Extract from at vacuum’s edge by Michael Mc Aloran

…no never of/ never longing for/ yet somehow chokes stone dust in fathom lung abounding/ restless eye knotted clefts of teeth abortive unto spasm hilt/ locked underwater dredge/

what stun till paradisal winds a closure of redeem ever-lost no not a trace breath skulled unto/ unto winds that break from knowledge passive flung to rabid dogs/

blind blight a lock-held shadowing clasp-knife breathing severance erase not no/ not a trace skulk in or out of sound reductive fallen nothing uttered but for some trace desire for endless stone eclipt/

what pageantry motion unto waste/ to/ echo skin dressage of foreign nothing stripped to bone of rapture solace bled by dark/

closed fist gathered up proximity not a chance nor else given neutral bleed some trace malign etch of cold weight at vacuum’s edge/ some carnage garden where/

skinned beknown given to outcry solace no undoing as it runs further into nowhere left to be some tilt yet heather roll in bleak blind air/ absurdly fleshed/ of yet/ ever-yet/

sudden in outcry traceless becoming heartless stone lapse…bared teeth eradicated/ in a smear of recollect/ such as is what of/ known of it forgotten not a trace ever of remaining breakage of what chance/

accustomed to some blind soil base rubbed into skin’s reflect dice thrown yet yes yet mentioned ever of before till weight/belonging lost/ it is stun/ none/

a swarm of flies in stitched mouth no longer gratified by anything other than a skyline evacuation of entity/ a savage dressage/ a birth a burst womb of silenteeism reckless tint of flayed bones wracking in pulseless glory eye unfathoming/ till foreign/

not a/ still yet in of what comes to pass will never arrive no departure from yet exit lights abounding allwhile/ taken by given some lax retort a lax recoil into nowhere having fashioning some breath by which to continue/ nowhere/

effortless recourse to some orchid blood flowing freely from gashed wounds here there from out of never close departed sudden in outcry given more than ever not/

no nothing more some semblance rot of eye rescind closed fetal breath bespoke forgotten blinded by tears that will not/

cannot/ closes in upon closed fist glass shattered breaking out from night/ nothing left to/ it continues/ it retraces/ casts only shadow’s breathing lapse will else dead centre hollow edge gathering up some absolute debris shed by intricacy/

bite derision collapse skull wrench all salve and surface a kiss of bled stone lights no further purpose/ no/ traces on in maddening steel eclipted madly skyline ripped from view by assassin eyes fixed upon less vengeance utters no unto throughout cold breath/

breakage from centre nothing clad with acrid pelts shed in some bitter unbecoming becoming/ in/ of knowledge that must cease on its own terms what once till sound subsides and fades/

it parallax till bite of dawn beneath an amputee skyline of said what said says on not a/ here we a/ eye-bite sullen inwardly some lapse in azure cheer head of dust of sand of blood of…fleshed abandon here or there from out of which what matter sunk stone head decide it says claims for final/ of final/

bread broken drying away nothing venerable no nothing claimed/ fallen/ as never was/ fallen steps retraced/ fallen steps retraced/ tread dead but once as if never having been other than what season’s drift collision breath unskied as blood’s metallic upon tongue/

given to cry out into some nothing other given having splayed this yet alone tearing pulse from bitten exigency/ shallow dread pierce of eye till lapse forgotten breaking bones in grind of magistrate/

feeling for oceanic in a black pool’s rupture/ none/ it lapse what bitter sting haven of unstead till clamour dark what sense devoured beyond having breathed less than was necessary in a collision naught all flesh divided/

nothing more becoming fallen from depth’s height peering out into some cold static abort of none/ it/ we/ eviscerate/ vivisected children rain-drenched some foreign light escaping from some origin upon a frozen hillside skies darkened by lapse death rising up as of winds to shatter all purpose close of door slams shut exposed eye graceless pageantry/

skulled lest of held in an abort of tragedia skinned to precipice denounced/ all lapse here or other/ again/ once again…some silence then breaking forth/ yet clamour of spinal outstretched in velvet sands flecked with blood (the) ruination of/ where one cannot go/

yet butcher’s laughter yes gallows’ laughter an ancient language of desire vibrating in meat-drenched bones an affluence collectively forgotten/ as pulse white bends in a holocaust of eradicate/ it is/ was is if unto is or of nor broke stone repetition forget forgotten/ flows ever-long/

as if to say that/ cracked knuckles viscous dreaming shadows a breathing else as if to say withstand where there is no longer any point of departure/

whispers collected in jaws agape hyenic laughter fragrant as rotting excrement blessed be some echoing chamber’s lie of whittled bone silences cease to be as it forever says what nocturnes to behold/ collectively taken as far and from forgiving/ a taint of cum/ spittle/ sweat/

dry ice and an opiate syllabus counting out hours in pit illumined skyline as if to/ stylus blackened/ fleshed till dreaming of/ broken doorways an evisceration of walls peeling their papyrus designs in some rotting vagary no less some vacancy of smooth occultish absolute/

it done be in turning over in sleep this sleepless dreaming becoming other than what of it/ from sidelong side broken entity/ clasp weight of fallen taint a-stream in cold arthritic fingers no longer useful from out of some departure a given raise a shattered smile of bloodied teeth/

this scum ill-breath no longer of/ breathes because/ from out of birthed gardenias droves of forgotten prayers seeking shrift from shift promise no longer the or other than what if/

rounding out a naught from glimmer X. abounding in some semblance/ forgotten/ cast off spitting at some stone wind this wilting blood sarcophagus drag of here there or hereafter/

nothing’s claim irreducible ennui pelt hung no/ no  other purpose/ wrung knuckles some bruised calm of eye of which till sunlight’s beckoning some further distance/ no/ not a/

burns off trace traceless echoing adrift in mindless vortice nothing ever other than/ stripped carcass of sound blinded by lights escapade/ forgotten/ fall what fallen of/ in a collapse of prism purpose prism failure some blood to taste a withered lightless/

intent driven from the beyond nor which artery climate/ sudden to exhale silver smoke a trace of desire/ nothing to see or other to move along unto lacks distance ever-way trace of malign feature blind eyes burning out of their socket graves where charred teeth chatter/

solace what sun a diseased railing against some other than/ an unknown pageantry of sense disintegration/ sudden to recollect exhalation of razor entity deals in death-cards/ empty traces/ nothing more than spelling it out words unraveling/ it/

what equates with soundless sound tearing some trace from vibration nights till dredged becoming else collision collide/ falter/ ex nihilo collide from out of none a face obliterated skyline chalice of bone warped lights lapse stillness pared amber colourless appeal/

outstretched arms that limply fall to some circus paradigm obsolete devoured sands in throat/ colossus shadowing of breath spoken dead once all bled some solace never unto ever what struck from opus lock an unturned key/

design desire breath spat out forage glimmer appeal till obsolete shudder taste climbs through cannot no way unto having other than of foreign silence beckoning/

till clear cut what cut clear glass spattered with lice bloody child exclamation mark stench reek piss faculty breathe some slaughterhouse irredempt/ falters none in none no nothing of till tilt tint of shadowing no longer dry clear in asking of forgotten/

knocking for some final some what or if given unto dreaming forgotten/ else collision rotting nothing/ exile of bleed/ a foreign disclosure discharge fallen wrenched from sacrosanct not a breath till worship driven from out of breath/

sunk eye in dog shit ever on display/ what lung eye given a trace of dead airs a fading musicality a dreaming next to follow further onward into nothing/ tapered goes some light’s lapse all blood marrow taste collision nothing further to gain/ so says what/ once passed upon/

a silhouette a foreign banquet at which to dine alone for all time set in human meat/ bones of long speech desire lapses in and out of speech cannot through death’s relapse an orchard of none/

spoke eye all dredged regardless vomitous unspoken words respoken not a trace gathering by winds origin of not a trace designed by edge to overcome collapse unto/ eye dredged lapse and then apart lung laughter on/ (to where)/ not on no ever-on into none no none is/ obliterate/

not a trace nor sound no nothing gouged out in instanced breath/ at vacuum’s edge where speech treads gracefully upon terror’s absolution/ obliterated by none corpus strikes out into nothing ever cold chase of echo-echo bleeds taste of discharge unlike blood opiate of desire/ ………


Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). He grew up in Co. Clare. He is the author of a number of collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably ‘Attributes’, (Desperanto, NY, 2011), ‘The Non Herein’ & ‘Of Dead Silences’ (Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013), ‘Of the Nothing Of’, ‘The Zero Eye’, ‘The Bled Sun’, ‘In Damage Seasons’,(Oneiros Books (U.K)–2013/ 14); ‘Code #4 Texts’, a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection, ‘Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.), was published by gnOme books (U.S); and ‘EchoNone’ & was also released 2015 by Oneiros Books…’breath(en) flux’, a chapbook, was recently released by Hesterglock Press. Black Editions Press recently released ‘in absentia’ & ‘In Arena Night’…

A Day’s News by Howie Good

You can see from here a killer angel wiping his bloody anus with handfuls of grass. Misery burns us. Drugs burn us. The lightning burns us. Children sing, “Where is my clock? Can I bring my wheelchair?” No one I ask can tell me if the future is real. “Sorry,” they just say. “We made a big mistake.” I can’t think too much about it. Everyone is dropping gear, panicking, jumping over tables. So I need at times to close my eyes. These were my rivers, the ghosts of birds all that’s left.


Howie Good is the author of Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry. His other books include A Ghost Sings, a Door Opens from Another New Calligraphy and Robots vs. Kung Fu from AngelHouse Press (both 2016). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

Maggie by Howie Good

You were in the third grade the first time you wrote on a wall. The older girls made fun of your spelling. Strange that all these years later you’d wind up singing “Woohoo! Woohoo!” surrounded by thousands of dollars’ worth of banjos. The tips of your fingers must be sore and bloody. But here’s what I don’t understand – your eyes don’t want to close. You watch for signs of change, maybe trees thrashing about in a kind of panic or birds wobbling in midair as they fly from tree to tree. If you can do that trick, you can do this one. If you can do this one, you can do that one. We run things in the forest when the wolf isn’t around.

Preliminary Material for a Theory of Sleep by Howie Good

Velocity is advancing everywhere. Pubescent girls dump menstrual blood into the street in protest. I want to tell you it’ll be OK, but then I have dreams about losing poems on the subway or a bus. We’re living in a preposterous age. A mob passing by the window chants, “Fuck the clown! Fuck the clown!” They don’t understand the difference between art and crime. An unreliable friend phones in the midst of all this. “What’s another word for ‘nonexistent’?” he asks, as if trying to trip me up. I just sleep whenever I feel sleepy.

Affair by John Grey

Models slink on down the catwalk.

beating of their hearts,

scenery they pass through.

as young as passports

just such a time as this


I like to believe

at least.

in midnight

at my very own table.

at some affair or other: charity ball,

the impediment of my flesh

at the waterhole

Away, away with me.

Drama by John Grey


agony of nausea

is almost a solid thing

to one side of him


as if times were made of pie crust

being towed away

while blanket that covered it

is cold as the ashes

that don’t float off,  don’t move


life hung straight up in the air

too tired now to lock its own doors

rats sang in dark corners

to the riff she played


smoke didn’t dissolve,

someone larger staggered dazed

she stood all night

stiff and yellowish

straight up and down

such depths everywhere

like corn fields


air that seeped

in the sorrows of the world

jittered the wet air


there is no waking

not anywhere.

through the rusted screens

time passed –

to swell toward the sun-sparkled



she heard bodies

veil of smoke

voices in other rooms beginning

where patterns leave off

Drag Race by John Grey

as coyly as
the inevitable
can’t stop itself

I jerked and throttled
security booting
a hustler out of a lobby

slapped his face
in a glass of solution

as sudden as a flare
everything unreal
exquisite silence
passed the other cars as if they
pushing off from the bottom
set to ease
many miles down the road
in nice shiny looks

Argument by John Grey

she spoke
like a

fashion model
on a catwalk

what he said
was like a fishing boat
lost in fog

and yet
her search light
was swallowed by the mist

his compass
went right up
a slinky ass

their agreement
couldn’t see a thing

was out of
their price range

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.  


A DOLPHIN’S PROSTHETIC HYBRID// a reflection by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

Never wanted to be a victim. Yet i’d sit on the winding balcony jackknife and lighter in my hand with other women and men supplicating wounds by engendering more wounds. It was a way of being for to a point like deathrow dogs or human innocents we had been gutted: of the organs from which voice sourced its grit of cattail pain gathers on roadside.

But never wanted to be seen as victim by self by other. We told. Some compared; what’s that i’0d say. Doesnt matter how many pounds the corrupt hours or minutes or eons seen passing from padlocked closets — the cargo will snap more than a hunt’s fox.

You’d given up on the world a man said. Later. Lazarus. Wheelchairs of the heart. You thought the world had given up on you. Do you know what it means, to fill your body with rusted stopsigns inherited from heroes. Boated shoreward Normandy beaches of Okinawa carrying the boats with engine or red paddle upon their backs some were heroes gouged of speech some were other, gouging speech themselves. Wound jackknife fire set to skin peeling as by sun. Set packs on isolationism shores wanting touch wanting to learn how how to dream again.

Well. Our war was different. Different tools different faces different kinds of dying. Some had no witnesses beyond themselves and were denied. Others gathered testimony testaments video and poem and walked foreward somehow redeemed even redeeming not sought vindicator vindication.

I wasnt a victim. Not in the end. As a kid violence laced my soul white white. The dolphin has a final prosthetic hybrid that she used uses to help her traverse what the sea has become. I had have that thing called love. Joplin sang the Rose and i seek sought a boat like my father’s a dog like my fathers’ but more language than he had ever known. The ocean saved me.