I.
CALLED OUT (FALL IN)
I'm not ugly, I swear.
I mean I am.
But only on the inside, where it doesn't count.
Where the rot accumulates.
Hid-away unquantified unquestioned.
The knicker-slickers unmet unmentioned.
.
I've largely tried to keep images of myself Away from the Internet.
It's a tough practice1.
.
SEE:
I knew we were training data a long time ago, and I'd like for the people fucking a hologram of me, just consentlessly fucking the hell out of me long-distance, and for the near-future criminals using my image for blackmail schemes to extort my confused mother, etc. to have only a vague sense of my materiality.
The kidnapping deepfakes will be very disorienting.
We're all born slippery.
Some of us stay that way.
Evadery.
The prize of privacy.
Post-reality's been on the wall.
I'M NOT PROJECTING.
ACHIEVE THE EFFECT.
Or begone ejecting.
.
Me —
I'm against the lens.
The glass.
The cave, the captives.
The screens.
The cages, the raptors.
Await the rupture.
.
The past's a burst balloon bleeding out.
Pitiful in puncture.
The present's a cheap cartoon sped-up.
Total malfuncture.
.
The future —
The future is fog.
The future is fucksure.
AVOID INFORMATIONAL HEXES
II.
LEFT CHEVRON-THREE #0000FF
The heart is a muscle you can ill afford to atrophy.
Metronome catastrophe.
Collapsed in glass.
A rhapsody.
A breast to clasp.
Codices.
Auxiliary odysseys.
Code blue.
Gangster shit.
Late American Holy Music.
Preposterous.
Gospel music for geniuses.
Re-iter-writ.
.
It's the end.
Again.
Don't pretend.
.
Beats so broken that they turn out their pockets.
Punched in.
Punched out.
Add it up obnoxious.
.
I've got the total look.
It seems.
I'm serious it seems.
I'm serious.
I'm a serious asshole.
.
The come-up's spikey.
And I can be a prick myself.
III.
ONE WAY I GOT RICH WAS . . .
Selling hot sauce out of little green glass bottles looking like cactuses, saguaro cactuses, you know, with the arms, and the arms are the handles, right, like, like, so like you can pick up the bottle more easily, maybe loop your finger under there, right, here — you're gonna love the shit — the lid, right, like — the lid's a cowboy hat.
Called it 'PRICK.'
Paid for this boat.
Come with me:
IV.
UNTITLED SCALED ALPS RELEASE (PREVIEW MIX)
"Best New American Hypnotica 2024." — Mojo Magazine
"Haunting. Unforgettable." — The Wire
"Fast shipping. Arrived in excellent condition." — Michiko Kakutani
via the forthcoming EP 'Peak Arousal':
🦎🐊
V.
WEAKNESS TAKE LEAVE OF ME
All-summoned strength.
Taken at length.
Adjust to the width.
A spiritual fit.
Corporeal.
Corporate realism.
Taylored you.
Forded you.
Fucked you.
Aborted you.
Off-shore.
Dismal business.
Fatal fishers.
Finished.
Terminal kneelism.
Dumb King Cum.
Chucking barrels.
Slanging guns.
Slinging arrows.
.
Feel the outsides of your pinkie fingers.
Tip-to-tip.
Perhaps pinkie feels too diminutive.
Feel it anyway.
Feel the energy.
.
We are so far into the asterisk era.
The charmless chasm.
The time that land forgot.
That regrettable hour.
Hyperoptimized.
Sickly socialized.
Gone on too long.
Too, too long.
.
Humble into advanced age.
Beginner-eyed, skinned-alive.
Bornblind.
Gonemind.
Mugsworth.
Spotless birth.
Washed wages.
Dalmatian sages.
A saga, a sag.
A sea and its hag.
Vagueness.
Solo time.
Ferrous wheel-climb.
Scourageous.
Unfadeable blade.
Hexen to lead.
James pages.
𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮 Results, Achieved 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙥𝙡𝙮!
VII.
ALL-TISM
Time stopped ages ago.
Age stops when time's flown.
.
Feeble upheaval. Strong men with shovels. All under heaven.
Bread and circuitry.
This sings.
.
The day evaporated, as days do.
All done. Goodbye sun. And night unsettlingly settles.
Scorpions and nettles.
Night air.
Could be anywhere.
.
Beethoven's mists and hits.
If you are trying to understand me through a contemporary prism —
You are going to put your eye out.
.
99% of the time, when you are having a drug freak out, the answer is "in your pocket."
The first time I got paid to wear a jacket changed me.
I changed my clothes and then I changed my scenery.
There are songs in it.
Bodies built. Minds melt.
There's An Evil Leak in the Wall.
The next steps exceed 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑔𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠.
I tire of its limits.
.
I don't want to make a face.
I might get stuck that way.
I mostly don't take photos anymore because I don't care.
.
Redundantly document the surveillance state?
Why?
For what?
.
The passage of messages.
Effortless evidence.
Cultic.
Kelt-calm come-down.
Thunderous overwhelm.
.
When did it click that these are all spells?
VIII.
BREATH OF A SALESMAN
Go cop.
Go cop.
Liberace lootdrop.
Shiny, shiny.
Fourth horse's clop.
A garrote, a strop.
Lying to the polygraph.
Single-sentence parallax.
Head thrown back in a hatchet laugh.
Fibonacci fixty-two pick-up.
Pinocchio's nose grownlong.
A child dead of hiccups.
A child's fright from wrong.
A child's right to existence.
Disgraced in a foolscap dunciad.
.
I'm comatose.
Covetous.
Admittedly shitty.
Shitty, shitty.
Killed by committee.
TO BE POOR AND CURSED WITH TASTE . . . (Baby, Baby)
X.
A VESSEL (Machines for Living)
Hand at the tap and it's water.
Forgotten any other.
Needful dependent.
Miracles on demand.
XIV.
VISION IMPOSITION (A Mass of People Chanting "Prevail! Prevail!" As I Approach the Balcony)
You got a full head of steam or a head full of smoke?
An engine derailed.
An amateur provoked.
An auteur.
To suffer, or to fight.
Every train and every bet's off-track tonight.
Bent pennies and spite.
I want out of this bucket of scams.
XV.
SPECULATIVE MUSIC
I believe that the future of music is collaborative.
Audience and artist will dissolve.
Music has always been conversational, a conversation.
This will be made explicit.
I want to produce layered records with talented players and gifted sound-shapers.
Build a temple brick-by-brick and let the audience determine the base of it.
Recordings that do not have definite outcomes.
Speculative music.
XVI.
A COVER OF THE SONG "WOULD" BY ALICE IN CHAINS BY THE BAND SCALED ALPS
Does what it says on the cover, sweetie:
.
🦎🐊 🦎🐊 🦎🐊 🦎🐊 🦎🐊 🦎🐊
XVII.
TEAMWORK (ONEIROGENESIS)
TIAMAT, TIAMAT.
I AM THAT FATHERLESS FATHER.
THESE ARE MY CHILDREN.
GO AND TELL THEM.
AND YOU AS WELL.
XVIII.
CAFE GOBLIN POWDER ROOM LOOP
All manner of milven vixenry.
Please enjoy (❓) this loop I made for the Café Goblin release party.
The piece played on repeat in the bathroom.
Lot of candles and strange lights.
There are probably videos somewhere, but I'd rather you used that big imagination of yours.
.
↴↴↴
Perhaps you'd like the loop in your own loo.
Grab a goblin gazette too.
I don't know.
I don't know you.
.
. . .
.
Limited copies of the launch issue are available online and at select shops in L.A.
XX.
WHAT IT LOOK LIKE (WHAT IT IS)
Weirdos in the DMs wanting cock deets and shirtlessness.
I don't have a cleft chin.
One day I'll have to explain that to an AI's face.
If the face is where you think it is.
Do you think my face is where you think it is?
░░ 1969 ILLUSTRATION — PSYCHIC TWIN / BLUE HEART / BLUE ROSE ░░
chic stylish illustration from 1969 of a thin lithely muscular red-blonde long-haired man whose mind has been stolen holding a blue heart in one hand a blue rose in the other with his psychic twin cannibal with an angular jawline and high cheekbones wearing movie star sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a fine-ribbed tank top tucked into slim charcoal grey worsted wool trousers with elegant italian boots
.
Stripped.
Meat.
Parts.
Scrapple.
.
I've been asked about a dozen times in life if I'm on steroids.
And accused once.
Without the asking.
I'm not.
I never have been.
░░ 1969 — PSYCHIC TWIN / SAMUEL BECKETT / BLUE HEARTS ░░
a thin lithely muscular red-blonde long-haired man and his psychic cannibal twin an angular jawline and high cheekbones wearing movie star sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a fine-ribbed tank top tucked into slim charcoal grey worsted wool trousers with stylish italian boots meeting samuel beckett holding blue hearts and roses in a chic stylish illustration from 1969
.
Here's an improbable physique.
Here's some Herbert Read.
Do you think the AI counselor for your body dysmorphia will be hot?
Have you ever considered getting married to electricity?
Could be a problem.
1
In recent times I've (clearly) allowed focused generative art to creep into my work.
One Fun Thing about a particular tool I use is that it auto-applies any prompt that you entered to create the image as alt-text.
Thus, on hover:
.
A reader pointed this out to me (I knew, I just hoped no one else did) so I may as well Streisand Effect the shit out of it.
Slit my guts and show you all that entrails.
Embarrassing, right?
I mean everything I'm saying is objectively true within the parameters of the English language as it is broadly agreed upon and understood.
Just the fax mamsir.
And yet there is the "gay for yourself" element in the room.
So prominent.
Undeniable.
Mark of the artist.
Shamefully shameless.
And silver-tongued, too.
Sighs of the dog in the fight, I suppose.
What more can I say?
.
(good news is I didn't prompt the damn thing to make my representation shirtless, you can check the receipts, it's the computer that's horny, not me)
.
I'm just the corpse to pose.
And today's outfit's Zegna made-to-measure.
You could come and see it in real life.
But then you'd have to deal with the consequences of flesh.
.
Creating images that roughly approximate my actuality has been liberatory, in some sense.
I am often pressed by would-be advisors (god help you) to "put myself out there" more, in the sense of exploiting my image.
"You've got to get on Youtube" turned into "Tik-Tok" turned "twitch" turned whatever-the-fuck.
I'm an unstable model.
Fact of the matter is I'd deliberately wander away from photo-shoots when I was a child, because I despised everything about the camera-driven image intuitively.
I hated the way people contorted their faces.
The photographers — aspirant captors, all — and their horrid sing-song voices.
What — do you expect me to trust someone?
Are you fucking crazy?
I don't much care for mirrors, either
.
I sit shiva.
I stay there until the reptiles hatch.
🦎🐊
THEATER OF EXHAUSTION
I can go and go and go and go.
And so I do and do and do and do.
.
Tonight's got to be the last night drinking.
For a while, at least.
Said it before.
The solo shit.
Gotta stop.
At least.
At least.
.
Moderate the mediation.
The medium is the frustration.
Unherdable thus unheard.
My lord my lord my shepherd.
Lithe muscular leopard.
I rest in reference.
Get some eye-rest and a beverage.
I HEARD DENNY AND THEM GOT ARRESTED THE OTHER NIGHT
"My skin done turned M&M-colored."
"What you mean M&M-colored? That don't e'en make since."
.
Denny stuck his skinny tongue through his absent front-two.
.
"Em-ems is all type-a cullers."
"Denny your tongue look like it got a infection."
"Meb' I's jusseatin' too much pussy-ehehe," echo trail dot "Too much! Too much!" he is slurping, gaped, horrific.
.
He is wiggling his eyebrows.
.
"Boy Denny's snackin' like a maniac."
FUTURESPORT 90-90: Reality Winners (Preview)
So it's fucked up but it's true that the guy who runs the Eugenics Institute is named Gene Pool.
They call it "Equitable Outcomes," you're familiar with the linguistic arrangement — lie big and lie bold, lead with the bullshit.
Lie back and watch.
Let those black dice roll.
FINAL THOUGHT
Flâneurie will get you everywhere.
.
💙
💙
💙