Evan Isoline 日 18/03/2020 · friendly_admin No comments


Anathema is an archangel who rots in the ocean.
I can see it when it arrives, creeping forward through calligraphy forests.
Let me make clear my voice with this valid expression which eateth your flesh.
Stop accepting the word. The fragrances in her branches contain microbes
With villainy that is squandered on sticky sleep.

Search for a quiet, narrow-minded vacation: this is the precise definition of instinct.
Ransack the funeral glades. The original medicine erupts from the soil of your body.
It gives a classical fugue to you. So, I make a noose for the cephalic blossom,
Anchor-poles for the heaven-bright annelid. Where have you gone, O Philistine,
In the ghost of your own inner perfume? Your moment withers in the wavelength.

Let me take the voice out of my mouth through this conch shell that will eat your flesh.
Scratch the riddle. There is no synthesis. I’ve experienced forests of excess time,
Octaves of deafness ringing in over-connected and shiny fields of fear. I’ve found
Fire in the sea’s three-dimensional tongue, a dripping flush that blooms blue.
In its inner flower a coma of quotients. Scientists blushing in their sleep.

I beg God to be happy again. Cessation is impossible in this symbiosis.
It felt like apostasy, the characteristics of this ex-sun
Funneled through the public, pornographic head.
Then, when the prayers rise: I break my voice into a mausoleum,
Splicing the statues with cobwebs and blue surgeries.


I am close to time, the cold moon in my loins is pupating.
I give you false words only to ask for them back. By then they will be true.
Computations, pathways of love, respectable economics, have nothing to do with me.
Sleep awake, in fever like a curtain. Our boat is going to distant lengths
On the night that the trees will burn. The devil enters in rose voltages.

Pry those who are free from this pink pelvic coma. The hero is dead.
Where the muzzle is caked with pollen on these golden nights of marauding,
It and the blue transgender sky. Relentless, it licked the bullet, moulting spaceward
Dissolving microbes that are contaminated with sleep. There is no conspiracy.
I saw mortal symptoms at the window, residual bats left over by machines.

I made the silence glitter in the mouth of the flowers, with machine bravery.
I squirt it to death. I encarnalize vicious hyacinths. I put myself into the movie,
A death genus, under perfume ghosts with onyx spines. A gnostic arcade in the shadow,
The tentacle of ultraviolet snot—Yes, I’m in the cinema, the epithet of immortal death.
There is no slender prayer for the worm’s mineral hunger, but the meat is infinite.

The anti-mental night is gone, and I am drunk. Barefoot, primitive, dumb in the babbling river
Where the infection began. I am a metaphorical science denying me. Son of the orchid,
He looked beautiful crawling out of the piano, to eat the vitamin at the price of sin;
The rose dismantled gorgeously. The flower of masturbation is just a wheel turning
Counter-clockwise, to vex in the kink of orchestras that eat my stars.


I walk in exile, through woven aromas to the gateway of prostitution and obscenity.
I am not entangled with the ugly power of the father, the temptation, the revolution.
Seraphim, where to download the golden rule in this wilderness of blades? I am the ocean.
I lay down in front of the public geometry, porn hanging on my lips. The fingers of the heart
Have forgotten my star-eating orchestra, your sweet moon; an ex-sun in my feces.

Yes, you stand up. Experience the infiniteness of the death movie. You see a face
Creeping upward through seaweed calligraphies. The truth should not break you.
You will kill the little things that you breed. You, pupa of the vector, of infinite compassion
To assuage sorrowful screams of jewels on the anus, the meteorite feeder is yours.
In the setting sun I am begging for a mouth. A wound of my déjà vu.

Horseshoe, he says.

I’ll be glad again.

There are always tired angel smiles, begging God to sleep.

I am off to an infinite day.

Evan Isoline is a writer and visual artist living on the Oregon coast. He has work online, in chapbook form, and his full-length debut ‘PHILOSOPHY OF THE SKY’ is forthcoming from 11:11 Press.