LATE AMERICA’S GREATEST TYPIST RETURNS
full frontal cortex
VISUAL-ART-SONG
realized by
James Quentin Devine
5 3 2 3 — but it’s a lopsy five and the three’s got wings — (this is a hint)
(this is a howl-to guide)
THE PHYSICS OF PROPHECY, REVEALED!
I’m in autumnal sauna. Count joy,
YOU ARE A FLOURISHING BEAUTY.
vhs
MANA:
◘◘◘THE CLUE GUN 🔫•◦•◦••◦•◦••◦•
‣
play
❌ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: CONTAINS CURSED DINKUS ❌
* * *
(without conclusion)
* * *
↘️
Shit happens.
It’s everywhere, liquid.
Globs on carpet, streaks on sheets.
Fucked up and drank too much.
Won’t be coming out.
Can’t be cleaned.
It’s dog-shit, it’s not mine.
Don’t be despicable.
Got a little more restraint than that. Little.
Literally, I suppose.
I should have let her out.
I must not have heard.
That’s too much.
TRAP DOOR, TRAP-DOOR,
A TRICKSTER GOD made “DRINKING” rhyme with “THINKING” to tempt LAZY TROUBADOURS.
I SAID —
A trickster god made “drinking” rhyme with “thinking” to tempt lazy troubadours.
A—
I’m too much.
Might as well burn the building down, demolish it.
That’s a figure of bleach.
So much shit.
Who could have foreseen this?
Thing happening.
Four-eyed, five-headed.
QUENTIN CAGLIOSTRO,
Deeply embedded.
Browsing, threaded.
SPREAD IT:
G-G-G-G-G-G-
Gets you, Nowhere.
* * * * * * * * *
COLLECTED TEXTS (captive: bolt)
All day I dream about spec scripts,
Bereft of wit.
Got a good one, but — hey
Hard to commit.
* * * * * * * * *
THE EMBRACE OF ERRORS
PROVE YOU’RE NOT A BOT —
Or not.
Show us your insides.
Wholly.
We are in a race against encroaching technology.
Fuck.
And the sneerers shall become shovelers.
Look,
W I D E L Y:
Anything you can do to distinguish yourself from machinery is A Good Idea.
Briberrhea.
Flood is coming, ankle-high today.
Flood is coming, to the waste tomorrow.
* * *
Dead Dogs II
Left the house with the tale of a dead dog ringing in my head and the leash of a live one in jingling my hand.
Met a man, all torn up, along the path.
After the liquor store —
Up Hillhurst, I was getting cider, stupid, sweat-soaked.
“No bag?”
Nah, man.
No bag.
Fuck the cops.
Fuck the fucking cops.
Man.
Price of my dignity!
I —
Anyway,
So —
Sweet baby girl dog leads me on out, walks up to a fella with burly pecs peeping out of a muscle tank, trimmed mustache, soft eyes, gentle demeanor.
“She’s so calm.
She’s so sweet.”
Soft voice.
“Thank you.”
My voice.
Final.
Him:
“I had to put my dog down after 15 years just three weeks ago.”
He broke. His voice, and him.
I am now holding a crying stranger.
That’s fine, that’s what I am here for.
“Isn’t this the plot of The Giver?”
Who can remember — brain’s got more holes than plot.
I take on the pain and like rivers we part.
Then,
Met a guy named rrrrRoberRrto who — on being complimented for the skillful rolling of his r’s, told me I’d have to sample the way he rolls a j.
HEY,
So —
FILM! FILM! FILM!
Hundred-five degree death-dungeon.
Performing low stunts.
Trying, failing to find the headphone adapter on the dogshit carpet, under the dogshit bed, somewhere, anywhere in this dogshit world.
Face-front.
Pressed.
Always cashing-in the same scars.
Been living in headphones.
Becoming nothing, water.
Stretching.
Unbecoming.
Water, becoming nothing.
Come with me.
C’mon.
dinkus dinkus dinkus (implied)
d. d. d.
THE OTHER NIGHT (EXT. BAR)
Elf-grin, ““So are you all fucked up when you write these?”
A paying subscriber.
Best to be careful!
A customer in a world of transactions.
But that’s a miserable way to operate. So let’s don’t.
Where are my morals? Where are my manners? Where is my mind?
Yes, but.
Maybe, or.
Sometimes, and.
Today: a bit.
And I am All Fucked Up, always and forever, sober-straight or sloppy-scary.
IN EACH AND EVERY STATE:
“Why do you [write/sing/talk/…]] like this?” has recurred, recurringly.
I simply see no reason to do things as they’ve been done, or are being done.
SEE:
Lurk.
Find a scene & frame it.
Look for where the volume isn’t.
Dissolve, ooze, occupy.
Take form.
It’s yours.
And I am All Fucked Up,
always and forever,
sober-straight or sloppy-scary.
I am the midnight fairy of unpotentiated madness.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Exactly.
I’m not a technical writer.
Don’t nobody reads no books but people what wants to read about teens and their hot hot teen fucking teen teen teen fuck teen fucking teen teenaged Sex Book Literature real teen sex real teens near you looking to fuck get yourself a sugar-baby teen teen teen fuck fuck fuck SEX S E X big-lights naughty area teen whores 18+ fucking or captives in managerial cults or sadomoralist flagellant kink-lit freaks or like Divorced Libertarian Dad where Boy, the Friends Don’t Come Around Anymore, Do They with the grey-grim Cold War porn or maybe a glossy airport banger about a lawyer with a gigantic dick and a great head of hair.Oh no!
I’m not a writer.
NO . . .
Not a musician.
I’m a recording artist, sure.
Yeah.
Sure thing.
Yeah.
I got letters where my notes should be.
and,
I’ve got nodes of pleasure in a pheasant’s vase,
🚨
∗ ∗ ∗
🚨⤴️this here dinkus represents an hour of your time, the nonsensica to’ve followed “I’ve got nodes of pleasure in a pheasant’s vase” would have been indescribably retch’d, eroding all confidence you may have in me, and is thus omitted.🚨
Unfortunately due to the End User License Agreement digitally signed on-entry, each time you view the gnarled dinkus ONE (1) ACTUAL EARTH HOUR WILL be subtracted from your life.
Ah, um.
🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨
THIS IS NON-NEGOTIABLE.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPLIANCE.
Having met the cursed dinkus, this is your reddened end.
💙 💙 💙
J.Q.D.