→ANOMIC COMEDY
realized by
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE
█ 𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘂𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗽𝗶 █
HEY GIRL! IT’S THE WEEK-END!
Time to get turnt!
𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩❗️
▶
LISTEN to SCALED ALPS’ ‘LET THE ALPINE PLAY.’
LISTEN to JQD’s ‘LIVE PLAYER DEAD SERIOUS.’
BOY OH BOY ARE WE PLEASED
to reveal the final release-edition cover of L.T.A.P. → → →
→
Please enjoy a piano play-through of SCALED ALPS’ “I Think We Met in Setagaya (Maybe it Was Seville)” via ‘LET THE ALPINE PLAY.’
→
THE GREEN TINT
There are people who will hate you for the bare fact of your material existence.
There are people who already do.
It’s true.
Just one look at you.
Or the hearing.
The sound.
Or the sight.
Too dark.
Too light.
Too little.
Too late.
Too big.
And in the way.
Inconvenient.
Not an easy fit.
And should you pluck a crumb.
Should you find any measure or modicum of recognition success or ascendancy.
God help thee.
The slightest hint.
It’s polarizing.
The green tint.
You will be called names crank-called pranked and kicked.
You’ll have your wins knocked out of you.
By half-wits.
You will be assigned identities.
Contradictory superpositions.
You will be a leftist rightist centrist womanizing incel cuck pussy chauvinist overbearing weakling pretentious primitive fag jock dork slick hustler mark.
A fucking problem.
Imagine the creature.
You’ll need an inhaler for the miasma.
It’s unsolvable.
And me?
I am a car that eats other cars.
A cannibal car.
Voracious.
I take on their essences and steal their mass.
Reappropriate their crushed bodies to my own productive ends.
Growing and growing.
The bolus of all I devour.
Some say it’s horror.
But honestly?
GROTESQUE ETC.
Anomic comedy.
What’s seen reports.
Like a gun.
Cream.
Or any other smutty magazine.
Bled folly.
To the margins.
By any means.
She knew fame but didn’t know family.
Necessarily.
Nothing of it.
All the flames and none of the warmth.
Nunnavit.
She dressed up in furs, tortured.
Posed for pictures.
Like it was any other year than this one.
Dreadful.
Drop-dead.
Delicious.
THE FIXER.
Six-six sics her.
The Fixer.
She’s here to make it right.
Somebody made a mess.
Rite of passage.
Left on lights.
She’s here to clean the footprints.
And cameras.
To vinegar blood.
Clear the carpets of evidence.
And make the bathtub flood.
If need be.
To deodorize and stage.
Tidily.
To reorder.
To assuage.
To assemble.
Abidingly.
The narrative is nimble.
The cast system and it’s couch’s jism.
The origin of the performance lost.
The script tossed.
God’s boss’ screaming bullhorn said:
Who the fuck said you talk like this?
Huh?
Said this is your voice?
What, you think you didn’t have no choice?
Couldn’t be madder.
Ancient.
And then.
As if in a memory:
WHAT if you were someone else and then someone else and then! someone else and then—
(A crooked path to some bent end)
WHAT if doctors hauled you off and then and then and then and then then then —
(Little green men)
WHAT if you got so thin that you almost died.
(Brittle lean men)
WHAT if you showed up limping noodles and nickels at the march’s ide dimes?
WHAT if pennies showed blown-head explosions?
WHAT if Wilkes Booth shopped at Bullocks Wilshire?
WHAT if the plot of what’s writ ironed-out to naught but rot?
WHAT if you took a really odd job . . .
WHAT if other summers were sought, Mom?
WHAT the fuck, Then?
Huh?
And having no “Good Answer,” she retired to her room.
To her deafened chamber.
Away from the demon seed.
And its anger.
Closed herself up for a night or two.
Swallowed a couple pills mostly reserved for zoos.
You know.
CLIFFHANGER
A state machine.
A stately estate.
A counting error.
A courtly cape.
An inheritance of sand clasped in shaking hands.
Lossily slipping.
Grasp gripping.
The end.
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