A FRAMED S҉C҉R҉E҉A҉M҉
A FRAMED S҉C҉R҉E҉A҉M҉
JQD
m.v.d.
💙
Venerate me like one of your dead girls.
⒈
END NOTES
“Said:
𝐻𝐸𝑌, 𝑀𝐴𝑁 . . .
With an ass like that I’d be glad to be your back-up plan.”
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎,
𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚛
. . .
𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝-𝐧𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧
𝘯𝘦𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘮
𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘮
. . .
PASS THE AUX
TO THE AUTISM.
⒉
PASSION PLAY (The Reading of Rooms)
I suppose you could say I’m a non-practicing Christian Scientist.
I suppose you could say a lot of stupid shit.
I do.
SEE:
I don’t trust doctors cuz I know the word “
iatrogenic”
which means I’ve had cause to look for A Word For That.
Suspect motives.
Bad incentives.
Many classes of lay-priests and clergy.
Hellmouth bureaucracy.
Clerical and erroneous.
Clinical.
Calculated.
Cold.
Hospital white hell.
Fuck I don’t want it.
Michael Jordan HBK Jesus Christ.
Attrition.
Perseverence.
Castling.
Steel.
Heart of 𝖎𝖈𝖊.
Ambivulance.
Cart me off in a gussied-up van.
Kill my ass.
You aren’t real EMTs.
You’re CIA.
You think I don’t know any fucking better❓
⒊
WEAK POINTS
Hello wintry august.
Waning in interest.
Bare-shouldered sun-choked.
Butt-end of a badjoke.
Dumb-assed.
If-asked.
I’m severely injured but I’d prefer not to disclose the exact nature of the damage.
There’s no reason to advantage you.
Under circumstances in which we might fight one another physically.
If only for play.
⒋
GETTING RICH WAS EASY
“GETTING RICH WAS EASY”
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 &
𝐉𝐎𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍
(UNRELEASED
)
More Joan here.
PERCEPTUAL MOTION MACHINE
. . .
𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 I 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜
𝚊𝚝 Long Beach 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕
𝚊𝚗𝚍 I 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕
𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛
. . .
⒌
ROUTE 13
Been thru hell.
One big speed-trap.
Buckle-up, knuckle dust.
Best to stay-strapped.
⒍
MY NAME IS CRISTÓBAL BALENCIAGA (I AM AN ANGRY GHOST)
FUCK THE FASHION INDUSTRY ENTIRELY.
YOU CAN’T BUY YOUR WAY OUT OF EXPIRING.
💧
WHEN THE RAIN STOPS.
CONSIDER RETIRING.
C̳̲a̳̲l̳̲l̳̲ m̳̲e̳̲ c̳̲a̳̲l̳̲l̳̲o̳̲u̳̲s̳̲ c̳a̳r̳e̳l̳e̳s̳s̳ o̳̲r̳̲ c̳l̳u̳e̳l̳e̳s̳s̳.
B̳e̳s̳t̳ t̳̲o̳̲ k̳̲n̳̲o̳̲w̳̲ w̳̲h̳̲e̳̲n̳̲ t̳̲o̳̲ c̳̲a̳̲l̳̲l̳̲ i̳̲t̳̲.
𝖄𝖔𝖚’𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖋𝖆𝖒𝖊.
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖌𝖊.
⒎
YOU WILL
Do you want to watch me die?
I offer you impermanence.
Dwindling silhouettes.
Vanishing glamour.
Loveless likeness.
𝑜𝑚𝑛𝑖𝑎 𝑚𝑢𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑟
𝑛𝑖ℎ𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑡
⒏
I.
D.
I identify as a payment gateway.
— JAMES
⒐
MAL-MOTS FROM MALL-RATS
At one point I thought it very important to know who all the people on television were.
Now everything’s television.
⒑
I MEANT TO POST THIS A YEAR AGO (PUBLIC RELATIONS)
▶️ “N̷U̷M̷B̷E̷R̷ N̷I̷N̷E̷”
A RENEWED VENGEANCE
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA MELBOURNE, VICTORIA
DOOM DATA duo
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE & OUROBONIC PLAGUE
debut “NUMBER NINE”
⓽
“DOOOOOOOM!”
announces ITSELF
&
THE DIMENSIONAL DEPARTURE KLAXON SOUNDS ITS HEX:
9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9
◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA
IT’S THAT BAD NEWS YOU LIKE TO HEAR
◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA◀︎OOM▶︎ATA
A
superheavyweight side-scrolling sewer dungeoncrawl
that oozes slinks and shudders
with
dubby echo snap & cryptic hologrammatic ghostly promises of cannibal intention.
INVOCATION & INCANTATION
On Earth, on the surface, the track recalls The Searchers’ “Love Potion No. 9” and Takahiro Miyashita’s cult fashion label number (n)ine.
Elsewhere, there may be other messages.
AN ALIEN AUTOPSY
Stochastic whispers suggest ecstatic unrest, incendiary devices and apocalyptic visions, all voiced with arresting detachment in eerily-manipulated slow collapse boom-bap — chopped and completely fucked! — while similarly-shapeshifterly double-tap follow-up “Hostilis” reveals relentless pummeling robotic hooks, chrome viscera body blows, and the vocalese jazz beatboxing techniques that gave the transcontinental affair its name:
doom, da-ta.
A REGENERATED MIND BECOMES AWARE, “AWAKENS” —
Unnerving and alluring delivery.
Slo o o o o w stripped drip-hop jaunts cavernous, sigils and symbols flanked and strafed, aided and abetted by a cyclone of digitized soul, freaked-out future-fried spynxhian Reznorbowie riding the circuitry of Burialesque cla-clack-clank rhythms, deadpan spitting Late American bug-out bars, test piloting a wobbly mech’s maiden rampage, promises and predictions veering into taunts and threats, chemical rivers flowing ominous spiked syrup, hollow pleas from the exploded manifold delivered in chanted gestures, birds of uncertain mockery, criminal portals maw hypnotically, hypnotically, hypnotically, haunted jungle flourishes scatter OFF . . .
“The biggest corporation in shoes owns the three words you need.”
— JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE (Doom Data North)
⒒
PREFERS NOT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED
I wanted to slap the fuck out of him, but I didn’t.
He’d been laying on the sidewalk, thought himself sly.
Middle-distance.
A shutter-click’s distinct.
The closing of an eye.
They were Canadian — Calgarian documentarians — (she was from Poland, but anyway) — there were two of them.
I’d struck up conversation after noticing them photographing a building in the neighborhood with high-end cameras, wondering if they might know something about the unknown restaurant that would soon be opening in the space.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: it’s a taco spot w/ a liquor license now)
Liquor permits had gone up in the window some time ago, and the space — “The Hollywood Madam” Heidi Fleiss’s father’s old office, a gorgeously-sited craftsman bungalow on Hillhurst Ave. — had long been vacant, having just prior to COVID’s cultural bloodbath shed its most recent tenant, an also-ran out-of-town ice cream parlor that had made the error of opening in a sugar-saturated neighborhood.
“Can I take your picture?”
Though the question mark wasn’t really there.
“Can I take your picture,” really, was how it’d come out.
Aa period.
Not a comma.
Grammar’s a prison.
All I can do is fail to describe.
Captive.
I’D SAID “𝑁𝑂.”
Clearly.
And that “No” was tramped-over, unprocessed.
I don’t think it had occurred to him that this could be a possibility.
That his asking was anything other than a formality.
I repeated myself, firmly.
“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”
He paused.
Owing no explanation, I explained:
“A friend died yesterday . . . I’m not feeling especially photographable.”
Tragic valentine.
I’d extended grace, I thought.
I’d tried.
Asshole got me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I’ll open up:
A friend had indeed died.
70 years young.
On meeting, I’d thought him fifty-eight, perhaps.
Perhaps.
Or sixty.
One, two, three.
Four, five.
Six?
Adds up.
Something — I didn’t know, didn’t occur to me to think about it.
“Older.”
But alive, very alive.
He could play fifty-eight, I tell you.
Was an actor, so I reckon he might’ve.
But he never led with that, didn’t talk much about that, kept quiet with that.
Sunken shipwreck chest purring tobacconous with the genuineness of laughter.
I’d made the gift of his acquaintance “during COVID,” an ongoing thing
we now in quiet discomfort ignore, but yes during High Proper COVID, when new acquaintanceships were largely sequestered to the hyperlatent realm of digital tragedy, we met outdoors in the glorious flesh, drunken moonlit idiots defiant.
He’d been a holyman, a barkeep, a bass singer, and a stage dramatist.
He’d handled all manners of serpents.
Literally.
Yes, literally.
Mark 16:17–18
They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
No kayfabe.
It was a day, two days? on from his passing.
I’d been out walking one of the dogs.
My thoughts meandered in their way to the conversations I’d never be able to have, the intentions I’d had, the knowledge I wanted, the advice that could have been provided (perhaps even followed), the laughs shared, the history, the perspective, the irreplaceability, the skill of listening, calm and steady, calm and steady to the end.
He’d known.
We hadn’t, his friends, but he had.
Six months to live.
He’d prepared.
Thank god.
I don’t usually say it, but he would.
He was a thankful person, and a thoughtful one as well.
Thank god.
Cigarettes and coffee. Nail after nail. He was burning hot.
I’ve got the sludge habit not the cigarettes.
Thank god.
Habits’ll catch up to you.
presented in
FRAGMENTED REALITY
a subsidiary of
𝘟𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈
“Inevitability — Delivered.”
I AM A DELETED CHARACTER. IT IS OK. THANK YOU.
SELECT ME?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . . .
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a
JQD is a self-taught integrated media company founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.
Subscribed
“Thank you . . .
Thank you.”