HOLY ✞ NIGHT

As realized by James Quentin Devine

🤹‍♂️

m.v.d.
LOST EROS, CA

MMXXV RNR D.N.R.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

(M.F.C.)

🎄

Beachwood Canyon, Los Angeles, 2025.

Pot Still

        Rum gibbering:
        Couple nogs' worth thoughts.
        Milky and stout.
        Capsized in bottles.
        Drowned in a drought.
    

BELIEF Obelisk on a plinth. Monolith with a lisp. Burn the churches and schools.

№7 Rampage

Minor key piano. Ancient melodies linger. Her old perfume. He's gone insane. Every table's turned over. Every chair and lamp. The silverware scattered. Records, broken.

Not here.

Some evening so bright and clear.

The Red Orchestra

The whole room's bugged. I can only say so much. They want to know everything about your worst thoughts. What you'll tolerate and then some. They want to see you bent over and bust wide. Out-of-bounds and inside.

There Are Words for What You Are

"Lounging suits you." All that scrooging and scrounging is bullshit. For being so empty you're completely full of it.

        I mean that meaningfully.
        Brainblown cleaning fee.
        Take you on the long drive.
        Get you there scenically.
        Sealed hermetically.
        Sour-coated pettily.
    

        Blossoming gin.
        In gnostic exhaustion.
        Burst capillaries.
        Wet wild obnoxious.
    

/ / /

        Never-learnt lesson.
        Playful elation.
        Civilizations.
        Of course in collision.
        Slashing.
        In elision.
        Cut up.
        Venetian.
    

Muscled beaches. Californian surf. Seething. Solecism. A cliffside's worth. A chasm. Calmly dreaming. A bargained bluff. A scene sight's believing. Vesuvian erupt.

        The whole council's corrupt.
        Disrupted meetings.
        Churl and chuff.
        Bled hearts and dead reading.
        Burnt books in a pile't-up pyre's feeding.
    

IT IS A task for a hatchet. Some appalled son. Grim decision. Ground-gruel. Headdrung. Drummeled dumb, dumb-and-done.

On the knees, like a servant, in the sense of a Slave. Collared. Caught and kept. Beat 'til wept. Whipped. Chained invisible. Fair game to all free remaining. In the chaos of your capture left nameless. In the nature of your neuter hewn harmless. Fang and claw and tooth removal. Panels sanded. Everything smoothed. Nullo.

        Appalled.
        Oh,
        Come on.
    

        The perfect soldier for a nothingness beyond itself.
        Beggars' beliefs gone rancid.
        An unstable shelf.
        An outstretched hand with a knife at the end.
        Unfinished plans.
        Uncertain scans.
        Death and devilry.
    

Let's dispense with pleasantry!

        He said after a drink or three.
        Hell-bent on leather seats.
        Or six.
    

        Count the broken beats.
        Seven.
        And with brass tacks in your back, a table's collapse.
        Eight.
        Push of a pull's reversal.
        Hatred.
        A blown synapse.
        Full squalls and squeal.
        Scrabbles and scraps.
        Won on appeal.
    

Go Froth

take these sounds and move with peace and grace through a chemical world of compounding hate,

Let the demons all the demons in your h-head eat each other other (other), let them taste the flesh of their own, let them c-cannibalize one one one another in huge piles, one after another after another, and then another, driven high, another and another, set upon each other in rank rigged competition, the absence of gods and all their goddamn rules, makerless, merciless, mercilessly, filled with anger and filmed in secret, promise them danger, useful and proud, the sword and its thrust with purpose and vigor, forge a heart's true hate pointed like the wound of a sundial, sex party line, pick up the phone (you're in denial), you're going to be alone and it's going to be a while, you're in a fox-hole better clever snaggle-smile, the truth's a big bitter boot a commando's sole a clearance sale a battered boat a sour style, soulless and slippery, the grave-robbers' grift at the end of history, the looted treasury, credits rolling like bulldozers, downhill, bitten nails, coffers looted, pigs' snouts.

Let the dragon in your heart unfurl, a tangled beast stretching, sprouting n-new new new heads and necks, emerging from a sea of fury to clobber the deck, clattering, sea-men going down, beneath, pirates, brigadiers, public nuisances, eager volunteers, privateers, wreckers on the shore of your sunken hoard, What's Yours is Mine, the takers of treasure and toil and time, all that's sacred, all That's Mine, Mine, Mine, and that and that and that, so listen, by your own admission you're a criminal decommissioned, side-lined from the game by some headline ambition, shots all missing, cock-eyed aim, Nelson's in the potion and the barrel ain't straight, all potshots and strays, plinked piano keys, it's hard to explain so just cry along with me.

Let the devil in your ass cast a pearl and curl his tail, tugging on his deck to his latest victim wail, forcefed gravel and smothered with fecal matter, jowels jagged drape as the shapes scatter, putrid platter, a baby blotted blunt force in a pillowcase's patter.

— JQD

Los Feliz, Los Angeles, 2025.

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