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?