"Michael Mc Aloran's new collection is a series of stunning prose poetry novellas that foreclose on the debt where the lesion was, the small scars in the places where meaning was torn from the broken body. The broken bodies are left to console themselves with alcohol, ejaculation, damaged words. Names do not apply to temporary fragmented things & love is a wound; wherever consolation is, it is not to be found among humans. It is not made of words. Get this book, it is not there to console you for anything or to render the night less murderous. There is no catharsis here, just the naked asshole of a dead god nailed spreadeagled across the sky to remind you of the nothing. & that is the only valid purpose of art." --David McLean