A Double Dose of Reviews: Malcolm Paul on Richard Cabut’s Looking for a Kiss + Aad de Gids on Michael Mc Aloran’s Nothing Ever


Looking for a Kiss is a post-punk novel – mapping the emotional framework of the end of punk and youth, and the impact of the adult 80s. It’s an anti-coming of age story. 

Set in Camden, Camberwell and New York, the book is an account of breakdown, breakup and breakout with primal scenes, screams and schemes, as well as the eternal quest for sprezzatura and the endless search for redemption.

I can’t remember a more memorable clutch of individuals stalking the pages of a book in a very long time. Some of the scenes leave one almost afflicted with PTSD.

I thought I was beyond being shaken by the written word – shocked by anything new exciting and original.

One reviewer, Michael Gratzke, has mentioned that the book is more akin to American post-punk writing, Acker or Richard Hell, than the European version, but it’s a mixture – like a bittersweet Coltrane solo crashing into Einstürzende Neubauten.

The characters, who have fallen out of love with each other, themselves, their own arcs, and the world around them don’t need Relate but a visit from the ‘Son of Sam’. They are suicide bombers in The House of Love. The book has the same erotic/violent suspense as Knife in the Water. 

Packed full of images/reflections/ideas – raw emotions – books like Looking for a Kiss are like flares in the dark.


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MMA aad de gids revieweuse luxe panthère (also haute) on this unbelievable out of order new kind of book of MMA Michael McAloran. is this a difficult book ? well hell yeah, but if we want to read it we will. it sets all kind of parameters on its head. if you sense you’re taking part of a whole new thing qua litterature, it is just exhillirating. I have always searched for this ‘antiArt’ and always succeeded to find it. you have to be prepared to set aside all conventionalisms. and that I was, we were (with Bas), already in the 70s. we read the strangest books, saw the strangest [non]paintings, listened to unbearable anti-Music. we even participated in anti-Theater. then yes you are quite prepared to take notice of Michael’s newest book: ‘Nothing Ever’.

kind of a sedate title. the book is a rupture with all that came before. he doesn’t like to hear it but Michael is simply the best Irish poet. and Ireland of course already has such prevalent reputation. it is as with the perfume ‘Red. Giorgio Beverly Hills’. ‘Wearing Red, everything else pales’. having read ‘nothing ever’, there is a before and after. we agreed to work against the lesbotechno revieweuses barflies. torpedotitted (Linwood), they think to rule the scene. but we give them no space, Michael not with his poetry, me not with my leopard shawled, rouge-noir lacquered acryl nails. fuck the litterary establishment. well ready with the intro,lets dynamite. “a desire for final absence colourless skyline of all sense devour — mockery tint of absolute to claim where division is but once as scald of flesh is to taste strip night collective repetition absence — dense weight of nocturne-in in semblance reduct fathomless collage in a collapse of origin”. the fog of text from MMA (Michael McAloran). if meaning appears it is at the same time gnawed into fragmented proportions again with the plethora of the words that, fluidified, follow. if Michael chose Beckett to cite an adage from (with ‘gnawing’ in it) it is because we all need to do our patricide matricide. ‘meaning’ is ‘sense’ and we see what happens where representationism (what texts often achieve) absolve repetitive gestes. Michael finds energy in the unlikeliest of places. ” aglow in dead matter to writhe within in colourless speech of static execution “. “it sings along beneath a-breathe of agues buried in a kiln of pulse bulb ideation “. here I go in a frenzy of associationisms. ‘pulse bulb ideation’, so there is here a dimension still of something ‘positive’ or rather ‘affirmative’. then the word hidden inside: ‘agues’ = a shube of Malaria; we can also add ‘ages’, ‘aches’, not all so dissimular. the accent aigue, é. ‘The acute accent marks the stressed vowel of a word in several languages.’ swarm of stressors. this is also a kiln, a cauldron of heat, of energy. plus this is rather exactly described. “collision absence – it is neither sun nor some entity of bloodless fathom all lock & bathe white light neither dark merely static in all centre collect “. the aforementioned affirmation is nothing but a lightblip: “all what said ever of some barren trace pissing freely upon all that once ever was to seed in some banquet some solace in an amplificatory roar of virulent psychosis”. in this text of Michael we find the bare hydraulics of ‘process’, ‘machine’, ‘obsidian tidality’ and hacked emotions. ” hollow blood to erupt throughout — spasm vicious slash across the gait of in-dreaming ever of wreckless compress of skeletal oxide “. these texts may resist against reading. then it is rather an ‘experiencing’. the book is sliced with intruigueing illustrations by David M. Mitchell, who is also instrumental in the publishmachine that facilitated this book: ‘Oneiros Books’ in collaboration with the ‘Black Worm Media Kollektive’. his illustrations have a kind of resemblance with some of Bas’s. maybe thats why I find them rather acute and outerdimensionally. then now comes the moment to cite extensively out of Michaels book, otherwise you’ll never sense the change his book really incorporates. “broken it opulent / else as of which reclamation of unto in lack of distill rip to shreds to shadow lock of night irredempt colourless thankless space a blockade yet no nothing of that what as if to whisper traces no speech no all forgotten mimicry of some vague distillate no no longer wishes to a foreign absence of sound lack in all its cannot lapse light leapt closure no/ of wound bled out of tidal weight collapse deft breath devour no hope in hell grace as if to ever no nothing there a hand that clasps eternal as one is not second to go is first flog of some lack what over then of some accord all spoke once more there goes it tidal no yet given to speech reclaim in laughter of some hung light far afar that never of where once to be or other than as of have of it yet what yet of waste ground where now in closure of what given to beckon of as if to speak all days done for haven no what of till colourless maxity stray says no yet of what origin bulk of which weighted what of till tidal as forgotten nothing of see another there appear to be hours without wonder a drift of cloud across pupils long absent of skyline all what sung as if to know barrage of silence bone deep sever an absent frenzy of night & all that it obliterate “. this is language hunting itself. we can establish that it is nice to read the words as the words and throw all expectancies overboard. just also think of those last two years and what vomit and inpredictability, endless streaming of journalist chiffres and halfconclusive texts were spoken to us only: I wasn’t listening. if there is similarity between those contoured morphologies there is, yet in Michaels case it is also critique and not only restrictively so. think of the laTrumpes’ blahblah. than MMA’s book is rather critique and has a metaposition, poetry, prose and philosophy and….DADA. here we also find the malcited Derrida, but then with his malcitation as true: “Critics of Derrida have been often accused of having mistranslated the phrase in French to suggest he had written “Il n’y a rien en dehors du texte” (“There is nothing outside the text”) and of having widely disseminated this translation to make it appear that Derrida is suggesting that nothing exists but words. Derrida once explained that this assertion “which for some has become a sort of slogan, in general so badly understood, of deconstruction […] means nothing else: there is nothing outside context. In this form, which says exactly the same thing, the formula would doubtless have been less shocking.” .” I hold steadfast to the ‘misinterpretation’ because I feel that we: the ‘post-post writers, the antiPoets, the EndtimeWriters, celebrate this Wortsalat. it is the same as with Beuys as he says: ‘Jetzt brechen wir den Scheiße ab’. so we do not upheld anything. that there is the paradox of needing a book to express just that, that is something already Adorno and Horkheimer tackled in the Critical Theory. Index Falsii, the totality is wrong. ‘the big works of art are waiting’, after Auschwitz. so it is no surprise to find in Michaels book concepts of Place, Time, Space, Absence, Repetition, Sense, Tidality and with great majority these concepts are now GONE. “where to recoil breakage no what term of dislodge collapse shudder shatter wordless soundless broke never answer tidal atrophic lapse what long & all what sung from derelict absolve lack of intake desire for once that never other ever than obsolete devour colourless in laughter of which a collision bathe in black waters closed shores where flesh abides all fallen forage no all forage fallen nothing to remark upon lapse all to having in dread of hour upspoke forgotten of in of else some distance none no there what of once never as what yes or no cyclic as solace ever in what else of which given to recoil where once was haven of disclosure never of yet of where once all spoken no yet yes as bleed it all from severance severed to bone “. then detritus,debris, accretion of coral and marine nanoplastics, are more described than (not) nessecarily supportive of antroposcenic hyperurbanities. we can thus find ‘unforgotten forgotten’ right next to each other, as such excluding false positivisms. “tasteless as before expound of bleak white waters to caress where to unto unforgotten forgotten ever from emblems stretch of from beyond of where sudden to downpour once distance forage in an elect of skull sudden to avaricious nothing of which what matter as if to convey it where ever so spoken was of once as if to burn in black light worship of as if to travail see dim from which in ever less what as flux of breakage point skull shadow shale of lapse unto as if to graven nothing of until devour by”. not in, not out, not alive, not dead, death unnamed but a wrap. then the syntax isn’t also safe: “till obsolete haven of null void misspelled from outset lapse “. Michael also said that they left ‘glued words’ in. I love it all. here still a meta remark: “as all flesh subside a birth a step a vantage point “, this is kind of programmatic observation of putrefaction yet also a choreography of seriegraphic cartographies. fading as affirmation. we’re now also not reading anymore, from Plaza to Plaza, the reader = the writer. we meet an exoticism as intimism: “…was the taxed parameter of skyline breath of once intake exhale in foreign drag of corpsal light through the vacancy of ever known forgotten in an instanced breath haven of what which spill of the drag what purpose final as composure stillness of eye & out of which what fallen shards of frozen meat in cavalcade redress wild edge of night to embrace as abattoir silences “. an energy as entropy. I see that I have to clip my haute review somewhat, otherwise we have another thick booque. essentialism as it now is circumvirates Michael thusly: “the else of essence spectral”. as if aside Michael defines litterature, linguistics, language as mass. Michael writes in a pulsative, eruptive, an inintermittent stream of language unbewillst and poetically threatening to throw up meaning through holes in the textist waves. an endless open stream of words, here more adhering to eventual quasi-meaning while there a hauntingly icing against any pop-up boutique of meaning. (meaning was always overrated.) now we see in his language nanoparticles, molecularisation, multiplicities, dissipation of corpuscules. “silenced nocturnes of corpsal devour what edge from which to follow thankless chance : insectal crawl through fleshed night capacity : lack to : haven spell : danse of one thousand fragments unlimited expansion whereof in kaleidoscope is to shatter of in pupil gaze where sound dies down : fingers that reach for nothing of given to wilt to recoil to dissipate in bodily time : excess of bloom where to breathe of is the lightless passage through one sequence never of before “. here we have the veritable tanatography, teratomatosis. “this is nothing” Michael deadpans. “a useless whore of unspeak of soundless restless blind a dance of whispering winds caress the skyline’s promise no it remains unseen untenable “. ‘whore’ here not misogynistic, a torchname radiation, all the previous and thereafter; “of unspeak”. it is precisely articulating her possibilty of many speeches, of speach and spurs. I will end my review (while there was a lot more in it,because I wanted to cite at least one page of Michaels staccato onslaught of language, words, lexicology, the instance of the reader, the attick corner of the writer). “elected to this a broke stone tragedy of cards cast no await of dawning into to become of some never having been or otherwise decide it otherwise decision nullfeeding frenzy of hyenic final laughter as if to mock what tread is of nor other claim or no what from/ why from distance no rooted to given to speech declaration a bloodless night collapsed into of which until tidal opulence of blood come to shores of till dread of which haven lack all shadowing devour colours of which of absence tidal oceanic spillage of breath where to embalm is to nothing ever waste wounds terse where to closure space lack of definition one singular edge to caress a razor silence all at once unsaid to drift whereby cold drift of broken amulets seeketh from as night impenetrable bite downcrest to fall upon where to shiv is to breathe spectral as given in shadow timescale of desert clime absent ofsky no linger taste of ashen promise where of in now of which flat-lined eyes that seek to utterance collect lime quarry of searing membrane a shattered glass pane of transparency inept as ever once of other than cold weight to lack other of through which dispel seeketh solace drought of echoings traces burnt to dust…as if to/ all but once never favour of adrift skull compress a sequence of riddled flesh meat to tear throughout…cauterize of once cannot neither of in final as seeks semblance to taste nothing of being-in emptily drag of pelt across absent landscape stone clad as burning of where flesh to be is sickness of where to nullity bankrupt veins a/ motion lack of absenteeism where to having birthed once in absentia in reek of blood’s tidecalls cards they are spent as rotting 54 orchids adrift in some foreign breeze settling in distance obsolete breathed to un-sky trace of lock-a adrift speechless as of once ever of some shadowing collects in din refusal echo to trace reverberate of skyline sieved by fingers cold dust of voidal exigency of bereft light end till none lapse of throughout a shimmering of halo tread of limb warped colourings bite in darkness overture vault to breathe of effortless to crush in thin lights subtlety of blade to caress in fleshed abandon eye see eye sees once or other a scattering of embers in shit breathless of to burn of it a knock a silhouettesilence bleeding out where once was of sustained as of in which till of what of in or less than as nothing of obscure distance no longing for to burn as of blackened meat dissolve spasm tread throughout gild of absent razor slash eviscerate to the hilt of ash an evacuation of piss of shit-stained dusty sheets blood to lack as of some colourization as limbs once foraged die down in listless slaughter mock of stitch of some reclamation taste of desire in haven of where to flesh is to absolve is to breakage subtle cold light as if in which of uttered blank space a point of light to fade as a pupil’s invertinter-spasm of line drawn white chalk through spacial lack of definition a mercury of shimmer bleed dredge of in nor of a gouge of mouth stretched before unknown clad in pelt of nothing ever rind of breath scarred without longing for to settled within of spoken unto where none of being is of else in dreamt of spoken of what shiv to trace throughout where to of abode blackened sun light absence of sky corrected if yes or of breath shredded of purpose other than through 55 I have remarked this before, but we’re near Linneaus, the Linnean ‘listing’ of all plants. if often the connecting words are gone we get a new sensorial KGB CIA MOSSAD texting module. it is inescapable. if Michael summarizes: “extract broken terse obsolete words prayers “. theology without theology. I’ll have to leave it at that, not because cursing is Verboten but I shall not leave before I have given this lemmatum of absolute admiration and the testimony of Michaels substantial geniality.

Aad de Gids/ Zuzana Susu 03/21…


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