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INHUMATION OF THE PROTOZOON

after Re-Animator (1985)

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» Inhumation, at a distant and achingly absolute beyond > anything > this fly head will inspect the code > of a nameless content: I am to turn myself into a » human solution to this > crime: forced murder at a distance > feeling > of the sun > up ahead it would be for > a second > make like we are throwing ourselves from the bridge, this shall be for > beauty, for > itself >

» A noose of light around the frame > my humanity a living structure to animate what the > machine designed to eat > will eat in all eternity > mankind > to represent itself in its intention to be the machine > in order to be voracious for the repetition > of death > this charade > what would I wear > this body in this moment of the sun > a bat meat in the high voltage > grid > you will forgive me if > I am the object of my own labor > and eat the sun >

» Doctor, > would you advise injection? > I beg you, have a little mercy. > What? No, no. You’ll do it! You’ll kill him! >

» Doctor! I think he’s comatose, Doctor. I don’t see any signs. > Come, let’s go. > Doctor, his pulse’s failing! > Doctor! How long will he be like this? > Is he dead? > Doctor! > What were you researching?>

» Death >

» The invention of language > became a vehicle for immortality > then it became a prison and I would take this > device and find a means to escape > from the body > in which language imprisoned me > so I asked for a new material to live in >

» The theory is not new >

» My reagent is >

» I knew then and know now > we were in a zone > a pocket of absolute horror > cold feline tongues > add to that the homicidal sex drive of the sun > the protozoon had already walked > within > the molecules of my being, I knew > what I had to do >

» This synthesis of letters sounds to me like words > the lavender corpse is quite a lively one > a pornographic murder of the sun, > the pure realist branch > of poetry >

» Isn’t there a difference between that and the metaphor, Doctor? > Is it not perfectly suitable to posit the term “putrid sea” > to describe the biological substance? >

» A necrotic, rotted corpse? >

» Yes, exactly. This could explain my hybridity, > the body, a decaying vacuum that contained > a living virus that, every single moment, eats itself up > to revel in gross physicality > I was a yellow mantis-eye > I watched my self reanimate behind the slime green hex codes. All death is food >

 » So you see, Doc, this reanimation of flesh was a way to address the death of the sun > in exchange for a language > I would like to name it… > something to which you have no recourse > an invention > for there is no other >

» The sun is a lidless human eye >

» Why would I say to you, > rest is a command, > take a break you silly thing, > one day you must learn to sleep! >

» This is why we’re here >

» I believe you can grasp what I have done >

» You will be glad to know this attempt was unsuccessful >

» I’ve never been so exposed as a creator: the blame will inevitably lie on me, because I was too focused on creating, too confident of my plan and abilities, too sure of the results, but what can I say? >

» I am not > a man > I am the sun >

» The laboratory has been stormed and sealed > the meat is not quite the same > perhaps it’s a mistake > tell me if you can > I’ve made a few errors > this language > can you read it > will we become what we were > once more > I will stay the monstrosity my language has made of me > a shifting, meaningless data field > the > human, first-ever > texture of a dawn-colored curtain >

» What does it mean > this species > this body > sex as sex seems > you are who you are > that’s what makes you who you are > meat life which eats meat > it’s too late, to explain the data > I can’t remember > blood red doors > hallways > I don’t know where we are > or even if it’s a hallway > the rooms are very big > and empty >

» Where the hell are we, Doctor?!

» Here > inside of the sun >

» The door of blood opens >

» What do you need to see? >

» The fleurs de lis black slash night-flowering cascade plume > the animal’s eye a black slit whose purpose > is to find the ray > this language > can you read it > will we become what we were > once more > when I close my eyes > what is it >

» I see nothing beyond a room >  a screen > a limit >

» Red split or viper’s fangs red rose organ red > dark red bat wings dark red petals > that’s it, Doctor > once you’ve reached the warm sand beyond this nexus, your dead lips > bitten numb > the work done by the engine of worms > for rank and yellow helio-velvet death >

» Who am I > tell me, Doctor: your speech is sick with a subtle pact, > you I invite to hear my anguish my semen leaking from the deformed cones >

» You are the dot >

» How far is the distance to all of my bodies?  >

» Zero: this is real > death works with no sex; all bodies stand in a continuum of mortifying expansion >

» Welcome back to life >

» Doctor: >

» Nothing is dead >

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Evan Isoline is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. He is the author of the books PHILOSOPHY OF THE SKY and DƐVDMVTH (11:11 Press). Find him @evan_isoline.