology from Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Mung Being

As noted before, here are the four poems by me in the new Mung being, a great zine nearing the end of its life and transformation into a book publisher. Here's a link to all my stuff there.

My proof copy did not arrive today, so in all conscience the new book is not on sale yet, but tomorrow maybe. Sharpen up your fucking credit cards! At least get your PayPal erect and fully functional! Buy the fucker!

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

things the dead say

I am waiting for the proof copy of "things the dead say" which is my new poetry collection from Oneiros Books. According to Dave Mitchell, the proprtetor there,  it has the Iggy factor, which means that it runs around and shows its ass. The first blurb runs "Love hate murder sex - the boiling down of western culture to its primitive urges, horror movies as the sublimation of our self-loathing, married to a critique of the 'society of the spectacle'". 

I think this book is better than the last one and it's in four parts. So in some ways it's like a book centipede of four chapbooks sewn together mouth to ass. Doing that with humans is awesome, and it works with books too. Buy it when it comes out- link to follow.

Here is the cover, thanks to Michael Mc Aloran for use of his painting

Thursday, January 30, 2014


Happy to have "innocent evil" by me due in Luciferous on the 11th Feb. Great zine run by Craig Scott, check it out.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Unlikely Blond

A while ago there was a link below to Kitchen Poet on the great Underground Books website.

Soon another poem will be in their Unlikely Blond poetry forum. Nice with two venues from one submission. Saves on pixels electrons, if not paper. Virtual trees were saved, for great justice.

EDIT: Done at a later date. Here is the poem posted today.

Decided to format one 2TB disk as ntfs so I can use Windows if I want to and watch media locally. Over wireless WinSCP actually works rather well. Can't be bothered to whip the hub out of the closet and set it up to use samba a bit easier. It resumes quite nicely too which is why I genmerally prefer rsync to move huge amounts of crap.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Mung Being 54

Pleased to say that four poems by me are due in the next issue of Mung Being. This next issue is about change, directions, teleology.

Until then, here is the stuff by me there at present.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

of books & reviews & shit

Here again is the link to the Oneiros Books blog where they have assembled a number of links to books and reviews, some reviews being by me and some being about me,

Here is the book itself at Oneiros Books and here it is at Amazon.

Do buy this book, it may make you neither wiser nor sadder, but you will only be poorer by a few dollars.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Clockwise Cat

Delighted that the autumnal pussy is awake and resting here. Two by me at this link.

And here is a review of Michael Mc Aloran's Of dead silences.