Fuck the facts, there’s no romance in a parabola. You win.
Imprison me, you slime; ratchet up those hiccups / right and wrong
Are dual suppositories of proletarianism / and I’m all that’s left.
Adagio, Adagio: We are the offspring of a chokehold, and I will double the carbon.
But the white-out is because of my love! Fuck the white-out.
Bubble, calm down, quiet the churn, covet the target off my gauge.
The meniscus of computational death is too black to fertilize my verge.
But what you did with your fingers, split me apart, infest me /
Go King. Step to the sum of the stars in the hairy shine /
Gawker. Sub-Sumer Queen / jungle warps your schematics. /
Go you puss. Shine for me sweetish vibrating siren. Glow for me sun.
I walk into clouds / brass knuckled / screw you, such awful ache of white.
Harken up to audition as a freshly plucked calf / Yawn.
/ More jungle. Blood staining the leaves. Tutorial violence. BDSM.
/ Shine up boy / Bloom up, good to go, shade of brambles /
Sprinkle your choice wherever your walk / Shine up, boy /
musty linen and anesthetic grass / good to go, boy, shine up!
Skulked by akashic torques, bounded by versatility /
So bleaked by the fissures of a deeper torpor / with and without host /
/ Uncovered, loathed, and then sustained /
as a mélange of oxymoronic dance scenes / in kestrel wombs /
or under various subjectivist taxonomies of symbolic submission /
Chorus, shower of frogs, choir, torrent of flames!!!
I’m on so much stardust that it’s quiet here, in the desert /
Larded up on action, mine isle is this, whose shimmer turns to sullen flame /
Crimson from the noose like parasitized fruit. /
Lord, I could dance any direction, could run any length of the stage. /
Everything is in my love! Fuck it, I’m delighted. I’m delighted!
And for a quartermillionth of a second, the romantic irony is back
You would stoop and beg, or kiss me the same as a bullwhip /
But try you, or gurgle like a wound with the mucus of your lumen /
Sky / ye lapped my sabaton like a syringe / all your flounces open /
Sure to incense the highly scarred rivers which veer and veer /
Through rows of bridal eyes trapped in compasses.
& soon all is blurred, as if the tadpole-self is moving to the mainstage /
Pulsating / as of a pale, gaussian mask crest forth from suicide /
As if a cuntless manikin were a second heart, the stupor of trapezohedrons
Teeming with time patterns, vesical stigmas /
Flopped upon the polished alleyways of music / I come / pale / new
/ An anesthetized little grub.
But, my friends, if you think for a moment about such things, then you may catch your own reflection.
It’s all color, it’s all play. Fuck. Guess it doesn’t quite tally up.
Calculus killed the larks that once reigned in my stare like a place.
Blossom / and feral pearl / of bright happenstance eclipses / that
Novitiate “me” / that crawled in pyramidity / pre-Caligulated, / at the
Circle’s thin, invective slippage there, fully antonymous / damping on
Sucked-off flowerstalks / O no, the muss of the field impregnates me to tears.
/ Come on. Rectal, then, oh, this is nauseous, on bonsai, I’ll do
Better, you come on my firecracker, your
Exits are elastic / and this kaleidoscope won’t even smolder against
My teeth. /
Fried bug smell of I.
The voxels burn.
Clambered atop girth; and this silence only seems to gird
The eldest of my egos, windowed from the wound of its peripatetic youth
/ Ye murmur to the rustle of vellum / To hangover the poles of quadrature as a sign /
Sham kisses belched over the blusher / pusillanimous shades /
Nipping the slurge all thread-like, my pupillary piers pronged by susurration /
& wetted the inroad with sweat-thickened felts / all itchy-blue /
And zeroed along the footpath / I tore my umbrella to bits.
King / prince / child / nectarated / reek of chiton / the pollens blaze
And bob / the dullest princess roses bare their wanton weld-marks / and
Jest-out in offshoots of what they gestured once so sadly, in formaldehyde /
/ Click click click for a fast, vast vista / rabbit loops and kerosene quilts /
The mime outside uncoiling / jammed in overlaps / of other Queens / voyeurs / savants
Corrupted by the gaping metaphor of the poltergeist’s mind /
Veiled or yawned, each eye /
By faith, my steps collide with sunflowers in arboreal fathoms
/ Soylent compared to silent life in the sarcophagus
/ Machine set to meatboy sea /
The psychosis created the phylum / So empty
They reeked of sprezzatura /
Flail / wretch / strangle / choke / swoon / spasm
/ Inconvenient sermons in this lockjaw for hogging / bisexual venom
/ On the crosshair’s maze and stooping derision smeared with scurf
/ Autodidactic figurations of narrative terms /
Hissing or glissading again.
Part auteur semiotics. /
Part homogenous insect youth. /
Yes, the apogee, the apogee!
White cactus juice, that furtive, runs from the pimples of a marquee
Of the cilice / of riddle / of all that one may suppose / of all that one saw
Tattling from the bottom of the mariner’s pyloric sneer /
I excised a scalding scrim of coherent adulation / ash-lapped
For the fruits of algorithms, and the masonic orange-and-red stains
That grew on the mesh of the Cartier mirrors.
Who am I, to connect my virginity to the faultline / the discount homuncularity? /
Canticum / incipient technocratic government / this meat
Doesn’t need any fucking help getting into your stomach. / Fuck / clarity for clarity
/ The leavings of flea shit / the nothing at all / the all en masseness of stoic
Vertebrate mundanity / infrasound locusts tearing at the axon /
Beneath drooping sprigs of sylvan dogbane /
No plunge wells your perforations /
Piss all suns
People will know the truth when they know it. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.
I was surrounded by miniature infernos. Fuck it.
I pissed like a boson.
Evan Isoline is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. He edits an experimental publishing project entitled SELFFUCK. His full-length debut is forthcoming from 11:11 Press.