A direct address.

                 More to come.

      The apology for being is tedious.

                   I won’t.

                  💙

              James Quentin Devine

                           — 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.

Grabs you by the shoulder while you’rent expectoring it and Badbreath He says:

You ever find you a old shirt in a second-hand store smells like bygone chemical death?

Put it on.    Hey.    Put it on.    Hey.    Put it on.    Hey.

Then you slug up some greasy coffee, and you spill the coffee all over your new shirt.

                       Now you’re a real mess.

And what have you got to say for yourself, balled-fists?

                                Sαყ:

                        “It’s all a bunch of slop, for clods!”

    Sick of this boring f*****g click music for stores.

                 “I see through this s**t!”

             𝙉𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚.

               “AAAAAAAAUGH!”

                  𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐚𝐮𝐳𝐞.

   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙽𝙸𝙲𝙾𝙸𝚂𝙴:

        (nice one)

     Enchantment.   

     EN CHANT MENT.   

                It’s right f*****g there.

                  𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.

                         It’s religion.  

                            It’s not sequiturs.

It might be contagious.

(it is)

IMAGINE every smudge mug in the world refreshing its own

            disappointing view count.

                          Imagine disappearing off the coastline.

       Imagine raging.

                  Rotted out demolition dandy.

I’m so f*****g far outside I’m in glitch mode and it’s all clipping and I’m all jagged edges and the underrendered soles of my feet just clop ceaselessly on starved air.

  山乇丨尺ᗪ new bump on my arm.      Everything’s cancer now.

One year or another’ll put you down.

      Never do look in the mirror . . .

                   Been-sitting Shiva my whole life.

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬’𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝-𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠.

◎◎

Hello I am an Energy-Book. Thank you for using me.

Hello I am a urinal. Thank you for using me.

          — M. RUTT

             tummi-tuckt,

                  𝚅𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎  𝙼𝚃𝚅  𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍  𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚝  𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔  𝙰𝚛𝚝

▬ ▬ ▬ ▬ ▬

abrupt cut,

 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐗:

   Sobriety

      balk.

   Sidewalk

   chalk.

    Detuned arps of neverwas sing of your sulck.

❥❥❥       Exquisite gulps:

FRAUD PRODIGY! PLAGUE GENIUS! DRUGGLOOMED OVERLOAD!

      Dark matches   and   exhibition dumps:

          “Pass me around amongst yourselves.” — Christ Aperitif

                     “Pass me.” — Diabol Digestif

           Deadly valleys   and   sick bumps:

           Dee dee tee.  DDT-123.  𝙳.𝙾.𝚃. 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚔𝚊.

                COUNT IT.

       I’m the champ!   I’m the champ!   Put the strap on me!

                          Hit my music! ‣

               ▣◩▩

Accept a preparation of chaos or feign the imposition of order.

  Moments with majesty!             

     ᶠʳᵃᵍᵐᵉⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗʳᵃᵛᵉˢᵗʸ!

       Travis Tritt with three rubber tits on a balance beam.

 ▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭

The demand for consistent predictable returns STIFLES INNOVATION.

HEY!  Hey, I —

I put asses in the seats.

Listen.

  Hey . . .

ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴄʟᴜᴄᴋ.

Take 2x daily.

                  New  strange  invention:

              𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐋    𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐍.

                            Echoing Zappa:

(perhaps a grandson,

great?-grandson —

you know, this being a gossip column:

     I was-once-once-was in a yoga class with M.U. 🌜𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁 🌙, AND —

                                              𝚃𝙰𝙿𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵-𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙲𝚃𝚂)

i am dust seeking sunlight for a momentary dance

the accumulated wealth of a colony of ants

ᴡᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅᴏɢ’ꜱ ᴘʟᴇᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ꜱᴜɴʟɪɢʜᴛ.

ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴɪᴄ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ʏᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴀᴄɪꜰɪᴄᴏ.

                All hail unspecifically.

                   Set sail on an indifferent sea.

   Unindented intentionally?         A wet editor.

                        A scat fetish for a jazz shredder.

          Unfettered 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳,         to the hilt.

   All cut up like a fresh check.

                  Holographic foil in the upper deck.

Now see, now see, now see — 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺.

      I’m an inputter.   An upbraided butler.   Bjork.

         “ᴚƎ˥⊥IH Ǝ˥∀ƆSԀ∩”

                       With that come wither stare . . .

                               𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲.

                                              Isn’t it though.

                    Press the lips.

               Compound tongue’s greatest hits.

 ▯ ▯  ❇︎ ❇︎  ▯ ▯  ❇︎ ❇︎  ▯ ▯  ❇︎ ❇︎  ▯ ▯  ❇︎ ❇︎

                                          (deinstall)

  Bang-for-your-buck       budget       horror-comedy,  

            m a s s i v e  returns.

                                 Atta boy . . .

    FEATURED AUDIO:

  “Drone Swarm 2K21”                           𖤐

           J.Q.D.                              𖤐

 (Cash Money Records)                          𖤐

All Rights Declined/Denied              COVID YEAR ZERO

💙 and I need you more than ever:

       𖤐  𖤐  𖤐

 💙 🄹🅀🄳💙💙💙 🄹🅀🄳💙💙💙 🄹🅀🄳💙

                 hoard  or

ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴜʙꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ-ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴅᴇᴍᴏ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ

   “ᴀʟɢᴏ ⧍ ᴘᴀʟᴀᴄᴇ (ꜱɴᴏᴡʙᴀʟʟ).”

     It’s about what the text that follows is about.

      (“POST TOO LONG FOR E-MAIL” just like always, read it on the web!)

 It’s unfinished, there are too many layers, the production’s 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝟴 𝗷𝗮𝗻𝗸.

       Still kinda goes though, huh?

           You’ll find good news enclosed.

The 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐄𝐖𝐒 is — I’m back in the loop with a bevy of new producers and collaborators, so the slop and the slog of self-production should soon be but a side quest to my adventures in more capable hands.

         SPEAKING OF,

      ＩＮ ＳＩＭＵＬＡＴＥＤ ＳＵＭＭＯＮＩＮＧ：

  This morning saw me run into Crane Hawke✱,

   an able recordist who will be remixing/remastering the otherwise

 GODLESS  &  UNMASTERED  Speculative Music

                HIT: 

          “Ｍ．Ｍ．Ｔ．”

   NOW AVAILABLE ON SPOTIFY (ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ 2 ᴊᴀᴍ)

We’d met at a show in Northeast Los Angeles just the other day and we’re plotting like Forest Lawn.

                        (dig two)

            But it’s not clever to talk plans.  No.  Not here.

   So,

Let’s talk about

𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙄𝙎 𝘿𝙊𝙉𝙀,

𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙒𝙊𝙐𝙇𝘿𝙎𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙐 𝙃𝙊𝙇𝙄𝙇𝙔:

        𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎.

                   ░⑹░░⑹░░⑹░

The music exists in service to seduction.

             (I shouldn’t be telling you these things . . .)

if     I’m     - - - ever - - -    selling you a course,

                          (there are many guns to my head) ///

     Through uploading music to Spotify,

I appear to have sufficiently fed the discovery algorithm to have given a

                                SONIC PRINT.

          Play me and tracks by other artists auto-play after.

                          I’m at the party, now. 

“Man, sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself.”  

—MILES DAVIS

    Why not     have ourselves a     ♥ listening party ♥ ?

      What the hell kind of festival is being imagined here?

     I’ll discover new music by making music —

   I shall give myself to the algorithm as one might crowdsurf or trustfall or

         COME TO THE LORD.

Let’s run through 90 minutes or so . . .

    𝙵N𝙵 F𝚎𝚜𝚝 F𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 404 𝙴𝚁𝙰:

          ᖴᑌᒪᒪ ᔕET (1-click)

【ＴＲＡＣＫ　ＢＲＥＡＫＤＯＷＮ】(many clicks)

Conway the Machine. F**k yes. I am so pleased.

The Alchemist is someone I’d love to work with at some point.

No idea what this is. Sounds like AFX got hold of “It Takes Two.”

Micro Machines banger. I’ll take one.

Apparently a “bedroom musician from Grand Rapids, MI.”

Always good to keep it flowing in the boudoir. Why I make music too.

Next:

EggNut. EggNut. EggNut.

Apparently this person (?) makes noir detective games about raccoons?

https://eggnut.net/

I don’t know.

I don’t know —

I don’t know what’s going on here, but it kind of reminds me of Ghostpoet, who I’d love to work with.

A Radiohead song I’ve never heard. “Ill Wind.” Played 2x.

I must have done something very similar.

I don’t know why but I stopped listening after Hail to the Thief.

Just seemed like I’d had enough I guess.

SUBSTACKXXXCLUSIVE:

                 Here, I sang “Knives Out” for you.

My goddamn beautiful goddamn beautiful goddamn beautiful goddamn beautiful dogs barked during the recording, but it’s still “O.K.” (Radiohead joke, you see . . .)

Hey I know this one.

Wish I could track these vocals again. Suppose there’s nothing stopping me.

I changed Buddy’s lyrics you know.

I wonder if he’d hate the s**t out of this.

This is the track that had pricked Crane’s ears.

“Scott Walker,” Crane said.

“I’m back.”

Big smile.

THE RESIDENTS. Never did care for this band. So much material.

Watched that documentary about them.

Watched a documentary about Scott Walker too.

Felt one more than the other.

I think this is twee.

Are the Residents canonically twee?

In my hearing am I committing layered heresy?

Some insane s**t called Beach Bums.

This sounds like the intro to Significant Other by Limp Bizkit.

This rules.

Oh I like this.

Runs a bit like a track of mine called “Colonial Manner.”

sir WAS. This is fine.

French I think? I used to play his? their? old s**t in my store if I recall correctly . . .

Meshell Ndegeocello!

Oh hell yes.

Alabaster DePlume. This makes sense.

Was just at the Lodge Room the other day. Hidden bangers like Carla del Forno.

Secretly acidic.

God I love Carla del Forno.

She didn’t come up in my artist radio but she’s gonna be here anyway:

Dream of Carlafornication.

What the f**k? Coldplay? What is this s**t?

This sounds like the World Economic Forum. This is Davos music.

This s**t is horrendous. What have I done to deserve this?

NO.

Cero Ismael.

Vapor lock “Come As You Are.”

COME TO THE LORD.

When Saints Go Machine.

Bong bong bong bong. Sitting with my drum in the lotus garden.

That warping is fun.

I’ve thought before about getting a handpan and disappearing from this world entirely.

Oh that’s some nice reverb comes in. Guess I’m still a Jaar-head.

Chartreuse.

Like these slippery drums.

Vimala Pons.

The broken rhythmic spoken-word element.

The chimes.

I should contact this person.

I am this person.

Dawuna. This is fun.

Microbanger again. ASMR scrape.

Sounds beaded.

⃝⃝⃝

Red Snapper.

Those backing vocals, yeah. I’d do that.

Saint Mela.

Real into this one.

King Krule. Into this one too!

Be fun to get on a track w/ this critter.

COUCOU CHLOE.

This is Extremely European.

David Sylvian.

( - :

Immediately pre-COVID I’d been working with an Italian producer who goes by Horrible Andy.

Amusingly, I’d been served one of his tracks on Spotify, where it’d been recommended to me due to his collaboration here with Deem Spencer:

I knew I could kill that production so I hit him up cold.

He was receptive.

As you may or may not be aware Italy was devastated by early COVID waves, and properly locked down.

Ultimately, this frustrated our collaborative efforts. Maybe we’ll pick it up again.

I can recall Andrea’s initial response to hearing me:

“Psychedelic Sylvian.”

Very pleased with the algorithmic feedback here.

Andre Ethier.

This is like if you took everything away from Alanis Morisette’s “Ironic.”

I hate this.

Owiny Sigoma Band. This is fun. This is properly bent.

DJ Tennis. High-steppin’ Bela Lugosi.

Then a rubberman starts wandering around.

Bilal. Damn. Honored by the algo. Give a f**k if it’s a skit. Bilal!

Saul Williams.

Oh my god. Yes.

I feel so seen.

The algorithm understands me better than most people do.

Yes, yes, yes.

Saul Williams is easily one of my primary artistic influences.

I saw him perform when I was all of 16, 17?

He unveiled an enormous scroll on-stage and proceeded to Rap His F*****g God Damn Ass Off for like 45 minutes straight, aether.

I am ecstatic.

J.Q.D.

💙💙

Thank you for allowing me to journey this far up my own ass.

               I hope the ride was smooth.. .

[BOOMING VOICE] get MORE 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙉𝙊𝙒 with the 𝚂𝚄𝙱𝚂𝙲𝚁𝙸𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙴:

LOOK AT THIS DOG S**T:

                Now to write a bio:  

James Quentin Devine is a Stateless Californian Autonomist Post-American Speculative Transmedia Artist-Art Worker (Style Athlete) .

JQD has significant experiences of low vision and simultagnosia, has been diagnosed with multiple comorbid “mental illnesses,” and described as various expessions of “neurodivergent.”

JQD operates in open demedicalized rejection of these frameworks and all the “corrections” they conjure and entail.

JQD’s works are situated in unresolved frontiers and do not seek to definitively answer questions.

JQD trafficks in “𝙃𝙮𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨.”

▲⧍▲

WHAT ELSE? →

                        (help)

𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙔𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁

𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂

💙

ᴶQᴰ

There have recently been some changes made to the substack editor, changes which appear to overlap glitches I’ve experienced with version control (drafts saving as you go).

I’m not entirely sure what happened with the last posting, but I think the version that went out to e-mail subscribers contained a fairly grave error in which several different drafts somehow merged together, creating the appearance of the posting “re-starting” several times over.

This . . . hadn’t been that way, immediately prior to me rubbing mitts and smashing that PUBLISH button.

I don’t know what happened, there.        Here’s hoping it’s a rarity.

Given that I’ve established a framework here wherein such a conceit might not be out of bounds, I wanted you to know that it wasn’t supposed to be that way, and that if you received a choppy copy I’d love it if you’d give the FI𝑿ED version a whirl.

Tragically! — It appears that the changes to the editor have also removed a couple of features that I had been using to format/set text in specific ways.    ) - :

Do not worry.     𝕀 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜 𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕥.

    ( - :             💙 💙

To make up for my technical incompetence I’ve recorded the opening of the piece, having given it the Speculative Music treatment.

I hope it’s to your liking.

J.Q.D.

IF IT IS:

An exercise in (pseudo)minimalism,

“M.M.T.” is the latest prefiguration of the soon-to-be-realized

    MAGNUM HOPELESS,

             a 69-track odyssey,

               way outside.

>PLEASE ENJOY THIS TREAT.

You wanna hear the rest of it?

  M⒨⒨ . . .

MIKE Z said it sounds like ULVER (I’ll take it)

   /// ᯣᯣ ///

       ⱮⱮт:

This is a track I’d cut with a producer who’ll currently remain anonymous, as I have no idea the extent to which they sanction the HEARING of this audio.

If you are even a tiny bit into avant/jazz/funk/hip-hop you’ve heard records they’ve played on.

They’ve been M.I.A. (not a hint) so I don’t currently have much reason to care.

AFAIK it’s abandonware.

The track’s not finalized in any way —the levels are a bit off, it's underdeveloped, and it’s akin to a pre-demo, but we’ve been over how I feel about all that, so who gives a s**t:

It’d benefit me to have more people hear vocalized breaths I’ve taken it makes the text a lot bigger and more colorful, makes it shake and move around, and then the text informs the sound, and then . . .

This was recorded in DTLA during Early High Paranoid COVID times.

The written lyrics were lost with the the Blackout Loot Drop notebooks, but I will attempt to recreate them to the extent possible here. I have no idea what the f**k I’m saying for about 15% of the thing now. It was the first page I’d flipped to in the notebook after ⬛⬛⬛’d showed me the skeleton of the track. They happened to have Been at the Scene of an incident mentioned in the lyrics. Weird s**t!

(I can recall ⬛⬛⬛ kept imploring me to articulate my syllables more — think I had the pandemic aerosol transmission jitters (P.A.T.J.) PLEAZE GO E.Z. ON ME (don’t))

HEADPHONES PRESSED AS TIGHTLY TO MY EARS AS POSSIBLE:

VILLAIN VENEER

VANILLA LOOKING TO SMEAR

VAN WINKLE DANGLE

SUGAR DROP FEAR

PLUM IN THE ORCHARD

OM IN THE PORSCHE

red red red red rum

ROSSO CORSA

DOUBTLESS SPIDERWEB

IN A STRAPPY TANK TOP

[unknown

UPDATE: FOUND (complete lyrics)

section]

HOLLYWOOD NORTH

KANGAROO COURTS

BACKBOARD MOTHERFUCKER

       ADVENT 1.13 is a reading of a portion of ADVENT 1.12.

                          Headphones, please.

ALL VOICES, DRUM PROGRAMMING, & FOUND SOUND RECORDING

                              JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE

    “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is a Harrisongs joint, and I do not own it.

All similarities to “Masked Ball” by Jocelyn Pook are purely intentional.

   Should you possess a thurible and adequate incense:

SWING HARD ◎◉◎◉◎◉◎◉◎◉◎◉◎◉◎◉

* EVERYTHING IS A DEMO

            FOREVER

                              deadwww

All non-drum sounds are James Quentin Devine.

All drum sounds are an AI named Maurice.

No pitch-shifting is used.

Maurice is playing a beat — his, their? its default beat, without alterationat 112 BPM.

I hope that you find it in your mid-section — abs, ass, back, and all — and rock back and forth to it, in the event that you are seated. Mo hopes this as well.

Those standing or lying down are to follow their intuition.

Distribute as you see fit.

    I’ll be writing more about this tomorrow.

               That’s a THREAT—

give yourself to me ⇣

A.W.I.S.W.