Pilfered
Sigils
Art Objects (And So Do I)
One session's pitiful bishop puncheon.
Realized by James Quentin Devine
m.v.d.
January 2026
Muttering "Jesus Christ's Jazz Icicles"
and rocking in the park,
knees drawn tight to the chest
I'm gonna do it in one.
I'm gonna shoot it in the fucking head.
It's not for everyone.
It never is.
And it shouldn't be.
As it shouldn't be.
So it won't be.
Target Practice (Etude №1)
Wondering, like.
"Do you live inside?"
Homeless or heir?
How long since you seen the shower?
How long since you combed your hair?
Out on the restaurants' patios.
Out on the scene.
Outta range.
Could be a prostitute.
Cuckold and quean.
Fucking.
Say anything if that's what it taking.
You'd hit a lot more shots if you could stop shaking.
Horses' Inches
Your hubris will soon humble you.
Cookie cutter crumbled crew.
Lightning laughed and thunder threw up.
Drilled railed and screwed up.
Putrid pick-up.
The ill-mannered sniff.
History sickens.
What's your sign?
Epsilon upskirt.
SSSix HHHexagons.
Troubled and trialsome.
Clobbered and clawed.
Poverty's bothersome.
Covert in night.
Shut out blight.
Covered in mud.
Doused in light.
Drenched for sun.
Parched for heat.
Stacked feet.
As you were.
As I weren't you to be.
Get in.
Give out.
Share.
"The Admiral" Felony Nelson cussin on the corner again
Erstwhile and foul-weathered.
Off-white pebbled leather.
Ottoman imperator.
Impestuous jester.
The incestuous blessing of testicle excrement.
Severed and sawn-short.
Bulldozered shown-shut.
Shunted.
Blunt yet again.
Baseballbatttothebackend.
Bellened.
Ballooning head.
Belligerent.
Butt-barrel dumb ape asswipe's assistant.
Junior dipshit.
Brownshirt.
Full-shat.
Undeveloped.
Sadsack.
Fucking sag of shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Lord they about to call the police.
ong bruh u need 2 come and get your mans 🤣🤪😝
I heard you wanted some stupid little droplets of shit on your bib so I flipped over the table and started to spit, the soup stained your trousers the coffee your tie, the crowd looked on stunned, all hypnotized, each held a phone, ten billion eyes, from yungbabe to crone, "look at these guys," my fist in your face, your blood in my knuckles, a hog-snouted snort, a spectacled scuffle, scintillating live on Hate-per-View, imitating further and farther few, the lessons of lessers imbued, leasees seething rent, lots lent, thanksalot for the lil' time you spent.
The Stupidest and Most Obvious Shit
Drag me dead across the finish line.
God-damn.
I said drag my head behind your wicked sled.
God-damn.
I said.
The Performer
(sell that shit girl)
He stamped the stage in his platform boots.
Singing:
"Spiralogic gynofornia, cataleptic, nappin' on ya . . ."
Tight-ass pants and a wiggling butt.
Round and rotund.
In carnival striped satin aplomb.
Looking for all the world hard parliament packed funk.
Doing his fucking Gil Scott impersonation again.
Is this even fucking allowed?
Can we get the C👁A to Kill this Motherfucker already—
And the lights cut out.
And they come back up.
And the crowd goes wild.
Cuz it's an ambush.
And the drone deepens.
And the sink ships.
And the drinks are empty.
And the friends drift.
But the band keeps playing.
Rigged Ejection
Scan this scat.
"Get a look at that."
Hexed every sigil.
Sixed severy artery.
I've thrown every word I know over the edges of bridges unknown.
It's best to keep far from me.
Into the ether.
Into the void.
Exit the creature.
Exalt the load.
Watch Me Fall
(Hey Look Over Here)
Oh you don't hear songs in your head?
All the time?
Everything?
Everyone?
Underworld overtones?
Not schizophrenic?
Manic?
Erratic?
Old money?
Neurotic?
Romantic?
Erostic?
(you had it and lost it)
(started making up words again)
(you should have allowed them to remain enemies)
(you get me?)
There Are Words You Can't Say
The process noticed itself.
So it had to end.
This is the nature of mirrors.
(unnatural)
You fell for the lady of the lake.
"Look."
Laid fake in taking.
Sniffed films.
Illegal death in its element death-box.
Gears shifting into grindtime.
Liars' fucking true-crime.
A Quare Questionnaire
. . . do you feel comfortable in gender-segregated spaces? do you ever lay on the floor, or on a mat on the floor? do you wear glasses? sunglasses? what color are the lenses? do you prefer brown or black leather? do you wear a hat? do you like colorful socks? do you wear jewelry other than e.g. a wedding ring? are you a pet owner? would you rather seem flashy or competent? . . .
Frozen FX
Yeah you play at spontaneity.
Gift your script to the trash.
We all know it's pre-taped.
Kindling given to ash.
We see all the edits.
The hangman's drape.
The rise in the trousers.
The creep in the crepe.
The eyes set on—
Wait?
(What?)
What's that you'd said?
Something about—
One time, I think,
You'd wed.
We'd gone over it.
I think I said.
Something about it.
Crowl on your stomouch and gnees
The loadbearer and the utter bore.
The lightbringer hoists a flaming sword.
Awoke screaming in Sicily one night.
In a dream within a dream.
Werwholf whistle.
Sissy fuzz lugging.
Sense by the fistful.
Hum drawn long.
And the sleep forever fitful.
Cutting Ball
You've made some new addictions to your material.
Attracted some new restrictions in delirium.
Can't go outside anymore.
It's you against imperium.
Descending.
Every cop is a crook.
Every freak on the loose.
The gloss has all been knocked off.
Cut what's lost.
Go to Sleep
The near-fall vigil of ventural stipple, the listless sighs of arbors in heat, a head-high off a gas leak, the input iffy and the outlook bleak, a streaked lens and an overlook, a waterfall, a catapult, shitdoggerel, shit shimmy shake, it doesn't matter, go to sleep.
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