Monday, September 21, 2015


This piece was originally performed at the Jade Lounge in 2015, at an event called MindMeld with Mark Savage.  Everything was green.

      by Jason Squamata

            My name is Jason S.
            And I have a serious problem.
            I’m a recovering accomplice.  A belly-flashing beta dog.  A compulsive sidekick.
It’s been three months and eighteen days since I last wore the tights, did the flips, threw kung-fu moves at deformed gangsters and their bumbling henchmen.     
            My fists no longer smash your screen in explosions of pop art onomatopeia.
            I no longer instinctively leap into some kind of action when the corporate logo of my old mentor stains the sky like an angry omen.
            It’s been four months, one week, and two days since I was last tortured by a maniac, which used to happen all the time, sometimes…consensually.
            It’s been two years, eleven months, and twelve days since I last traveled through time and kissed a robot princess with silver feathers on the dark side of her moon.
            I haven’t facilitated the saving of the world.
            I haven’t punished the guilty to somehow save the soul of a city.
            I haven’t piloted a giant robot with desperate finesse to rescue a dying god who called me friend.
            I’ve just been getting by, mostly.
            And let me tell you, after all my fetish-dipped mind-bending adventures, up past my bed-time in strange outfits with spooky older men, the quaintly constrictive physics of the quotidian day by day have shown me a different kind of wonder, a story as rich in its quiet way as the myths I used to live.  This sober, adventure-free life is truly the last alien planet.  That’s what I tell myself.
            That’s what they tell us to tell ourselves, we who have the syndrome, but it isn’t really true, is it?

Sunday, August 30, 2015

BABY'S FIRST HOOKER by Jason Squamata

It was the year 2000 or thenabouts.

I was younger, then.

I was living in a nondescript Massachusetts suburb.

I was a faux bohemian filling notebooks with gibberish and showing them to no one, calling myself a writer, working at a coffee shop (like you do), sharing the shadowy basement of a funny little ranch house on the edge of a cemetery with a good-hearted but dangerous quasi-criminal friend named Jim Grimm.

We'd worked on a film together, in that neighborhood and in the wilds of New Hampshire. The rest of the cast and crew had run off to LA, the film was in limbo, and me and Jim were languishing in the wake of it, under a house owned by his Aunt Betty, living without purpose and sleeping off our benders next to a garage filled with garish prop vehicles left over from the shoot. A volkswagen painted to look like a bumblebee with big wings that moved if you could get it started. A permanently inert yellow Chrysler K-car, like a souped-up plastic golfcart with dragon fins.

Jim himself drove a little baby blue and hot pink pick up truck with a portrait of a laughing cartoon transvestite named Monchichi stenciled on its hood. It ran pretty well and he had no shame about it. Jim had built these cars by hand with the film's director. He was proud to have worked on the film, even though it seemed, then. that no one would ever see it. He came from the kind of family where you work all summer at your Uncle's shady salvage yard, that Uncle it helps you to know if you ever go to prison. Jim thought the film would be a way to put that world behind him, but without the daily business of the shoot to give his life a certain structure, the crime in his blood and an unquenchable thirst for cheap beer would kick in and that good heart would get a little bit lost in his hunger for trouble.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

ARGENTEUM ASTRUM promotional material by Jason Squamata, courtesy of PULPIMPOSSIBLE.COM

The following sketches and teaser texts are promotional items from a Jason Squamata serialized pulp fantasy entitled ARGENTEUM ASTRUM.  The first episode is still available for purchase at Professor 100's magnificent PULP IMPOSSIBLE website.  Click HERE.

Seven whole notebooks in The Squamata Collection seem to be devoted to ARGENTEUM ASTRUM.  Some large chunks of text therein seem to describe happenings in Episodes as far along as #13.  Whether Squamata ever brought the project to a state of coherent completion, in notebooks or otherwise, is unknown, but unlikely.  When the excavations are complete, The Squamata Foundation will provide you with all material pertaining to this project, except insofar as posting is prohibited for legal reasons.

INCOGNITO: the unpop song lyrics of Jason Squamata, part one

In the interests of preserving the little mind-mumbles made by a strange being who moved much too swiftly and a little too silently through the din of human history, The Squamata Foundation will be using this blog as a museum for whatever fragments we can salvage from the voluminous unpublished and mostly illegible scribblings of Jason Squamata (a.k.a. Orji Walflauer, Krishna Kaligula, Jason Squidd, Joe Nothing, Jason Matthew Lucia, Jason Malcolm Lucifer. etc.).
In this installment, we find lyrics from a series of aborted pop albums, featuring various musical collaborators and secret chanteuses.  This is allegedly just a fraction of the material Squamata generated for these projects.  More lyrics will be posted as we unearth them, along with recordings of the songs in question if we can post them without danger of litigation.  

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

DREAM WITH ME!: excerpts from "ORAKULOID" (volume one) by JASON SQUAMATA

excerpts from...


volume ONE: “Oneiric Memoir”



“In my dream,...”



I'm a professional oneiric confessional artiste.

I work the secret salons and supperclubs of a darkly dreaming demimonde in the black light district of a city slashed by spindly bridges and whispering rivers.

I spend my days sleeping and cutting up my dream journals in a seedy residential hotel, scissoring out the juiciest bits and preparing my routines, my urgent nocturnal transmissions.

Because every night I get up here and I clutch the mic and I immerse a piss elegant audience in communiques from my war torn inner life.

I dream at all hours in a million colors so you don't have to.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

HYPNOZINE #2 (second of one): text by JASON SQUAMATA / art by ANDREW Mc KENZIE

(more HYPNOZINE can be accessed by clicking HERE


Okay. So you’ve had the experience.

You engaged the alchemical conjunction of image, text, soundscape, and sacrament.

You lipped along with the incantations.

The glyphs and graphs and grids unfolded into doorways and staircase spirals and anamorphic Escherplexes.

And you fell in a bit, didn’t you? Maybe it felt like entertainment, mostly,

but the Beast at work within this feast unknown, it bit you.

So you did it again. You needed to be sure.

You needed to know that recipe for an epiphany was religious, made of actual Otherness, and not some sleight of mind.

That second time, or maybe the third

(magazine. soundscape. sacrament. magazine. soundscape. sacrament.),

you realized that it WAS a trick.

And that it doesn’t matter. It’s ALL a trick.

Matter is obviously MADE of the friction between conflicting funhouse refractions.

A vision is a vision is a vision, by any other name.

And now there’s a need in you.

Saturday, April 11, 2015



Good evening, true believers.
Wherever, whenever you are...let it be evening.
Let a twilight come and move through you into darkness.
A darkness that teaches us to see.
I invite you now to taste the vices of a lifestyle yet unborn.
You've been playing some role in the workaday world, i'll bet.
That was then.  Right know you are who you are when you're alone.
You're off the grid tonight.  This is your idea of fun.
But you've always been a strange one, deep down, haven't you?

"DEATH OF AN EXTRA" from ALPHA BITCH by Jason Squamata

(images of Brittany Murphy (1977-2009) by David Lachapelle.  used without permission).
(more jagged mirrorbits available HERE and HERE and HERE...)

Gwendolyn Riley's cel phone is ringing in a suite at the Chateau Marmont.
Through the jagged thresholds of her drug-fried consciousness, the ring sounds like a cluster of church bells, and she can feel the sound changing the shape of her space like you feel an elevator dropping.
She's been in this room for days or weeks or whenever, saying "fuck you" to all the frenemies and all the Chandras who don't return your calls or they do and they want to turn every night out into an intervention.
For Gwendolyn, the party has imploded.  She's a disco unto herself.
"Fuck 'em all.  Squares on both sides", a Gwendolyn she was in her first film says, "I am the only complete girl in the industry."
She crawls like a feral cat across miles of carpet (a broken glass shag the color of static), groping through all the pretty things they give her, looking for the little talking church, the salvation box.
She knows how it opens.  She's talking on it.

Monday, March 30, 2015

a crass commercial interlude from ALPHA BITCH by Jason Squamata

 (images by Steven Meisel.  used without permission.)

...from ALPHA BITCH by Jason Squamata...

A commercial for London Rothschild's exciting new fragrances.
    We see the diva herself, reclining in an opulent bubblebath (each bubble tinted by computers with the decadent complexity of a faberge egg), a bird's eye view, or perhaps a view through the eye of a butterfly.  From above, at any rate.  She's swooning in the tub, which is shaped like a massive pink clam-shell.  Her R-rated regions are obscured by bubbles.  She's blowing kisses at the camera.  There's the sound of spidery manicured fingers on harpstrings, plucking and strumming something angelic, with a thumping bass-line that gives the song a body.  London's voice-over is introducing us to her trinity of perfumes.  Her voice is like the sound of a cartoon mouse pureed in champagne and splashed on red velvet.  
    "How much of me can there be?  How many Londons are there inside me?  I'm a creature of the night.  I'm a mystery.  In my deliciousness, I embody eternity."

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


(images by David Lachapelle.  used without permission.)


Pretend it’s February, 1929, about eight months before the Great Crash, when the twenties were still roaring and all our tomorrows looked like undulating many-legged showgirl mandalas.  
Imagine a world premiere at Grauman’s Chinese theater in Hollywood.  “The Broadway Melody”, starring Charles King, Bessie Love, and screen sensation Anita Page, the girl of the moment, a blonde beauty from Queens who was getting famous in the age of silver silence. Now she’s made the tricky transition to talkies, learning to shine through the lenses and microphones of a fresh technology, enchanting millions in a whole new dimension.  Her girlish giggle has been freed at last to echo from screen to screen and sweeten the dreams of a generation.  There’s no stopping her, now.  
Her father, the chauffeur, helps her to alight gracefully from lush sedan to red carpet, so she can play it like a scene, smiling like it’s Christmas, and every smitten fan is just what she always wanted.  Anita doesn’t really like crowds, but she’s already accustomed to the lifestyle their adulation pays for, so, sometimes, she plays the game.   Her he-man brother is her escort this evening.  She pays him to be her personal trainer.  Her mother is back at their big house in Beverly Hills, napping after frantically typing up Anita’s speech (just in case she needs to give one).  
Stars burst all around her in a catastrophe of filmy fumes and breaking glass.  Every little explosion is the front page of a magazine or a newspaper.  Wall Street wise men say there’s trouble ahead.  Big trouble for every man, woman, and child.  Their concerns are duly noted in the back pages with the Katzenjammer Kids and the classified ads.  The front pages belong to Greta Garbo and Charlie Chaplin and Marlene Deitrich and that evil bitch Joan Crawford and, of course, Anita Page, old school gods and goddesses for a godless age.  
She poses with Charles and she poses with Bessie and she poses with Harry the director and she reluctantly poses with Irving the producer.  In the flashing, he discreetly clutches her like she’s livestock he’s sizing up for purchase.  He whispers in her ear.  “This hard-to-get crapola is getting old, Ms. Page”, like it’s all business.  “Come back to my house after.  Get serious about your career.  Daddy knows best.”  AT his best, he looks like a gigolo and he talks like a gangster, and  she can’t believe he’s serious and she snorts and starts cackling in a most unladylike manner.  The cameras love it.  She’s natural.  She’s a free spirit.  She’s the beauty next door.
She will later regret laughing in his face, like this, in front of everyone.  
It won’t scare him off just yet.  He’s still too hungry for her.  He’ll write her mockery off as “feistiness”.  But the bruises accrue.  Not that she notices.  She’s blowing kisses and flirting with Clark Gable and signing autographs and then she’s walking with her brother past the Chinese dragons and temple guardians, into the pagoda where the first proper cinematic musical is about to unlock the nation’s dream-life...winning Oscars, engendering more musicals, more stories made of music wherein so many men and women and children will lose their troubles for an hour or two in the Great Depression to come.  And “Anita Page”, this made-up person, this brand she is, will become a household name.  Nothing like this has ever happened to anyone, least of all to the former Anita Evelyn Pomares of Flushing, Queens.  She’s never been a goddess before.  
So she has no reason to suspect that it won’t last forever.
Pretend it’s February, 1929.  Why not?
That’s what Anita does, as often and for as long as she can.  
But it’s not 1929.
         It’s February of 2002, and Anita Page (last of the silent film superstars) is basking in her twilight.