โ๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง ๐๐ ๐ ๐จ๐ซ ๐๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ก (ANIฬถCฬถOฬถNฬถISM)๐๐.
CW: slurs, drugs, indecency
"๐ด ๐๐๐โ๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ ๐โ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ "
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ๐ค๐ง
"
โ๐๐ค โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ก๐ฆ ๐๐ โ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐๐๐๐๐ก๐ฆ"
โโโโโโโโโ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ , ๐๐๐๐ข, ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ข
โโโโโโโโ๐
๐.
INTRODUCE YOURSELF (RAIDING COMPREHENSION)
James Quentin Devine is a frivolous quippist.
A distractioneer.
Horror.
Easily dismissed.
And perhaps best so.
This is a piece of shit about something thatโs already happened.
And never did.
The development of a New Religious Technology.
Some โrasslers.
Some poetry.
Some porn.
Some prophecy.
Take a seat.
Talk with me.
Dance to it.
Walk with me.
Wrestle with it.
Dress up in it.
What business of mine is it?
๐๐ผ๐,
thatโs what business.
And I aim to please.
JQD
๐.๐.๐.
โโโโโโโโโโโโ
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ญ๐บ
๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐จ ๐ ๐ง๐ญ๐บ ๐ช๐ด ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ง๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ
.
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ๏ผฃ๏ผฌ๏ผฏ๏ผน๏ผฉ๏ผฎ๏ผง ๏ผก๏ผฐ๏ผฏ๏ผฌ๏ผฏ๏ผง๏ผฉ๏ผก
I am forever writing. I hate emailing people. I hate that I am emailing you.
I donโt want to be an alert. I donโt want to be alarming. But Iโve got some shit to say.
Message notification. โโSignify me. โโSign below.
โโโโโโโโโ๐
๐.
PRICELESS ADVICE FROM A BROKEN CHARACTER
Unwanted advice.
Perhaps unwarranted.
I dispense as I despair:
โ
T๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
Y๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐-๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐.
T๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐.
W๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐.
๐พ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐.
A๐๐ ๐๐y a๐ai๐ u๐๐๐๐ ๐e๐ ๐๐๐๐u๐๐๐
a๐๐๐๐.
โ All systems are engineered to thwart the rise of elements potentially hostile to the efficient and frictionless throughput of approved, sanctioned, sanitized, preordained choreographed product
, pre-chewed paraded and processed.
โโโโโBREAK ME IN HALF &
๐.
ABANDON FANDOM
Get away from me! Get away from me!
As any attendant reader is aware Iโm prone to depression dereliction debauchery.
Distractibility.
Lechery, treachery.
Intractable slackness.
Despondency.
Flickering.
Chemical dependency.
Random abandon.
Shaky.
Imbalance.
Parabolic talents.
Broken works.
Misfiring phantoms.
Cutloose cannons.
Losses.
Implausible.
Long-odds.
And thick, even.
Slumgod slung-low.
Wobble-weaving.
Unstable.
Enfeebled.
Embarrassed.
Elegantine.
Making up shit.
Chryselephantine.
Gilded bullshit.
Disemboweled model.
Cut-up.
Pulped lit.
Cauterized.
Ablaze.
Caught your eyes.
From the stage.
Cross the light.
Come over.
No over.
Other side.
Come on.
Dispatch detachment.
Iโm a figment.
These are fictions.
Schmiss-kissed cheek.
Marked for madness.
The duelist sings.
Of ceded soil.
And planted plots.
Famine looms.
Vapidity accumulates.
Pack you in vacuums.
Siloed.
Silence.
Sigh now.
Itโs far too late.
I just checked the time.
๐.
ATTN:
A tension, a tension.
Ate up.
Six feed deep.
Forfeiture.
To be brief:
Mulched zilch.
๐.
SPACE FLYING TIGER: TRAGICOMIC HUMOURS
COUNT BACKWARD FROM TEN . . . . . . . . . .
YOUโLL COME ROUND AGAIN . . . . . . .
SQUARE OFF YOUR ANGLES . . . . .
SUBMISSION OR PIN . . .
BEGIN.
โ
This damned shared hotel room.
โWell hell I just took a shit and I sweartigod it look like it spellout summinโ in Arebic.โ
Jerry Manetti stumbled out of the bathroom.
โMan flush that shit, I gotta take a shit.โ
Claude โ Mr. Entertainment โ is pissed.
On account of the shit heโs gotta take.
Keeps going
โGoddammit Jerry go flush your goddamn turds, I ainโt flushing that shit for you.โ
Jerry threw his head back cackles and tequila.
โHell no man Iโm gone down the hall trynfind whereโs Imperial Sheikโs roomheโstayinin then see what he thinks on what the Arebic I done shit says.โ
I couldnโt help myself:
โJerry you dumb fuck Sheikโs Italian just like your stupid ass, heโs some poor bastardโs son from Detroit, donโt go getting us kicked out of this hotel starting pointless goddamn shit over nothing, we gotta be in Reno by 6 tomorrow and itโs a TV taping, calm the fuck down.โ
They stacked us up in these hovels, treated us like farm animals.
โJerry go FLUSH THE FUCKINโ TOILET or Iโm gonna put that Cuervo you-know-where you no-good sonofabitch.โ
Claudeโs not usually much of a promo but heโs on one.
โAlright, alright, fuck you, alright.โ
Jerry trounces over to the pale pink clamshell of the toilet lid.
Steadying himself on his palm.
So the flush-handle will stop wavering in sight.
Sends the dirt below.
โThereygo mufucker goโonโnโ shit.โ
Gives a little bow.
Gives way.
Keels over face-front.
Forward-facing bump.
Dummy.
โFuck him, heโll be alright.โ
I surmise.
โHeโs never been in sight of alright.โ
And Mr. Entertainmentโs off.
To drop a deuce.
But heโs overlooked something.
โAW FUCK!โ
Claudeโs loud.
โWhat?โ
Jimmyโs laughing into new bruises.
โI left my damn ring robe on!โ
Oh Mr. Entertainment, whatโs become of your gimmick?
โFuck!โ
And heโs walking around.
Dick hanging out.
Having yet to shit.
Unsatisfied.
Tugging at the ends of his sparkling robe.
Holding the fabric back as it drips.
Walking like a duck.
Jimmyโs spinning round on the ground.
One foot after the other.
Clockwise.
Or so I think.
We drink.
Iโm drunk, too.
Weโre all trashed.
And soon, the hotel room.
Claudeโs in the sink sopping toilet water into a frayed towel.
Pink as everything else in the room.
Jimmy cajoles:
โThey gone call you Mr. Wet.โ
โFuck you. Fuck your ass, Jimmy.โ
โFuck my ass? We all know โbout how you got the job with the company Claude.โ
โFuck you say?โ
โYou heard-ed-ed-edโ Jimmy retches, vomiting a bit, containing it, swallowing it โYou heard WHAT the FUCK I SAID.โ
โYou know itโs a lot of rumors go on around locker rooms and you might wanna be careful whose loose lips youโre slipperinโ in Jimmy youโre on a real quick train to gettrinโ the fuckinโ hell beat outta you.โ
Jimmy attempts a drink, pours tequila all over himself.
โDonโt fuckinโ waste that shit Jimmy god damn we canโt get no more of it right now.โ
These idiots have me talking like an idiot.
It can be fun to be an idiot.
โFUCK!โ
Claude violently shakes the robe, sending remnants of whatever curse Jimmyโd laid airborne.
โGoddammit Claude what the fuck?!โ
Jimmyโs spinning, working his way across the floor, coked-out little crab in whirligig turvy, and in the full puff of powder he kicickkicks his way to the metal transition strip demarcating the bedroom and bathroom, and puts a boot clean in Claudeโs ass, sending Mr. Entertainment headlong into the vanity mirror and its half-functioning lightbulbs, now rendered bust.
Blood.
Guess itโs a deathmatch.
Heโs cut.
Heโs pissed.
Heโs pissed, and heโs gotta take a shit.
Iโm sick of this shit.
Claudeโs full-up with crap and heโs pulled his damn trunks back on and stopped flopping dong and now heโs not concerned with the robe so much as getting to ground and pummelling Jimmy into nothingness.
Iโm gonna have to break this shit up but right now itโs Fuck Jimmy so Iโm gonna let it unfold for at least a while, let him howl and holler and wonder if heโll ever be able to walk again, cuz Claudeโs a hooker, he has an amateur background, he knows how to stretch โem and heโs going to give it to Jimmy in this instance, deservedly so.
And so Mr. Entertainment mounts Jimmy Manetti and slaps him in the face bitchlike and Jimmy Manetti spits tequila in Claudeโs face and then I get real angry about the tequila cuz Iโm not done drinking, no Iโm not โ Iโm not quite where I wanna get yet and ainโt none of us driving to any type of liquor store, not right now, not even the way these motherfuckers roll, hell no, thatโs how you get cut in half, thatโs how you end up never wrestling another match in your life.
Paralyzed or some shit.
Ass-wiped.
๐๐ก๐ข๐ญ.
Shit.
I snatch the bottle out Jimmyโs hands swig deep and feel like a real piece of shit.
But I kind of dig it.
I think I want to suffer.
In fact I know.
Gotta be a martyr to make it in this biz.
Claudeโs hooks set to work twisting Jimmyโs thumb the way itโd rather not go
And Jimmy does howl and holler.
Makes his preferences known.
Claudeโs got him right there at the breaking point.
Edged.
A strategy of tension.
Careers can end.
Mr. Entertainment knows exactly what heโs doing.
I trust Claude.
We came up on the circuit together.
He knows how to take it to the limit.
Hits his marks.
I briefly consider kicking Jimmy in the ribs, but it feels futile and redundant.
โYou cut up my face you dumb faggot!โ
Itโs the 1990s.
If I hadnโt mentioned.
โHow the fuck am I supposed to show up to the arena looking like this?โ
Freehand slap.
โHuh?โ
Freehand slap.
โWhat type of story am I supposed to tell, Jimmy?โ
Loosens the thumb, lets loose a barrage of slaps.
Stooges on stooges on stooges.
Just light enough to deliver the insult of a partial sting.
โHuh?โ
Slap, slap.
โHuh?โ
Closed fist.
โHUH?โ
Just one.
Now Jimmyโs cut, too.
That might be a new nose.
Might be.
โFuck man awright quit shit.โ
Claudeโs off him.
โShit man Jimmy thatโs not looking great.โ
Iโm helping.
Stoned casual.
I pour four of the six remaining ounces of tequila into a glass.
Pink as everything else in the room.
Claudeโs on the toilet.
Door open.
Blood streaming down his face while he grunts out the overage.
Overdue delivery.
We make brief eye contact, and itโs animal unnerving.
โFuck, man . . .
Fuck.โ
Jimmyโs brilliant.
Heโs pitched up a bit from the new nose.
Gonzo goosehonk camaro guido.
In a tank top with his own face on it.
I look at him real mean poke and provoke:
โJimmy youโre gonna sound weird when you cut your promo before the match. Everyone in Renoโs gonna think youโre a pussy now.โ
Itโs the 1990s.
โHell theyโll know it.โ
Iโm a snake.
โFuck you man. Iโm gone write some more Arebic in that fuckinโ retarded mask-uh yours while you asleep you keep talkinโ that shit.โ
He speaks like someone whoโs done it before.
โJimmy I do credibly buy you as the type of fella who shits in a manโs mask and thinks itโs a tickle of a rib but I believe you just got handled like a bitch and itโs time for you to find your beddy-bye.โ
I speak like someone whoโs had it.
And briefly consider pouring the remaining two ounces of tequila directly into his wounds.
I donโt.
Feels futile and redundant.
Claude violently flushes the toilet, satisfied.
โJIMMY youโve always been a FUCK-UP
but you donโt get to put that on other people. You curse! You stain! Now I gotta explain THIS shitโ โ points to a long cut along his hairline โ โEX-PLAIN THIS SHIT to STAN when we get to RENO, and you know Stan doesnโt like fuckinโ SURPRISES, you know Stan doesnโt like FUCKING SURPRISES
.โ
Iโm half wondering if Jimmyโs about to get a new mouth, too.
โWeโre gonna have to explain the state of this place to somebody, too.โ
We paid cash.
I donโt know.
Itโs the 1990s.
โHell bill it to Stan.โ
Jimmyโs laughing.
Isnโt shit funny.
Might give him a new mouth myself.
โYou think Stan wants to fuck around on a has-been like you Jimmy?โ
Here we go.
Jimmyโs bolt upright.
I pour a little grapefruit juice in the tequila.
Pink as everything else in the room.
Six ounces now.
Bang half of it.
My knees are going.
So are Claude and Jimmy.
โOH I heard ALL ABOUT how Stan likes to FUCK AROUND with YOU,
MISTER FAGGOTAINMENT
.โ
Oh jesus.
Itโs over.
Claudeโs ripped the towel bar out of the bathroom, and itโs under Jimmyโs throat.
Reddened chests heave.
Feel like I might throw up myself.
I bang the other half of the glass.
And dump the rest of the tequila in.
No more grapefruit.
I consider stomping on Jimmyโs balls.
But it feels futile.
And redundant.
I lean against the sliding glass balcony door.
Clutching PVC Venetian blinds.
And look out over Fresno.
Weโd drawn 9,000 people last night.
Selland Arena.
Not quite sold out.
But damn-near.
Business was good.
We run here.
They still treated us like farm animals.
Jimmyโs howling like one.
Deserves it.
Iโm not intervening.
Not worth it.
Claude can kill his ass for all I care.
Journeyman Jimmy was absolutely a has-been.
Mr. Entertainment had him pegged.
He was a known snake.
I remain unknown.
Slithering greengrass.
I worried about Stanโs opinions, but so far Iโm not bleeding, so I should be alright.
โYou wanna keep talking? You wanna keep talking? You wanna keep talking?โ
Beating him like a drum.
Claude must have said it a thousand times.
I banged the remaining tequila.
And dangled on the window treatments.
An easy hang.
Until, unfortunately, they gave way to my weight.
And I clattered into the glass.
Didnโt break through.
I just mashed.
Still no blood.
Iโm intact.
Thus far Iโm the smart one.
Kingdom of the blind.
And so it came to be that this genius of the ring slid to the ground, providing a better view of the ongoing strangulation.
Claude canโt go to jail.
So Iโve gotta stay up, stay conscious.
Canโt konk out.
Much as Iโd like to.
Weโre tagging tomorrow in Reno.
Me and Claude.
Someoneโs gotta be sure itโs not a homicide.
Bare witness.
Back me up here:
Iโve got to look out for myself if nothing else.
Jimmyโs not any nearer to death than he was before weโd ever met him, I donโt think.
Heโs in no real danger.
Not from this strangler.
I think Iโm gonna pass out.
Shit.
I have no idea if anyoneโs set an alarm.
Fuck.
โFuck Claude did you set an alarm?โ
I sputter in my slump.
Heโs got Jimmy on his stomach now.
Got that towel rod clutched up under the throat.
Eyes all bulging.
Both of them.
All of them.
โYeah I got it.โ
Nonchalant.
Automatic.
Easy operator.
Claudeโs focused.
I get it.
โDude donโt kill him.โ
Looks over at me.
Disappointed.
Dead stare.
โFine.โ
One last hard crank.
Stands up.
Bashes the rod into Jimmyโs back.
More blood.
โFuck, man. Fuck.โ
Jimmyโs protesting.
โFuck, man. Shit.โ
He restates.
Suggests a rematch:
โFuck, man. Man, fuck. Claude. Fuck. Cโmon man. Lemme get my heat back.โ
โJimmy you ainโt been hot since Memphis โ89 you sad sack son of a bitch youโve took your beating now shut the fuck on up and go to sleep.โ
Rod to the head.
Once again.
Emphatic.
Only slightly pulled.
We doinโ it for real.
โDammit, man. Fuck, man. Shit.โ
Articulate.
What a hoot.
โFuck, man. Shit. Fuck. Shit.โ
And its variants.
For some time.
Unfiltered pour.
Into the night.
Forevermore.
Itโs a shoot, baby.
More blood.
Seeps into the carpet.
Deep pink.
Sleeptime.
Suggests itself.
And presents.
The brawl dispersed.
And the bottle empty.
Devoured hours.
Spare and plenty.
Jimmy and I take the floor.
Claude takes the bed.
Cheap shuttersโ draw the moonlight as itโs bled.
Fresno.
On to Reno.
On to videotape.
We are the show.
Our pilotโs greenlit.
Weโre bound for the network.
Stan made a big deal.
Reno.
Then on to Hollywood.
Bigger screens, better things.
This is more than wrestling.
We are the program.
We are the star-lit sky.
The constellation.
Stable.
We are whatโs happening.
And still:
They pack us in here.
Like farm animals.
Prize pigs.
Pink as everything else in the room.
๐.
WE NO LONGER REFLECT
Only the poor must see themselves.
Cracked.
Naked and shamed.
The rich are free to be themselves.
As animals.
Without awareness.
There is no age and there is no death.
And there is no age at which death does knock or knell.
Exceptional.
Exclusive.
Luxurious.
Luxury, luxury.
All it affords.
Geneva movement.
Notes and accords.
New sensory gated resorts.
Uparmored escorts.
Of course:
(๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ขโ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐)
The first Unmirror came out in the early โ40s.
Things had stabilized a bit.
There had been troubles.
There are always troubles.
Exceptional.
Exclusive.
Luxurious.
Luxury, luxury.
All it affords.
Bombs had gone off.
Guns drawn.
Lines drawn.
Rationed lean.
Peopleโd seen hell.
They didnโt necessarily want to look headlong.
Into the shock of their shell.
So theyโd holed up.
Withdrawn.
Blinds drawn.
Sight unseen.
Shut-ins.
Shuttered.
Darkened eyes and extended gazes.
Footballfields long.
Fixed horizon.
They were All Fucked Up, all of them.
But some of them had money, were making money.
Somehow.
God knows.
This New Economy weโve got.
Right?
And so the rich ones, those master criminals, the Real Richies, the ones still wearing natural fibers, the eaters of meat, you know they didnโt necessarily want to have to look at whatโd become of it all.
Harbored resentment.
The sunk and the sag.
Much easier to be described.
Than to lock eyes with a hag.
Baggage below.
Sunsetting features.
Unsettling.
Once again,
๐๐๐ฑ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ,
And sound
, too.
By the โ50s.
(๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐)
. . . right?
But the visual?
Dismal.
After all the shit thatโd gone down in the โ20s and โ30s?
Absolutely not.
People were done with it.
See:
Thereโd been a โpivot to videoโ plot by Big Content
in the โ10s.
Teens?
Whatever youโd call that.
Back before those guys were made to kneel before the ditch.
Thank fucking god.
You remember how it all went down.
Nobody really went for it.
Some bullshit.
Spun up backroom idiocy.
Somebodyโs Nephewโs-ass idea.
Anyway โ
They tried it.
Donโt ask me.
Iโm no historian.
Just a liar.
But I can tell you โ
๐๐๐๐ฎ ๐ช๐จ๐๐ ๐ฉ๐ค ๐ง๐๐ข ๐ ๐ก๐ค๐ฉ ๐ค๐ ๐จ๐๐๐ฉ ๐๐ค๐ฌ๐ฃ ๐ฅ๐๐ค๐ฅ๐ก๐โ๐จ ๐ฉ๐๐ง๐ค๐๐ฉ๐จ. ๐
๐ช๐จ๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐ค ๐จ๐๐ค๐ฌ ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฎ ๐๐ค๐ช๐ก๐.
Trust:
Despite the attempted arson,
Turned out people preferred text.
At least the ones who could parse it.
Which did diminish, as it were.
For a time.
But then so too did the overall number of people.
And in that new shrunken proximity we found our voices again.
In letterform character.
And flexidisc.
Thereโd been a Big New Retro Boom.
Over-the-air radio, novels, vinyl records, the whole bit.
Everything youโd expect of a throwback.
Full-cheese.
20th century fetishism if you ask me.
But Iโm a liar.
Not a cultural commentator.
Iโm a commode on fire.
AND
If youโd seen those warring years youโd seek some prior appeal too.
If you didnโt drink yourself to death.
In some darkened room.
Hadnโt already.
The despair of it.
Television glowgloom.
Bomb after bomb.
Theyโd stopped calling them โtelevisions.โ
They were liars too.
But they were all televisions.
One in every purse or pocket.
Send along a little packet.
One-click trip.
Add to basket.
Load up, load up.
Hold up.
Smile to unlock.
Perform, monkey.
Become television.
Feeding you back into you into you back into you back into you into you back into you into you backโ
And then the endless screaming screen scroll controlling noise of the Ads on ads on ads on ads on endless screaming scroll controlling and theโ
What was I saying? Iโm sorry, my attention spanโs all fucked up for some reason.
All Fucked Up.
Man,
They[
who?]
โd made these New Mirrors That Werenโt Mirrors, right.
And they [
who?]
talk to you.
Hey โ WHO THE FUCK LET AN EDITOR IN HERE?
I TOLD YOU TO KEEP THAT FUCKING DOOR CLOSED.
NO, NO.
SHUT UP.
HOLD ALL MY CALLS.
Anyway, Iโ
Uh, a companyโ
Japan, I think?
Japanese company?
China? China?
Could be Texas.
I donโt know.
Iโm a liar.
I get lost.
โ๐๐๐ ๐ข๐๐ง๐ง๐ค๐ง ๐ค๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐ช๐ฉ๐ช๐ง๐ ๐๐จ ๐จ๐ค๐ช๐ฃ๐!โ
Theyโd said.
Advertorially.
Andโ
Hey,
How did you even find yourself here?
Through what backward-assed dog logic?
Around the way,
What went wrong?
I kid.
Anyhow,
Anyway:
New mirror came out, โAI-enabled description service,โ theyโd said, so youโd have a pleasant calm voice assistant using computer vision to analyze your appearance and realtime describing, from your perspective, the hyper-optimized way in which you should groom yourself to maximize your appearance, or to meet stated goals.
Barber, beautician, and mirror magician.
Autotherapeutic muse.
Brilliant.
It was an instant hit, as the tired eras of pervasive narcissism that had preceded the โ40s had infused the war-wearied world with intense social stigmas that were strictly opposed to filming and imagistic concerns in general.
The affectation of effortlessness was the flex.
Anticonism flourished.
Abolish the image.
Go out without looking.
You know.
Brush your teeth.
Donโt be a slob.
Just unbutton a little more than you might usually.
Loosen that bun.
That sort of thing.
โSo this mirror . . .โ
Yes?
โWell what did it look like?โ
You ask, enraptured with the object.
And Iโm glad to tell you:
It looked like nothing.
โ
๐.
FUSSAGE
Perfume for your mistress.
A pittance for the children.
Listen listen little flower of malnutrition.
Donโt fuss with your clothes.
Donโt foreclose your fiction.
It shows a lack of confidence.
Overturned convictions.
Flip the table and yell.
Discomfortโs a tell.
Donโt tell.
Pray.
Donโt say shit.
That way.
Poor bearingโs weightโs unbearable.
Pall-born uncarryable.
A scornful parlor trick.
A harlot in every pack.
Take your pick.
Hack your axe.
Ask the ashes.
Or the ages.
Skinny volumes.
Padded pages.
๐ .
MEMORY FOAM
These are my sons, Hindrance and Hobble.
Here at my deathbed.
Before me they grovel.
Put-upon heirs.
Carriers who fumble.
They fight and they fight.
Though theyโve never struggled.
And here are my daughters, Bicker and Bitch.
Unbearable airheads.
Getting their wish.
Dear fatherโs dying.
โShould we throw the switch?โ
A pretend of a pause.
And the task is ticked.
๐ก.
A JAB/TO-DO
Split with the infinite.
Succumb to mortal felling.
Get lost.
Like the art of storytelling.
๐๐.
KLANG (TO HAVE SUNG)
Everythingโs a demo.
Everythingโs demolished.
Everything rough-hewn.
Everything unpolished.
Zip me up diminished.
Chords collapse.
Sicario Icarus.
Issuing death threats.
Profound asshole.
Flummoxed.
An empty head and a flat stomach.
A balloon illusionist.
Maybe itโs Melville.
Maybe itโs Maybelline.
Maybe itโs moody bliss.
Check the ring.
Signet signature.
Unsigned talent.
Excess agency.
Shot on sight.
Lit up with laserbeams.
Inspiration fits if you tailor it.
Never off-the-rack.
Goes on too long.
You want the cloud to burst.
An X is the click to bait.
Close me and put me away.
Have you seen the sunshine today?
Clothe me in its golden rays.
I am rented electricity on borrowed time.
Bad debt rebundled and sold on endless markets.
Hi.
Iโm high strange.
High.
Strung.
Singing all the notes you arenโt supposed toโve sung.
Like curses.
Cursed words.
Explosive.
Repulsive.
Go on and clean your eating bones.
Itโs time for bed.
If youโre here tomorrow.
Youโll want to be fed.
Short story rider.
Masked in strange cipher.
Iโm prepared like piano.
Every situation handled.
๐๐.
IT IS A RESTLESS EVIL, FULL OF DEADLY POISON
Almost nothing pisses me off more than a rich person with bad taste.
No taste!
What a waste.
Tang of excrement and truffle-bung.
Player-won.
Given to enticement.
For want and many.
In seeking plenty:
Live for excitement.
Live for glancing interactions.
Across tractionless dance floors.
Dragging cats bagless and raw dog.
A bleating horn.
Low-hanging fog.
๐๐.
THE WISDOM OF THE WANDERING MYSTIC
One time this really old guy came up to me on the street and spoke profundity:
โNEVER FORGET,
DOG IS GOD SPELLED BACKWARD.
YOU EVER THINK ABOUT THAT?โ
And I had, of course.
Thought of that.
As I assume everyone has.
Right?
But I didnโt want to spoil his moment.
So I kept mum.
โYEAH, YOU THINK ABOUT THAT.โ
And he left me.
๐๐.
WHEN YOUโRE UNWANTED (Next Tuesday)
Another time, at the first hardcore show I ever went to, in a bar in South Carolina when I was Like 12, this stumble-drunk beet-red pastel polo shirt Southern Man came up to me by the bar and said:
โGET A LOADDA THIS.โ
And he whipped out a pen.
Wrote vertically, on lined paper he produced from his shirt pocket:
โ โ โ โ โ
CฬฒANโT
โ โ โ โ โ
UฬฒNDERSTAND
โ โ โ โ โ
NฬฒORMAL
โ โ โ โ โ
TฬฒHINKING
โ โ โ โ โ
Looks up at me:
โYOU GOT THAT?โ
I did.
๐๐.
LETTER TO A YOUNG BARBARIAN
Clean your asshole. Clean your teeth. There are messages you havenโt responded to.
Get your pits.
Knee-pits too.
And the pits in those pits.
The crevices and creases.
Grease trap.
And tar.
Pluck your plumage.
Act human.
Youโre not.
But youโre doomed to it.
๐๐.
HIT ME
Iโm addicted to gambling.
And everything else.
Power exists.
Nothing else.
Iโm about two turns from a tarpaper shack.
You see.
And ammunition.
I can feel the pirouetteโs call.
And the garrote.
And strop.
The tilt-a-whirl will twist despite your screams to stop.
๐๐.
I HAVE A NEW GIMMICK WHERE I GIVE SONGS REALLY LONG TITLES
That damn demon genius appeared again and ensnared me in her rapturous grasp.
I found myself given to song.
Too many takes, as ever.
Never finished.
The new song (Not a Song) is titled:
โTHIS IS NOT A SONG ABOUT HOW WHEN I WAS 17 YEARS OLD I WAS DRIVING A GEO PRIZM? PRISM? IT WAS A REBADGED COROLLA I BELIEVE, I USED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTO INDUSTRY โ BUT I WAS DRIVING A CAR FULL-UP WITH MYSELF TWO BANDMATES AND A JUST-PURCHASED COMBO BASS AMPLIFIER, LIKE A BIGGER ONE, AND WE HAD THE THING LOADED IN THE BACKSEAT WITH THE THREE OF US, SO I GUESS THAT MADE FOUR, AND IT WAS AUGUST, IT HAD JUST BEEN MY BIRTHDAY, A LONG DRY OHIO SUMMER, AND WHEN IT RAINED, IT POURED BUCKETS, AND QUICK, AND THE HIGHWAY BECAME SLICK, ANCIENT OIL, AND AN F-250 DRIFTED ON INTO US, PUSHING US OFF THE ROAD ALTOGETHER, HAD TOโVE BEEN 85 MPH, AND WE CAREENED RIGHT INTO A HOLIDAY INN SIGN, THE OLD LOGO, YOU KNOW THE ONE, AND I HAD TO GET OUT OF THE CAR IN MY TOO-BIG PARLIAMENT FUNKADELIC T-SHIRT THAT IโD BOUGHT IN NEW ORLEANS AND THEN THE FUCKERS IN THE TRUCK LIED ABOUT THEIR RECKLESS DRIVING AND THE COP SIDED WITH THEM BECAUSE THE LONGHAIR IN THE P-FUNK SHIRT AINโT GETTING SHIT FROM THE LAWMAN. JUSTICE BE DONE TODAY. JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE M.V.D. LOST EROS CAโ
I lost all the working files for it, so it will never sound like this again, and I will probably never officially release it.
This oneโs all yours.
๐๐.
A NEW WAY OF MUSIC WORKING
To create in public.
The apophene dream.
These are not songs.
They are sequences and schemes.
Moments.
Open.
Books bars and blues.
If youโve got the carousel to rouse:
Choose it.
We are post-music.
So I must.
Post music.
So be it.
Iโll be there.
In a bit.
Or some other vignette apparition mirage
.
Mail me.
If the shoe fits.
Some of yโall.
Summon omens.
Commit fraud.
Seek god.
And take aim.
Precisely.
(๐๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐โ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐)
๐๐ .
HOW I GOT RICH FROM MARKETING
[sad noise]
Fellas, have ya got grandma butt?
Firm those glutes and gain up to two inches in height with our guaranteed-results โStretch Your Perfect Assโ program.
Weโve got .pdfs, videos, and all the other tools to get your rear in gear!
๐๐ก.
GONE GREEN
I awoke and it was pissing grey rain.
I said โnoโ and went down again.
Came to with improbable dreams.
All that gloom is a limerent gleam.
Gone green.
๐๐.
(like, LITERALLY) I HATE INTERPRETATION
A misapprehended pen.
Shot.
Unwell ink.
Spilt.
Tacky lacrimosa.
Your cant and your lilt.
You can and you will.
๐๐.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR STAGE PERFORMANCE (EXPLICIT)
The role of XXXXX
can be performed by anyone of any expression and set in any place or time. This expression is a cherubic male in a mid-century setting, WHICH provides a necessary sense of tension and repression, and excludes unwanted contrivances such as contemporary technology which inevitably spoil the possibility of any intrigue.
๐๐.
WETWORKING
Action paint collage flood follows the fusillade.
He bled and he bled and he bled.
Good god.
Days on end.
More blood than any one body could contain.
Impossible to clean up.
Some scenes canโt be fixed.
Take putrid rank upon the list.
This is a state of the art address.
Top-notch.
Cliche clumsiness.
Popping off.
Return to sender stamped repressed.
Champagne shards and removed party guests.
Keep score:
They donโt make models like that anymore.
Not like they did back in โ84.
No not anymore.
Cast away the bottle,
Then wash up dryshore.
Open shop eyesore.
Slowsand.
Crenshaw.
Central.
Prehistoric core.
Reptile.
Lifesize.
Erectile.
Thatโs what the tissueโs for.
๐๐.
A MAP UNFOLDING
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ธ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
, ๐๐๐ ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
, ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐
, ๐๐๐ ๐ธ ๐๐๐โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
โ๐ ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐ข๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ป๐๐ ๐ฐ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐โ๐.
๐๐.
KNIFE SONG SIX (THE GENIUS OF ASS)
Articulate your points.
File them down to ready shivs and shanks.
You keep a razorblade in your mouth.
And a rattlesnake in your pants.
Royal Acid.
โโโโโโ๐ฃ๐๐ง
Leonine coronary rambling heaving heavily full-throated crow leaning on a corollary staring at you heavenly parallax salivating ordinary packaged in assless chaps.
Lost.
*taps*
Could be a hopeless lapse or happenstance.
Take your chances.
โโโโโโ๐๐๐
Round every cornerโs romance a
sสแดแดสสแดแด
แดษดแดสแดษดแดสแดss.
Collect โem all.
Decollete calls.
Let it drop.
If you pick me up at all.
The end is obvious.
Itโs what happen-has.
The genius.
The genius of ass.
Genius, yes.
Of ass.
Ass, ass.
I said!
๐๐๐
An ingenue lass.
Genie bottle ass.
๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ grantsfucking๐ฌ๐๐จ๐๐๐จ.
Thatโs how I bought this carwash.
๐๐.
ENDLESS RIDES, RIDES THAT DONโT STOP, WONโT, CANโTโ RIDES THAT WILL NOT STOPโ NEVER! โ UNTIL THEY DO, AS THEY DO, THEN THEY DO, AND WHEN THEY DO, ITโS A JOLT (OR SO IโM TOLD)
Invariably we die.
Weโre programmed to do so.
I have no particular task in life.
No purpose or direction.
I just need to be able to pay for the way I am.
And often wish I wasnโt.
There is of course opposition.
I must admit:
I am on a variety of hopeless missions.
๐๐.
LAUREL CROWN & CORAL LIPSTICK
A murderess in a shapeless shift dress.
Shapeshifting into something much less.
Slippers.
Slipper-y.
Sumptuous comfortable.
No need for fuss or fumble.
Open vulnerable.
Lubricated tubes.
Squeezes shoots.
SHOUTS:
โA fixation on the past can only ever yield pain.
Sometimes she walks on glass just to feel anything.โ
๐๐.
JOIN THE CLUB (LETโS GET THOSE NUMBERS UP)
โโ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
.
โโโโโALL WHO STAND OPPOSED SHALL FALL TO THE WORD,
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโAND THE VOICE.
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโCHOOSE TODAY.
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโACT NOW.
โโโAVOID THE PETTY TYRANNY OF THE INFORMATION MAFIA โด
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโpresented in
โโโโโโโโโโโโโFRAGMENTED REALITY
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโa subsidiary of
โโโโโโ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโInevitability โ Delivered.โ
I AM A FONT OF CHARACTER. โโโโIT IS OK. โโโโโTHANK YOU.
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโSELECT ME?
โโโโโโโ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ . . .
๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ / a / k / a
๏ผช๏ผฑ๏ผค is a self-taught integrated media company founded haunted and enchanted in ๐ป๐พ๐๐ ๐ด๐๐พ๐, ๐ฒ๐ฐ.
โThank you . . .
Thank you.โ