Piss
Stance
Wizardry
The Frazzled Jazz of a Fried Horn Unwinding
Some Shit out of STIHILIST's Notebook
As realized by James Quentin Devine
m.v.d.
November 2025
nel ritmo della stregoneria e del tono nigredo
Audience as accomplice.
Viewer-use admonishment.
Listen up.
Audition the obvious.
Complicit.
Malcontent.
Explicit.
Ill-bent.
Examined zippers in body baggage.
Scene cleaners.
Lean limbs at the length of their leash.
A rocking carriage.
Is it hippie shit?
Deep dick?
Undercover?
Double-dumb?
Dug ditch?
Bubblegum?
Death knell?
Hate spell?
Love craft?
Herbert Wells?
Well spoken?
Spare chuck?
English broken?
Terms bartered?
Invoking?
Non-starter?
Brokedown?
Busted?
Barrel-bottom?
Gun-toting?
Does it hit you upside the head with the lead of an unsharpened №2?
Dull in the night like bus lights tic-flickering over you?
Does it come with a knife like most compliments?
Does it sparkle like an opal in its opulence?
Voluminous vituperance.
The spit of spider-humans.
Fusions.
Concluding.
Brooding.
In the end a vain gesture.
Vague and alluding.
Bars overrun with chaos like shots rung.
Four doubles on the table is eight shot-some.
Jetset flotsam flophouse lousy with the jazz kit.
Fucked up, saying any old stupid shit, like.
Orbit the sun of your reach as you grasp it.
A low voice and a rasp hit.
Buried bonds and blast kits.
Treasury.
Treasure me.
Waverly.
Pigs' blood.
The new messiah claimant rising ascendant.
A cross task to pretend at.
A false promise and a pendant.
A court arraignment.
An ordainment.
An ordaining.
Subordination.
Importance.
A distorted abortion.
Bugliosi.
An exploding head.
Scan-your-optic panoramic.
All-seeing goddammit.
Clusters of sounds for nada.
Frothing in the back of an ambulance.
Shitting your innards.
Uttering cloudy curses in a black static blizzard.
So you showed up early for the previews of the film you're meant to see.
It was purely.
Selfish irony.
Surely purely.
A bootleg tee.
It was purely fantasy.
Maybe they're landmines.
Could be leitmotifs.
Maybe it's crayons.
Could be carved reliefs.
Maybe you carry your stress in your shoulders.
Canyons and boulders.
Maybe you clench your teeth.
Seismic sideways shift.
Maybe you flinch at the sight of belief.
At the hint of magic.
A fraction of relaxion.
You get tense and you spirit away.
Mechanically separate the process from the product.
The chicken from the squawk.
The talon from the beak.
The night from the hawk.
You exist in darkness now.
As you did before.
The shadow lengthens.
Just a bit more.
I barely feel like I exist in a continuous world.
I produce work on what is nearly an involuntary basis at this point.
I have no connection to any of this.
And yet I find myself generally unemployable and upset.
As such, I would like to maximize the value of my output, despite my distaste for the broader world. 🤪 ↓
If it's love you show to the world.
You will age into a young girl.
I am an agent of the unwell.
The queeniest bitch waking up from her anesthesia.
With a voice resonant of the deep.
I'm not that nice new or naive.
Honeycomb monster in the alley.
Living post primitif.
Covered in grime and talking to himself.
Hate in the streets.
A trash truck emanating heat.
A flash flood.
A trenchcoat peek.
Built on a foundation of lies.
Just one gust.
Destabilized.
Rhythm expert and eclecticist.
The shift shaper.
Walk theft.
RVD. Bronson. Jessica Rabbit.
Wrestlers. Dancers. Actors. Fighters.
Video game characters. Cartoons.
All that's left.
Who's playing as you?
The architecture of anxiety loops interrogation.
Inward on itself.
Nulled in negation.
Indigo seeps from a slivered moon.
Crimson creeps from a stab-wound.
They let their dog stick his nose in my yard.
All the time.
These people.
The people walking with their dog.
It's fake grass.
They must know.
The owner.
The people with their dog, I think.
I think.
The dog roll around, stink.
Go home.
Roll around in bed with the owner.
Covered in pee.
Everything ever soaked in.
Everything!
Sometimes.
Sometimes I piss in it myself.
In many ways.
I am their master.
It's best to keep a wall between you.
A fence won't do.
If art can't hurt then art can't heal. Two sides one coin. That's the deal.
The hidden camera shows itself
Makes an ass of itself.
Fully amniotic.
Full blast.
The psychic twin cannibalized.
Your lead single went leaden.
Got your foot in the door but you couldn't get your head in.
Wouldn't fit.
Ballooned to shit.
Implicit sonatas.
Invisible threads.
"Says he's pornsick."
"Bullshit."
"Pornsick Hugh."
"Makes me sick."
Both laugh.
"So he's like a compulsive masturbator?"
"I'll say."
"You got any sexual kompromat on you?"
"Naw."
"Pitchers of your dick out there ain't s'posed to be out there?"
"I'm slinging wifeless dick. I drag my tail as I please."
"So you never put it in no kids? Never had a professional film you? Never jacked off for some cash, some guy's apartment, you don't know if he's got cameras?"
"Hell no!"
"Gay stuff? You do gay stuff?"
"You got your boy over here lookin' like taxidermied ass."
Listlessly bringing in the mail.
Absent-mindedly tossing it into the trashcan without even looking at it.
Now you gotta pull it out.
There's no money in it.
But that hasn't stopped you from reaching.
Picking.
Scratching.
Peeling away layers, befouled.
Ah-ah-ah-ah!
Li'l brodi got the PornHub tab up in Russian.
Ah-ah-ah!
Ol' boy on that DuoLingo tryna get that foreign pussy,
ah-ah-ah! Ah-ah-ah! Ah-ah-ah!
Macaws' cackling.
They'd come across the campus just to laugh at him.
This weird fat kid who never talks.
Sat alone.
In the computer lab.
Same outfit every day.
Or so it seemed.
Stinking-ass polo shirt.
Filthy collar.
Something was wrong with him.
Everything wrong with him.
Easy pickings.
Stood out stark.
Hyenas pick obvious marks.
Ah-ah-ah-ah!
Ol' Weird-Ass gonna beat his dick right here in the libary!
Ah-ah-ah-ah! Ah-ah-ah-ah! Ah-ah!
Beat his dick to pictures of his sister I bet! If he even got a sister!
Ah-ah-ah! Ah!
What a fuckin' dumbass!
They all wondered if one day that kid would finally have enough.
Snap on behalf of all locker-stuffed.
The paunched and puffed.
The forgotten and unpicked.
Those kids who nosepick.
The seat-pissers, farters, and freaks.
The kids whose crumpled Starters smelled like shitty-ass cigarette smoke.
The neglect.
Apparent not home.
Wafting off polyester.
Laundry undone.
With the crustache.
Underlip.
Tragic snagglebit.
Bad hair, greasy.
Black and white head acne.
Ass end ugly awkward and flappy.
Gut hung over dad's old khakis.
Back before he got fired.
From the failure factory.
"Now he's unemployed and laughs at me,"
Weird Kid thought unhappily.
As he ignored the taunters' torment flexing.
Lost in a fog of his own thoughts or what felt his own.
God knows what devils really field the sown.
Captured voices on real tape.
A ghost's impression of a baying ape.
Birdsong on your birthday.
Your best friend in the worst way.
The enemies are gathered at the gates.
The footmen forming phalanxes.
The galaxy's galleons harbor in your moats.
Chokepoints and parade floats.
They'll curse your name in the streets with Soviet rifles.
Old stocks hoisted high.
Brain ajar.
The doorway to no more.
Upheaval.
Body retrieval.
Snout out on scout.
Dogs in a field.
The corpus is stuck.
Of course it's all fucked up.
Sad sax.
Tragic scat.
Hindwet.
Trouserly shat.
Soiled and rolled-in.
Utterly sat.
Guided by ridicule.
Horned and dragged through the streets.
Parade the beast.
Steered and flogged.
The wheels of the cart turning through insult.
Grinding.
Fat cattle.
Oafed up on luncheon loaf.
Abused.
Shown when and where to go.
The loudspeaker barks order.
If you cooperate they're calm.
The more you act up the closer they come.
Then they box your ears.
Stick you in headphones.
Play the screams of your tortured parents or children or pets.
Something really sick.
I think it's the government.
I don't know.
It's hard to confirm anything these days.
Information's unstable.
We're fucked in our ways.
Internal trials of a vile journalist.
Contaminated documents.
Assholes and arsenic.
Designer style stripped down for tourniquets.
The war came and went.
Then it left for the liquor store.
Then it came back.
And beat the fuck out us some more.
Dismember the hunter and render his plunder unto the forest itself.
Remember the wonder of canopy cover and ponder the power of wealth.
Resuscitation's unnecessary.
Do not recite.
Note for note.
Night for spite.
Not for naught.
Split up then get hit up.
Dead man's hand moving in the bush below.
That's a real live one.
Lit up.
Motion detectors.
Reaching.
Oaken open.
Adding.
Cut me open and count the rings.
I've said it before.
I've said many things.
It goes on too long.
It lingers and clings.
Life is a song that death sings.
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