Monday, July 17, 2017

Daniel Y. Harris and Rupert M. Loydell, excerpts from The Co-ordinates of Doubt

V is for Valley, Mixed Media on Card, image by Rupert M. Loydell 

excerpts from The Co-ordinates of Doubt


It took forever to clean the city of glass. We could never look out through the smears and dirt, the sun bedazzled us as it refracted through the walls. Some stuck paper and blankets to the roofs and sides of their house, others etched softening textures into the glazing. When the mountain fell into our world we did not see it coming. Our world lay splintered and beautiful, green ice in the cold light that showed us how foolish we had been to build with beauty and clarity in mind.

We left the city and built another, with discarded stone and coal black pitch; learnt to live at night and look the other way.


The casement window was empty, the sky blank, the air, tepid, still and mouldy. Above, omen to no one but the stench of the void, Phillip J. Jackdaw, oligarch of a master race of black crows, is counting in preparation for his mid-air joust. Later, he will bait fish with breadcrumbs, plucking, smoothing, and bending twigs and grass stems to procure a variety of foodstuffs.

This was the era of post-apocalypse, the backwash of a pulverized eschatology empty of people. Phillip J. Jackdaw knew no people. His oligarchy wasn’t a meld of Morrigan, Bran the Blessed, Huginn and Muninn and Chaldean.

A gunshot. Phillip J. Jackdaw was blown to bits. He was wrong.


I have lost my sense of direction and am navigating by the way the leaves fall and the smell of rain in the air. A black feather is tucked in my hat; I have a stout branch as a kind of walking stick and weapon. I have no need for either: I am too poor to be robbed, too frail to start a fight.

In the past I would map out my route along with a tentative timetable, plan out my day’s journey, its stops and starts, meal breaks and permissible breaks. Now I frog march myself across the border, in a ridiculous urgency, a haphazard attempt to get there before I do.

I want to travel into the future, and make sure I am dead. Walk over my grave and make myself shiver.


Malcolm Moll’s yotta is the largest unit prefix, 1024 or a mere 100,000,000,000,000,000,0000,000 or more precisely a septillion, as septillion bytes. He was born in 1991, the year septillion became a word. Malcolm’s mother, Guinevere Moll, read him The Cask of Amontillado from the day he was born until his 21st birthday, when Malcolm vanished on December 3rd, 2012.

The Federal Bureau of Missing Persons kept their daily investigations for Malcolm open through November 2013, when they decided to gradually taper back to weekly. It is expected that Malcolm’s case will soon grow cold and be subject to archive.

In the night sky, an active galactic nucleus emits infrared, ultra-violet and gamma ray wavebands. It’s a host galaxy, bleeding light. It blinks. 


There is none. Not here. Everyone scurries about in half-hysteria waiting for the next one of them to implode. Streets are oblique. Suspicion looms. Not everyone’s human.

Alive, certainly, like the stench of rooting flesh, but human? Doubts remain. Was Roxanne still human? Roxanne, that ectomorph with the possum nose, the one they called Gidget-the-Broom, was she still one of us? Who are we?

We are the ones that run Morphine with Midazolam added in syringe pumps; 50mgs Morphine made up to 50mls using Normal Saline (1mg/ml). We titrate and purge prognosis. We give Fentanyl and add it to the drip chamber. We use a PCA machine on an epidural machine. We stop sedation at 8am.


Our songs slipping into the aether are like a frozen waterfall which does not quench thirst, only scars the mouth, gives a burning wound.

I cannot bring myself to eat or drink, let alone listen to fortune telling or predictions.

This white mausoleum cannot contain my memories.

Inside my head songs reverberate and echo. My tongue does not want to know, is swollen with loss and thirst. I cannot recall the taste of fog.

Face half in shadow I sleepwalk through drought toward feverish silence.

Further downstream the river empties out until spring’s thaw.

Listen out for a drip or faint crack.


Is-is the in-in of never-nether with or without some tisk-task around which-switch and in-in connection-confection with-with witch-which it can alone-atone exist-exit.

When this-this work is-is finished-furnished, that is-is to say, when the aim-maim set before it-it has been-bean accomplished-accomplice, the third half disappears-disrepairs, that is-is, it-it disappears-disrepute from the given place-mace, disappears-dissipates in its given form-foam, continuing perhaps-mishap in another place-lace in another form-born.

Schools-mules of the third half exist-enlist for the needs-weeds of the work-stork which-ditch are being-reeling carried-buried out in connection-projection with the proposed-imposed undertaking-undertaker. They never-river exist-remix by themselves as schools-ghouls for the purpose-porpoise of education-malformation and instruction-resumption.

  — Daniel Y. Harris and Rupert M. Loydell

Thursday, July 13, 2017


Untitled, image by Bas de Gids 


it is unbelievably hot and the forth, fifth, in a series of heatwaves
the extreme amplitudinous amassments we shall now, henceforth,
call “climatelessness” while in the emotional athmospheres it is as
it was: the incessant tribulations and capriciocities en haute voltage

the heat has been shut off with curtains and has been moved with
the ventilator as it has been invited with open rooms and doors for
a sense of 'fresh air' but the openings again, shut off with curtains
and carefully placed linens to prevent mosquito's coming swarming

let them swarm outside where there is lesser and lesser presence
of either the insectoid as aviary as mammalian animals except for
humanity of course which in its whole quadruples every X hereby
satiating the market of liveability and even the plants took offense

this biodiverse artificial shifting is due to the ‘climatelessness’ adrift
as southern zoology and botany comes north yet it goes even further:
airtraveling all littler and more embonpoint sightlier are organisms
the world over morphs ecology in disecology shadowing dispolitics

the politics of the toddlers shall be overshadowed by climatechange
and exiting worldprogrammes shall not be beneficial for neither an
elongated toddler or prop-blow-nylon doll with tuft of pubic hair on
his hilarious head morphed both by as constituting climatelessness

the public sphere then emptied out by what originated these lands
zoosophisticated and botanical imminent wisdombearers gone wind
wise the public sphere annexated by public and streetfurniture with
rims of miles and miles of freeways as roads to the dystope acenters


the, Shelley, Byron, Rimbaud, Whitman, Dickinson, Colette, Carole King,
search for beauty, Sappho, seems an eternal one and what did they to keep
society out or incorporated it as to paralyse its ugly features, under which
narcotic spell were they that they suceeded to let beauty prevail a frail veil

on parchment papyrus paper on the screen we see signs, Li Po also Lao Tse,
which each cradle a designation to something in world and time, and these
linguistic characteristics immediately start to imminently ferment the words
by the words;characters in calligraphic slidings,coptic design density/dented

seeking nitro beauty at the precious dentistry instrumentaria deck / dock all
suffused in anxiety to the drill to the molar, the thrill of clac clac (occlusion)
and hydrophobe waxens to take a bite out to acquire new dents new signs of
health or, and, getting older. the coptic cake consumed with fervor and taste

how do we capture that breeze toothpaste smile is this a breeze of beauty of
now or has artificiality annexed our space of life robbed us from the bees do
we develop artificial honey with the same viscosity with oversweet pumped
tits silicone taste to at least have the feeling of ecology and art Brasilia-ish

this morning at 5am I stood in the kitchen and heard the growl of the traffic
of this, in fact, 200 million city (see global nightmap below) while I took my
12 items of medication and there was a kind of rainy beauty in this the grass
happier after the draughts: rhizomes under the earth as much thriving above

—Aad de Gids

Friday, July 7, 2017

Andrew Darlington, TONGUESMITH

Andy Gasmask Treated by Pris, image by Pris Campbell


I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.

My mother was a hippie, who dropped a lot of lysergic acid. And other strange narcotics with mystical properties. The psilocybin William S Burroughs grail-quested through Amazonia to find, but could never discover. My father was the electric Folk-Rock group she groupied for on tour. Multiply, or in sequence. Or maybe it was the sizzle of radioactive fallout drifting in from the Yucca Flats nuclear tests. Absorbing into cellular DNA, corrupting chromosomes, innovating, bending gene-structures into new unfamiliar shapes. My favourite book as a child was HG Wells ‘The Island Of Dr Moreau’, about vivisection experiments splicing human and beast.

I’ve learned to coil my tongue like a Swiss Roll into the back of my throat. My teeth don’t meet, and it gives my face an elongated appearance, but it does mean I can pass in a crowd without notice. I have an anteater tongue, or maybe a frog tongue. A chameleon or pangolin tongue. I research it. An anteater tongue is sixty centimetres which enables it to devour 30,000 termites a day, but is as thin as spaghetti. Mine is normal in every respect, but for length. When other kids strive to tongue-tip touch their noses, I can comfortably lick my forehead. At puberty, while other boys are masturbating, I can reach down and encircle cock and balls in my tongue’s moist coils and bring myself to deliriously intense climax.

I am Tonguesmith. A life filled with strangeness. Stick-slim and awkward, a freakish biological misfit, shunned and ridiculed. My mother cares, after a fashion, but she has her life, her job at the Diner, her guys – a succession of sleazy sleep-over ‘uncles’. I’m a scaredy-cat, escaping from tormentors into the woods, beside the lake, I crouch down, watch the bullfrogs and imitate their passive eye-bulging squat. Waiting for that flick-flick-flick tongue-flick that unites us, croaking in unison. It’s then I see the travelling carnival in the glade beyond, something wicked this way coming. On a gipsy trail from the east. Beguiled and drawn towards the circle of ornate caravans and bright sideshow cars beneath the lilac trees, by dancers in black with ghost-white faces and coats slashed into strips that flair like dark feathers as they move. Dr Dark Electrico, Barker and Ring-Master notices me and beckons, he’s intrigued by my talent, and abilities. He sees my potential. Alongside the Bearded Lady, the Human Skeleton, Danny Longlegs, the Stork Woman, Flexi-Girl and the Living Torso, I discover my first role, welcomed into a close-community of oddments and outcasts.

The dancers spin beneath a huge moon around the roaring bonfire. In the caravan, Dr Dark observes me critically, cosmetic changes must be made, the punters expect spectacle. Standing nervously naked as Olga, the Bearded Lady carefully shaves my scalp, then my body-hair, removing every last follicle. Then Dr Dark applies green body make-up, tensing, skin-crawling as he carefully cups my ball-sac, the better to paint my inner thighs. And I’m reborn as Lizard Boy.

At first wary and ill at ease. We travel from town to town, drawing up in a festive circle. The white-face dancers in black prance and gyrate, the town-folk gather to gawp and snigger in awe and prurient curiosity. I sit inside a cage as they file past to goggle. Dr Dark Electrico has the idea of a concealed roustabout lowering a raisin on the slenderest of invisible lines, so I flick my tongue the full cage-length to retrieve it, as a lizard captures a fly. The punters love it, takings are good. I settle into my new life as Dr Dark’s Carnival spirals downstate through the Louisiana bayou’s. Ibis and egrets, paddlefish, terrapins and tree-frogs.

Flexi-Girl flexes boneless limbs, her pale skin so soft, her eyes twin stars aglitter, her mutant abilities allow her contortions that leave me breathless. We, who are thieves and vagabonds living on the periphery of normality. ‘We are outlaws in the eyes of America’ she confides. ‘Always different. My personal criminal history begins as a little girl eager to learn the magic of sleight-of-hand prestidigitation, but growing up to appreciate the power of flexi-nimble and dexterous fingers. Soon finding I’m equally aroused having my fingers in a pocket or around a cock, and sometimes in a pussy. After rehearsing pickpocket skills on a specially-dressed mannequin, I move on to living targets, namely boys in my school. I take artful pride in my ability to completely fool them, using beguiling beauty as a distraction to stealthily dip and lift their wallets, watches, phones, neck chains and even rings. I gloat over their strewn stolen stuff on my pillow as I lie in bed masturbating furiously. The idea that the fingers pleasuring me now are the same digits doing that nimble work always tips me over the edge. Into full-on kleptophilia! Jean Genet was an erotic vagabond and petty-thief too, dexterously skilled with the Artful Todger. Old Bull Lee rolled drunks on the subway. Once while working a rube in a crowded tube, I mistake the bulge in his front pocket for his phone, they’re bulky back then, but it was his hard cock! By then I can’t stop what I’m doing and end up giving this guy a hand-job in his pants. He never saw my face, but I still remember the naughtiness I felt that day. Touch is a hugely underrated aspect of sex. The tactile senses, fingers or tongue on cock or pussy are such a slow and indulgent ecstasy to be enjoyed for their sheer sensuality, as distinct from the pure rawness of the straight fuck. Bodies should be adored and pleasured in a mutual orgy of the senses. I'm certain that guy in the crowded subway loved every minute of my discrete hand-job, and still gets pleasurable erections just from the memory. The orgasm would be well-worth the picked-pocket. From then on, I divide my sticky-fingered skills pleasurably between pockets and cocks…’ I’m intrigued, fascinated, hypnotised by her.

That same night we set out from the circle of caravans. She’d noticed an old colonial house set some way back from the highway, ripe for furtive plunder. The winding shingle driveway is dark, overhung with trees ghosted in Spanish moss. Bats circle across the huge white moon. A house in darkness. She has ways, techniques of gaining access. Shrinking and elongating her body in ways no-one else could. A haunted twilight inside, as spookily humid as flesh. A hall clock set in a wrought-gold sun, its hands are warning me, the minute hand spinning in reverse, the hour hand racing forwards. I’m on the cusp of possibility, go on or go back. I look away and look back real fast, hoping to catch it off-guard, but it’s still doing its cartoon thing.

She leads the way upstairs, pacing step by step. I follow. Her eyes are crystal cut-glass gem-stones. If I think about what I’m doing, I’ll screw up, so just flow with events, follow her, become part of the moment and everything will be fine. It’s the very moment we set foot on the landing that the lights abruptly flare up, and there’s a figure brandishing a Civil War blunderbuss loaded with buckshot… startled, Flexi steps backwards, collides, and I lose my footing, slithering, then pitching over and back down, hitting each step on the way. Into a blackness as dark as midnight.

I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure. When I wake my head is pulsing, I’m naked, lying spread-eagled on cool silk coverlets on a four-poster bed, my wrists and ankles fastened to the bedposts. I struggle, but they’re secure. As my skewed vision adjusts I become aware of eyes on me. Three women. Three middle-aged well-fleshed matrons. I now know them to be Sister Rosa, Miss Ebony, and Madame Thirstquench. They are my new owners. I am in their power. Miss Ebony sponges my forehead where there’s matted blood from my fall. Her touch is gently possessive. Sister Rosa spoons me rich broth, when it trickles down my chin she uses the spoon to scoop it back up to my lips. Noting the deformity of my tongue, uncoiling it to its full not-inconsiderable length. Something obscenely suggestive about the way she does it. Madame Thirstquench puts a big vinyl record on the radiogram, and the room fills with low dancing Cajun music.

They tell me Flexi has long gone. Escaped into the night. No-one will miss me. No-one will report me missing. But don’t worry, I’m safe here, with them, they’ll care for me, they’ll look after my every need. The three ladies live together. They whisper to each other, pointing and sniggering. They leave me alone, and I sleep. Slipping into a realm of restless dreams. When I wake they stand around the bed. They’ve changed into loose night attire. Florid house-coats, gauzy negligee, see-through diaphanous. Yet creepily predatory in their stance.

And Sister Rosa sits on my face, straddling my shoulders, her full warm weight enveloping me, her legs clamping up the sides of my head, inching her body forward until the dense pubic growth and the moistness of her vagina lips slip over my compliant face, devouring me into that lush gaping convulsing pussy. I open my mouth to gasp, my tongue extends, extends and extends, flickering, probing, delving, lapping. She groans, moves her quivering thighs, riding me, fucking down onto me. My tongue extends, extends, extends, teasing the bud-morsel of clitoris, into her cunt-mouth, up and in, further, rubbing her g-spot, up to the cervix, further. She squeals and squirms, grinding herself down to meet me, quivers and cums around me. She slumps. I can’t breath. Drowning in her aroma, her fleshiness, the seeping wine-wetness of her.

I’m so painfully erect that I’m aching. As she raises herself, exhaling in a long satisfied sigh, Miss Ebony takes her place. Her vaginal juices are a narcotic on my palate, drinking her down, my lips and mouth slippery with secretions, my tongue finding its rightful place, thrusting, worshipping, adoring. As she’s pulsing, her spasming vulva ravenously hungry for me, an erotic convolvulus. Feeding it frog-tongue, lips, pangolin-tongue, mouth, chameleon-tongue, anteater-tongue, tongue-tip curling, wriggling, the flat of my tongue slurping, lathing. And then Madame Thirstquench, until I’m blind with roaring sensations and drunk on lust and cunt and flesh and need and desire. I’ve cum in long white strands up my stomach, tingling and awash in post-orgasmic oceans of calm. Breathing heavily. Sister Rosa clucks and tut-tuts, wiping my groin meticulously clean.

Weeks pass. My body is smoothly hairless. There’s a long intricately-wrought chain that encircles the base of my penis and nips around the scrotum above the testicles, its links extend and attach to the wall. So I can stand, move around the bedroom, but never leave the vicinity of the bed. I have books and TV with remote. Cajun music on the radiogram. Food when I need food. Wine when I need wine. And all the cunt my tongue will ever need.

I’ve found my place. I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.

—Andrew Darlington

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Rupert M. Loydell, Two Poems

Ley Lines (from Mapping Devices), image by Rupert M. Loydell 


Are they simple electrochemical cells?
Are they truly passionate?
I ran a report about trends all over the world
decided to stop the visible hand
venturing into new territory without a proper recipe.

The social life of small urban spaces
offers sophistication using emergent talent.
Culture is a process where plagues form,
flat as nature's vast terrain,
flat as in a production procedure.

Consumers may not know when
chemical is in their human values,
chemical is in their food.
We say that images and text are untraceable;
it may be necessary to wonder why.

We are a struggling monocultural structure
subject to digitized fragments of manipulated realities,
bacteria slowly crumbling and destroying existing reality,
fundamentally rewiring a state collective
where histories are carelessly erased.

I'm a sucker for abstraction, idyllic urban getaways
to the exposed heart of this cosmopolitan city.
Its plotline is a disturbing cultural malfunction,
more ecosystem than machine,
a cornerstone of anxiety disorder.

I fixate on the outlined operations, planning, integration,
admire highly systematized contemporary lifestyles,
international marketing trend forecasting agencies,
complex migration to urban areas
connected to the world post-internet.

Lazarus gets a second chance;
death should be nonlinear, organic and experimental.
Avoid being trapped in a logic sleep in which we wake,
open yourself up to the idea that you don't know
what you don't know. What you know is ambiguous.

Creating more settings
creates more barriers to overcome
promises something else, immortality.
Whatever it was, it was.
We are carelessly erased.


If a god can disestablish his own church,
why should not humanity in turn
vote itself out of existence?
   – Peter Conrad, Modern Times, Modern Places

I want to write an elegy but without the sadness
   – Brenda Coultas, 'The Tatters'

I would like to believe in my dreams,
am a stammerer struggling to speak:
consonants fracture into building blocks,
language regresses to a babble of sounds.

Landscape presses in on a distraught figure
raising a protective hand above his head.
The sky is falling and we must investigate
hollow spaces choked with household goods.

The human being is a botched job, a ghost,
a breath of wind. Turbines and busy pistons
reinforce an ongoing sense of estrangement;
there are faults in our ideological wiring.

Convulsions have given birth to what is
at best a mannequin, an orphaned runt
welcomed at first by its drunken mother,
ejected from the house when she sobers up.

The border affords us no way to escape.
We exist in flux, a condition of transience,
have stopped moving in order to watch
reality speed headlong towards disintegration.

Beams of light broaden out into abstract spirals;
violence and death have become harmless fun.
People only exist as part of a forgotten design,
a factory which manufactures pain and memory.

Do painted shapes or monochromes qualify
as aids to spiritual and scientific understanding?
History lies ahead of us, not behind; who
forbade us to be or think? What keeps us alive?

Journals of consciousness and images flickering
at the ragged fringe of our visual field, moment
by moment. We are corrupted by information,
must run the same set of notes backwards

and savour the ugliness of cut-price wares
as the last cold light of winter breaks through
the clouds. The world was not made for us,
we must not assume we are in control.                      

—Rupert M. Loydell

Monday, July 3, 2017

Michael Mc Aloran, Six Works

Untitled, 2013, acrylic on paper, 102 x 155 cm, Michael Mc Aloran 

Six Works 

decibel overture of night’s collapse into/ fleshed lest of rigour trace of one singular edge sudden as if to grace what when/ mute tones of sarcophagus traces of design’s lock of syllabus detritus cast/ what will obscure colourings eye’s undone/ some given less than taken skinned lock-lapse walls wombs of lightless suffocate nothing of from final sky unfelt/ (the) extinguish in grip of shadowing/ a caress of teeth dragging pelt white-lock through viscous sands/ nocturnes scattered given to parasite where one wound burning colourless obscure wrestles with silken tread/ it-bones what gathered from broke stone silences/ automaton steel echoing in kaleidoscopic hemorrhage stead will what as if to say it will what/ =/ weight blind echo of unfelt/ not a…/ nor (the) other than as if there were ever any/ winds cascade into final lung/ shred of vocal light/ carrion atrophate sheltered by skin/ ever of/ some steps into… 

…cold colours in coagulate of flesh echo-echo neither left find skull of dreaming-in sudden as if to expire once spoken else/ shard of unlocked bulb of heart drenched in shit offered up unto devour lack taste shadowing spitting out plumes of/ cracks not no knuckles bled meat sways as of some orchid’s kiss unto winds we laughter-long/ stun-collide/ hollow knock upon marble surface cleans away some bloody trace/ cum dead lock-weight desire’s fruit (the) stench of rotting silence uprooted/ (we-it)/ eye-lit/ echoing wounds spec-ial black lack end pock-marked desire’s long circus parameter/ as all away to/ grains of shadow caressing (the) broke bone sky-lit/ as all for as for of into from which till no collides with one singular purpose given unto forgotten in instance/ knowledge putreformed/ putrefied/ veranda of cold mist/ (waves farewell to non-space in given absent trace)…

…stairwell descends/ rescinds/ expands eye in/ vulture kisses from blackened teeth skinning apart (the) abattoir disgust of absurd trace collapse burning in mist of final edge of razor light/ syringe taste upon dry tongue what world to a/ to break/ a/ …/ not a forage nor a whisper collapsing into dawn effortlessly divided (where words form prayers to)/ where words form prayers for dissipation-disease fled unto/ what as if in it/ it/ fingers to cauterize (the) bleak blood tide screaming silently/ shines some un-fled sun given from out of taken distance tasted skull-depth acrid azure skinning (the) teeth of purpose blind/ subterfuge of light/ spasm of some locked hold in/ see (the) white sheer in mind it burns black what static else ever unto colourless appeal/ in a suicide of retribute trimming (the) fat from meat most real dense viscous tar no better than/ yet in/ and yet/ of or other than/ unspoken edge lack severance…

…bones roll out unto dis-ease closed shiv refrain/ ghost limb silences from some beyond where nothing resides gnarled flesh din disclosure outwardly/ it-spoke silenced from onset nowhere/ insert/ hyenic salve/  lung eye-die closed wound expel not a/ outro-spective collapse what will in cull of hours/ dead speeches for cracked lights obscene given to expire cold weight/ it-eye/ shard of breath/ static-collision of as if what said ever-fading/ stretch wind broken lock/ stitches together where climb is naught/ onwardly burst wound lack exigency of some sudden naught’s emptily/ given from taking from given take(n) of/ rolling out dressage of final flourish subtle as if to expire what once calling out into/ echo-echo dead/ in (the) black of/ rotting words cold colours dead till dawn’s respoke/ breaking  from given less that was what of till ever-null/ shine a light/ translucent bones/ vibrate of/ crying out of…  

…funereal collision/ purpose of non-breath scarred division clear as light(less)/ eye spat out regalia of tears dry sands eager to corrode where skin is absenteeism/ blood to wrestle in ever-blind-cold-striate/ stigmata machinery churn of over-clot blood winds/ craven dusts expanding out through bloodless laughter unto/ no force nor gestural/ bind-white/ there or other a sun forgotte/ skull exposed/ blank din of occult whisperings nowhere possible from outset-onset/ (I-remembers the…)/ blank tones/ not a/ traceless senseless devour eye-clad in fecal of redeem nothing more from given unto give/ collision funereal where now as if to collapse stone walls no cylindrical promise/ translucent all as if could ever/ fragrant nullity pissoir of dreaming pulse long sheared/ fragment eye-dies is recollected re-born/ stammering allwhile through breath-stained nothing’s claws throughout/ dragging out (the) pelt of sheared screams/ no exist to offer…     

…ashen promise of detritus unsung drags from out of corpus flagellate desire for one thing absent of/ unsung from traces wastage of design from out which collapse/ pulse dry rhythm not a trace from shadow-lock/ (bites off the head of a…)/ autosuggestion  breakage nothing clad in papyrus binds/ eye has nothing/ devours (the) frozen self no nothing more/ it-speak/ reek/ lapse-eye dead for endless tomorrows that it will not speak of/ never once/ spinal outcry some trace through the dark/ cares not for the jot/ (the)/………………………………………….nothing-nothing/ wilted wounds of tearing tears for a ha’penny no will to exert as if to say that/ cold stone (the) winter wound/ reflex of undone where auto-breath cannot be held or other than/ a wound’s laughter pisses upon where dank division collides with spasm entrail silences/ cold shoulder/ it waxes/ it wanes/ it cracks breaks asunder eye/ locked to (the) char of night/ breathless out…    

—Michael Mc Aloran