⒈
FALL DOWN/GO BOOM
↓ 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃
↓𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴 &
↓𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃
🩸 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 *
🩸𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅
🩸IN . . .
𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒:
.
Sold the shit out of a solo headbutt to no-one with the blade-job and everything.
.
𝚂 𝙸 𝙲 𝙺 𝙱 𝚄 𝙼 𝙿
☆☆☆☆☆
𝚖 𝚊 𝚝 𝚌 𝚑
HEY, HEY:
If you really want to pop a crowd?
.
Slump yourself.
Watch the eyes die late.
Bust your head.
Buy-rate.
.
It bled and it led.
Rubedo red.
Pronenesses' spreading.
I pronounce you deadeaned.
Thud.
Incredible.
.
High buy-rate and a hot crowd.
Get the shroud.
Get the stretcher.
Elevate.
Apply pressure.
.
запой
Pity me.
.
Get at me.
.
⒊
CLEARINGHOUSE (OSTRAKON)
Send out a wellness check.
I'll heal soon.
Bury me to my neck.
I feel you.
⒌
OW, FUCK, OW, FUCK, OW, FUCK
It's hard to type.
Hurts to type.
It always did.
Maybe it should.
⒍
WAITING FOR THE COCONUT TO DROP
One time I saw Brant Bjork at the (now-defunct) Satellite in Silverlake.
He and his band played a fairly mellow set.
Not the sort of thing that called for a lot of crowd engagement.
About half an hour in, between songs, the band was tuning its instruments.
A Rather Large 40+ Man well-north of three-hunnert pounds and reddened and utterly sotted found his way to the stage.
"ROCK 'N' FUCKIN' ROOOOOOOOOOLL" he'd declared to no-one in particular, and — cliche fulfilled — he dove to that same no-one.
Too soused to brace, the body burst amidst the unwilling.
We received him in blood as we did not in flesh.
Took the EMTs at least 45 minutes to show.
He was wearing a wedding ring.
⒎
USER ILLUSION
"JUST PAY FOR THE PAPER" Tony said
.
and
.
LIKE THAT I'm
.
Ｏ Ｆ Ｆ
.
Scorn of a pronghorned prophetess' scoff.
Buttressed with hatred.
Unabated.
Assrotted wastrel.
.
Menial piss-abled. (YELLOW TONE IDEA)
Warwageable. (RED TONE IDEA)
.
SIT WITH ME NOW
AND
YOU STAND TO INHERIT A FORTUNE —
God-King Weasel.
Asleep at the easel.
.
It'd please me to believe.
Leave me to grief.
Crisp underfoot.
Wigging out.
A wagged tail's proud.
High-aloft aloof.
Afoot.
Climb upon the roof.
No-net no-look.
Gloriless and disemboweled.
.
TO CREATE IN PUBLIC.
⒐
MODEL POISONING
Nothing ended amicably.
No amity no comity.
Nothing brotherly.
Senses culled. Null. All calm.
An object for ownership.
Too washed-up for worship.
Nullo.
Nullo.
Nothing in slo-mo.
Absence compounding.
Instinct rousing, doused.
Snuffed flames sniffling excuses.
Trifling abuses.
Try not to be useless.
Lest the shoe fit.
Boy.
Young man on the verge of being something other than.
Unforced errata.
Penitentiary pińata.
Learnt nothing.
Burnt off'ring.
Salvage title champion of the world.
Savaged in the scrapyard.
Strung along for pearls.
Over-ass on-end.
Possum-assed pretender.
Ass-gasket forfeit.
Art-portrait forgeit.
Auspicious palms, extended.
Under seizure render.
Sunshine salesman.
Lowly leisure vendor.
.
𝘼𝙏 𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝘾𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘿𝙄𝙎𝙀 . . . ❓
"I am terrified of moving pictures. They are the dreams of an opium addict. From a single inch of film emerge giants who fill the whole theater."
— Edogawa Ranpo
I am ready for the ocean.
⒑
RED HOT (I'VE GOT A THING)
Count backwards from fuck.
Regress into near-life consciousness.
Slide sideways.
You know what you were.
Soon enough you'll've begun speaking in "I"-statements, which is to say first-person.
.
IMMERSION.
.
Listen:
This is all you, man.
"I" didn't do it.
You did.
Got it?
.
. . .
A MIND FOREVER VOYEURING
also known as
BOIL THE OCEAN (A Movie You Made to Scare Yourself)
also known as
[slide missing]
I saw from her nametag that her name was Breanna and I rolled its syllables in my mind's mouth as I wished to roll her rosebud nipple-tips ever-visible peek-pique-peaking through the thinness of lisle cotton uniform here sunlit in this college town night's becoming as the shadows play long on the slender of swan-neck and waist-tuck.
SHE INTERRUPTS:
"Do you, um, know what you, like, want?"
The café buzzed cuckoo overclock.
I must presume her a student and wonder involuntarily at her field of study (wonder at her puddles and wonder at her muddies) — perhaps she's a classicist or a basket-weaver with an ass full of Lisztlessness that I could wrap-up and tap out as a tasket for gifted blasphemy, tisketry.
CLUELESS CLAIROL
But I ain't afraid of the number thirteen, and I've got Satan on my team, looming thunder, teeming legions, Hollywood regency.
Fledged allegiance.
Far-flung.
She's young and I've clung close-'nough near.
Nested.
A lamp-lit in effigy.
I'm in a trenchcoat and there's trillions of me.
Possessed electricity.
Infested.
One name pluriform entities.
.
"Um, sir?"
.
I imagine her stuffed with me.
The policeman in line behind me's baton audibly hardens.
"I beg pardon?"
.
Her again:
"I asked if you know what you want."
Stammering "Ah-ah-ah-ah" and I'm "cortado-and-a-muffin" in a huff.
Gushing.
She's back at me with "nine-fifty."
I laugh.
Times are fucked up.
Nine-fifty.
.
I tip my fedora to her.
25%.
Or more.
And I'll tip it again.
Upon the glow at the end.
One moment more.
Espresso foaming.
While I fingerpaint my name.
Tribute to the store.
Where she's just tallied my muffin.
My cortado.
My score.
Where we touch sistine grime.
When we're done conversing.
I grin a grin she'll surely understand.
As an invitation to kissing.
("One day that cat'll come on demand")
.
I have jazz voices in my head.
Different registers.
She's at the register.
Breasts heavier.
In a sigh.
She's done with this shit.
So am I.
.
"[in those days] nobody knew who Rupert Murdoch was or what he looked like."
— John Langley, COPS
░░ RENÉ GRUAU STYLE — RED-BLONDE MAN / SHARKSKIN SUIT / LOS FELIZ HEADLIGHTS / BLUE BLOOD RAIN ░░
chic stylish illustration in the style of René Gruau of a thin and lithely muscular red-blonde long-haired man with an angular jawline and high cheekbones lit by headlights in the los feliz neighborhood of los angeles, the man is wearing movie star sunglasses an elegant tailored futuristic textured sharkskin suit a supple textured uniquely-knit turtleneck sweater with a wide-brimmed dark felt hat and sleek italian boots, blue blood falls like rain from the nighttime sky with [prompt truncated in source]
presented in
FRAGMENTED REALITY
a subsidiary of
𝘟𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈
"Inevitability — Delivered."
I AM A BLEEDING CHARACTER. IT IS OK. THANK YOU.
SELECT ME?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . . .
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a ＪＱＤ
is a self-taught integrated media company
founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.