NEW WORD GAMES FOR GROWING MINDS
. . .
.
I make prayers for prospective worlds, yet born.
— ＪＱＤ
.
💙 💙 💙
RETREATS BECOME ROUTS . . .
. . . THERE IS NO OUT.
.
Ни шагу назад❗️
DEEPEND BEGUN
I could lie to you.
Tell you things are going swimmingly.
But they're trending drownward.
I'm sorry.
➠
"I do not write for a select minority, which means nothing to me, nor for that platonic entity known as 'The Masses.' Both abstractions, so dear to the demagogue, I disbelieve in. I write for myself and my friends — I write to ease the passing of time."
— Jorge Luis Borges, 1975
RE: PORNOGRAPHIC FILTH
It would behoove and behorn you to scurry along to café goblin dot com,
THE digital destination for CAFÉ GOBLIN,
an all-new
𝙸𝚁𝙻 ONLY
print magazine for perverse poetics.
( . . . it's what Sergio Aragonés would've done . . . )
↓ ↓ ↓
ENTER THE GOBLIN
↑ ↑ ↑
First-edition 'FUCK YOU!!!', nearly sold-out, features beautiful riso printing, original artwork, and a variety of hissing dissidents' writing, my own included.
Go all the way off-line.
Café Goblin, Issue One: Fuck You!!!
.
Wait,
I DO STILL have SOME THINGS to SAY HERE . . .
shit,
WAIT! —
COME BACK!
░░ 1971 FRENCH-JAPANESE / CONTRAPPOSTO / RUINS OF MEMORY / DUOTONE ░░
a textural chic french-japanese illustration from 1971 of a lithe red-blonde long-haired man with high defined cheekbones and an angular jawline standing contrapposto wearing a movie star sunglasses a wide-brimmed hat stylish black sleek italian leather boots and a stylish belted three-piece suit and cape in front of the ruins of memory duotone elements
I ENDED UP LOSING THAT HAT
Fucked up again.
No idea which street.
Tried to retrace.
Tried to repeat.
Good luck.
Hapless fuck.
You're such a loser.
Literally.
Disastrous.
Subtractor.
.
. . . I NEVER MEANT FOR IT TO BE "ADDICTION LIT"
BUT I NEVER MEANT FOR IT TO BE ADDICTION . . .
I FOUND THE HAT AGAIN
Middle of the street.
Dirtied up a bit, but it already was.
Found.
(Time to clean up)
.
Commonwealth Avenue.
.
Then I lost my phone.
(Fuck)
Again.
(I know where)
.
I retraced.
(It's not there1)
.
Blackout vomit unremembered.
(I don't even want it)
.
I didn't get any of it on me.
(the vomit)
.
In darkness, still; vanity.
But —
.
Zombified,
I tore myself up.
Again.
.
Right ear's not working.
Not quite.
Heavy pressure.
Throat's not right.
Swallows tight.
Hard to drink.
Sucks to bite.
.
One day I won't escape this.
Some tomorrow's exit.
Today I am a half-deaf singer in ruins.
Wondering at cancers and silencing.
.
"Do you believe in life after love?" —
UPP↑RZ
Behavior's escalating.
Stares in motion.
Visibly shaken.
Video atrocity.
Gimme velocity.
Triple the coffee.
Running on inertia.
Humming.
Goggling ass.
Wondering at scents.
Careless for propriety, spaced.
Triple.
Spaced.
ATROPHIED WIFE
HE ALWAYS SAID HE'D LEAVE HER IF SHE EVER CUT HER HAIR.
AND ONE DAY SHE DID,
BULLY-BUTCH.
.
"That bitch,"
He'd thought.
Though it'd gone unsaid.
Clenched his jaw.
.
HE DIDN'T LEAVE, BUT HE TOLD HER SHE LOOKED LIKE A LESBIAN.
.
And shuffled uneven stiff-kneed steps underworld to the basement and its computer.
Where young pussy lives forever.
Attendant and apparatus.
Amidst catbox rot.
And damp.
The password is still her name.
The key fits.
THE WORST IS TO BEG . . .
THE MANIACAL FUGUE OF A PASSING ICED-CREAM TRUCK
Scribble errata.
Forgotten toccatas.
Saffron, amber.
Terra cotta.
Unmapped terrain.
Wrong to remain.
Indiscriminate slaughter.
.
Bomb pops.
White, blue.
Red.
.
Cherry glaciers.
Razor-flavored.
In ribbons.
Punji.
One-eyed.
Regal.
Pitiless.
EATEN CHILDREN OF SATURN-9
Headless whores.
Chomped in a gibbet.
You never spoke a word.
But still you ate sanction.
.
And for all the throttled-audience pondering,
Dummies invariably fell heavily to earth.
.
What those that eat and drink must needs do.
.
I am an alien in your sights.
I don't know how to act like a person.
You could give me a lesson in immersion.
I could give you a seed round foundling.
But I don't want to pay for an aberration.
NULL COMPREHENSIBILITY (FORFEITURE FIVEFOOT-TEN)
The foolishness of eulogies.
Presumptive in perpetuity.
Passage of purpler proses.
Blooming maddendale baggage.
A greasy hag toting stacked-high packages.
Uphill,
Backwards.
.
Savagery, in the average of me,
Burns.
A carriage returns,
and a chariot overturns.
.
YET —
The tone of it all cannot be discerned.
.
SO:
Did you lose the last of your youth to a coup de grâce you couldn't have seen coming?
Narrowed eyes.
Lack of surprise.
Nothing-numbing.
A PROBLEM
The permissible bandwidth of expression in popular media is a mosquito's urethra in full clench.
Degraded pseudo reality imposed top down.
Endless feedback loop of photocopied nth gen shit dubs.
This won't stand.
But I will.
THE PLAN
A campaign, the first, perhaps the last.
A charm offensive.
We'll need to do it embodied.
Oases for the weary.
It begins, improbably, in Hollywood.
Watch me.
LOOKOUTS KNOCKOUTS & TOUTS
Came up on thief's breath in an alley-way.
You act tough,
but it's in a Sally way —
Vicious and ficticious.
Weirding out, wielding a knife.
Palette cleansing.
Pure poetry's sullying.
Swirl of a girl all done-up.
Salutations on sun-up.
Search for salvation.
Air waves.
TURN TO THE RIGHT
They were making new kinds of children while you weren't paying attention.
Now they're at your house and they want answers.
They stopped making old people.
What's left?
Aged bodies without wisdom abound.
Wearing a trend for the third time.
Forever chasing.
Trailing.
You'll buy your way out someday.
I AM AN ASS-KEY CHARACTER. IT IS OK. THANK YOU.
SELECT ME?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . . .
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a ＪＱＤis a self-taught integrated media company
founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.
"Thank you . . .
Thank you." 💙 𝚖.𝚟.𝚍.
Thank you." 💙 𝚖.𝚟.𝚍.
░░ ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT / PSYCHIC TWIN / PERFECTO JACKET / COSMIC ASEMIC WRITING ░░
illuminated manuscript of a thin and lithely muscular red-blonde long-haired man and his psychic cannibal twin movie star sunglasses with an angular jawline wearing a futuristic elegant black perfecto-style leather jacket a thick belt a wide-brimmed dark hat a white t-shirt slim black pants and italian boots, all superimposed in front of cosmic asemic writing
1
𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚁:
█
.
I FOUND THE PHONE AGAIN . . .
.
I re-re-traced and it Was There.
(perhaps it reappeared)
.
I still have a telephone,
despite my efforts.
✦
Lost Eros, CA · Nov 2023.