Sex and Murder Magazine

By Michael Mc Aloran

…Something, in vacancy, where never I was falling, as if to fall were something other than some starry death beneath a blood-streaked sky, the deft hands echoes reaching never faltering stricken with the sick stark stench of irreducible human ashes, in the pissing rain, smashing fists against walls as I walked dragging my knuckles across cold concrete, the absence, cloud-burst of death, a dreaming stripped of light birthed into the cortex, spilling its’ vile guts into the night, nothing left to breathe, a razorblade slashing through the skull, ice, stale blood, reduced or enamoured by futility, in foreign abandon, buried yet in motion, thinking of cunt cock and rectum, the spine stripped bare of its’ burgeoning voice, grinding upon the teeth the jaws locked, spitting the blood of dead airs, in this, haven to this un-haven, drunken, nowhere else left to be, spilling into every street as the sky submits to the emptiness of the sunlight, the night dead as any given pulse, cold stone, my dead eyes, flux, then a dead flux, savage abortions of time unfurling into the non-distance, I am devouring my eyes, my eyes are devoured, skull of fervent mutilations, a horse’s skull, a candle slashed out in the screaming, where I am nothingness, I ejaculating into the void with streaks of dissipating words, my death, my death my starry death I am alone, no not else, ever else, the violence of existing, the ferocity of birth, a cold stone hearth in which the bone’s of a child rot unto idiocy, I too am that idiocy, that murder, that abortion, the time taken to un-learn, to forget, dragging as if to speak were enough, as if a whisper could caress, so sayeth the walls, those eternal walls, I collapse I reach I am blind, paralysed, paralysed by dread, beginning now and forgetting for all time, somehow the speech never catches up, as if I ever listened, the maggot of time selects, easing throughout the flesh to subjugate muscle, dragging a million possibilities along with it -as if it mattered, obsidian bile I retch, to the wolves, a cacophony of vapour screams finding nothing in repose except the will to cry out further, as the streets like stitches beneath dense sky fade out to black, in the morning sun, the vision erased, nothing to replace it, nothing…