We create neither foetal snow nor summertime nightmare in the hornier maze.

Slow dissolve away from scales of water in war-green silica glacial womb-light ulcering acidised eggshell from gray horizon of sprained honeycomb of a slit-out pupil scrapes parabolic instead of these teeth displaying the frozen moltings of diamonds, cold mush of grey all-smelly moon as it arose from the warm puddle under a cloudburst, floor-white bone-spume, all amniotic dolled up to sniff you out.

Throngs of square: hooded kitchen hands are a word, clang, and clattering diatonic brevity, now stab the screen, but what about the movie? My pink tadpole snowstorm. Now to the lungs of phonemes under the realist door whose bacteria lubricates the horizon so tawdry, there is a scaffold of protein, oh how winnowed and with no index, I am not a thief of starfields. I tend to hibernate in cubes. Plastiset into daisies the dull circuit-body of mask (twisting my head out, watching the ocean take the hint.)

The insatiable and creaming fractal.

I forage for a stenciled fish
shape from a cool sea inside a convex sky.
The toll of maim is naught that can not be accounted for by his delusions.

The fabulist, is he not the leech of the finest ferns? I am suntan hiding plotting my nightly escape. The bedhead all fermented placental starry vinegar reek. Because the manifold gnarls of the nub numbs the garden. We join cephalopoids with the flow of linear models:

Smooth the edges of sentences with silly figure eights; murder, murder, murder.

Oh solitude, suck an echo from the mother culture in me. It’s a blueprint for a house; the girths break off at the haunch. Our sebum of limp cambric has evolved.

Biofilm: I claim to defend the instinctual purity of algebraic rot, but this is the animal I eat.

My eyelids climb in resistance to this new literacy. Sorcerer.

I perform an enormous ctrl-z by séance at the stage where I’ve got in my purse the phallic emblem of insomnia
don’t worry, I’m not a whore. I aborted my helix, but I still assume its Tabula Rasa.

Vicious scar-plane on the carotid – xisthmus, ischial membranous border, beautifully crenate, … efflorescing of ectozoa, he observes, steppy day-like fracture ending haemorrhagic on thug-long hiatus where appleholes live and brainworms plough. I come up for air. I bank my identity on their idiotic fancies. Sanctuary, deaf to every trumpet of snores. The angel of science is among the smoking guns.

Water thinks it is solid.

In fear of quarks, declare fat the loins of deluge, the You, a coil of apex, looming tulip-sesquipedalian-surname, you ambient surround-sound current crowd, by obscurity over flux of tourmaline fumes / I ovule 2 you / cracks in the laminate and smoke bloated at its heft.

Ah meadows, for want of their rhyme and
twinned by a worm (for there is a creeping rapture under the soil of those pearl-hued eye slits). My small voice yearning for your prodigies, my hand’s shape-mongering bane
applying sedative to dumb the chameleon dim, shaking bodies into charred, crystalline spectrums, weaving endless strings of traviated screwdot fylgja.

Moist paragon, I, spittling ambidextrous dilettante skull ribbon.

Oh, curiously she who uncurls the doors of utterance with amulets
I’m strumming (on) my bruises of yellow lather
and my curly locks swept clean by a huge flail that gushes when it crumbles. My seraphic diabola inebriates from a red smoke
in the spindle of
the sibyl, the umbilical cords of stones.

I foretold the beginning. Little last miles at the edge of this lull, just as the seagulls ooze. I sledge the hem of Midheaven’s grass-scenting sweet radicchio core, the timbre of purple water runs down to its own disease. Caress me confetti over the opera. I will only masturbate to the planets where you shine.

I don’t want your sacrifices, I eat with my eyes.

(Chant, scream, I am that I am
exhausted by the venom of the rose).

I swell the mossy bulrushes.

I craft a bonfire with my lips.

Draw strong columns of the delphinium
that brand the skull with serpent mounds
and point, astronomically (they’re winging our egg). Ah, cumulus of fire
the sign of purification
they’re blacking-out the e pluribus unum
the noose around which stalks the shagged roots of kites. They flee.

The apex, seeded by subspecies, it is the zodiac which grants the ring a memory to be uncircumcised from the head
oh planet of incest, slip the leash of sanguine gravity; a challenge of verb constancy—an antimony.

I shall sleep beneath the comforting pinnacles, eyelashes painted with a gilt. Logarithmic wayfarer of the average horror, you can set a scrap of an aurora borealis in your lips, they all bloom for sport.

Oh salt god, whirling, burning, aping the weather around
just as far off in the teeth of the turning clock.

We paused in dissoluble bursts.

We rubbed them on the burled rots of terpsichore, slutted-palm and thistle bunches that soon followed. Shorthand for argyle constipations. Our chaste god wasted its screams in minutes.
That we had a pulse was dread to admit.
At first I wardened that out.
But now a greener father waits.

Oh swivel the quasars which mirror you
android cypresses
paler than ornate
start chewing on a cactus that’s been cauterized by the sun. (Speak your union’s flame, oh muse) the perverse act of creating where no one is. The boy without an atom. (Drowning his arrow) = this new who??? -I guess I am what?

Ever sprinkling of my fevered tresses
ever the pericardium
ever the theatres of Babel.

No, that’s just an eyeball solarized in the night. A gloryhole clogged with dead crustaceans. I often breathed in uncontrollable gulps, until that moment, when an older concatenation in me sprang as blue as a plague. No x variable so rough that all y roads make love to me.

A knot of sheep whistled from across the colon of yellow wind.


  1. So ecstatic is my odious incongruity. Slipped in a slide and hid my third clergy, and glurged somewhere in the shipwrecked forests.

I mussed up the bliss
of mummified tears up eunuch in the lucent depths muted by the lute.

Let’s all make movies and stick our heads in a circular saw. 2) Blind try.

3) Gash my finest pullover stratosphere. They who have not rested enough in the wetware are already expanded beyond bounds. Sunken, rifle-bright, all a-rift. Less fang, more horn. Kiss my feet and swan through the palmettos. 4) Reddened apotheosis.

My self-pettiest mask outed at both poles. Or a 17th century parallel. 5) I take my window seat beside the crucifixion. The zoo slips underfoot.

I, obese fire. I, bulimic porcelain.

Marcescence omnipresent renaissance melancholia anemone-grey. Librarian papercuts oh yes I am. Ray-and-valley fungus-haunted drunken gorged nirvana, catharsis of one of those, oh no, you’re not. God is dead and we’re in his murder.

Oh young pretender, preened up in the veils, ay thou the monster bride-draped in the milk of the sun, black as the slag where the dome ceased to speak, stroking the desert wet. All he ever wanted was a dice.

I whisper, “My reason is a vitamin.”

6) Gory white bougainvillea.


Evan Isoline is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. His full-length debut is forthcoming from 11:11 Press.

*Image credit: Terror Blossom from the original TV series Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers.