Friday, August 30, 2013

Clockwise Cat XXVI

Pleased to say that the summer Clockwise Cat is out, with two by me in it.

Many other people there, such as Rob Plath. Only one review by me in this one, of Gillian Prew.

Friday, August 23, 2013


Huge thanks to Craig Scott for accepting another poem for 1/25, a print zine. There are relatively few new print things that are not POD, so good for Craig.

"shouting at ghosts" arrives

Today received my copies of shouting at ghosts from Scott Sweeney's Grey Book Press. They're looking awesome. Advance orders have been shipped now, but there are a few more that can be ordered as signed copies via Facebook or Twitter. There are also copies here at Grey Book Press.

Very pleased with Scott's work there, great stuff.

a review of Michael Mc Aloran's "of dead silences"

Michael Mc Aloran
Of dead silences
Lapwing Publications
64 pp

This is a new chapbook from Mick Mc Aloran and it is an investigation of the points in our progression through apparently evident memories that strive to ignore those very points, the points where the flies gather and there are rats in all the sewers, the same sewers we never noticed we lived in, the same rats we never noticed that we are.
Annulled memory you are the thunder
Of the endless origin

Dragging light from out of the skeleton
Of a corpse’s nothing

the light is lies and gibberish,m maybe, or maybe it is the simple self-evident truth that whatever Mc Aloran writes that sounds nasty is, as a matter of fact, pretty much hitting the nail right on its arrogant head.

Ruins of the foreign sky
From which point all are dead

Smears of dying animals upon clear glass
The flies will gather, nothing more

The  glass is still clear, you can see though it. The light earlier is still a light you can see with, even if it the foul light that originates from corpses. An insight is still an insight unless it does not say of what is that it is, or of that which is not that it is not. And that's pretty impressive. It is arguable that the origins of poetry were religious, the use of the intoxicating effect of repetition and melody to create a more powerful transfer of feeling through linguistic meanings.

Much modern poetry still staggers under the weight of this taint, it is the ramblings of drooling psychopaths who want their grannies not to be what these poems say they are, the rotten decayed relics of nothingness. The old dears, as Mick or I might say, are absent and missing forever; they might as well never have existed, so to hell with them. And there isn't even a hell, except the one we are living through as you, gentle reader, read this. Much poetry, for some reason, wants these grannies not to be dead and gone forever.

Here, in this chapbook, is the place poetry comes to when we are obliged to stop pretending to be climbing. Where our efforts take us is not the stars and heaven, it is more of the absurd and a more or less protracted ending. The ending is absolute and after us an unending nothing, the inexpressible that is not being. Words threaten understanding since they cling stubbornly to their origins as an index of what is, the via negativa does not work as a lonesome road for most “thinking”, unless poetry exists for no other reason than making me personally profoundly irritated. Mick's poetry stays in the safe place which most people might find unsafe and danger and madness, the acceptance of the absolute weight of lack, the loss, and absence.

Even believers grieve. This, as Hopkins points out, is really stupid (or words to that effect). A believer should not grieve the death of a loved one, if they really love them. So I am prepared to accept that people grieve, I am not prepared to accept that they really, in the strong sense, “believe”.

As I always like to say, citing Homer, “People do things because they are stupid and die because they deserve to.” The dead, and the living dead are legion, lack “the light by which the night ignites the living”, as Mc Aloran states here in one of his aphorisms. (To cravenly return to that of which we were actually speaking, the review of the particular poems.)

Living, basically, is wallowing in shit and it is best to stand before the emptiness and the senseless with the brave resolution of the ancient (and modern) Celts who live in dour lands inflicted with history and a climate that doesn't very much like them or anything else that wants anything in particular. As I'm sure the Celts really said to Caesar, “we are only afraid of one thing, and that's that alcohol might suddenly stop working so our race would basically have to disband.”

Brute flesh shocks the nothing back
Into resolve

And is then pissed upon

The bones that “scurry for the shadows” are just the truth, hiding from the “cracked sun” of belief, or even from the deficient light of conventional wisdom. These are the poems that tell us that everything isn't OK in the usual sense of the words. But that's OK, we always have

One final breath to champion the infinite

It might be a silence spitting but what it is spitting is still laughter, even if the laughing is spiteful. This is the first section of the book, the silhouettes.

Then we have the section of dead silences themselves.

The silence is always the observation of the deathscape that is what is and then the gap between memory and expectation and the need for contact that is buried forever in the skull that is assuming the cerements of the tomb already. And nothing coming, nothing cumming as we wait for it; silence the wait weighting the shoulders of skeletons clothed in slightly fresh flesh.

Reek unto assuaged….
Skinned breath sharp as shock/absent

Reek of dead silences/earthen splendour

Back again till naught and the obscene scatter of…
Dead again…a burning forest of silences

This book is heartily recommended by me; you should purchase it. Here is his blog.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

a review by Christine Muray

I am hugely grateful for and pleased by this awesome reading of nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die by the acute reviewer Christine Murray at Poethead. Link to purchase is in the review.

shouting at ghosts

I still haven't received my copies, but shouting at ghosts is now on sale from Grey Book Press.

Get it from them here, or, if you want a signed copy, contact me.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Unlikely Stories

Happy to also announce that there are three poems by me posted at Unlikely Stories IV, also poems by Felino Soriano and many others, and fiction by the great Misti Rainwater-Lites.

Read and grow, motherfuckers.

Btw, my first novel should be coming from them next year, Henrietta remembers.

Mung Being 51

As promised, here is issue 51 of Mung Being, a zine of great awesomeness, always.

Five poems by me linked here, as well as older work by myself in same zine.

As always, it's a great issue and well worth your reading. I'd say "perusal" but, since I am generally literate, the word implies something else to me than it seems to imply to many other denizens of the small press world, especially the yanks.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

shouting at ghosts

Pleased to say that the new chapbook shouting at ghosts will soon be winging its way to me in the form of a few copies that I shall sign and sell.

Others will be on sale at Grey Book Press. If you want a signed copy then contact me on Facebook or Twitter, and you can have one for ten dollars, including extravagant, but still probably technically insufficient, postage. It's five for people in the USA from the website though.

Thanks to Scott Sweeney for doing it and to Paula Lietz for the cover photo.

Friday, August 9, 2013

a sun rises, another sun sets

Why is it so easy for people to assume that there is some point behind the sun going up, some reason that it rises? Why do they seek a meaning that life is supposed to have? I think that it was Quine who said that this is a category mistake. Life is not the sort of thing that has a meaning, sentences have meanings. If everything is a text, then everything has a meaning, but all Derrida ever said was that there is nothing outside the text.

Generally speaking, the best reaction to the pointlessness of everything is drugs and alcohol, but i can recommend this book too

The reader should also read this news update at Grey Book Press.

Larkin, in his Aubade, describes it best, it's the disgusting awareness of nothingness. Steiner says that the problem is that language can construct statements in the future tense that seem to refer and mean. "I, after my death, will ...." can only refer to my body, not me. The future is when the first person pronoun stops working.

Until then, "Postmen like doctors go from house to house." What's so terrible about that? Worry about things ending at three a.m., with my book. Mick Mc Aloran says that it "has the capacity to make you feel empowered in the face of the Nothing that is, and you will thank (me) for it"

The book is on sale at the link below.

The answer is presumably something like the atheist Satan, in something like Anton LaVey's sense - bodies and animals, an acceptance of the carnal self.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

cover for shouting at ghosts

Here's the cover image for my new chapbook shouting at ghosts, coming soon from Scott Sweeney's Grey Book Press. Huge thanks to photographer/poet Paula Lietz for the photo.

Advance orders being taken now, I should have copies that I can sign and send out in a week or two.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

shouting at ghosts

Pleased to say that Scott Sweeney at Grey Book Press is currently putting the finishing touches on shouting at ghosts, which is a little chapbook by me.

There will be a few copies that I shall sell myself, but I can already say that postage from Sweden is obscene. I can't write, but I can make my mark with much gusto.

Ask me on Facebook or something, if you want to buy a copy.

Friday, August 2, 2013

nobody wants to go to heaven, at Oneiros Books, an update

Very pleased to see the attractive new design Oneiros Books have at Paraphilia Magazine. The link for my latest book, which is a new and selected poems is now this one.

Hugely excellent work by Dire McCain, who is the boss of Paraphilia, and Dave Mitchell, boss of Oneiros, and Michael Mc Aloran, who edited mine.

Mine is of course also at this link at Amazon, and soon also available as an epub.

Let us all pray everyday to Satan, our father, that this awful summer stops sunning at us and rains a decorous preparation for the icy glory that is fitting winter. And read my decadent garbage as you do so.