▋(Editor’s Note: I don’t exist)
ADD PHOTOS — [several days pass] — ok i’m back at the text now, and there’s a big note in the “Rage Against the Machine font” about adding photos, so I guess I have to go and locate the photos I was telling myself to add.
[“i” do not immediately proceed to this task, and instead format and augment the text, making additions that will only complicate my efforts at meaning and concision,
masking addictions that will only complicate my efforts at meaning and concision,
quixoticrete rage-quit earthquake, as ALL samey-days evaporate —
it’s a-list of SPELLS, don’t explain yourself, 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓—
C𝐎𝐍’𝐓—
“Why would they want to look at a bunch of grimy-ass photos of Hollywood?
. . .
Context?
. . .
Who the fuck wants context?”
. . .
escriba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .LUZ CAÑON
a commode of deleted art
𝔼𝕏𝔼ℂ𝕌𝕋𝕀𝕍𝔼-𝔽𝕌ℕ𝕂-𝕄𝔼𝕋𝔸𝕃
& emotional blackmail —
Pulcinella perpetua,
STORE-BOUGHT
do - re - mi 𝍭
SUBORN THE ARTS
Assign any and all meanings you’d like.
As-ever it is you who is in authorship, despite the text’s periodic insistence otherwise.
𒑔 SEE: EDITOR’S NOTE 𒑔
THIS IS OUR FIRST ATTEMPT AT COLLECTING:
۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵
motor, sport:
۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ BLOOD
🏁 🅰🆃🅾🅽🅰🅻 5 0 0 🏁
theatre of exhaustion
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐 🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐🖐
COUNT CALCULA
🕔
𝍤 or 𝍤
abungabunga busterballs gangbang réalisé par James Quentin Devine
aka “JUMBO” Jim Christ the Fifth,
qualified electrical lettrist,
quasaradventurous;
who smiles with their eyes,
though you do not see it.
X X X P E N S E ACCOUNT
𝍭 a - dore - me
boredom’s the enemy —
a variety of patterns in triumphal mourning,
ADJOURN!
FOR EVERY PAUSE-PRESS, EJECT, REJECT:
spurnt,
Dust-off,
BEAR, THE BRUNT:
Someone, somewhere.
This-scarred pile.
Battered breath.
Sclerazzo tile.
𝐙𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐣𝐚𝐳𝐳 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞.💙™
BLAMELESSLY:
A text inhabited by an invasive species of aphorist,
ANNOYING! &
unknown in numbers.
A macabre, verminous orbit.
䷗
“This is about where it picks up,” whispered to a sighing return ⏎
𒑍 𒑍 𒑍 𒑍 𒑍
LESSENS, LURNT:
If you’re dying, and you know it, raise your hand.
If you’re living, for the moment, raise the dead.
LURCH:
To age in public is the surest curse of the loveless fame-seeker.
To fuck in fits and spurts the hurried sport of formless love-makers.
LEECH, LEACH, BESEECH —
I was accused, ACCURSED! in what — for my-own ontological security — I MUST understand as a non-judgmental sense — of making QUOTE-“trippy serial killer music.”
(bleary-eyed dreary-old music?)
Paranoid persecutory narcissism worries for the “TRUE MEANING,”
WELL1,
(You draw too much attention to yourself!
True,
YOU!
Well,
Helless Nouvelle:
What do you draw too much of?)
⤷
¿PERVERSE FUR ART?
CLEARLY, DEPART — do,
Well, water, why?, I oughta!
Dueling twins,
Foolish to call that “non-judgmental” I suppose.
FOOLISH!
At least a few judgments are being rendered . . .
𒐧
First offal, that my output is “music.”
Sweet music.
The act is working!
Second, that I am audible, and in all likelihood visible.
A thousand gimmicks deep, more.
Steal me digital; get physical.
The auspearance of an orb —
(an allowance)
au contraire,
A CONTRIVANCE.
Ass, yet:
♫♪♩·.¸ॐ¸.·♩♪♫ It’s om-material. ♫♪♩·.¸ॐ¸.·♩♪♫
Blirious.
Vagant.
Nervous.
Weaundering.
⸔
Lyrical, spherical, felonious.
Clerical, miracle, erroneous.
Clergy splurge.
Auction meat.
Cook me.
𒐐
What were we doing?
What are we always doing?
Projecting grievances!
Right,
THIRD OF ALL that I am “a killer,”
Frothly that I’ve deed the deed more’n once,
Mourn at once —
space-walk blunt:
Wince,
fiff-ily:
𓆩Ꝗ𓆪
Q . . . . . Q . . . . . Q . . . . . Q . . . . . Q
QUENTIN (V),
( 5️⃣ 5️⃣ 5️⃣)( 5️⃣ 5️⃣ 5️⃣)( 5️⃣ 5️⃣ 5️⃣ 5️⃣)
Quent-essence —
❗️
Strongarm camera-angle,
Posture-palace dangle,
A disruptive steepcliff —
ASK YOU:
You ever been accused of being “like a serial killer?”
“School shooter?”
Like,
WAIT!
❗️
YOU CALLING ME UGLY?!
(no)
(Dahmer exists, Bundy too)
CREEPY?!
(yeah probably)
UNFUCKABLE?!
You better not be!
❗️
Why I oughta!
Well I’ll!
Say it in my face again boy — you’d be a woman for this!
Then, like, an Eminem crotch-grab.Then a DX suck-it. ❌Then you date your material with cultural references.
Then you date 25 year olds until you’re irrelevant.
Then you cling to life like the cryptkeeper, while they name cancer wards after you, because of how famous you are, for all of the money that you’ve stolen or skimmed off the labors of others — backstab-after-backstab, gladless hand-offs, up-and-out.
You reek of blood in all that you do.
Your kisses taste of corpses.
There’s a reason Nikko told you to make a Halloween album.
Why didn’t that offend you?
It’s just another kind of religious music; religious movement.
[HONK]
Bowel-endowed: your dick is a miniature dog turd, frozen and flash-fried.
Why do you think such disgusting things?
All day long.
I’m not making you do this.
You’re a volunteer.
Stay long.
You’re the pornographer with the slaughterhouse head.
We’re all test pilots, decapitated.
Say long.
Desimade it, loosily (re: EDITOR’S NOTE)
🖐 🖐
In-spell, out.
Overclocked confidence.
Overwrought opulence.
CLOGGED PIG.
Jest pilots.
Does Dallas Fartworth “own” “jest?”
Is Axl risen?
Has he?
Will he or won’t he?
Why?
What’s it to you?
Does the preoccupation with the right-or-wrongness of the interiority of that parenthetically-robed serif-kink question mark in the Fosterwallace clause-snatch trrrouble-youUU? — relative to the parameters of the grammatical rules to which it is implicit that I adhere — trouble you such-long with consternation where-when, in the greatness of your old-age, snapped before your eyes now, SUMMONED! — a curse, upon you — yes, of course, a curse — these are all curses, curves, or perhaps blixed mess-ups, blissed-out grab-ass in the kissing booth OR pissed-off fontanelle frot-rubbish at the grove ash trough.
ONIZUKA ASTRONAUT
What were you saying?
Life’s disinfinite; get to it.
Outspell it.
Dwell on the belfry’s toll.
It’s tip-toes to barfly soil.
Easy as it gets, easy as-is done.
Hazardous prayers swerving off SETI, suttee.
Don’t trouble me.
Moon-faced, putty.
Clues to my alien origin suggested by a mycopoetic organism the size of a Texan Alaska, tuxedo-tailed and satin-faced, Satan-faced in brief juddering glints of recognition, a variety of shapeshifting fascist panthers and jaguars, a jail for exotic cars, none of this makes any sense, unless it does, in which case, hey — you made it.
A S S O P R O F O N D O
Derailed.
Nothing’s monocausal.
Puzzled?
Little bitch out of heat feeling menopausal.
Miscarriage of a pregnant pause.
[various scratch marks]
A NEW IDEA for a HAT becomes TOO POPULAR.
“Do you have a point?”
Six, bare minimum.
I’m pointing at around & about all kindathings.
Kinship, tindered.
The fuckshop.
Handsome brick-facing, original trim.
A tattered duvet.
“What does it mean?”
It modes, mouthfully.
Me-now, in the quotes, not You/Not-Me (your preference):
“Love is a mode of knowledge.”
— Aldous Huxley
Why not use the quote function?
I mean — You’re writing on a substack.
Me, out of quotes there. The Out-Me I project — Satan?
Well, listen —
You start writing things down like that you’re gonna win you a Nibble Prize.
Who’s even talking?
CGI babies, who else?
What’s with all the questions?
“Because I can’t do ‘because.’”
Me-to-me.
“Psychedelic masturbation.”
Why the quotes?
NOW WHO’S TALKING? LOOK!
IN TRUTH:
A wall in Japan told me.
“A wall?”
A wall in a shopping mall.
“A wall in a shopping mall?”
A wall in a shopping mall in Parco.
“AWOL English-hop impala barco?”
And I’m “all like,” Uh, Yes.
So:
THE ACTUALITY OF IT is that after I am awarded THE FIRST OF MY NOBEL PRIZES, I will need — SOMEHOW — to “ONE-UP” Samuel Beckett (if ur not a gamer this is when u use mario ("mario" is pronounced “wrong”) 2 stomp on a gumby) —
THIS IS AN ALPINIST'S TASK!So what I’ll do is — win that “Lit-Nobel and then refuse to write anymore,” for The Fact of the Matter Is:
[HOURS of your life DISAPPEAR . . . I am RIGHT but UNWELCOME]
I’m fitted.
Hidden-flask.
I believe in my fluidity.
I’m florid in my beliefs.
I’ve been fetid and fêted and frotted and forth, right?
No, fifth.
Quentin Quince, Cagliostric Prince, Scourge of Prose,
“All you do is talk about yourself!”
Look —
Listen —
You’m am us.
We’ve been over this.
Many times.
I just keep saying the same thing in different voices.
You hadn’t noticed this was a puppet show?
Oh you still think these are words.
Honestly (?) that kind of foolishness is to be expected.
Was to be, now.
NOW YOU KNOW.
The drudge of a ziggurat erected will surely in short order be disrespected.
“Haven’t you done the puppet show bit before?”
Of course, asshole, it’s a puppet show.
Off-course ass-hole: it’s a puppet show.
Now, twice-told, begone.
Events unfold in origami dawn.
I am mailer and daemon.
Days on.
And “people” “are like,” “Oh, yeah, Malorandamian, I looove Baby Yoda,” and give a laugh’s pretending, because they’re the one that wrote it, and you’re the one that’s ending.
You?
3 3 3
BETTER
I
HOPE
💙
And yet, you see, behind a seldom-used paywall, over at my most-popular-to-date post, I come right out and admit it in a series of vaguely Octavia Butler-inspired affirmations, one of which is:
So I suppose I’m just an asshole, but not in the way they’re saying — it’s different.
And that matters!
Listen —