█ENDSTAGE!
So we’d hoped to have ‘Let the Alpine Play’ ready to deliver by end of February.
Well, it’s done.
Ish.
Just a bit of nip and snip and mix and piss and moan etc. etc. etc. to go.
An enormous THANK YOU to those of you who’ve supported the project.
💙
Sixteen in the chamber for you.
There’s some obvious shit that’ll change soon.
Enjoy the ride while it’s still a little rough.
We’ll keep it bumpy but sometimes that’s not enough.
Give us a minute to polish the tracks and they’re yours forever.
Thank you,
JQD
SCALED ALPS, ‘Let the Alpine Play’ 2026.
BLUE HELL
↓
Go there.
→
ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ
→ bluehell.neocities.org ←
ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ
🌐
██𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗘!
Initiate.
Read it on Substack or formatted-as-intended at deadWWW
↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓
→ READ IT HERE HERE HERE HERE HERE ←
(more to come re: dWW)
IF ONLY
A winter dazed nightstream’s time-tunnel traveling.
You are now tuned in.
It’s not you, it’s L.A.
She went and tucked her make-up away.
“We don’t have the kind of camaraderie for you to come inside me.”
DISTINCTION
Maybe fever pleases me.
Enemies come easily.
I can’t tell who’s a friend anymore.
The distinction’s become unimportant.
There’s who’s here now and who isn’t.
It’s odd to think of all that oughn’t.
Here’s one for someone who never will be Here again.
Here’s one for extinction.
Gone.
I had a friend as you have had a friend.
I had a friend as you have held and hold.
I had a dream one time about that friend.
In which he turned to gold.
In a tight little ball.
At the bottom of a pool.
Saccharine sacraments could not sustain the holy fool.
The belly and the brain could not contain the overkill.
Wandering vanishing visitor.
HER DEATH
I HAD LOST HER VOICE IN MY HEAD.
SHE HAD BEEN MY GUIDING LIGHT.
NOW I’M MISLED.
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE
and The End Times
in association with
Plagiarist Pages
prrresent . . .
ENDSTAGE!
. . . ADDICTED TO MONEY AND BULLSHIT . . .
. . . HONEY YOUR ASS IS ILLIQUID . . .
The low light is doing you favors.
Heaven knows what you’d look like exposed.
Inflamed colony.
Pisstream apology.
LOWERCASE IN THE SENSE OF INDICATING MUTTERING
everything is going to be so stupid forever
god i hope something i’m doing makes some fucking money so i can build an artificial reality briefly before succumbing to whatever’s probably gotta be well on its way
THE STATE TOOK YOUR MIND AWAY THROUGH REPEATED USE OF FLASHING MEDIATED IMAGES AND YOU’RE HOPELESS TO DO ANYTHING BUT TO LIVE THE RESULTANT TRAJECTORY OF DISTORTED HALLUCINATIONS AS AN ABUSED ANIMAL IN A PRISON-YARD OR PERHAPS A SLAUGHTERHOUSE (A LOVE SONG)
I met some gay guys at an experimental theatre performance in the front yard of a Hollywood home once.
They asked me if I wanted to come back to their place and party.
“Of course.”
Accords.
Altered recourse.
What’s not to afford?
My lord.
I tried.
I did.
I signaled some “yeah sure we can shoot the shit but I ain’t gone suck it.”
They seemed to get it.
Great.
This goes where that goes.
As it does.
Often.
(Enough.)
And they’re leaning in and leering.
Queering quaffing queening.
Fuck knows beers in.
“Love your leather jacket.”
Fuck man.
“That’s a great tank-top.”
What a thing.
(Here goes.)
I remember one was wearing a shiny sequined jacket.
Zip-front.
He kind of looked like Carson Kressley.
In exquisite fishscales.
With the bangs in front.
Split.
Krestley? Krestle?
Or however that’s spelt.
Fuck me.
(I quit.)
I don’t give a shit look it up.
Look it up!
Fuck.
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
You remember.
Right?
Huh.
Anyway,
Fella told me a story about how ‘90s loose-ass days he’d fucked Hulk Hogan’s body double in a clothing store fitting room in West Hollywood and gotten stuffed so hard that the entire fucking thing collapsed.
“Yeah, like, the entire back area of the store just fell apart.”
This is why you show up.
For the stories.
For the flights.
For the stares.
For the landings.
Perhaps a railing.
The Other Guy, Not Carson.
Mark, I think.
A bald guy who programs computers?
Mark?
Something.
I don’t know.
Gets a little kinetic.
It always starts with a bicep grab.
It doesn’t usually go:
“Can I stick my hand in your armpit?”
Fuck.
“Fuck it man, I don’t care, do what you gotta do.”
Cracked another brew.
Really though fuck it though.
Really though.
Fuck it.
Right?
What are you gonna do?
Give ‘em a tickle while you got the time to tick.
Go do stupid shit for the fuck of it.
They showed me around their weird-ass condo.
Showed me their Rolls-Royce and their art collection.
Deeply queer and deeply disturbed.
The kind of gays I tend to get on with.
Fucked up.
A good night but it was best to get on with it and better to be home so I hoofed it.
The Computer Guy would hit me up sometimes about my underarms.
He texted me about how he’d jacked off to the smell of it.
Sent me strange photos for a while.
Tailed off.
Thank god.
Sometimes they really don’t get the hint.
Poor guy.
Longed for the taut balls of a hung younger man.
But he was barking up the wrong pup.
And talking in tin-cans.
I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t care.
I really don’t give a fuck.
I really don’t care.
Seriously.
What people do doesn’t concern me.
Let’s get square.
Face-front.
Cheap stunts.
Take it from there.
Collect a souvenir.
You’re so vain.
You think I can’t hear?
Loot the corpse and count the lout’s allotment aloud.
Once pried removed doubt.
Sooner or later you forget what you’re talking about.
EXPIRED STATUTES AND STATUESQUE ACTORS (HE HIMSELF)
For a while there I was selling weed.
Volume game.
The less said the better.
The more sold the same.
Round that time met a guy outside Cafe Maru.
The local ass-sniffing spot.
A circle.
A line of hopefuls hoping.
Growings’ goings.
A lurker in loiter:
Some weird blonde guy in tiny shorts rolling loose marijuana into palm leaves.
Seated on the nearby ledge.
Being a shit magnet, I attracted.
“Hey, man.”
Somehow.
Me or him.
He looked like young Hulk Hogan.
(Really).
Like “Terry Boulder”-era.
You know.
(You know.)
(Look it up)
I forget his name.
(Look it up)
I lost my phone.
(I can’t look it up)
I’ve lost a lot of phones.
(I can’t pick up)
I think he was from Florida.
Or maybe a Carolina.
Somewhere that gets hurricanes.
Fuck was his name?
Something normal.
Nick or Chris or something.
Something.
Asked me if I was on steroids.
(Naturally.)
Commented on my “vascularity,” “hypertrophy.”
I know what it means.
I don’t engage.
Talked to me about walking uphill backward.
How it’s the only way to get to a particular ass-muscle.
Told me I gotta stop wearing “dress shoes.”
Gotta wear sneakers.
I didn’t budge.
Told me I’m gonna fuck my feet up.
Told him I already have.
We’d smoke weed in my yard.
Two chiefs stupid.
Talking nonsense oblivion hours.
He wanted pounds of weed and I had what he needed.
He had parties coming up with NBA players.
He was a fitness trainer.
Long-legged and sturdy.
In town for a week or so.
Always in those Miami Beach ‘86 gay little shorts.
Though I think he was straight.
Or something that rhymed with it.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s a “bro” or a “buddy.”
This isn’t Kansas and I’m no friend of Dorothy.
I get taken sometimes, though.
I get made.
Hell I’ve had offers of pay.
But I’m an amateur.
In the sense of a lover.
Or any other boxer.
Vixens for me.
In fleshly feast.
Anyway this Weird Dude.
Clint? Luke?
He’d hold court about YouTube revenue.
Talking all kinds of wild-ass alt health.
Strange ways to build wealth.
He didn’t cop to it but I’m guessing he’s an “I sun my balls” guy.
(if you know)
Perineal tanning.
(you know)
He’d take off his shirt and sit there in his little shorts.
Come around every afternoon.
Talking about vitamin D.
And whatever the fuck.
Kick his shoes off and “ground himself” in the yard.
Fuck it.
Whatever’s real to you’s real I suppose.
Who am I to say?
I don’t really give a shit.
So we talked long hours.
Sun beating down.
Came out he’d worked in Clearwater.
One of the Scientology satellites.
For a big-big-time fitness influencer.
(B.B.T.F.I.)
They’d had some odd falling out.
As often happens with extreme personalities.
Anyway, I loaded Scott? Adam?
That Weird Dude.
I loaded him up with trees for his basketball friends.
That was a weird time.
[THE ABRUPT HOVERING OF A HELICOPTER FORCES THE CESSATION OF CONVERSATION FOR 90 SECONDS AND NEITHER OF US HAS ANY REMAINING IDEA WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT]
Hey, have I ever told you —
Wait, I forget.
I—
WELL, YOU KNOW,
I
went out the other day in some short little short-shorts myself.
Because it was 90 degrees in February.
Guy in a wheelchair outside the library told me:
“You got great legs.”
Guess I’m living for him now.
WE ALL GOTTA GO SOMETIME
I am possessed of the American Spirit.
Lit for bar clearance.
Cleared center entry.
Tombstone dentistry.
Gallow and gaunt.
Calculating centuries.
A weapon to flaunt.
Captives of the cave.
Cattle of a kind.
You got that big whirlwind trouble of a mind.
You got it going-on d-double-time.
ADVANTAGEOUS MUSIC
Vermin’s encroachment.
Sexpot in a cesspit.
Rasping for respite.
Approach me.
Respirationless.
OPERATOR!
Unfold me.
This veil is on its final layer.
Be.
Hold me.
Sawyer slur-sayer.
Susurrous.
Sorcerer.
Salvation purveyor.
Cruciferous.
Lucifer with the thesaurus.
And a lisp.
And a lash.
Looking up.
From his masterless task.
Like,
Is Golgotha really the hill you wanna die on?
Bitch do you really want to be breezing in the Prius with the diseases and prions?
An icon hiccup.
Like,
What the fuck are you even going in upon?
A leather apron for a butcherer sun.
To teach the past its own dim eyes.
Hungry clouds devour skies.
SORTED
Apart is that which has no point.
Aligned in hunger breadless.
Circusian performant.
Circadian conformant.
Loft of a feather.
Corvid cormorant.
YO YOU GOTTA FOLLOW ME ON MY SOCIALS
Her name was Angela but she rapped as CU$$YPU$$Y.
She lied and told people her name was ‘Alisa’ sometimes.
She wasn’t sure why.
It felt like ideas just appeared in her head sometimes.
They gave her pills but she didn’t take them.
She poured them down the drain and now the town’s water supply’s poisoned.
Deformities are showing up in the children.
Local lifespans are decreasing.
Her dad was a cop but he killed himself.
So she had enough money for a Nissan and a carpeted townhome.
She had pierced nipples with dangling talismans.
None of it really meant much of anything.