By James Quentin Devine

NO      MUSIC      ON

         WASTE SOME TIME IN MY SONG?

                    Redream,

                 tinted lenses &

       INTERARGUMENTATIVE VIGNETTES

        exercises for mind, mouth, and mindmouth,

        perhaps, even, Venusian behind-mouth.

a behemoth polemic

 ALIEN vs. PREDECESSOR

   👽

         VISION 🐊 JOURNEY 🦎 ART

                        advertorial discontent

         A WORD-HUNT LEARNERS’ WORKSHEET

                   bye,

                the disgraced ape,

  James Quentin Devine as James Quentin Devine as if

             and yet,

 ❝𝐘𝐎𝐔! 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑!❞

       Pleased to meet you, Mind-Maker . . .

 █READY? . . . ANY TIME . . .

                            press - start

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           And Then, And Then, And Then . . .

            THE TRUTH

               THE TRUTH

                 THE

                                hole🕳truth

The introduction to the outro:

A zirconian sutra.

A smirk without future.

A series of reveals.

A severed veil dance.

                 Nothing nest.

More resembling a series of titles than anything deserving one.

                        Tilted mindmills still-sparkle.

                         Jilted lovers star-boggled.

      It’s “flip-around-to-anywhere,” again.

The sort of animalistic love hoteliers expect.

                               It’s for your use.

                     Blood-packed.

           I found myself again, in the past, in South America —

                          just like always.

                 Inexact.

                           Leave you to weave.

                                           (leave you to pack)

                           Leave you, altered.

It’s my birthday.

Did you derive here?

Is it love that drives you to find yourself, again and again?

Sick love?

For you, or for who?

Foregone?

Forgotten.

Forget how-to.

How do you do?

Bludgeoned,

Loveliest,

Snuggle-in:

There is a way that I am seeing this text — it is not the way that you will see this text. Can you have fun in the creek between? Or has it been poisoned?

I’ve got more-or-less an entire post1 written-up about my hatred of cars, a phenomenon for which I’d like in this entry to propose a catchy term for2.

                 (and yet I’ve failed)

There, now we’ve got a mission statement3.

                                                      (and disregarded it,)

   I don’t really want to publish that post,

        because it’s not going to help you,

     although it might help you,

         and it might.

     I contain a number of contradictory impulses.

       I cannot fully potentiate in a sole dimension.

                                               MARK USED

              Can you?

          What do you deduce?

         What is to be done about it?

              Did you drive here?

         Don’t be at ease.

   I will in this body-time assault the keys.

  It might be a merri-time sail on as you please.

Wired studio monitor headphones plugged into a recording unit.

                  Now we’re doing it.

                I’m a part of the machine.

               No music on.

           My own muffled tapping . . .

               . . .

Captured escapees.

  Dogs’ toenails on hardwood.

      An admission of at least a couple privileges . . .

    Who’s your benefactor?

  Turn off the lights.

             Sunglasses inside.

               Tachycardia.

            Marching in place . . .

               . . .

   Leather high-tops dampened by geometric carpet.

Reverberation of an old door.

        Up and down, step of a soldier.

         Down and out, stooped over shoulders.

                Limitless.

          I can’t be bothered.

                    /slash/

       Everything bothers me.

        My mind’s cut-up.

          I’m cardsharp.

      RRRazor–edge Bicycle-pack jester.

  I liked you better before I saw the full-render.

MIDSUMMARY:

Reboot me, devotionally.

Don’t be scared of me.

The Euro’s at parity.

I’m beyond.

Perhaps this favors me.

Perhaps this fortunes me.

Apportion me proportionately.

Proclaim my names three times defamed.

Send rover on over and get deranged.

Probably go back through and add some images later (I did — you see them — consider this a faint mark in pencil, erased only partially — have you ever seen a pencil? — №2 numeroo and you ever splash-shamu do the do? — y’all real digital?

     Don’t let me tell you they were there to begin with.

     Don’t let me confuse you about which is the ass-end.

I found out the other day about a new dead South American predecessor who already made all the art I’ll ever make.       This is at least the sixth such encounter.

          Transpersonal suppressed art-magic.

             I speak of a mythos denied.

         Reject the frame but stay in the picture.

            I’m going really, really fast.

             Not breathing normally.

                            N.B.N.

              Knock-kneed apocalypse.

I think I’ve been having a panic attack for many years.

Then you go, “Well what’s the difference between a panic attack and an anxiety attack?”

And it’s, “Well, you never do allow yourself the full possibility that you may have severe anxiety,”

Then, “May have severe anxiety,”

Scoffing inwardly, cannonball-burst belly blown backward.

        May.      May.      May.

                       Junejily.

         I hate you so.

            We live in a weak-ass world4.

             I live in my own world.

              I live in an out-world.

               I’m out-of-body.

                 Feels visible.

  Now I’m off on a                      side-quest.

                    Now I’m lost.

    Unglued gimmickry.

           A raw nerve wronged.

A thing I wonder about everyone-else is whether they perceive themselves “internally” or “externally,” i.e. FPS or top-down or isometric or do you just sniff your way around and not think about it much?

                          I think constantly of death.

      Some people think confessional art is disgusting.

         Some people think a lot of things.

      Some people and then you can fill in the blank.

                 You can fire it too.

            Literally, anything.

         Invent enemies as remedies.

     Use me for devotional potion or lotion.

           Fucking verboten.

          Fucking verbatim.

         Wave or a particle?

       Waveringvibration.

The reverb’s silver-plated

     &

The love fated.

             “Hit me with defrillablaters, frivolous facilitators!”

                    Drunken-lurched.

               Idahoan plots and mashed potatoes.

Kon-Gold ease —

   [say doesn’t this seem a bit like a sinister shortwave radio cipher transmission]

     [say don’t these seem like post-hypnotic suggestions]

Are you an agent?

     Are you an agent?

             Are you an agent?

                     Are you an agent?

                                            [say can’t you see]

BRING ME BACK TO LIFE!

See, see, see,

Now,

See!

       Listen here, kid — just because this is Hollywood —

And then you pick that motherfucker up by the cheesy-ass lapels of his sportcoat and slam his ass onto the countertop of the burger shack.

You’ve cracked the formica and you’ll never be invited back.

                See, see, see!

             SEE WHAT YOU DID!

You’ve wondered how this place has managed to stay here, keep up with rent-rise — they own the building, though, that’s the trick — as the cylindrical trycreepers have arisen in abundance closing-in woeful foreboding ringlets, gathering at the edges of humanscale — and now the owner is set upon you with a need to retain civility; wrests the alleged “gentleman” from the killstrength of your grasp, yet you grip still, inside-as-out, ventricles and portals enclosing, clutching, damming.

Clammed-up bi-valve.

      Ba-boomp        ba-doomp        ba-loomp.

                        Pump, pump, pump you up.

        You’ve trained your whole life to kill pieces of shit like this.

Dozens of witnesses, though.

     Too many to let live, not numerous enough to fill a paid arena.

              You see yourself in fourth-person.

               You see yourself in every person.

Once you smoked That Bootleg Shit and saw everyone at the airport in their childhood state.

                     All their fears on display.

It’s important to remember that you can become a god at will through the use of drugs.

         You don’t need them, but they’re there, there there.

            Wardrobe staple or a wear-with-all.

      You say “disorganized thinking” I say “orthogonal.”

      I say “get into the Octagon and I’ll box you into tomorrow.”

               AND

Then I rear-up my chin and repulsively rhythmically flex my neck muscles and bounce my pecs. I begin, involuntarily, to sweat. The wettening intensifies. I am out of control. The floodgates have been thrown open. The room fills with the entire liquid volume of my body in its various humors, to poor review. I’m puddles. Pity me.

                   Poor, poor, pitiful me.

             A priapism in the periphery.

            Porfirious robes, glaciers of sapphire.

                 Ageless grace.

                           Disappearance.

                  One could hope.

One could jump a rope to two-counts Cagliostro folded-up in origami bold-faced shoulder–holster jousts or japes at napes of necks in sweet nothing suffering blown-out blessing of a candlelit session.

           I don’t show up in photographs.

            Not mirrors neither.

        Blot of a bat with a burdensome axe.

 Handsome lass isn’t she.

       Homelessness’ privies, stumble ‘round pissy.

For your private ears:

The all-piss-and-shit of Every Alley recombinant and rejoicing, rising up tidal, Hoo-Ra-Lah, we take the City on the Hill now, we take the Citadel now, we take City Hall now — I run the banks, I’m God — Yes, Again! — A–haha ha–haha ha, A–haha haha ha–ha! — I am the Law, and I’m My Own Enforcer!

And then a globulous blob of piss blasts a yeller lazerray at a dungheap dirt-creeper, who volleys back with aeons of llama shit.

             Clump, clump, clomp.

     And all of a sudden it smells like the County Fair in here.

 Or maybe the State Fair, if you went to the State Fair, and not the County Fair.

           Maybe you didn’t go to the Fair at all.

                Life can be that way.

              Just flip to wherever.

                        Just flip to wherever.

               JFTW.

                        Jesus Fucking Tight-Wad.

  God’s-son with a tight-bod posing pictures on the boxer-brief three-pack.

       “Our time here is finite, and you are fine as shit.”

               Pick-up lines and departures.

                LA-ex, elegiac.

                Elysian, loserly.

One technique — now-applied, though it may later seem not to be so — (hm,) — is to “just” “go to” “the bottom” of Whatever It Is You’re Writing, though there may be “a bottom” to “whatever else it is” you’re doing, so if you’re not a writer Don’t Worry, there may yet be valuable advice in this for you, but anyway you Just Go to the Bottom and start writing whatever, which is different from “just” going to the bottom and Starting to Write Whatever, which if you follow me here THEN there may yet be hope for you in the gone-forward future of machine-gun funk double-barrel prose d’Evolution, at which point a perfume bottle — by now an absurdly-tired, over-used motif in “my” work, if you want it to be, or perhaps every invocation of the fragrant realm is something you use as an opportunity to blissfully explore your own storage vaults, which is certainly one use of “literature,” but I don’t know why you’re calling this literature, and I can’t tell if you’re being serious or sarcastic, and I can’t tell if when you say “literature” you mean like Literature or like “literature” or “like, Literature,” or if it’s likelier that you’ve long-since sped-red or red-X’ed or nodded off or along to whatever song you’re humming, threshold well-exceeded, my needless wheedling having sieged and beleaguered you, Twenty Thousand Feet of Your Own, exclusion zone, Jenga-jumble calligram on seismically uneasy footing, tiresome, another bad year, run for flat–broke, run for presidential shit, we run this shit.

Another technique — just-applied, though it will almost certainly later seem not to be so — (ah,) — is to “just” “go to” “the top5” of Whatever It Is You’re Writing, though there may be “a top” to “whatever else it is” you’re doing, so if you’re not a writer Don’t Worry, I’ve been staring at your clothes the whole time anyway, and this has all washed over you like a stone massage or a stoning, either way we’re all Very Stoned, we are young and free in naturally-dyed clothing, and our limbs flail without reservation to the loud psytrance that has been playing for the last 12 or so hours.

Another technique — continually-applied, likely to seem as-much — (ooh,) — is to stand around in an incredibly hot room on blistered feet hunched over a too-low aluminum keyboard, fumbling your way through songs of questionable merit, watching them appear through sweat-smear and monitor grime.

Another technique — you’ve got it by now — is to “just scroll around in your own shit,” until you find something that provokes a dialogic element in you, and then to “just start adding shit,” and hope after the fact that your confused shit-and-waddle strategy is explicable as a sense-making exercise for some unknown treasured other.

                                 💙

And Then,

And Then

And Then . . .

I think that this is what painters do.

Stroke-shit.

Shift fits.

Spark wit.

               We feel a perfect drugged nothing.

        Don’t fund the arts?     Don’t get an editor.

          Never do know when I’m done (never).

             Soon I’ll be done (true).

                     Get your shredder —

              Now you’re the editor.

               Scatter my asses.

                Apex predator.

                            Aleph lecherer.

               Triplicate treacherous.

              Seuss-stress mistress.

             Fungal mistrial.

           Into the flames.

        Then you’ll miss fire.

1.Are these even “posts” I am writing?

Oh it’s footnotes now.

Just had an I Love Lucy/I Hate Myself moment in the kitchen while trying as carefully as could be to open a clingfilm-wrapped double-pack of 12-can boxes of lime-flavored sparkling water

Stabbed into a can, emitting a geyser.

The entire time I thought about the individual cents that each spurt represents, self-annihilating.

It proves difficult in times to enact a feeling of worth.

2. The “transit” movement is so dorky do-gooder incrementalist.

I’ve got red blood god dammit.

I did not ask for the hatred that flows in me but I embrace its utility.

3.And every time I “come back to this part of the text,” whether it’s to format it or to forget it, neither of which have I yet-done, I’m made to think once again of “the best name for it,” this vehicular despisal (V.D.) I carry in my heart everywhere.

4. I have heard-tale recently (I don’t really Go Online mostly) that it is against ToS on like All Social Media Platforms now to e.g. swear, talk about drugs, talk about sexuality?

This seems insane to me.

Would be genuinely curious to know anyone’s experiences with this.

Feels like an abrupt regression, and I’d like to know who or what’s driving it.

5.

         This is what “the Top” looks like right now.

In the event that I publish this (I might die — this is always true — EDITOR’S UPDATE: undead)) it is exceedingly unlikely that this will still be “the Top,” (EDITOR’S UPDATE: it mostly isn’t!) or that if it is “the Top,” it will still look as such! Isn’t this something?

                Now what can you do?

             How can you misapply yourself beautifully?

                         Put your wake-up on.

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a ＪＱＤ is a self-taught integrated media company founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰. See more on Substack and Bandcamp.