MOUNTAIN TONGUE

I always wade into the foetid confetti

with a lynxface / and immediately spring / to deflate the brittle

overvoltage

and the ever-more-brilliant

marble of rotten Venus    /    at the end a scrawl makes my name stick to altarcloths

that come stigmata-less as I find my mercury-tolerance

a calf o' th' electrets and panting raptures  /  my mountain tongue.

I suck open rose-moons down my short bumb / coin

couplets which have become kismetized, hold the hem of night

in kisses, quivers of tendons / in an old plain patchwork /

of damask  /  gibber     cochineal

or odd strangeshapes of amber         and dreamsicle in jester jaws

in the muskatorium meal hall / in the milkweed & the yellow shivering tamarisk / with pump-action candles / bong oxide leaves clambering up its caterpillar gut.

You can see how it feels to be in the way of the world, and why I won't go through life all over anew with such a dependency, but wonder who I might be in spite of my self, or on its behalf & right in front of you, riven down through, & flossed up to my florisms. Obey them, they are. Not every activity ripens into disposition. I'm in delusion, every agency, every way.

This shuddered paean on the branches of my lips. Has its bibulous bulgings. Now, when I've made my way in the vignettes of the body, when I lay face down against the horizon in silence, I know what it's like to weigh. Nothing out of sheer pleasure. Ectophilia, and so you have. Staggered. Up a tree with tangelo sloths, maudlin & sirloinette, as we speak, and all the things that came before you, as you lashed in bed, brash, valiant & gagging.

We met at our windows, and we hold well that just after ten

centuries, and our shared solar paroxysm of ice age, did our tadpoles

sprout wings and still gawk up through the iridescent prisms at us.

Or had heeded the (wild and) jilted loots of our faithful heirloom /

northward splashed against the boiling mycelium / jerked to the briny haze

/ charmed & hex tripleting the color

yellow, snow-cowled monks  /  in the chest of osmosis

skunking  up the stinking cots, tocking, wailing /  into their ticked pulsings

to lend the rigor of my chastity ring / an adolescent whirlwind

from the nombrils and their lake of copper doves / planting napalm  

into the plowman's fist: I could swear, I swear, I know. 

I have seen these materials in the kettledrums /

of senile men! / A perfect fruit, the ripe psilocybin

invincible and unharmonious: way back across the bloc

where it can feed the crescendos along

zen quills dutifully dipped in the ugliest ink

through the seedy masses of acid with the wannabe chitterlings

of haruspex  /  through a Red Ryder BB gun

coming out of a pendulum in octavo.

I’ve a trigonometric solution to the reason for night, and yet the
fodder of my prayers is only a clock for us now. I’d rained for so much longer than an afternoon on those lampless white sands, yes a budding of turpentine through my skull's soft fontanels, yes, a day less than the most solemn day I'd ever seen. 

Now, neigh and cry, I'm still young enough to love the day for the
Star, flaming lathers on the skin and the sound of the wind, gurgling diameters.

And the cure on it will not be         comfy in the arms of the fetter’d

muse that we belong to    to the drabbles that spasm between

veins and ache    the gobbly sips        to the last grains of it that

swept through the wept strands

candidated, as a resistance to thought in the transcription of the truth:

/ its wiring, its cutaways, its chainsaws, its long-dead said to be dim-witted, and probably all of these things in the worst possible order of occurrence.

So frozen / So impermanence / I repeat my semaphore / I glock with my diaphanous roll all the flowers of the ashram // O'er the loch, fat-scatted, on with a nagging spray of coed-grey / Walking out in sore origins / I go down on oil rigs.

So glad. / Got a fuller glass / of reality. / The wild speckled tree / needs to be seen as it is, / broken with scars and all. / The angry skidder beat / the biggest imprecision's idiot. / Like a wheel that breaks down / from the yolk of the black bird. / The deformed wheel—its casing cracked and mashed up with a cobweb of jewels, / a clear discharge from under a clumsy invective / shimmering over the fog-wilt / in a benevolence twilit in white surrounded by fields / of rabid dayglo.

Can’t you just see them / sending off letters / to the world / to
us, the polymerization mechanism / letters from the god of jackhammers and door knobs. / Made a subsystem of happy bodies. / Smells like escargot, a leaf crunch, an inverted solver's graphing theorem.

This face of theirs obscured by trees is a well-known billboard for terminal poverty, splashed across the sides of freeway on-ramps

slithering about

with eagle eyes upon the tip of a gun And all this before time starts to spin And I have no idea

But the nettling gobs of good beards, the psychic toymaker, the Captain America with chapped lips

reminds me of a long, lost time, the cake with

fleur-de-lis on top and the cowthistle

Peaches

for my maiden ache      the stinging scald,     anjou      in the shadow

Clutching for life through a sea of errors

open dew.

They shuttered under their swimwear, once again jacking their

phallosomes flaccidly under meadows of candygum

rejecting skin, dressed up as a quince paste late in the days

& swooned in sunsets with the hitchhiking headstrong.

They will stand in the paper possibilities of the future

spurred on by their pounding feet as they bleat

all strains abound, all cordoned off

on an island out of time

a hinky, dinky, town

no tide no periods

By Evan Isoline

Evan is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. He
is the author of PHILOSOPHY OF THE SKY (forthcoming from 11:11 Press) and the founder/editor of a literary project called SELFFUCK. Find him @evan_isoline.