to the Glen found by Aad de Gids

‘Aural Holograms’ often the title still adds to the strength of the music
taken in as also the ‘holograms’ seem to be the isles in the monotonous music
of hissing, swelling sound, as if a singular body of sound creeps up in the
outside night, with this solid suddenness accompaniment to the Glenn found
if it is phantasy which forms essential part of the ‘curated poem’ well there
is plenty around; perhaps it is the topic now causing caustic trouble what with
the world surrounding us is perhaps paradigmatic for journalism as anathema
for poetry the howl of a beat and gratuiteness of flarf as obsolete as striking
‘complexisized’ time made unironic the most arresting events as inescapable
waves of a timeless ocean of supercontinent (now in electronic interconnected
parts) (neopostpangaea) of land and sea: environments hovering through our
subconsciousness as also very urbane and desertified surfacial hyperevents
guerilla is the new black the unsolvability of complex conflicts nevertheless
forms a path to which we are seasoned now but nowhere blasé unless one sits
on presidential throne the toddlers laTrumpe and KimJongUn their communal
Kindergarten Russia, China probably Europe and the US too: a new uneven

Aad de Gids on “Longshadowfall” by Michael Mc Aloran

Michael McAloran’s “longshadowfall” Editions du Cygne (2017)

sunken is the ship with readers, the ship of readership, inbetween the poetic prozaic streaming which Michael McAloran (hereafter “Mick”) virtuosely does; sunken am I inmidst the succinct as bleak, pure poetic ‘da stream’ of endless wordparures in which meaning threatens, meaning threatens to emerge and does emerge,about our modern,postmodern, postpostmodern world, always prepostcataclysmic as we’re always inbetween the one disaster happened and the following initialising. what Mick does is lending this “meaning” a river while also render the very notion of “meaning” a discutable but probably more acutely, despicable status. people need to attach “meaning”, patches of meaning to the world, to life, to death, (adorno:) “[impossible] after Auschwitz”, and it is now the question if this assertion, this very assuredness with which we think we can add meaning to this processual world, is in its whole, to say the least, questionable. in these last eight, perhaps nine years I know Mick he has evolved not but has evolved enormously. I would say his artistry has the same intensity but he has succeeded to sharpen his knives. it is the mystique of McAloran to represent this great Irish lineage of Irish writers, these edgy, escatological writers, yet necessarily and of course due to the generational phaseology, irreversibly radicalises both as celebrate as annihilate them. it is what our generation do for a living. parricide, maternicide de luxe, we have thrived on our (most extreme) litterature ancestry while we face these, well, horrid times now. it was obvious that after Wittgensteins “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus”, Sartres “L’être et le Néant”, Gertrude Steins “The Making of Americans”, Marguerite Duras’s “L’Amant” and “Le ravissement de Lol V. Stein”, Samuel Becketts “The Endgame” and “Waiting for Godot”, and further the litterati Céline, Cioran “de l’Inconvénience d’être Née”, Celan, Musil, Thomas Bernhard, Adornos “Negative Dialektik” and “AEsthetische Theorie” and Horkheimer-Adornos “Dialektik der Aufklärung”, Susan Sontag, Germaine Greer etc., etc. who were all iconoclasts in extremis, we had to do a fine job in articulating, accelerating, igniting them. then also the french poststructuralists who had gradually and not so gradually bashed all notions we were ever familiar with and landed Freud-Nietzsche-Marx in the trashcan. but a generation has risen and came up to the task. of them, Mick is one and it is in his superexact poetic acribic lemmata (as in an encyclopedia) in this book (and others before) he captures the landscape-psychoscape mistings of psychotic sociuses and inframental arches of insanity and psychiatric abberations (in antipsychiatry still the apt way to respond to these accreted hypersocieties (Basaglia, Szasz, Foudraine, Laing, Fromm, Lacan, Cooper) ) in shards of individuals, often either dead, roaming around the dead, browsing along death, a precise mappology of the noir necropolises of our time. part of the intensity of Micks poetry lies in the fact that he doesn’t write a tourist guide to Palermos’ or Paris’s “catacombes” but demasks them as societal and very much in our scope now, as we see it in the street, cities, in our houses, in our fucking lives. as I am “reading” his latest book “Longshadowfall” it is not convential reading. it is as if the poetry prose (divisionisms we have already let fallen like a ton of bricks in the ‘80s) resists itself against reading while, when one comes within the impetus of da stream, figments of wordlineage, repetitive allitterative wordglueings, hypnotically phraseology are beginning to intoxicate you. this goes further than any complexisised postconventionalism: it is that and, the transcendence of it. we’re also the facebookgeneration poets postflarf a kind of NY “Die Collector Scum” anticollective yet transdimensional fringist fuckist movement always in to write mirrorly as it is at the same time exposure of “what it is now”. Mick, me, David Mclean, Greg Podmore, Carolyn Srygly-Moore, Ryan Link Ralston, Jacques Andervilliers, Linwood Jones, Christine Murray, Reuben Woolley, Lisa Gordon, AC Evans, Dom Gabrielli, Thamyris Jones, Tara Birch, Lee Kwo, Carrie Ann Warner, Margarite Zaatara d’Arsinoë et al et al. this is the flowing mist of authors emerging up out of the ocean of facebook. without forming a “school” I guess we “let the world speak” in 1000 styles and perhaps with similar (not the same) experiences. that Mick’s writing isn’t without personal reverberances as also reminesces shall be evident for all who dive in the intensely written often achingly scorching as strangely alluring “fine poetry styles” yet without the usual corewords: flowers are made of flesh where surprisingly Mick, these flowers, Rafflesia, grow in the Malaysian jungle. (to B ct’ued) (and with superfluous citations)

with these, to an accumulative point mere listings of words, the delivery of the message happens more in a tactile as an a priori communicative way while this perfunctory chosen series of lemmata expresses precisely that function of “linguistic communication”: in the illustration that it is idle. not that we have here a text formulated without the utmost precision and deliberately used placement of each word in the chosen ensemble. to a degree that it is almost unbearable the language is mastered and using our hard, strange habitualisation to insert meaning into read words we either succeed not or we succeed halfly in while we’re already urged to read on. this is a book best to be savored with two pages at a time also because one can barely know where one’s at when closed halfway on a page. I now laid a marker at the place where I still read: the toilet as we say in Europe as in the AngloSaxonWorld they say:”bathroom”. it is there I’ve been told men read their “man/uals”, newspapers and well, poetic and prosaic tractates. this is nowhere to be meant that this is “toiletmaterial” or to use a word Mick often used in earlier texts: “pissoir”, “abattoir”, etc. but it is ironically there we still find the rest and concentration to meet texts in a relatively calm environment and can squeeze the most meaning out of those written considerations. now they are all that but not of Pompadour in the Trianon here, for instance we see these hued, painterly and haughtily imperative possibilities of what has been written in the repeated “what” at the end, as one imagines uttered in all indifference able to have been mustered. and it is precisely this quality that make these texts “of the time”. here we have pinpointed descriptions of athmospheres willfully also broken off as to not deliver your average “scientifically overaccurate redundant” info; the “information” precisely is much more of “what there is” uttered as if in a smokey jazzclub or “what it is” in the gritty flatfelted porncinema. we’re loaded in the night and what the fuck is your destination if I may care? “listings” amass there where promising initiate messageforming grow out of the text and as if decided in the writing suddenly breaks off or change direction, if need be brusquely. there is still another way the texts in longshadowfall are getting the “disinformationist” treatment, as in their place beneath the arche of abstrahation on a scale of dense abstraction towards on the other side where Mick sits “in the zone” and whole areas get infected with this quality of what is a “rant”, “description”, “mappology”, “athmospheric floating”, “radicalisation” while the real radicalisation still is the strange evenness with which this all is “curated” and in its overall promptness present a tome of masterly new Irish as global, postBrexit and extra [=out of] Brexit litterature of bleak times and affirmation, punk.

[longshadowfall3 litterary tactics] there are still other tricks with which [Mick] shall be aimed at a tapering of languages’ directional urge to hostage us within clusters of meaning undesired or totally inaccurate yet forcefed by litterary petit mals of penitentiary tendencies and inframetalinguistic cryptic iconology. Mick tricks in the language itself using unforeseen tropes and counterclusters. one strategy is to break a quasi-sentence at erratic places breaking the build up semantic threat using syntactic brusque, punk slashes unstrategically so: strategically, in anti-esthetics which enriches his poetry. within an impetus one reads a thread to be surprised by a sudden halt after the slash of which a whole other clouded topic is charred. slowly this counterhabitualisation by the reader builds up to take what it takes to read this ongoing da stream with wariness and conspiricist microcriminology. this is writing in our time that, writing is disabled in writing and as I always have maintained Wittgenstein and Adorno didn’t formulated oppositionally positioned adages with [“worüber mann nicht sprechen könst soll mann schweigen”] and (A) [“das unaussprechliche söllte mann versuchen auszudrücken”]. hybridisation and postironic complexisation are from this time and they unite these adages while as PTSDs these statuses now became accurate and prepostcataclysmic syndromologies. never and nowhere to reach a crowning of a creationist Disney utensil. inmidst (“en milieu”) of the “what there is” (Peggy Lee) we start to write and aim not at an aim anymore bc there has been raucous decades with projection to a no/future and it is here we find ourselves on the mosaic of maps Borghesian as Rothkoan as Sanchezuan the ennui, of these resp.writer painter as couturier a secret regulative of esthetics of the upstart of a new millenium. yet also from these ombré shades of artistry layers shall be shedded while Micks poetry leaves a trail of difficult to track landscaping letterant/sing and almost a sinojaponese conveying into “cups of characters” tomes of life brandishing in their achingly acuitry. the “characters” are placed in loose clusters not always safest housed to commit to science, poetology, readerreception, bookeconomy, in fact fucking up all these instances with a certain ease, “je ne sais quoi”. one of my drives with writing was always the hope someone would be outraged with it; Mick can also be sure of that. still a bit about the asiatic impulse of Micks “iconology” and “iconoclast charactergroupings theory” which, form mistings, clouds, liquids of dark tenure (like the parfum of nasomotto “black afghano” and yes it smells like) with sometimes some torn lightshards as if seen from inside a cloyster. Irish this, English and European.brexitist undeniability to touch old hearts of yonder and hides of jaundice. so the slipt in asiaticity obscures further toothpaste white reception and comedy figure sincere politics or terrorism. no religiousness here. David (McL) is pleased with this and so are we. it is also a litterature of unbearable openness falling apart together with the wordlemmata as ruins the roaming of which can prove satisfactorily rainy and grassy with bony finds and forensic sondations. the cups of sinojapanese “characters” shall read as Mick writes: “them”, “journey”, “into”, “unto”, “not”, “ashen”, hereby lending the listing (Linnaeus) an open quasi taoist zen inconclusiveness, the one word/character/icon/paintbrush partly harming the next or specifically soften what already is decayedly soft. then I also saw a tactic which can be an editorial factor as well as an anti-esthetic factor the evidence of misspelt words but I have a feeling that to leave them in was Micks choice and it is a good one bc the radical unconventionality gets quadrupled with this. as Bas has made photos without a filmroll on purpose or exhibited in a dark room where none could be seen. a painting was painted of a city and then pollock, baselitz, kiefer, beuyslike totally overpainted with dense and destructive scrollings, lines criss cross completely obscuring the city underneath it was the time of the baader-meinhoff, londonderry, dublin, el salvador, vietnam, LA riots. that, a litterature (or artform) should take radical stance with the art itself becoming inintelligible (and with this, intelligible bc it is the mirroring of what the fuck is happening), is quite the rage or, not. that facebook provides podium, stage for letterings and imaginings still disturbing enough to acquaint no readership nor reception of presented images harbors a sign of the times. in short history of facebookparticipation all has changed and nothing has changed. cybernetics and internet are becoming more and more vehicles to scabrous advertisement yet to take it ALL in is what they think they wanted as well as the negation of what they stand for. Baudrillard: [“if all is power, there is no power”]


if this clinging roseconcoction is a twinperfume to Creeds “Fleurs de Bulgarie”

(and it is) then it accomplishes that with a lot more tones and notes equalling

the same similarity to headiest roses cultivars yet snaking in these roses with

other supporting flowers and raw matter compensating perhaps for the ambergris

which characterizes Creeds perfumery so, with the Guerlinade pillar of Guerlain


I can definitely smell oakmoss, an essential for Guerlain, grounding the as airy

as unbelievable dense bulgarian rose co/smelling also vanilla and wat seems to

me to be cinnamon. and before I now consult the wheel of notes “scentpyramid”

I smelled ylang-ylang and peach. where I smelled cinnamon apparently I could

have detected sandelwood and further there are a lot more supporting elements


the hyacinth which one so overpoweringly gets in Oriza L.Legrands “Marrions

Nous” here seems more subdued within yet another cornucopia of flowers and

spices. what I smelled as oakmoss could well be vetiver; furthermore there are

powerhouses like jasmine, lilac and lily of the valley. the greatest wonder is that

two such different approaches give off such spikey, feminine ultrarose perfume


Nahema, as is neither Fleur de Bulgarie, isn’t a wallflower. once I had to laugh

loud bc my well-nosed father stood on the subway deck a couple of metres away

and I dared to spritz (also to turn some heads as it sits in an ostentatious luxe

atomizer) and the very initial blast of Nahema sended him in a coughing fit and

I knew his nose is excellent so he immediately turned to me,capricornically calm

jaggedly insane normal days by Aad de Gids

dark, dark not the mindset or how we now like to percieve
the blogosphere-globosphere but the gradual at first and then
almost treacherously quick onset of prenight this all, yet sort
of mindset or how we rolled through this day with bluesy, sung
“end” “liquid spirit” well we all know what that means, to lick
the gin off the icy pole poledancer felted floorcovering Harlem
seedy porncinema and your body satiated with the stolichnaya,
gin and other juice, the brains fluidisizing their facilities short
circuited korsakovian milky ocean of forgetfulness and again,
rolling no less, through the day being tired, grievant for this
world, juiced like an in the 70s banned “outspan” orange which
were south african and the labourers plucking them treated
like you neither should treat a dog, cheap hooker or alzheimer
hedgefund park ave granny this is how our bodies and souls
get corroded, willfully often, to escape harsher reality all the
new fuck-ups in charge: hay hair and economist reductionist
“points of view” fuck them and let us concentrate on th’endings
of our own days a certain blogorama and an athmospheric coil

We Write in the Evening by Aad de Gids

we write in the evening and those slowly builded sentences create

a world not in the ludicrous sense of creationism and haughtily

shaking on the ankles of the world or humanitee as something special

bc we’re just garbage alone not perhaps in making geiger teller sensing

probing for yet, empathy

it is good to “not being able to” the “why question” is famous and keeps

being unanswerable so “what happened” and “how do you feel” replace

that question for easier and a more fluent dynamic we write in the evening

contours of shadows and shaky flusterings of foliage the acid jazz police

does rounds in the quatorzième

we write in the morning where already a night again went over it yet

it is only astrophysical that this shall seep in our poetry the huge tidals

of the universe cyclicity open towards all sides, diurnal “hin und wieder”

but in variousest of ways what with exoplanets make difference in time

unschedulity and unruliness

writing in the afternoon and budding budding sentences enfold in slant

light as the words seem to wave with any surf and almost aside ascribe

things whereas it also doesn’t matter what comes and goes as all is

fluidly suffused with feeling, emotionsatiation landstretches of fallen

sentiments sediments sentiments

To Write a Poem by Aad de Gids

the strangest, obsoletest feeling it is this, heave of poitrine or hetero male chest

to, suddenly feel an incling to write a poem and all rules are getting fucked up

again while there is already a vague notion of content it has to be the day again just

this endless almost senseless succession of days but then in the (80s) “no future”,

“stop making sense”, mode.

what is this mysterious meaninglessness other then to be fallen in time, rather

“timelessness” even prepositioning the absence of time, the acceptance of chronic,

eeeh chronologic sequesterings but they are hoaxes with which we still our unrests:

we are particles of the universe and in the end or before the begin travel as neutrinos

through the chambers in the deepest transvaal mines 3,2 km.

through the plasmoid imminence of the sun ungraspable hot, through multitudes

of physicalities bumping into viscera, cartilage, eye fluid, the dead bodies but also

the stretchers in the morgue and the breakfast cereal of the pathologer: microns

of travels of microns, micrological sojourns of emojii, our absence presence as

such fleetingly given amoebic form

iridescent colours and fractured meanings, enfleurage of refined or vulgar flowers

lilies lilies roses and gardenia. imagine such tarry perfumy scenttrail of luxest

perfumes out of Neiman Marcus on the street mixed with benzene, nicotine, aaah

breath, stale alcoholed breath, humanity and lots of birds flying flying navigating

through rough cities but they are hardest and finest

Tinselweb by Aad de Gids

it is, pondering further about the shiveringly cold and abstract new implications
of the internet, www, cyberspace, computational interdependent human reciprocity
with just keys and touchscreen, bluetooth and wifi, swipes and apps, the bankability
of those beautiful girls wearing that and that nailpolish with balinese gestes shown

that, is of interest for new companies inbetween bank, advertisement, infotainment,
virality of transphenomena along the glassfiberlines on the bottom of the sea, these
new trancephenomena tripnonevents which, are of interest both of the promotors the
gals, and the other end of cosmetics companies, fashionista industry neo/if/cultural

events which draws in all the wrong and righteous people alike bc there isn’t any one
obvious line between such categories anymore we’re good and bad and ugly and crisp
smooth and unexpected suited in rags or “rags and bone” or target or found clothes
or boutiqued up with fried brains but enough dexterity to lame the nation of its energy

this is a new domain strongly related with the smartphone filming of schlepping the
cliniclown khadaffi over a plaza in tripoli and filming bums fight each other and drug
them for a forehead tattoo: “bumfuck” and (lucklily) the flattened face of dead bin L.
dropped in the red sea as a bag of shit. filming drive-by shootings and salads nicoise

centripetal centrifuge by Aad de Gids

tick on the icon a forefeld materialises, tick the enter the programme is

preparatory opening unto the squad of the horror vacuii well we all must

encounter it at some times in our lives again a hollowed out commentmusic

commentless drives the broken notes and envelope words forward to daß

himmlischen Feld unseeable but felt. billowing trees by rain and wind

make the evening beautiful as they can be just seen through the rain that

at daytime never was however now, spurred by some diurnal urgency spat

and dapple on all the leaves of all sorts of trees and shrubs and littlest

weeds wayward and sideways soothening our bare feet uplifing our soul

the programme sends a shiver through the poetry I, thus far created that it,

wen I take a break, stores what already is on the hypothetical cybernetic

page and with necessary pauses there shall be a naturality in either the words

yet probably rather the intricacy inbetween them as we’re permanent unsure

of theses but lightly amused about randomned madness and indecisiveness

(the shiver again) as several voices or lines of words form in me tempt me

to the open forestrial spot to feel utter vegetality and Carole Kings earth

moving under our feet however the (horrific Orlando) circumstances this

planet gets just as much as its neighbours these are infracomets clashes

infracells nonmaoistic islamitic religionpsychotic in hypothetical trenches

taking the world hostage, forgetting they themselves shall fall deepest in

the black entropy and the softly continuous winds doesn’t need them to

earth the earth and slightly dishumanise these dishuman / human cells as

they brittly flake off and vanish inbetween the birch bark delusional deluge

Neville and Kees by Aad de Gids

his eyebrows so perfectly coiffed as it gathers in a crown
his approach his reaching is a leap to the barre to then, despite
his 18 yrs, arche backward with his breast showing spiriting
bright yellow, his head in an elegantly balletic arc de circle
unhysteric as Neville is this is a geste of approach to be taken
seriously: he works with subtle charms. as does Kees, finch
postMARS in all the diametric opposite of his former other
neighbour. Kees also works with charm and his fine intellect
it came like this, as I wanted him to look at a newlit candle
and he did but developed it himself into a ritual which soon
backlashed unto myself. he surely looks at the candle, his head
tilted and thèn looks at ME. his collection of gazes is endless.
“yes, this apparently is what makes you happy” he seems to
transpond with his ironic aftergaze. once i wanted him to look
at my bracelet and he tilted his head. what he did thèn sended
me in cramps. tilted his head and suddenly stretched, to LOOK.
“postMARS” means silence, no morningpersons giving me
orders and derogative laserlooks. no more “I AM BOSS AND
I AM BOSS” with neighbourhood shaking volume. sweetness
and wisdom, from primitive instinctualism to the bird satori

Worque by Aad de Gids

sitting inbetween a certain homeliness and quick leave for worque as I do for, well but for two months 42 years now and still content with the line of work which in fact is the nursing and helping of sick people societally and logistically named “work” but you live at work too. I am also never the exotic intruder not inf(l)ected with this one of this particular “disease”: through the years my vision on “sick” and “healthy” have been almost reversed fully. inversed, inside out, top to the cellar and bottom up. “sickness” rather is an attribute of “health”. of being. and as the years since 1974 accreted I have seen the society itself become “sick”, psychotic, cancerous, cantankerous, obnoxious. this suffuses all, imbued within these “sociuses” everywhere, the world is globalised now and, well, kind of borderless. the fish with mercury and lead in them, the lions and gorillas on the decline, plantsocieties under siege. a humongous dense cloud of humane populace contorting strangulating estrangeing all else. I am no angel. well, unto WORQUE