Hyperactive Inevitabilities

THE ROOT of the person’s the persona, and the root of the persona’s the MASK, so given the many and varied deep I suppose you can regard every gob of spirit as preface.

---

                     I don’t give a fuck if it’s art,

            [𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑].

THANK YOU, THANK YOU.

For John S. and All-Other Volunteer Non-Sense,

     an offering:

‘𝙃𝙮𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙄𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨,’

   yet more vignettes,

 achieved, achieved,

   capably realized,

 by the navel-gaving knave:

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 of

    LOST EROS, CA

 in this our last GODLESS

 COVID   YEAR   ZERO . . .

repeating, again . . .

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴.

TAKE THE CHALLENGE . . .

The spiteful laugh at track’s-end is to be understood as an audio imagining of a reaction video to a series of reaction videos to a video of an atrocity that was sparked by an unfavorable review of an avant-garde marionette theatre in a steamship’s ass.

---

The stench of piss is hard to miss here in the

     ◬

 TEMPLE  OF  ARTIFICE,

     lost  to  the

       tides, tides, TIDES . . .

   AND FOR ALL ITS COLUMNS:

   cabals  lap  shore up at in around palazzo  labia,

parties  thrown,    diseases  caught    or    miffed,

     we’re in a leaking,             both,

  the      orbit       is                adrift.

      TIDES,

𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵-𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭-𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘯-𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

   Again,

BLURB’R’RING LIPS TO CHALICE,

           they’ve said:

         (and I quote)

         “This must be stopped.”

                   — W.H. Auden

            “Left THIS one UN-read!”

                        — Herbert Read

                   “J.Q. Devine is the biggest dickhead in schiz-lit,

                      and yet also one of the least effective.”

                                            — Harold Bloom

8.18.2011.                                                                         Manhattan, NYC.        

“Blazer arrived in excellent condition. Prompt shipping and careful packaging.

        *****

           Will continue to browse your listings.”

                            — Michiko Kakutani

---

 One of those happened.  Can you tell which?  Do you like detective stories?

ɪ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴᴛᴇᴄʜᴀᴍʙᴇʀ

Begin by realizing an inside-place.

(these are guided meditations)

  Walls.                        Skyless.

One,  

 two,  

  three,  

    four.        And there.     Over there,   the open door.

How tall are you, and why would you submit to such a petty request for quantification?

            Don’t you know all this data’ll be the be-all ender?

Ever gone to a Venetian ball on Azure, a bend Or, Côte d’Armes disarmingly chainsaw charmsmiled, chameleonic confidence unmanned gone cagliostric, malignantly catastropic —

              a  new confusion¹  arises:

                   (wait) (hold up)

NO RED UNDERLINES.

   THIS IS NOT A WORD.     I MADE IT UP.     SUI GENERIS.    SEGA GENESIS.

WE AIN’T FRIENDLY.             GIVE ME THE BENEFITS.    

   Oughtn’t it be shame-reddened here in the editor for false credibility, or,

         𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒:

a wildling glider-wing’s claim to values unearned and unimbued, displayed on a pike?

                            You see,

      I am frequently entreated by redlines to

    CONSIDER THE INCORRECTNESS OF MY WORDS,

                  MUCH AS . . .

I am so frequently distreated and pain-made aware and yet unmedicated of my fundamental incorrectness, being OFF, having been in the being of having fucked-off.

                               (unoccuplied) (aloft)

And now it appears that this unword which I have here-uttered when-googled good-and-boolean spools a four-page spread of century-on lit, and it appears as though —

                                         ha ha ha ha ha,

                     ha    ha    ha  ha    ha,

                                         ha ha ha ha ha,

           some upcoming scribe claiming the unlikely moniker of

                                       “Charles Dickens”

                        used it in one of his,

                                           𝙂𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎!—

               weekly newsletters,

                               back in,

                        back in,

                  back in —

              ↲BACK

        oh who gives a fuck,

       WHO GIVES A FUCK WHEN IT WAS,

                  for the truth,

        THE NECESSARY TRUTH

                    is:

𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎,

     𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎,

         𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎!

                he was talking about me, I’m the one that did it,

                    he’s just the puny who put my name to use,

    𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈’𝐌 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, RECLAIMAINT!

        9000 years old and ready to mingle,

             I’m here,   I’m here,

    I’m Whitey Bulger and I’m Charles Dickens too, dear,

       I’m Chuck Dick with the white bulge, I don’t give a fuck,

               I’m every woman and yet not one of them.

          I’m “no particular woman” in a prayer to god, hopeless.

                 speaking of:

When you made the door, ear-lier, in your architectural imagining, let me ask you:

      was it a big green one,       or a little yellow one?

                 And if nei-ther, why are you being so difficult?

furthermore:

When you’re on the Moon, where I am from, how tall are you there, when you are there?

Don’t think.

It’s over.

                             CALLING SHOTS:

I am going to throw a fit now, to keep my hands busy, and in that fit I’ll have writ something approaching a book², or a portion thereof, a shiv of a sheaf, now, for you, LIVE!, in real-time, as I periodically scroll about the text — this is being written uncomfortably³ on a “laptop computer” — devices were once meant to be user-controlled, I’ll have you know, you know — and I’ll be making additions as I see fit, as I see feel, as I’m sea-sick, as I seek broader ambitions to fail, likely undertaken when I’ve either forgotten some point I was attempting to make — NO, fuck that, making — or when the heinous brutality of the stress positions I inhabit while “writing⁴” have caused my shoulders to cramp and my hamstrings to deaden and flowing blood to go molasses as all gathered crust, hardening in a kiln of razors.

The neck’s a slipshod plinth in shuddering support of a head so full-up with shit as to be outhouse-housebound, imploding.

    You see:

People who can’t read have accused me of incoherence.

The road to hell is paved with interventions.

          Hypersonic blood-brain barrier tensions.

They’re not wrong, though they’re right for the wrong reasons.

And in my discomfort disgrace and discreditation I shall lay waste . . .

ARCHAIC REFURNISHMENT.

images of images of images of images of

                              RETOURNEMENT:

                           resampled ▭▭▭▹▹▹▹▹

                           resampled ▭▭▭▹▹▹▹▹

                           resampled ▭▭▭▹▹▹▹▹

                           resampled ▭▭▭▹▹▹▹▹        element

                       Do you remember? (Previously, on)

          The light flatly flatters me, pitiable patter:

 Each doorway’s a portal to disruption.            Disorientation.

Take your pick.                        Pick your take.

                                                 Axe yourself.

---

 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂

                                 it started here:

James Quentin Devine ('magnum hopeless' out soon)@JQDJQDJQD

@deankissick people who can't read keep calling me incoherent

6:15 PM · May 28, 2022

---

1 Like

                  I don’t know this guy.

           I don’t even know if they’re “a guy.”

       But it’s what sussed the thought on out.

A like garnered.

   All I feel online is pain and loneliness and despair.

       I feel all that off-line as well but there’s More & Other things.

            Here there is nothing, or next to it.

If you’d like to get next to no one, you’re going to have to put your back into it.

—

 tumble a turd into the

ZERO LIKES NO LIFE SHIT PRISON ECHO CHAMBER POT (think we done that one before), in REVERSE ORDER (“liars’ order,” disorder, malorder? Malordered bride? Burger and fries? Burgess Everett? Burp of an elephant?)    Fuck's your problem?   Fuck's your pr-

                I N C O H E R E N C E    ◿

I’m a bot swarm.

I’m a bot swarm.

I’m a bot swarm.

I’m a bot swarm.

James Quentin Devine ('magnum hopeless' out soon)@JQDJQDJQD

ever had a vision of yourself dying on a sidewalk and flickering in-and-out of "reality" (optical illusion) like a tossed-off baddie in a side-scrolling beat-'em-up? yeah? yeah daddy? yeah? how long did it take to clean up after? 👻

6:12 PM · May 30, 2022

James Quentin Devine ('magnum hopeless' out soon)@JQDJQDJQD

if they bring back Quote-"Insane Asylums" you know damn well they'll shadowban that IP . . . in the rNWorld (right now world) those of us who remain uncollected must be dealt with individually . . . they want to Silo the visionaries . . . they want to Salo the doodoo-berries.

6:10 PM · May 30, 2022

James Quentin Devine ('magnum hopeless' out soon)@JQDJQDJQD

NONE OF YOU ARE REAL . . . . . . I AM THE USER. — THE USER (new guy) (not actually new)

6:07 PM · May 30, 2022

Twitter’s a flush-valve for the ambi-aggro, a doomstroll’ll always succeed a doomscroll, so until my legs break it’ll nearly always be a mistake to chill on the CPU reading hot takes (audience and performer hatred growing in tandem, the effect’s intended, “it’s a social experiment,” I’m Smart, Actually), and then,

[ . . . feverishly adjusting dimestore Seuss-wig . . . the lighting is cheap, and the lighting is intense . . . the most credible are taken with the performance, while the credulous are unable to comprehend the pendulum swung . . . this is what the Fr*nch call “irony” . . . you’re suspected of intergalactic crime . . . what’s even being done here? . . . it’s a massage of sorts . . . you could accept that notion or fight it . . .]

[ . . . the mouth opens to continue its wretchedness, and the mouth continues to open, and continues, and continues . . . the jaw undone, this has become unhinged . . . pythons, pythons, pythons . . . the audience scrambles, but the furry in the beret’s ferocious, voracious, endless appetites in search of uncoming sate . . . a saga of blood and bone, a symphony of cartilage . . . a sacking . . . “who asked for this?” cries one remaining voice . . . “EVERYONE,” some know-it-all who’ll soon’ve known It All . . . a banner unfurls . . . ‘117 WPM’ . . . awe, gasps . . . gasps, awe . . . a lapse in the apse could end us all . . . all the world being a stage in a cycle of stages of cycles of stages, all the cycles overlapping . . . everyone who was ever alive having been given Baldur’s curse-blessing and granted twenty-four hours’ electricity for a planetary orgy-war . . . ]

 REPRIEVE US.  REVIVE US.  MAKER.  MINDER.

                        Laugh.

And even then —

          [horns honking, screaming]

  “Donate my brain to a paramilitary cause, and no not poetry, make it a righteous one!”

Hey, substack:

I DON’T GIVE A FUCK. 🖕🖕🖕

We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck.

(this 🖕 repeats as much as you’d like it to, don’t allow me to dictate the flow or arrangement of any of these glyphs clauses wordforms etc., you are to use this as you see fit, as you see feel, as you . . .)

One underdiscussed and indusputable fact is the essentiality to my practice as Late America’s greatest living artist of being an incredible typist —

Those fucks we didn’t give up there?    No C&P used.    Straight heat.

   Ripped that in one take, no punch.    🖕Don’t fuck with me.🖕

Then you jab a finger at my chest, and I clench my ass in the elastane obliteration of black denim, steadying unevenly-worn boot-heels as I prepare to confront you Right Here Right Now, on the patio of this wine bar:

       I am comprehensively bestial, and I can prove it.

    And so I shall . . .

RECEIPTS, FOR THE HATERS — who should know I was slouching in a chair!

   I’ve done far better before!    Far better!    Don’t forget that!

First take again! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!      I SAID DON’T YOU FORGET IT!

               signature_cocky_laugh.aiff

THE♂S𝑡IMULATOR THANKS YOU FOR —

And you scratch at your chin as one of those cheapo artifical margarine butterflies dallies at the edge of your viewport, asking yourself, as the time winds down on the ride, as the end draws near, if it’s your money’s worth you’ve had, or a sip of a sudsy sad sack, undescended and best ended, head on the tracks, Snidely Whiplashed, a needlessly cryptic tribute to Jejune Cuisine, and then you’re like “Shut the fuck up,”

  𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲-𝐛𝐮𝐳𝐳 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠,

                Behold:

 ERRORLESS PERFECTION — You may now scroll up ↑ or down ↓

   💙     💙     💙

KEEP DOUBTING YOU JEALOUS ASS MOTHER FUCKERS A HA HA

PORTRAIT OF COMPUTER ROYALTY

   We’re gonna rock it ‘til the wheels fall off,  and they will,  and soon.

WE GO BEYOND. WE GO LONG-WAY. 
THESE ARE ULTRA-MARATHONS FOR CHAMPIONS. 
YOU LOOK BETTER WITHOUT ALL THAT MAKE-UP. 
YOUR PEERS ENVY YOU. 

AGAIN: 

                            THIS IS GOSPEL MUSIC FOR GENIUSES. 

ELITISM’S MAKING A BIG COME-BACK, 
AND IT LOVES AND CHERISHES YOU.

I’ll bleed in a VFW hall for gas money . . .     Nowadays that’s luxury work.

To the suturists I beg of you re-assembly and to the futurists should those menders caren’t make mend of me please I beseech:  Don'“t Prtened to of Give a Fuck, Ass Hole’s . . .

                                    💙

       Read me on the web while it still remains woven.

       Find me in the stores while they still remain open.

        I live — sometimes — like rendered fat in your spam filters.

        Did you know that?     Did you know that about me?

   (dead-dad’s on the line) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . .            . . .℡☎︎

     They try to keep me from you, IT’S TRUE,

       and I’ll tell you why, I’LL TESTIFY:

They fear your power, because I send you spells, incantations — however you understand it, really, immaterial to me — on a chaotically regular rotation and in staggered registers, brokeback jokes clever hedging on the edge, bit of a “Carrollian Wonderment Terraformation” without the kiddie fixation, none of that funny business here, don’t be a sick fuck, only thing Savile ‘bout me’s the Row, I’m corseted in Huntsman Silverspur Rolls, so listen ‘round now, Lord Sutch, accord me as such:

this shit right here?

  this right here is shit to get you in gear luvie. 💙

           You know.

     They fear your werewolf state,

And so they give me the Hormel Treatment and —

We did it. We did it. We did it.                           Learn more . . .

 Now here I am, MUSUBI’D and fold-fucked into an unwanted envelope, spat-out,

flat-out    . . .     DECLINED.

And this seems as good an end-point as any, 
because the entrance is the exit, 
so scoff at the off-ramp and romp where you want, man, again:

We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck.

C&P’ed that time.                 Sad admissions, but:

The shoulders tire, the tires find the shoulder, the car cliff-careens as the setting sun smoulders.

 ☀︎  ☀︎  ☀︎  ☀︎  ☀︎  ☀︎  ☀︎

So let’s see us off with a new track, to make up for the infliction of Old Material that took place above —

           I try to bake-fresh for you, always.    

                           Never forget this.

Oh, hell — looks like I made two.

You do you:

💙

J.Q.D.

1. In the event that it’s not apparent to you, THE USER, there are images, e.g. pngs gifs jpgs, images, you know, images within this document of text as it’s being input.

Screen-shots, gotten.

The text-string “cagliostric” is one such instance of image-text, captured within the editor, as I prepare this document for — and assuredly to — your satisfaction.

A typical entry for me, here — being riddled with logogenesis and laden with self-serving, tedious novelty —is rashed-up RED RED RED harsh in judgmental under-lines, like run-hosiery or VPLs in the made-to-order satin finery I’m lovingly pinning to you, and frankly I find the notion that I’m not a capable thinker-typist to be grievously insulting.

In fact, should you peruse the full-text, you shall find full evidence of my capacities, screen-captures of on-line conquest, the documentation of a bon vivant street-racer!

2. It is Important, you see, to “write books,” which are of a designated length, and which necessarily convey weight.

I wuz here.

3. I shall go so far as to call it discomfort.

Performing this act pains me.

This is what giving looks like.

Love your mother, whichever one.

It’s me if you need it I guess.

4. Is typing REALLY writing?

I’d say it kind of isn’t, and herewith I shall furnish an exhaustive argument for this Blessed Reasoning:

As a lyricist, just so very forever-lyrical, lilting and tilting and ‘wocking and running, Just Annoying as Fuck, a large component of my writing’s done on physical pads, which are invariably given to me by others, as gifts or as “hey I didn’t want this” or Whatsoever It May Be, you understand, and so I do a fair bit of mark-making, and I must say in the making of those marks that there is an undeniable difference in what I in this moment will call “neural pathway somato-feeling,” which is idiotic, but a true expression of an idiocy to which I can claim first-hand inhabitation, and in which expression I find potable oases . . .

Longhand’ll getcha different.

Often I feel sad as a computer-writer, a computerist.

Electron tears in an election year.

Rigged all the same.