War of All Against All – Evan Isoline
March 15, 2021
Cracks in surfaces, bellum omnium contra omnes
and séance
I’m talking about absorption
The severed hands on tables in dreams I’m talking about crystallized fluids
You think that I’m dancing, well, that’s what I’m doing
Ascending (racing) my recessive genes of conflict
killing insects and sniffing resin
compartmentalising the static.
I want a tradition of purple smoke to put together a precise code
of how to open up the coital plexus
It is time for the language of sentiment it’s time for the lemonade bruise
to extinguish me in names like differentful
I am against naming
/
Names,
like you that I came from lost
the meaning, sickened to the taste of signs
Watched my stomach grow a limb
up the other side of this fast
Watch them put the ceiling in me back—
I would even fall down to make that
frightened, unassimilated thing
here and now
a paradigm of indifference,
silent except for the tarantulas.
/
Transnational love then abductive joy
unscorched faith, shanghaied reverence
runny petals on coyote skulls lead to a pox of lilies
quenching my thirst for sorcery
Tired old witch come, all the wilder
feather-drenched pride long nursed, straight-faced male cat licking, burn my home with acrid triangles but still
there are no screams, and as yet, no commotion;
all my sins forgiven, no curses—
What is the relation of sin to destiny?
This question is what meandering is for
Walking upshore
reaffixing the salt-cliff with tetrameters
not made from dead star in the plane of damage.
The reflections of illusions (they have eyes too) that kiss me blackly
imprinting stripes in velvet on the abdomen of the sun,
The thou—the thee, the I and then—
my vulgarities blend with phrases of liturgy
around scents of vomited bodies.
My revolts abscond when with locklicking grace
here without now and about
out between fat teeth and tightening wet stone
Permadeath, deliverance, or alexandrine pain
ipsifies the lapidary
and purrs in the loin of gnarled fruit, dogs barking
where blue geese dream as the tidal swells wash across their flocked pillows
uncarved
this present egg we clutch beneath the
pyramid of eyeballs
The birds clacking and rolling over, too.
/
I’m waiting for peace… panting, breathless—
no tug-of-war, like the seamless coquille that whispers us. Blow, weave and hone for awe’s sake, our fragrance rides the humid air like a bullet in the root—I shackle a record of rage—fumbling with an other, an incantation as compelling as the very self within; and I am manifestly blessed
in pique amidst the word’s first orphan
There is hope in the amount of we
we know not yet
I want this conversation to mean something
so free in the frictional
death of its warp
that the flowers raise their gaze from their satanic cupids to give us proof
That each leaf of a rose’s forehead
becomes a universe—
Each a carrier of time’s light
from which one is born
off the branch of a milk snake’s den in soot,
off of the Earth’s flat face—
A thousand times a thousand dreams
a long day with no boss this slow project
slicked wet with the tears of sunsets
with no answers, an avenging shape that is what it is
/
With grenadine lips the mosquito
kicks off of Gog and Magog
the eagle’s an airborne pond of floating ashes of mountain
heathens filled with holy ravings of an unbalanced series of mixtures
of octangular brooming
an obvious link between techno-emotionality and the room ambience—
I’m restless, overly sad, unconnected, nervous, frightened, shocked and incredulous, very upset, annoyed, ashamed, surprised, hurt, infuriated and wondering why my brain isn’t in synch with my body—
I am one half of each pseudo-syllable crushed between parentheses, separators, commas—
I am so universal I am so interminable I
from oms
Lose, wont
a resonant supernova pouring straight from the snapdragon spike
Maybe it’s just me
juniperine to escape the ignorance of this mask, escape the tale
in the constitution more than the superstitious tide
of slow orioles—Maybe it’s semiotics, or the moony mezzanine of sarcasm and cantillation
why I park my cursor on the electric chair
It’s the Giant in the Dwarf It’s Susurrations It’s the Crystal Pierrot
and I wonder if somehow, in the presence of what seems to be a great symbiosis, of (soundless) distortion, hyperbole, nausea, hectic motions, idiotic languages of invective, the cadres, the grotesquerie, the syntactic inversion… are we reading the history of our scene written on the walls of what was once a room in a house? When…
dulce de leche from its
barbwirecocked
mnemonics-of-loneliness
after being crooned by mad maidens in brusque monstrances, make and strip out of bloom-scenes
to the starched image of the crucified lord, your neighbor
painting with the guts of its child
and I want the mirror I asked be thrown away
all the way to the south
you’ve kissed me with windshield glass my fatigues are in shards
and every man and animal can see right through me
The cake of mother’s tongue is fruity with cornflower
my feet are in sand
dreaming my heart is heaven’s plea, was it heaven?