N̶o̶n̶s̶e̶n̶s̶e̶ Exegesis 𝚂𝚊𝚐𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝐙𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐬 𝕏
I hallucinated me.
You❓
OH YEAH! OH YEAH! OH YEAH!
𝐎𝐇 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇!
I won’t remember having done much of this, so know that if-when you look upon me in some hypothetical pathetic pre-chewed resolved old-age fate that in a youngbodied state I was a demon unfit for emulation raging against revelation.
JQD
m.v.d.
💙
𝐈.
𝐴𝑇𝑅𝑂𝑃𝐻𝑌 𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐸𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁
Hail accumulated stalkers, gawkers, street-walkers, traffic-stoppers, head-turners, spurned yearners, dividend earners, distressed damsels, mammals, handfuls, Mammon, Ammon, duelists, Ra, just-the-two-of-us, ah, you & I, do-or-dies, rum-guzzlers, slut puzzlers, resolute revelers, fool asses batting lashes, saber-rattlers and battle-axes, thousand-hitting sluggers and big bad nasty-nasty old mother-fuckers.
Life is a series of heists.
You get over.
Away with it.
Get on.
Or you don’t.
You get gunned-down.
Go on.
Gone.
Gaunt.
Penned-in.
Pent-up.
Penitent.
Parched.
Abandoned.
𝐈𝐈.
4.22.22
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑙𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑:
If we are to write for posterity rather than for posteriority than we must unassend ourselves and understand that literacy’s a passing fad in sneering wane.
The best outcome that you as a letterist in prodigious output might possibly find, in the event that you should take a long view — and I do firmly believe that you should take such a lengthy look, I do
— but your work’s best recipient-finder’s a person or entity with generous intentions and an uncan-capability of translation INTO
whatever the next thing is — my guess is that it’ll be a multi-sensory form
of communication, in much the sense that current sound-and-vision media is multi-sensory, but several dimensions gone on beyond what is currently available or known. Scents and pheromones are the obvious underutilized vectors, here. Can you translate me into your anal glands? Can you transmute what’s cute about me to a dolphin?
[outro]
Moved to LA on a tossed dart.
Seemed like the zag at the time.
Back of the line.
Glittering illiterate.
Hillside or underpass.
Lean-to or long-odds.
𝐈𝐈𝐈.
𝐸𝑋𝑃𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑇𝑈𝑇𝐸𝑆
“I need you to fuck me.”
She could have fucked someone without an armory.
Now I’m here.
In “𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝙰𝚗𝚗 𝙵𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚎
.”
Population fuck-all.
Buying a gun.
It’s not like the movies.
Not much is.
No mystery man with a silver Haliburton case.
No slick-talk about calibers or
kill capacities.
Just some redneck.
Looks doped up
, acts dopey.
Skinny wolf.
Fuck knows.
Way out here I’m not trying to tryna find out.
Not gonna negotiate the price.
A handshake and a handover’ll suffice.
Ohio moon goodnight.
𝐈𝐕.
1.12.22
ᴏᴘᴇɴ
an eternal, present:
In babies’ pants, little legbands and a drawn waist, from Japan, grey tweed fabric.
Boss Baby’s country gentleman phase.
For the Hunted Huntsman.
№𝟷𝟷 ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴡ.
Lined to the knee in satin.
There down you’re roughing it.
Socks with blown elastane.
Ba-na-na Republic, many (many)
many dictators ago.
Orange and tan harvest stripes, varying.
Don’t make any sense.
Doesn’t.
There’s no intentionality.
It’s not like me.
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑚 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔?
It is January in Los Angeles.
It feels like any other Earth’s early June.
Who's there to even commune with?
𝙰𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕❓
[piece continued from here in devaluing (spiraling (𝑑𝑒𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔)) form, we’ll ~CLIP IT HERE
~ and ~MOVE ON
~]
→
Subscribe now to read some forbidden nonsense
that (originally) followed the preceding nonsense, i.e. nonsense exegesis.
𝐕.
2024: 𝑆𝑃𝑂𝐼𝐿𝐸𝑅 𝐴𝐿𝐸𝑅𝑇
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄
𝑎𝑛𝑑
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒
𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡
𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃
𝕒𝕟 𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕡𝕙𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕔 𝕤𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕖
𝐕𝐈.
𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐸𝑁𝑆 𝐴𝑅𝐸 𝑅𝐴𝐸𝐿
I can’t tell if I should be seeing myself into the night.
The echoes of a seashell’s insight.
Nothing doing.
It’s that time of night.
The freaks are out.
Peak arousal.
Scaled alps.
Reptilian oblivion.
Etna gone vesuvian
Again.
These are spells.
26 scrip.
You got the villain to smile.
Congratulations.
What do you want now?
𝐕𝐈𝐈.
8.10.22
I go down to the pancake restaurant, where the waitresses still lie to me, and tell me I’m handsome.
I still got a couple hairs, and if you squint, it’s a few.
There’s waitresses on down there at that pancake restaurant.
The one’s got a real big ass, and I love that.
It’s my birthday.
I’m 81 years of age.
I was born back in the ‘20s you see, and I’ve still got a fat old dick I’d like to make use of, and a house someone might want, so I take myself for something of a stud, a blue-chipper.
I say gimme two pan-cakes butter coffee milk.
And she don’t write down shit, walks it on back.
She don’t know I’m big in sci-fi.
Don’t know a thing about the conventions, the hotel rooms.
Gulping, wishing I had coffee, Lord I wish I had that coffee.
The groupies.
That coffee comes out quick, warm too.
𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈.
𝑆𝑇𝑂𝑁𝐸𝐷 𝐵𝑈𝐿𝐿𝑆𝐻𝐼𝑇 𝑂𝐹𝐹 𝐴𝑁 𝐼𝑃𝐻𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝐴𝐵𝑂𝑈𝑇 . . .
[the changing of channels]
. . .
The light wasn’t on in her eyes.
I was so scared.
She was there but not there.
. . .
At the onslaught tell a lotta jokes to disguise pain.
Wisp of a crescent nested in cotton candy daygoaway.
Refresh.
Every breath’s an update.
Run another scan.
C’mon man.
Con man.
Scams on scams on scams.
Love that money love that drink lose that girl gone in a blink.
Stinking rank and filed down to razorsedge.
Fists of fury.
You’re an animal that wants to go fast.
You’ll go fast.
Blue Sky VIP.
VSOP.
. . .
SEE:
People stop talking when I walk by.
Caesura passage.
It’s power.
It’s emanation.
It’s a force field.
. . .
It would be one of the great privileges of my life to present an assemblage of the talents I’ve encountered.
. . .
I’m a Telephone American.
I remember calling to ask.
𝑊ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒❓
Not who you’d like.
Now you’ve got to negotiate.
. . .
At the end of the day you negotiate how big your dick is.
As they say.
And you’re beside yourself.
As they do.
AND:
. . .
It’s not you doing any of it.
Went from con artist to pro.
COINTEL
—oh no.
𝐈𝐗.
𝐶𝐻𝐼𝐿𝐷𝐼𝑆𝐻 𝐺𝐴𝑀𝐵𝐼𝑇𝑆 𝑜𝑟 𝐴𝐵𝐴𝑁𝐷𝑂𝑁𝐸𝐷 𝐻𝐴𝐵𝐼𝑇𝑆:
. . .
a posh & airy tale . . .
𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚔,
𝙑𝘼𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝘾𝘼𝙎𝙆𝙀𝙏!
TIME TO BUILD ANOTHER WALL OF NOISE . . .
I consider yet again burning everything I’ve ever written, smashing the hard-drives — the remaining ones at least — most of my life’s Gone, in media as in memory — deleting the accounts, attempting to remove whatever imprint I’ve made, withdrawn confessions, taking it back, disavowal, a change of names or locations or hairstyles or perhaps significant plastic surgery, I feel the exhaustion of my 9000 years, 90 centuries on, on, on.
I’d love to be manic.
Instead, depressive athleisure.
Tired of my own voice.
Feels like gesturing wildly at things that aren’t there anymore, may never have been.
You’ve got to wonder if the numbers you see — the likes, the views, the opens, the shares, whatever it is — if any of it’s real.
What if it’s all actually zero.
Absolutely zero.
The glow of morsels of fame.
Faces lit in a deceptive dance.
When you’re not a part of society or nature you’re in deep shit.
Locks eyes at the trade show says “The V-Neck is coming back, you know.”
Everything’s obvious.
Sphere off into the distance
Round midnight square pigs
Can’t read cuz I can’t relax.
Never calm.
𝐗.
𝐼 𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝑇𝑂 𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅𝐴𝑃𝑌 1𝑋 (𝐶𝐸𝐶𝐼𝐿)
“You’re incoherent.”
“Yes.”
“You contradict yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Constantly.”
“Yes.”
“You’re vain.”
“Yes.”
“Conceited.”
“Yes.”
“Self-absorbed.”
“Yes.”
“A narcissist.”
I shift my weight in the examiner’s chair.
“Yes.”
“Shallow.”
“Yes.”
“Opportunistic.”
“Yes.”
“Antagonistic.”
“Yes.”
“Selfish.”
“Yes.”
“Avoidant.”
I laugh.
“Yes.”
Some notation’s made.
And then, an offering of pills.
I said no.
presented in
FRAGMENTED REALITY
a subsidiary of
𝘟𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈
“Inevitability — Delivered.”
I AM A DEPLETED CHARACTER. IT IS OK. THANK YOU.
SELECT ME?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . . .
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a
JQD is a self-taught integrated media company founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.
“Thank you . . .
Thank you.”
💙
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