— 𝗚𝗢𝗙𝗙𝗠𝗔𝗡

    FEATURED AUDIO:

  “Animated Grief”                             𖤐

           J.Q.D.                              𖤐

 (Cash Money Records)                          𖤐

All Rights Declined/Denied              COVID YEAR ZERO

. . .                                     ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠɪᴠɪᴀɴ.   💙  💙  💙

                 NOTE: “post too long for e-mail,” as ever, listen/read on the web.

   SOTTO VOCE SPLATTERFEST:

“Unwin?” wondered, “I’d call that a loss,” said.       

      Ventured, gained.

Empuddeled pantaloon unpud thrufst-foerd, in needn’t metric rigor, dromedary pummels the sclera in error, scuttle-side otherwise, head back:

               "See you on the other-side,”

Then you’ve got Chili Peppers guitar in your head and you are in Hell or perhaps Wal-Mart, you are standing in some sort of line, on-line, conga-knees, dollar store flip-flops, the floor is the ceiling, you’re vermin, they’ve mistranslated your name and you’re indifferent to putting up a fuss, you’ve been sold a false bill of goods, you’ve been billed a good bit by fools, your barn-door’s open and you’re worth all the wool.

And the camel’s there, with you, at the lunch counter, and he’s just been fired from his job, his job having been that of the being of an advertisement, and him having now no-purpose, he’s made it his low surly business to be rather demeanding in his treatment of the waitstaff, and you see that Luncheon Joe’s been sneaking tidy pours of some clink-clank hip flask liquor store stink into the plastic soda cup kept tip-top.

The staff’s attentive and the sceptre’s majestic.

   A spectral scimitar’s shadow lengthens.

               His lungs are shot and he bellows chunkily:

         “Isn’t somebody gonna ask about who I am?! I know all you seen me!”

                       It’s gonna be a sad melt.

But enough about the burgers here.  On the menu.  Folks.   Am I right?

         Folks?

Am I right.  Folks.  Have you had the burgers, here?  At the luncheonette?

                                         We munchin by proxy yet?

                                                           Concordito hop the munchkin jet ✈︎

Now, board ‘em:

       AND puddles-jumped in a strangers’ rainslicker linger:

       RICO        racket-strung        Prince Decapitato

       vapor-vapid        automatic POV        cinema jism

       rhythmatic carditis               Lilith aversion,

                                            𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜:

John Cage with 27” pythons hoisting a strongman’s sledge and halving summerfruit hardway, delivering punchline after punchline after punchline, full-shot unpulled, destroying an entire grocery store, arubber barren.

                             𝚘𝚛:

Your wormgullied noggin’s hoggin' all the oxygen and that overfat melon’s burst-ready, full up with blighted spores, pregnant with griefs as yet earthless.

                        And then,

             A GUY [over-affected “indifferent shrug”] apprreroaches,

                              says in a

                                 NO-EMOTION VOICE:

                                   “You are in the jun - gle ba - by.”

           No emotion whatsoever.

                                              “You are go - ing to die.”

           Superfund flat.

.

. . . animated grief, in brief . . .  . . .  . . .   . . .   . . .   . . .  . . .   . . .  . . . . . .

.

  They’ll say,

one thing they’ll say,

    is:

 Fella talks like a computer.

         Huh.

. . .

conscious_bulb

ＴＨＥＳＥ　ＡＲＥ　ＧＵＩＤＥＤ　ＭＥＤＩＴＡＴＩＯＮＳ

Ｉ’Ｍ　Ａ　ＰＳＹＣＨＯＰＯＭＰ　ＩＮ　ＷＡＩＴＩＮＧ

ＹＯＵ　ＣＡＮ　ＨＩＤＥ　ＦＯＲ　ＷＡＮＴ　ＯＦ　ＳＥＥＫ

ＯＲ　ＳＵＲＲＥＮＤＥＲ　ＢＲＥＡＴＨ　ＦＯＲ　ＴＡＫＩＮＧ

                            Probably it’s slivered micro-songs, don’t over-think it.

. . .

. . . . .

. . .

Talked my way out of being killed with a big metal pipe in the middle of the night just some months ago.

Who can remember?!   —  TIME!   ( - :    ) - :

        Had to hypnotize the critter what intended the blow’s deliverance.

He was mad with me for the emptying of a wandereering nightbladder’s piss, deposited too-near his home, over on the other side of the 7-11’s parking lot, behind the battered wire fence, behind the concrete thing behind the other concrete thing.

Which I of course hadn’t seen.

Before.

As intended.

A world of concrete and piss.

A cement bowl.

Serial.

    Design.       Design.       Design.      Satan.

   I simply explained to him why he wasn’t going to do it, and then he didn’t.

             Can’t remember if I’ve writ this up previously.

                        I think I have.

                          I can’t remember much. . .

                 The good news is I’m unbidden to sensicality.

The other good news is that ✞ ✞ ✞ 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐬 . . .

and then the bit goes on like way, way too long, just utterly loaded up with 𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨, needlessnesses, redundancies, redundancies, 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬,

and you’re like:

“Uh, yeah, I got the point a while ago, we all got the point, no one’s grasping here, we’re gasping for air,” yet the chewing continues unabated and unbathed . . .]

                  Channel-change at a ghost’s buttonpress.

                      The dead want use of your hands.

                           The dead want to cook:

                         to prepare and to eat meals.

                           The dead want to dance.

                             It’s alleged they can.

                                 So it’s told.

          All my typing’s a race against death.

         All my s𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 a race against AI.

             There’s your real replacemat.

                  Eyelid implant.

                     Tech-creep, vine around the ankle.

    Drag you into the data forest and kill you in the mist.

            Shove you in the Venusian hellmouth, gut-fed.

I’ve got 23% battery life (Michael Jordan, Michael Jordan, Michael Jordan, PREHYPERTEXTUAL SCHIZOSTHESIA) and the thing Just Dies At 7%, we’ve gotta call our shots and pick our spots here.

          Sci-gattaca helix crook?

         Little too felicitous?

         Take the piss of us?

     Mess with us and we’ll spread your guts.

        That’s what the feller wanted me dead-fer.

            I toldjer, Sheriff.

             Honest I did.

       And you just keep on chomping that fat old cigar.

                   You’re disgusting.

Faded to black,    Burberry Columbine,    convict beltless,    barbecued.

I got dead friends on the Internet that are famous now. I got dead friends that are rich.

   I got rich famous dead friends.

Waive your hands in the f****n’ heir if you’re   o u t h e r e  getting this paper and you are

                               f*****g dead.

                           Spray-it-⇨-⇨-forward.

                          Cash-flow’s a shot away.

                                Con-crete.

                                 Laid-out.

                                Arterially.

   A gushing review of life left may-yet cushion inheritors careless and kept.

   A gushing review of life left may-yet cushion inheritors careless and kept.

   A gushing review of life left may-yet cushion inheritors careless and kept.

                          𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗

                        Just one breath:

I experienced tens of thousands of layers of consciousness simultaneously held like stacked glass plates of towering awareness as I was laying in a ditch with strangers watching Aeon Flux projected onto the underside of an overpass once in Orange County.

   ʙʟɪɴᴋ.  ʙʟɪɴᴋ.

          ʙʟɪɴᴋ,  ʙʟɪɴᴋ.      ʙʟɪɴᴋ ʙʟɪɴᴋ.

                ʙʟɪɴᴋ.         ʙʟɪɴᴋ-ʙʟɪɴᴋ.

          ʙʟɪɴᴋ,     ʙʟɪɴᴋ.

                          Blink.

           Then, check for signs of continued interest.

                         If none:

So, where do you like to buy your shoes?              Oh, that’s great.

     Me?    Oh I just find things.    Or people give ‘em to me.

 These? These are old. These are older than I am, older than me. These are Moreschi.

You notice my correct pronunciation.   The mutual arousal is similarly pronounced.

  Think they just might just be eel.        Romeo’s as Cuban as the heel.

            Could be stingray — Say, you’re 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐞.

        By then you’ve got to figure the weather’s changed.

                Our figures sag in the still-lengthening shadows.

                         The sword hovers.

                 Its craft is cold and its caliber smothers.

                   “Oh, you want heightened tensions?”

            ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ.

Met a guy named Art the other day started talking to me about Frank Zappa because of my dog. Then some more non-sequiturs. You’ve been paying attention to the sequined-tits over my shoulder. You’re a pervert and I should leave this place, but you drove and I’m planning on killing you, so it’s a wash. I’ll use your shower to clean myself before I disembowel you there in it. I’m going to heartlessly butcher you, then do all of your drugs, then use your phone to order a whole fleet of milkshakes for delivery, and burritos as well.

And this time?

This time I’m not going to leave any straws behind.     I’m not going back in.

  13% battery life       (luck is a boring idea but it’s real)

            AND IN COMES PROFESSOR MUMBLEBROUGHT, TO PROVIDE AN ANCIENT LECTURE ON THE PLEASURE OF RITUAL SACRIFICE:

       So tell me, punk — you really think you got free will?

Then he just keeps squinting.

Just waiting for you to balk, really.

You balking?

You balking you’da been balked by now.

The outline’s chalky but it’s silk when it goes down.

 BONUS   BONUS   BONUS   BONUS

❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁

I’ll return to it one time.

It’s 11:44 now, peeyum, and I’ve got Some Wine, but not enough.

I’ve got some thoughts, from texts, prompted by others, which feels like theft, but all life feels like theft, and every breath’s petty larceny, so what’s the pity in a little more.

                                              💙 𝙹.𝚀.𝙳.

Bon morts

adjourn

 play it as it lays       

glaring cosmic rays.

                      remains, to be scene:

                  a being named “vyor” appears.

                     i meant it to be “yvor,”

            but it looks like my intentions have been scuttled.

       Infinite production . . .

  𝙁𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙈 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙎𝙄𝙎,

          Mirror neuron     noh theater,     slow-motion.

    A big plump ass covered in millions of zits from steroid abuse . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

  Psychic twin in a jamjar —

     ℙ𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕤𝕦𝕤 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕪,    

         𝕕𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕕 & 𝕠𝕟 𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕟𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕕.

Stereo                                 Icarus.

  Pimples      the size of pineapples        on a big steroid ass.   

ＳＹＮＴＨＢＡＳＳ ＳＹＮＴＨＢＡＳＳ

        Causal encounters . . .

I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳I̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳s̳t̳.̳

Whipcrack of a switch carved down to a whisper.

Whipcrack of a switch carved down to a whisper.

Whipcrack of a switch carved down to a whisper.

Whipcrack of a switch carved down to a whisper.

“DO DRUGS,”

carved in a desk.

    D’you take every suggestion given?

        Unrelenting film premise.            Forebrain fog.

 I’m enthralled to no one,    a stateless actor,    a slobberin’ citizen.

ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴏᴏɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ

The prosecco corrective’s taken minor hold. I’m sparkling in the right light. Is this—

  ᙭ ᙭ ᙭ ᑭ E ᖇ I ᗰ E ᑎ T I ᗩ ᒪ    ᑕ ᒪ I T E ᖇ ᗩ T ᑌ ᖇ E    🤪

well, well, well       well frankly everything is too f*****g stupid to care, so:

I’ll sparkle.

I’ll sparkle.

I’ll “effervesce.”    

 (f**k her vest)    

   (F.H.V.)

                  There have been some demonic developments in textiles of late but we won’t be getting into that. . .

              I’m so rr y  there’s not-time.

I could complain to the end of days, you see, and what’s jokes’s become factuals, and

             𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐?

12:45 now, ayum, gotta figure it’s been time to Go To Bed (G.T.B.) but there’s precious little release from this energy of too-much telling, and wine still, so I spill, so I still, even as I spar-kle.

What is this f*****g thing?

Let’s see . . .

            Yeah that’s just not gonna be a lot of battery life, is it?

13! 13! 13! Luck is a fake idea that’s real! History’s dragons!

IF you figure out how to click on the right part of this webform you can BUY DRUGS.

The heart’s partitioned,   cardio-pardoned,   burdensome programming.

      Duel-living Janus sniveling blurred exorocist neck-wrench ship-shafeter,

                        utterly untrustworthy.

        Said:

“Take a s**t and name it after me, I don’t care.”

    Kept saying:

“Everything I’s s’posed t’ do or t’ve done’s some-thing’s was done in the 19th century!”

      Just kept on saying:

“Ain’t no f****n’ god damn point to me. Put my ass under. F**k me! F**k me!”

          Then probably kept talking but everyone’d wandered away.

So I guess that answers some questions about trees and forests.

And now with 44% battery life I will relieve myself of this machine and Go and Do Yoga, perhaps periodically returning to tap out a critical phrase . . .

But I must warn:

Whatever remains is qwerty-keysmash, unlike the heady deliberation preceding it.

I am a genius of every-many persuasion, see, and I mix heraldic tinctures, maudite mixtures, red-light diction, pyrite visions . . .

I am an exploding suplex.

I get the sense that my relation to time and space bears almost no relation to others’?

And I, I didn’t mean to — see, if I —

(stupid, self-indulgent)

if I had my drothers I’d —

(unoriginal)

⌁

electrical current, passed,

then you wonder how deep the character runs,

THEN ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏᴏ,

 then the whole haunted house crackles,

     & the tape hisses “BOO.”

   There’s no one here so you pad it out.      I’m periodically agreeable.

What writing even is or can do is endangered as a knowledge-act.

  Ted     TURNS    and    Ted     TALKS    and

    BULL - s**t  ba - by  well  BULL - s**t  walks.

I’m everyone’s thoughts if you repeat me enough.

It’s sickly.

I don’t make the rules.

Unless you say I do, and often, and then I do.

   Then I become the law.

         That, however — ( - : — is not the objective here.

I just want to make art and f**k around, to make the best use of the unlikely heights of those rarest inwardly channelable superimposed abilities, to manipulate them forcefully and volitionally, to direct this “Stack” to its best (fake idea) use —

But that’s senseless, I don’t believe in “Optimization Culture,” though I used to, long ago now, and hey maybe I’ll have a later-in-life return to it, for after all pendulums do swing and when the great pretender sings it’s happigay harlequings and now it’s over, it’s over, we’re in revolting wordplay and the scrunched bits utter and the stictures unch up over carved-jaw jutters, Inoki chin flowing in Enochian, Magnum Hopeless.

Imagining yourself:

Last name, date of death.

Beat-heart, rate of breath.

The wine is gone, now, and the battery soon follows.

I shall post the results open and unadulterated, carelessly!

“Unwin?” said, “I’d call that a loss,” wondered.         “Unwin?” wondered, “I’d call that a loss,” said.            “Unwin?” said, “I’d call that a loss,” wondered.               “Unwin?” wondered, “I’d call that a loss,” said.                    “Unwin?” said, “I’d call that a loss,” wondered.         

      Ventured, gained.