Michael Mc Aloran-

VII-

All spoken for, welled up, tears to grasp, of it to the hilt, breached, yes, scattered, loss and absence, I bathe in dark, in the blood of it.

My desire, clasp-knife of silence, the world ablaze, and yet out of the silence of it, my breath, the traces, scarred unto absences.

Absent of…traceless of…silenced by the beauty of you, unto absent speechlessness.

And yet the cold hand that ripped from I, traceless as final, dusts of some apocalypse, the sky ripped from its’ cornea, in this burning nausea of love, lacking the approximation of death, sickening, almost.

Forget-me-nots, and the dry air of my flesh unfulfilled in you, in the presence, the grasping of, the raw rip of you and the tear in me, the tears bleeding out from out of this carousel.

This is fever, this is the penetrate of the bone, the ice in the shard that inflames the heart, this is the redolent of, yet…

(And all along…)

I pause, I breathe, I cease, I begin again, as if to burn down this house of cards within me, scattered shrapnel, all around. 

VIII-

A sandstorm grips, lost to all, subtle I die, still yet, breathing yet, in the bask of you, amber dawn of fortune.

I break, unlocked and shimmering, dense as a molasses heart can only be, and yet of you, stillness there, breath there, the body vibrant, the fractured, the shattering, of the next till none.

Sky alone will not save us, and time is the enemy, the spoken tide of me, clap hands, adagio, overture, spent cries echoing into the night’s balm.

I walk alone, as I have always done, yet in you, of you…

For the fall I will not settle, perhaps the fool, yet I will not settle, in the drought of doubt and circus animals, laughter, in the death of me, all that I ask, now and again, as if to mask, no.

The music may fade, yet what of it, it caresses the night’s subtle butchery.

I trade with the dark, in the midst of you, asking of the ash, of the you, of the being redolent of a sanguine asking of the all.

You vibrate in me, no not asked of, throughout the nothing of, spill upon a dead heart the sky of your imagining, pestle and mortar, ash without spillage, murmurs, silences, absences, words.

IX-

Through silence, the asking of the breath, none then to ask as if to task of it, to take, well know the sunlight’s asking, drenched/ intoxicate, fallen from earth, never fleeing the sky.

The sky may be you or I, darkened by absence, or the cataract of distance, the non and hum of flesh, separated from flesh.

Yet the words impress the meat of it, where no light can touch, the candle snuffed out in a breath of final dreaming.

I love you like we bleed, come trace my scars with your tongue, and die in me, as if to die were to live, all along, said again, it is said.

Ah what is distance, but everything. Walls/ wombs of mist, and the broken asking, the knowing and the spent lash of the heart’s opening, tentatively.

(I discolour your walls…)

And as the sands gather, I will be the sickness, the in-dreaming, of my absent breath, where in this gallery of madness, only the drunk stun will ever suffice, clasped/ bitten by the snare of it.

X-

In love’s chambers, a bordello of the beyond, fleshed unto flesh, secretive, basking in the drift, the onslaught, the none of it.

A death-mask peels away, revealing the lips to grace and eyes to know, I perceive in you the possibility, the reaching, the unworldly.

My desire demarcates the space between one longing and another.

As sudden to exhale, exhaling the into the lungs of death, where the mute stars break upon the shores of the I/ eye and you.

My skull is the cinematic of you, all, denuded, the traceless, the knowledge, the dream’s crack knows of the truth of absence.

My final tide is you, breaking upon the foreign sands of my drought.

  

XI-

I articulate the fallen sky, the stepping forth, asking of as if I could redeem, to follow onward, through the shimmering of the eye’s tangent.

The blood of this will flow, mixed with ashes and the grandeur of pageantry, said aloud, whispered, retraced, left to hollowed.

I displace the heart, it returns, I trace the sky’s abject skin upon the earth.

Claimed, I ask only of your exhalations.

A pyre examines the bones of us, seeking out the silences, the steps wiped clear, the mockery of distance to test, from no origin, ever unto.

I know a murder of crow’s pulse, the stretched skin of languishing desire, the warped light of stun and ask, till rolls the asked of, the settled of.

And yet, I feel your breath, in the denuded sun, drenched by winds as silent and empty as death’s ferocity.

Yet ever the ‘ where from here’, asking, settled/ unsettled, it cannot be unknown, as if the bones of this were stretched, weeping in the final eye, of you and I.

XII-

(In this arena…)

Ocean of light, lights of which to ask, in this haloed absolve. Forget-me-nots and distant skies of longing, my breath, sudden to exalt.

This bone-break, snap/ hollow, I ask of what is, clinging to the roots of this, bitten by stone questions, marked by ever-changing substance, the earth growing less and less, afar.

(In this absolute…)

Ocean of night, and in my dense dreaming, the hammering out of carbide exigency, transparent swarms of wounds, asunderance, ever.

This wind, this breeze, these tides, and my abject silhouette, passing through walls of famine acres, ever, breaking from now and of the begun, till swallowed again, fallen again.

In this arena of absolute, your breath and my un-breathing, the sweet suffocation of tears, unfailing, un-fallen, night closing it’s distances around us.

I look for you, I am an obituary of unsung laughter, of flesh grown cold, no not as ice, some other stillness to touch, further than, waiting for, what, I cannot know.