the winds have ruffled my assassin hair


the winds have ruffled my assassin hair
                                                        Georges Bataille  


ache unto/

(dry cough in a barren white roomscape)

a black turning
         of lungs lashed from the caress of

night’s sheer
     bone heart(less)

liquid flowers of decimated shit
             I/ eye of vortices

meat to caress to turn from lack or longing
   (blank-ed the eye…)

subtle as a snapped neck’s whispering

drag/drag/drag alone
             of the bitten blood

semblance of dry light
                     and the smoke of

   (pyre unto absence/



welt/ breath of silent winds

till mark/spun/exigent
   of the ruin rush ash and the wilting blood

asked of
spasm lock till claimed

(image of a skys black longing set to light)

kicking dust from sunk eye till break of none
spun aloud/

silenced lest the petals birth the rot of hours
   stitched colourings

ruin of
as if there never was

scattered remnants of what/
                  or else/if /ever/…



raw ash
a bone’s closed tongue
till eye of/

locked sharp till hang-ed colourings

I upon
        (once more)

the flight from which unto the none
dressage of night

and the bound blight wind claiming the less and less
       (lest there be)…

atrophy of the hand that gives
   traces across


           laughterling of silence

the hung light
oceanic as of breath’s escape

      ( I dreamed the…)



sheet white

hollowed drowning of spun till lack

divorced the skyline’s I
of the settled distance

                   the upturned eye’s devoid

a graze of endings echoings
and the absent blood

a landscape obese with night

  (I/or if
as it lathes


blossoms of rip till knocking upon/
                                  echoing of/

a foreign gaze    fettered
stripped of all but the sky’s barren





flourish of a skyline’s searing/


beacon of none come to claim the I-unknown
     blackened fingers trace/


clamour for the tongue to lay its exigent claim

                   sun’s abortive
             naught for the asking of
given for the less or else

these bone(ish) cries from out of which until unclaimed

   (alack/ whispers/
                  the shale
s wind chimes…)

zero point

the retraced wind
    blood clot of nowhere else through which

the drag of the flesh of the I-eradicated
splendour of the

            irredeemable tide/of



sting-havoc of
          subtle embers/

till utter dark
a coiled spring doused as a butcher’s blade

in-dreaming else

carcass/ ashen
welts of sun light of the scuttling asked of

subtle as
no nothing no not ever


collapse of
the flesh the bled ice of subtle laughter

fierce/density of the rind
                masked till emptiness

a skeletal shimmering in the dawn’s pale birth

and the dead light’s knowing
long shadow of the final edge

     out the skyline…



steel’s theft
   to trace across silent flesh

as of funereal/
        the tide’s blind suffocating lie

the beckoning outstretched cascade of
till fathomless

black waters
the flesh aborts the glimmer of I/eye’s reflect

as if unto sunken


the air clefts the inhalations of toothsome wastage
   (retrace the bones gathered along the way)

        blackened out from out of speechless

a shutter-snap
a scream slashed out in the emptiness

a callused hand of supplication unto final

as if unto birth(ed)
the jagged nothing/…of



whittled bone

(echo of
      till splice be done/
 extraction of…)

the light streaks the fallen body bare
till emptied/

no nothing not a trace till nocturne echoing the cornered

bled from out of a syringe of silences

   as the tolling masks the absence of all else
a sugary dissipation

   (sing high/sing low/sing tra-la-la)

callous as…

broken by…

knotted fingers forming foreign prayers
in a night of lies

upon the carcass wound’s benign



seal the wound

a trace/of dead scars

a pledge unto dusted dreams scattered as of
    children’s laughter

where the break-neck/
                           ( none)

spat from bloody trace
from the eye’s assassin climate

dreaming lest the eye forgotten/(asked of)

the coldness of I (unsaid/
                               never yet claimed)

                   the bone ravage
the shrapnel cast aside in mortal winds

rotting nowhere
     echoing in chime of empty light’s obscene


knotted as the pulse
                  of the begun



confetti wings

(I a-dreaming)

dank air to follow in from out of spurious/

libretto of pulse meat breath of skulk
the skull cracked as a black egg streaming silver lights

I hears the glass
there is birth of tongue and the sung stead of foreign

the fingers wilt to steam
yet still to knock upon

surfaces from which from out of which
I (in-dreaming)

and now forgotten songs
I bury my breath in the axe of wind’s flight

a child’s bones fall from my weight

     (‘I’ was never else)



ripe with pregnant graven

the toll of no/
      not ever less than/

of the benign

culled the dead echoing out of fractal sleep
(-none-) once again

emptily the eye peeling in

         spoken less than ever

the shutter’s claim
          and the drag of
   absent light

cadaverlings of children’s murmurings

I/eye of the foreign asking

        deadened fingers

    till breath

finally do us depart(ed)<



till glare/
  held to ash/ till skull

skeletal trees of the left behind
    and the flesh of


           biting the stumped lung’s

blistered the air strips the pealing naught

(some solace
           twisting in the eye’s silence

    heavier in the I/ eye

from out of which
the dead hammering never ceases to revolt

suffering as of an abattoir’s

where nothing is/final/all



Michael McAloran

Michael McAloran (b. 1974, Belfast) 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 SeasonsEchoNone & Of Dissipating Traces (Oneiros Books [UK], 2013-14); Code #4 Texts, a collaboration with Aad de Gids (Oneiros, 2014), Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.) (gnOme books [US]). breath(en) flux (Hesterglock Press), and in absentia, In Arena Night, bone silences (Black Editions Press)He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros Books.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Friday, August 12, 2016 - 01:54