These last few loose-sand hourglass years have left ends bloody and wondrous.
Portraits in rot or rotted.
No thyself.
None.
I shall explicate.
For me:
Wisdom’s greatest aperture-offering in these slickered times, the most di-rect insight granted of the true-gossip, which in steamed gathering powers our floating world — determining something, something — the shape of some egregore, a coyote outline that’ll report to you lies of omniscient promise, accurate consensus tallies totaled of the ALL-SEEING ALL-KNOWING ALL-EXTERNAL . . .
glowing, glowing:
Not-Me, Not-I, You?, sometimes you, yes, You, beloved and below, and Others as well, alla-y’alls perception of “Me,” the topic of nothing, the №1 No One, that nasty critter, this unsavory dramaturgical vanity project I’ve undertaken as life-performance for the past Nine-Thousand Years or so, now — the whizdom was magick-gifted to me by an international art-sharp, poolside of An Historic Hotel in HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA.
Said we were both challenging.
Said it natural-fact plain, simple.
Said other people said it.
Other people . . .
Images form.
Other poolsides, other gossips.
“Challenging.”
And I think on it now, still — unendingly wending the paranoid seed, chewing old feasts in isolation’s famine . . .
At various points in life I have exhibited psychotic competitiveness.
This was the foundation of every ounce of conventional success I ever stole.
In truth I’ve trained myself to stray from it, outwardly.
Outwardly . . .
“My rejection was voluntary and purposeful.”
— Lounès Matoub
THE EXHIBITION WALL ▮
‘A New Challenger Explodes’ is generously presented by M̲a̲i̲s̲o̲n̲ ̲M̲a̲r̲t̲i̲n̲ ̲M̲a̲r̲g̲i̲e̲l̲a̲.̲
a 𝙂𝙐𝙄𝘿𝙀𝘿 𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙄𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 . . .
WRITTEN & REALIZED by 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍-𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄-𝐎’𝐃𝐔𝐁𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍-𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎, uncaptured & unaffiliated.
✶COVID✶YEAR✶ZERO✶
BUT ENOUGH . . . about_me.txt . . . . . NO:
L0s-aNgeLeS-bAsEd tRaNSMEDi@RTISt and disreputable Late American swindler-charlatan-saboteur, champagne’s hateful hiss and greatest hits, offensive charm, overwhelming, anthropic art’s final champion, chirp world’s bulwark, Mimesis’ Nemesis, masked, misguided, a gunfight in an abandoned Stygian desalinization plant, a blindness advocate in the oedipal-sense, pornish rex, innard reversal, the cursed turd, Percival Pringles, a can of toxic frost, a carefully-branded fashion and lifestyle corporation, a tightly-edited selection of deceptive images, a tight-fitting trouser-tug, noosed contradictions, aloof parade, crematorium smoke-rings reaching for a dying sun, Homeric lungs, Margerian grumbles, lost a brass Margiela bracelet in a soup-shop in Koreatown if you ever find it, looks like a bicycle chain, used to think it was really sharp and clever to flick it around on my wrist and allow the haptic feedback to wash over me as it traveled up and over and down the length of my forearm, and No I’m Not Autistic, No I’m Not, No, No I’m Not, Okay Maybe, But Not Like That, The Other One, and I bought it in New York City and wore it all over the world, which are two places that I’m certainly NOT right now, I’m in 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒 baby, I’m in the jungle cat, I’m-a gonna die.
Really though, I miss that bracelet.
verses,
TINPOT DICTATION:
Just got off a bus.
That’s a lie.
A short spurt of verbiage spun up for nothingsake.
Same records on repeat.
Intrusive thoughts tiring of themselves.
Threadbare fictions.
For all the Huntington’s roses . . .
Great literature sprawls. Literally. I impute no moral valence.
𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧
“Fuckin’ awesome, man.”
Brent attempts to spit on the sidewalk, drools a loogie landing on his brandless canvas slip-on Payless tennis sneakers. Your ass is touching his, and the unsturdy milk-crate you’ve borrowed may collapse at a moment’s notice.
Turns to you, he says:
“i heard the kray twins fucked each other and hitler watched and then when reggie was ready to blow dolph said C’MERE BIG FELLA yanked him out of ronnie’s ass and took the entire load all over his face and then sucked it up in his mustash after word,”
said it all lowercase, just like that, red underlines in your mind, white underpants in your mind, now I’m controlling you:
Great literature is teledildonics. Metaphorically, but you know . . . signature_smirk.png
Time, taken.
Space.
There is a purpose:
Induction.
LIGHTNING HAVING STRUCK ITSELF, LIGHTNING HAVING STRUCK ITSELF, LIGHTNING HAVING STRUCK ITSELF,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
stricken,
Ships shape shift in sunken battle . . . Ugliness calls me into being, demands me . . .
We need us to be here now if we’re going to do this together. CO-OP?
CONTINUE?
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
Do you want to? Do you want to? Do you?
Do you want to “X out of me?”
“X OUT OF ME?” “X OUT OF ME?” “X” OUT OF ME?”
Exalt me?
Often I do. It’s true.
Spotless ex machina.
HIT MY MUSIC.
THE SUN SHONE ON THE BORROWED AND THE BLUE
HAVING NO OTHER CHOICE
I GUESS I’LL STAY HERE WITH YOU
WHEN I’VE TALKED OF TAKING LEAVE
GRIMLY GAUGING GRIEF
HOW ELSE CAN I CONCEIVE
IMMACULATE RELEASE
IMMACULATE RELIEF
SPOTLESS EX MACHINA
A COCKPIT DEPARTURE
IT’S TIME TO FLY
I serve as an activist only because I am called into so-being through the abdicated volition of the passivist masses:
𝙰𝚁𝚃-𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁 𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙸.
𝙰𝚁𝚃-𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁 𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙸.
𝙰𝚁𝚃-𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁 𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙸.
↯
I do not choose it, did not.
I arrived, and now I grow, long.
The colossal shadow of the weak shit of this world.
