█Night Met a Violet End
█Night Met a Violet End →
a series of distractions sequenced and engineered by
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE 💙
ᴍᴜɴᴅᴜs ᴠᴜʟᴛ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴘɪ
◤
MMXXV ◢
(pronounced with a 15-second continous OM / ॐ / AUM / AUM / AUM then a KSSSSSSSSSSH then VVVVVVVVV — give yourself vibrational feedback, repeat it, repeat it, REPEAT IT! — IN FACT! — you should hum along with the WHOLE THING)
𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗
⎳𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙎, 𝘾𝘼 →
MATERIA
Substantial abuse.
Impaired alone.
Senses deceive.
Dying phone.
Blood streams.
Smoke expands.
A hot scene.
Here I am.
Inhaling particulate matter.
Ancient asbestos.
A complex blend.
Basenotes acid-etched.
Chest grows heavy.
Lead paint.
Phthalates.
Burning vinyl.
Formalydehyde.
Mercury.
Inhale outside.
Spark static.
Exploding fluorescents.
Plugged lungs.
Leached polychlorinated biphenyls.
Arsenic timber.
Thermal shock fissures.
Cracked marble.
Cinders.
Patagonian rosewood, Caribbean heart pine.
Burstbottle cellared wine.
Floored, flamed maple.
Sapele mahogany.
Brazilian cherry ember.
Foyer flambe.
Toxic fog fills exit-wounded entryways.
Fire escapes.
The movies film themselves.
A sum of collected rarities offered skyward.
Some awe.
Raw and refined.
Fixtures and appointments.
Reagents and compounds.
Gathering hoards.
A packrat and a struck match.
Stockpiles.
Stores.
Unknown chemicals.
Pricelessness dissolves.
Tools turn against themselves.
Fools rush in.
Roofs collapse.
Post-being.
Pyre and tannery.
Tinder and tyranny.
The scam the sham the illusion of it all.
Wither I.
Combusting pesticides.
Hilltop stilted and stupid.
Gun butt gone bust.
A flash a blast.
Darkness avast.
Little faith flickering.
Lamplit limerent.
Warm and calculating.
Oilgloss shimmering.
Museums evaporate.
Losses accumulate.
What Was That Kid’s Name?
HE DISAPPEARED AFTER SIXTH GRADE,
AND NO ONE EVER SAW HIM AGAIN —
Out and outlier.
Draws fire.
Pyromaniacal scribbling.
Fills notebooks.
Kid’s fucked up.
Can’t sit still.
Rocks back and forth.
Old clothes.
Holes in everything.
Talks to himself and shit.
Lot of voices.
Funny voices.
Pissed himself in class once.
Slow shame urine trickle pooling in the plastic shell schoolchair.
You can tell where it’s going.
Head-on to nowhere.
There is no intervening.
No intervention.
No effort to be made.
They’ve learned to ignore him.
Decorum obeyed.
I think I think I think I think I recorded this in 2018? I think
Emission
Some of the older people had stories about the sky raining pink “fluffies” near the site of the chemical plant.
“We’d trick the young kids into eating them.”
They’d laugh.
All dead now.
PORQUIPIG
To play fast and loose with the truth:
Porkfat was a part-time run-down luckless pimp of indeterminate origin living open-aired in a Hollywood Boulevard box of no fixed width and he felt like the world owed him something so he lashed out acted out took as he pleased.
Cut-off his sleeves and he patched up his knees.
“Just might run up on your bitch-ass in a tanktop.”
Swerving lanes.
Swaying trees.
Payday loans.
Gilded fleece.
Walked jagged.
Fat of the land.
Hand-over-grease.
Lard-lick.
And lady lucky.
Hamburger grist.
Highway thuggery.
Tyburn type.
Might made right.
Butane torch.
Jetliner heights.
Fallen flights.
Outhouse insights.
Dim damnation.
Entertainment lights.
And Lauren Bacall’s name flickering glitter in the reflection catching the neardistant glow of vape shops and Thai restaurants.
Humming neon and LEDs clash.
FLASH:
Now Porkchop — no, Porkfat, name’s Porkfat — I’m SURE OF IT! — he’d turned Sour Annie out back in November when he’d met her one foul day crying in a diner.
Felt cliche.
“Some say god’s a designer.”
(some say)
FACT IS:
It just happened that way.
“Her make-up ran but she still stayed.”
In an imitation Lou Reed voice.
Infinitely played.
“She had her choice.”
And she made it that day.
In a store on the shore of Barbary Bay.
Angels and lost leases.
Gamesmen and chesspieces.
Camelhair scimitar.
Khakicrisp cuffcreases.
Thought we were similar.
But that was a flawed thesis.
FOR NOW:
Plastic and suspect.
Doting in motels.
Skirt between cusp hexes.
Who dares risks.
“Whose bitch is this?”
Dug-in nails.
Gripping a wrist.
“She belongs to me!”
Blows the lid.
Pure id.
Pop.
“Fuck you Porkchop!”
Bazooka bubblegum.
Time’s up.
Get some.
Get-up.
Stick-up kid.
Now you gotta fight Champagne Charlie for the honor of your bitch.
Two derelict pimps with an axe to itch.
Stick out your ass and let’s call for the bids.
“I got 💸 fifty bucks 💸 on the short guy on the curb . .
He looks madder than hell, and drunk as a lord . . .”
SHIT❗️
This shit’s for the birds.
Fists get to flying.
Failure of words.
Proud chest.
Shoulders back.
Stand up.
Wired.
Form a stack.
Feet under ass.
And asunder all.
Amass alack.
Nothingness.
Emptiness.
Center of the head.
Crown of the cloud.
Horizon lead.
A pin to heaven.
A paean beyond.
A wrecked exotic.
The whip’s European.
[intense booing]
👻
[laudatory hallucinations]
Hipswivel.
Deep drivel.
Hands in the air.
He’s talking shit but his voice’s shaken-scared.
SAID CHAMPAGNE CHARLIE IS TALKING SHIT.
He’s shoeless to boot this fool’s got his soles bared.
Pork stomped Charlie’s toes with a bootheel bust.
“Fuck you Chuck you drunk old fuck!”
The meanness of mouth Porkfat mustered up.
Then he cut Chuck longway.
Grimacing dogface.
Circling vultures.
Vermin crawl apace.
Too many witnesses.
No good.
But dammit the deed is done.
“It was him or me,”
Who knows if that fucker had a gun.
“Who knows what he was planning!”
And having secured the honor of Annie,
Porkfat chugged Charlie’s estate and legacy.
THE CORPSE YIELDED:
A half-bottle of cuvée.
And a flask of Hennessey.
“A tribute to you Chuck, from your favorite swine.
Thanks for the whiskey, and thanks for the wine!”
Put a big smooch on Annie.
“You take this money honey cuz I’ll be gone a while.”
Cashwads in her shorts and a cracked-tooth smile.
She slunk down the alley a scuttled goodbye.
Porkfat’s teary-eyed.
But he fakes it dry.
He’ll pay dearly in time.
And in toil.
And toll.
But Porkfat don’t believe in the devil at all.
LAST CHANCE . . .
JQD
💙
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