Scythe Dream – Evan Isoline

March 20, 2020

1.

 

Neon gills of the mirror, a thin ocean to infect death. 

        I am the (anti)theater-shaped memory. 

I had a torch for a mouth.

As a carnival : death : I let it wander, flow from the

flower-shaped 

climax.

Meadow covered by the drip                                  of

a face

A wandering eclipse. 

I curtain the ocean to infect dead splashes with

shattered dirt.

                                                                     A

                                                         dripping

        rash   

of neon-days. Splashed with smoke. Memory is slit

on its side.

I am grazing, stars crash.         This bright

sleeping cutter.

Synonymous with “dead meadow of the eye.”

SCYTHE-DREAM.

Inside, I crawl through the dilated gills of the mirror

into the fraud 

                                                                            of

the ocean. 

I curtain the abyss.                                 There is a

splash of dead 

meadows.

 

 

The night sky is eye-catching 

and my blue whisper splashes the claustrophobic

trees 

in the shape 

of a sail.       Orgasm’s moon-body of grey cork. 

I have to burn a postcard to leave this theater. 

 

I crawl through the diseased screen. I curtain the

head.

I’m in the sky, but the grid was cracked, and

the screen’s pale hand eliminates you…                     

Sail: 

a skull that looks like a sky.

 

I’m your wet splice. A dead splatter-shaped climax.

 

                Carnage, however, of this unique

                change

                is a bridge of neon days—

Later on in the knife dream

 

                there is a dread that you encounter 

                in a skull-shaped mire. 

The mirror is the fraud of the sky. 

A moon that drips from the sail.

 

I have to burn a postcard to leave this world. 

 

 

Memory is grass-stained /              a fraud of the

wounded matrix / narcotic lawn 

A skull of crowds.

(You in a striking climax).

I crawl through pixels of sky. Make an ocean

Synonymous with “dead grid of mucous

membrane” (theater-shaped) 

New flesh. Or, drip of fire. 

 

I’m in the bright dungeons. My mouth is a wet torch. 

Charred postcard to leave the blossom of death,

                                 I let it wander, float away from

me into the 

                      television sky. 

 

                 I curtain the suicide. I crawl through the

world-shaped climax.

                                       Splash of dead sky : a

casual blasphemy.

                Scenic self-disagreement. Infected

      meadow / grid drool                                  

      streaming from my scythe. 

                                        The mirror is slit in the

abyss. This splatter / drip 

                                        of double death, the

culminated stain of lightning/              

                                        shattered dirt. 

Scythe to screen—Sky: The chronic logic of the

mirror 

to reflect luxuriant / scattered hemoglobin / soluble 

by the dead sparks 

dripping from orgasm’s sail.

Your symbol of the sky was a drooling grid :

            a drug-induced mucosal membrane 

            (sail-shaped). 

                                  This lightning

                                  —stained 

                                  metaphor

Has a scythe in its side. 

 

 

2.

 

Clicking on the kite icon    

To win your wings in the water 

In a striking scythedream

I went to Saturn’s TV station to die.  

 

A new one of my choices glows.  

Let the flower drip through the death slit of the

telescope 

Into your father’s mouth                           [the bitch of your

point of view]. 

 

A phoenix will follow 

The bullet through his head, into fulvid skies 

Letting the TV die. The sun over the God-bridge into the ocean.  

A butterfly wing writhing.  

 

It is memory that has replaced my mouth  

A lunar polynomial 

        mesmerizing my voice.  

Fill the grave with wildflowers.  

Fuck me now. 

 

 

Oh Pharaoh, newcomer to death,  

Enter the crowd (writhing).  

Hurry to the center    

Saturnal wheel-chamber of the cocoon (Movie-

God) :  

But wrapped in the voracious blue cellophane of

murder.  

Blue-chilly sounds of mathematics 

Fill the void. 

 

And again I was born 

With a mouthful of cockroaches  

To illustrate an alternative to the virgin Spring.

The star kissing the freshwater of the abandoned

hole  

        [the blaspheming code] 

One hyper-ectoplasmic sun at a time. 

 

And the sucking-meat brought distortion, 

Reducing the nexus to its petal-splattered base. 

 

Fear in harmony with  

        Blood lawns.  

Slim neutron of the empty ocean: 

Memory is an 

        incision of water. 

 

 

Oh blue eyes, sunflower torn out of the moon 

Form me onto the cross (of the internet cube). 

Eye-catching, scenic as a wounded moon-body

Drooling sparks across the carnage

Dungeons of the television world.

 

This is my first young glory. Sucking a kite. 

 

You can hear a substitute for meat  

        the moist-pink intention is floating  

Closer to the edge of the mirror, leaking

paraphernalia.  

I vividly inhaled the mucosal death of my cliff, the

abacus of 

A deformed sea-haze. 

The body is a spiral of blood and wet revelry 

        [pink bacterial thrush] 

Protesting the dictatorship of the sun. 

 

I promote the luminous maggot. When a kite

bifurcates the tongue  

        It diminishes the ape. Fuck me now—to the

internal organs.  

Narcotic, splatter-shaped, grass-stained

And Death, a cutter

With its own grey cork hands.

 

The [worldview] [of your body similar to] [(kite-

shape)]  

The waves burn.  Movie-God wins his death.