Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Micchael Mc Aloran
Un-sight / Un-sound
130 pp. gnOme books
review by David Mclean
The latest by Michael Mc Aloran is one of his better works. It also treats abortion & the shit-smeared eyes as its subject matter, it tells of the deficiencies of structure & the empty that is not waiting, but always already here,
Francis Bacon is quoted as nothing that we are always a potential corpse, a dead thing, which is the glory of meat, it might always just as well be me. This is not an invitation to some limp-wristed condemnation of the cruelty of butchers, it's a good thing. The eternity of our condition as possible corpses should be relished. People who are of a “spiritual” bent should not read Mc Aloran (& it is sheer politeness that makes me call them “people”).
Mc Aloran's project is to reveal the terrible tenacity of words that stubbornly persist in meaning when we deliberately set about using them as weapons to torment the angelic cadavers strewn about where the happy holiday camps of the mindlessly grinning flowers & summer brigade used to poison the mind. These corpses would praise their feculent gods when they weren't busy raping children. For some reason writers like Michael Mc Aloran (or myself) are accused of being nihilists, usually by people who only have a tenuous grasp of what the word “nihilism” actually means.
i cannot say what Mc Aloran means with this book, it always strikes me as the mark of an arrant dickhead to explain what a literary writer means, but the text questions the possibility of assenting to any given meaning, of believing.
Words, we are told, are “like abandoned pissoirs”. Around us should be silence. All the words that are spoken, that are repeated on the TV with all the insane arrogance of a defective child screaming in an asylum, all these words are empty if they are not used like weapons, like whips to thrash corpses.
Daniel Dennett said that all philosophers want to find the perfect argument, one that would work as a weapon, that would set up a vibration in the mind that would kill an opponent who failed to assent to it. I don't know about Mick, but I feel that the perfect poem would be one that instantly made all the fatuous “flowers, sun & summer” motherfuckers instantly commit mass suicide.
Probably never going to happen, I don't think they read very much outside of Fakebook, but this book is on the right path. I can strongly recommend it.