Michael Mc Aloran, (II)-

XII-

Break now, far from the beyond of it, your silence, my blindness, of this breath without causality, of this love lacking flesh, these lacerations, given to the taste of nothing.

I ask of no possession, no toll, I tax the nights spent absent of you, yet breathing, birthed unto these absent to and froes, all spun together, in the naught of us, the suffocation of this.

(What sun could love us now, we are not its’ children…)

I look to the presence of you, of the what has, what may, through the cracks in my eyes, washed away by silken oceanic, as if there were, as if it could be, as if it can, if spoken, yet subtle, yet not in a rash of the hyenic.

This clasp of us, I see its’ bankruptcy, its' beauty also, yet tread along, I am for the burning/ undone with, foreign as our distance, removed from flight as a wild bird severed of wings, over-shadowed.

(You are the breath of my undying mind, raging, in the night’s embrace…)

I know only the laughter of gravesides, the ash of all that can be, and yet in my hours of dying, knocked upon, the heart cast out, soundless the spasm of the body flailed, by this earth’s sharpening teeth.

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XIII-

Sleep’s assassin, my hands clasp the dying bud, yet the spark within it sears, ceaseless, to un-fall, unto, fall unto you.

I awaken to blood red ice, to cold dry sands in a mouth that cannot fathom, as if it were to speak of all, if it could.

In this, cycloid of emptily, opening out into some vast breath of poisoned gardenias, where only the cleft hand holds the shell of mollusc laughter, the mind a-bleed, stray to touch.

Ah, if only to whisper were to be aloud, as if to dream of light were to suffice, in this chamber, this chamber of nothingness, asking of.

I see you yet I do not see, I hear you yet I cannot hear, such is this mute design, this deaf/ stun absence of my bearing, of my denude.

I walk alone, through savage ashes, adrift, skull vacant of all, some vacant tryst, some breath; how now my shadowing, gilded, where now the grace of this, and your vital presence.  

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XIV-

Absent, yes, gone, I speak of I/ eye, of the frozen eye, and the silken head, the bowed fist of dreaming of, settling to absurd.

The dark claims my light’s fissures, tears from limb till spasm, as if the flesh were, truly, were mocked by death.

I seethe in the burning breathe of, the head aloft, I think of you and I die a little else, much to the drama of effect/ cause, knocking upon, the longing, the doubt of this, the redeem.

Absent, yes, no not gone, still of the eye to speak, cold colours, majesty of grace, I move through you, I am a silhouette of vapours, where now this flesh, this sinew, this bone and warmth.

I trade with the hyenas, being somewhat of a carrion dressage, these ranges to roam, this endless blood to taste, I ask of it, I do not know of it, words break upon my death, sieved, by vibrant fingers.

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XV-

I lose you to the winds, yet changeless, absent, yes, the grave of this open as a slashed wrist, a beckoning smile.

The soil is hard, blood clot, burst dam of extensive heights, as if it, no, it says, I spit it out the loss, this breath of sudden excavation.

Toil empties out the breast of pulse, skin clad, moving throughout, as if to bask in you, as if I could, all said, in or out of grace, shifting without turning, the bulk of laughter breaking like tears, sudden as.

Ah we will yet sing, so I am told, untold, the songs ripped from our throats, from our bodies, scattered to ooze into the snow of death, scattered to bleed, emptily to flow as of some tributary’s demise.

The sky locks its’ veins around the eyes, vice of all my desires, waves, we say that we know, yet we know none of all, but broken imagery, invisible traces, only in the afterglow of what has unfolded/ begun.

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XVI-

I coagulate, silenced by, tread unto vast of the ghost hand’s filtering lights, breaking as if to bleed, no not of this but of the breathing of this, there’ll yet, be.

The sun’s vast jaws crush the roots of the dead seasons, from out of which the breaking light tentatively casts no shadow upon.

Smoke drains from the lungs of poison chalices, irredeemable chance, your bare flesh and my longing, the trace of this and the cool blue of your eyes.

I am drunk upon the vines of you that do not seek to bind yet only wish to clutch, willingly I breathe of the milked ice, the blood of your traces.

The pulse laughs in silent settlements, fresh waters scattered upon the death of breath, the none, of the nothing of it, the soil washes away from my eyes.

Yet also I live for the sorrow of this, the irredeemable of this, these razor nights, the stillness herein and the spoken turn of light, blending with absence,

the lattice of desire, the head lost, in some skyward opulence.

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XVII-

No not of the…given of…breath till chase to follow, championing the ash of, the cluttered vacant rooms of pulse, a clock face melts, silenced, silenced, in overture of sun, walls crumble, as of death.

We lay alone, in this circus paradigm of effortless, the skies fold their shrouded teeth in the dreaming of, the exhalations of, words to taste, formless abandon, in a flourish of exigent.

Ah drag out your flesh into the light’s caress, to spill upon the grave of I/ eye, where the laughter breaks, echoing of shattered mirrors and unspoken shadowing, all.

I’ll greet you in the foreign summer air, laden with pelts of forgotten nights, blood upon the skin, the traces of which to set to light, in spite of. We’ll fade as we burn, the sky no longer visible…I will ask no more.

And from these hands, a soaring exhalation, tracing the depths of you, the space between, beyond stun and asking, the language is yet young, the songs yet to remain, burning unto sung/ I beseech of thee/ I/ eye.

In a vice-light of this absurd chasm, turning over the soil’s blood, the adoration of the scar’s weeping whispering, bailing out from out of the silence of the redeem, I am silenced, silenced, silenced…