Evan Isoline 日 01/04/2021 · admin No comments


The infinite value

can no longer stand its burden of rancour.

Ultra-paranoid, it lacks all perspective

in the shifting perception of nuances:

Of circles that decay in the ulcerated prisms of the eye

of pixelated landscapes, melting and verging on constant obsolescence

still running like lava through the retina’s walls

taking into its gelid, vitreous reserve an infinite number of gems

already parabolic, conveying the form
of ivy-leaf latticework, all aglow, but oh, so fragile in the moment.



With gestural inferrescence

Languid sate upon myself in the piss of phoenix

From dreams, all this is missing, or simply blown away by my spit

back through nodules and vesicles until the spiral churns with tears

spit of dying spermatozoon profuse with spit of death.

With gestural inferrescence, dreams

blow away in lacteal rage we ride the seeding fractal devotation of bytes into a white tear of spit

low extradiegetic cloud seeds in the vacuum of an auto-representation


given a crucified terminus

gathered all the perfumes of odium in its remnants

simulating the soft genesis of cerebrosity.



If there is a unifying function, my body is memorized by these cameramen

I’m a tethered capacitor to the bright pelagic cell-windows

A sacrificial screen for a week’s worth of light

my orgasm comes in tenths

like zebras, mating on the sun

vasodilate the empty regions

where sugar and angel must be lily

The smell of you


You smell like a lot of things

(Sleeping in the divinity’s puking rust)

a dog ran backwards and forwards over the cobbles, bending down, up…



Denuded of varia, light arrives, shocks 

the eye so much that we can watch

the eye as it dances from the cleft

in the squamous border, awakening

with dawning salinity a glistening lock of eyelash,

extending backwards across the trigonal cross, then

twisting and angling just a little, crossing

with acute terseness, the inner opening of the iris.



No, tortrix your milk will never be moths

Let it be here it is there

once kept drunk at the friary of the dripping candles

Hindsight sightless

I must be a dimmed observer

How quickly it is the cool filth of cinema that turns my tongue into decay

Harsh negative adjustments to prove the incumbrance of my commodity in the sex of the other

and my tongue haunts me

made as it is by a cleaver of diction.



Once, the vine within these blasted branches fed on the fumes of hummingbirds

and the gown of pale celluloid colors illuminated

for me puréed aubergine the smoke within which wept and shook

so unlike these slip-crooked pathways fading on the moraines



And what’s this I hear, in the dark? Is it the sound of cricket wings?

And was there a circle drawn around the curvature

of my dilated pupil then?

And when was the infinite made non-preemptive, non-catastrophic?



I got burned

The vernacular sweet-balm for the caper berries of grief is my portent

I know the well-worn circle is death to you

Aurora borealis aside

Where would have been the joy

of seeing in such shallow color?

That for you this theatre is no white-out

is a fate and it’s welling, and now you of theatre satisfy my nightmare of daisies



Here are a group of people who have come to see a movie.



Whitewater wretched, screens send goosebumps at the cold firelight’s snot dripping on the furrows of my melon-sides

I find, for some reason

that to entertain is not to define.

It was the ablative line that first drew attention to my teeth, I was humming a movie

I don’t know where I am on the line and I’m chewing up the candy

then there’s this nothing-to-do but begin-the-hunt feeling

but I’m prone to mocking

those hummingbirds who actually draw on the bottled vermouth fumes.

Perhaps I take pride in fatal traditions

I say it’s nothing to me

if you give me a splat of sextant so steep in thy pinewood

too tired to hold on to the wretched pace of days

awake too many hours; or just how

I’m too damn tired for the carousel at the center of this Giza of silence

or just maybe

I am the carousel at the center of this Giza of silence.



An x-shaped hook

with bristle tissue, x-flowers, x-signs, x-crosses,

where the rest of us go straight, stick straight, upright.

Pulsing: piercing the flesh

flora that wants to suck us into its brunet glow

and to drink the light that filters through…

The light comes from resinous glints, through filaments to plasmic

platitudes as we press flat, collapse, entomb, shed,

furrow the bed sheet across the swells of haptic sand, escape the light,

and return to sleep.



Pretend we have run out of parasymptote

into sundry motorettes of auto-analysing rhymed language

out of virulent data

impulser of virtual loops and modal proverbs of auto-completion

of auto-mocking conjectures

A stroke

of the drill, spouting black nova spray…



And what did white mean then?

And how is it connected to the waterfall of my blood?

I guess what good is a robin if not for the omnicide of rats

and where is the cubist effulgence, where then before silence the eternal gesture?



The dog jumps, the smell from the cinema is the incense of the bordello


The only false thing in me is fear, the dog who shits the song of the flesh,  sometimes I forget that the past has a scent

Mutton carcass

Let your tonguing of trees taste, the meadow of the conch moon

My sombre morsel

Confirms in me this hammerhead phobia, cinema-smell of the fumes of mad desire, decay offset with a camphorous spice of spit-tinged rosemary, of his gunmetal eyes and his stink

The mummy of filth, who has just come out of the film. The slit de lychee, lychee fumes become my filth, of arsed clots and sacramental sunbursts, ocular nerve sores, corroded in the things of my night.

Cinema, taste of sulphuric gas, the egg-smell of cinema, the motor of the boat and the taste of the smoke of petroleum, the taste of the smell of algal blooms         My nostrils grow black


with the smoke of vomit



When I

opened the top, the petals were blank,

there were no petals at all       no petals

pre-emptively cut into the soft flesh of all meaning

out onto the edges of a screened window, the double-blind shade

dusted with specks of white, black and grey, reflected

by the draperies of azure and cobalt, the tactical screen

floating before us on the stygian morass of our dismembered images

water droplets gathered on the edge of the flat lid and splattered on the glass; and the blood: 

of both the petite et tant enigmatique

and the dogmatic and volatile

like a white stain



Blood, dry and bright white is what blossoms at the edges of those earwig eyes

like they’re feeding the seraph of Verona

they’re feeding my cuticles black light

you’re feeding on the mane of the seahorse, you always are

drinking in my violet boil the sun’s anointed plume

behind a faded sequoia, come frail, come faltering for sentiment

to wrap around the golden selvages where

for volume in catallaxy

all the moons, moths and stars clutch

slightly in their milky-penal sonography

where the wild little wolves that drank me

excipitate in cleaving to the

briny aquifer

its ephemeral formation liquidised

flooding the meager ploughed grain that had yielded a gram of flesh, once within my wet web of indignant ecstacy…



Swirl, swirl, and turn inward to the lacuna of the retinae

giving rise

to a shape which draws the eye backwards

concentrating it on the quadratic tangent as a psychic tentacle

leading the eye into a metamorphosis

of meta-refractions: If it weren’t for the gem-droplets

expressed on the gray tissue of the glaze

of the iris, would there even be an eye, at least?

To wrap his body in a gentle trapezoid

the pattern and symmetry of the florets

drawing his love slowly inwards, into the midst

of the collages with psycho-anthropological precision

I see a ciliary microstructure

in the minute division of the lash



Measles, talons, peristome slits

and falling, I lean forward, swaying, stretching,

asunder the afternoon

I reach up, hold on to each downward tilt

till it becomes a graph, a taut line

I’m holding out the nakedness of Saturniids

The axolotl          the dripping axolotl      the glowing axolotl

I’ve never heard of true nocturnism

but there I am

stroking the envelope of fire into crystal into an abyss of nothing

angle-sick; through the sea of blindness from the rim I await an answer in the delta of void

I suppose this is part of the dreaming, so black the sequins

a deeper and more secret misery can’t one be

at a thought

beneath the solution

in saline all down one side of me

then it was my only way out of eternity



a pinhole 

in a pinhole 

in a pinhole…


Evan Isoline is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. He is the author of PHILOSOPHY OF THE SKY (forthcoming from 11:11 Press) and the founder/editor of a literary project called SELFFUCK. Recent work has been published or is forthcoming at 3:AM Magazine, Full-Stop, Always Crashing, Surfaces.cx, Witchcraft Mag and more. Find him @evan_isoline.