A review by David McLean of “nowhereon” (VoidFront Press)

review of nowhereon
Michael McAloran
Void Front Press
Nowhereon explores privatives and negation, absenteeism & being elsewhere, but these negations are mere verbal forms. they do not refer to a void or to any absences, for these are nothing, & the nothing does not really noth, except in us.except wherever the psychological is.all these words relate to what people, mostly idiots, call nihilism, and nihilism only means anything if it is axiological.
the psychological though, qua for-itself is a thin film of nothingness, says Sartre, obviously, & what McAloran points out is that it is a thin film that is fucked up. it does not relate correctly, the self in itself is a fucking optical illusion.
the following is not to illustrate the above point …
…whereby…what which…turns aside of facial lock a burn of following no…skies lapse lack till break of desolate… unsaid of mockery taint a closure of bestow upon…echo echoes of some of which steel ash & breathless overture…collision dense what light foreign exile dreamt of spill of null & void collect of…it dead done as dead done as if to dead to follow…no it says not on…nowhere on to be…nothing of unto…stillness to dredge colours strip(ped) bare denuded black of ice…genuflect of purposeless…ache of desire never having brokestone skin devour lest held in lock of breakage… clamour all then of in where upon as if to exhale through thin air nothing from…skinned of lapse…unspeaking nullity of having ever…
we kneel before it, the pointless, the purposeless, the blind watchmaker, the blind & retarded watchmaker, the ineffable porpoise, the terrapin heaven, for we do not know what we are doing & do not care why. the disease is the literal dis-ease, that which we do not want, whatever we do not accept, the voids between whatever has been claimed by ego & we are too lazy to take on the task of creating the unconscious that it is impossible to claim. behind the whole text here, there is laughter, it is the crowned & conquering child, Horus, who lives an idiot in every psychosis (& art needs these regular, especially young boys & every other variety of scumbag).
the tongue is stone in speech, it clears her throat it is silent & if it were not it is silent still in a foreign tongue inevitable & we do not understand our selves in particular. thus, in fine, here is the world, full of cunts & nothingness. it is what i have always said, very repetitively, & it is what McAloran also tells us.
some passages are so cool & truthful:
…try try trace of for somewhere on where shadowy as if to echo where to be possess of some gradient on frozen allwhile in bitter laughter rocks back & forth in shat a bankrupt cripple to one own damage in & of luxuriant on it says no matter…
i think that the reader should purchase a copy of this book, & see how words can be forced to suffer, can be tortured until they tell the truth, until they echo the inarticulate cry of which Wittgenstein speaks, until they are raw flesh, meat open, bacon & a pillar of salt.
You can get it from Amazon.co.uk & Amazon.comĀ 


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