Using a child prostitute to humiliate Ryland Crary’s higher learning seems like a very classic British trick. The causal chain whereby Fripp’s cult of Gurdjieff have claimed my life’s work as their sacred property begins with unheroic frauds that propelled catastrophe and remain unquestioned. The civics people balk at acknowledging the loathsomeness of the way marriage rules were vampirized. What Pittsburgh claims was an exception by Reagan was in reality a nightmare precedent. How can a man that evil not have seen himself as evil nor be seen as evil today?
It’s important to remember how dangerously total this attack has been on America’s vitals. The Texas Schoolbook Story of the Bird was dramatized by Ian Wattenmaker’s BB gun killing a bird piteously at the time the letters began arriving. Wade in Roe vs. Wade isn’t just the same Henry Wade who killed and framed Oswald with the help of a Larry Flynt from yesteryear named Jack Ruby. He also encrypted Roe versus Wade for Marilyn Mon/roe. Wade Beebe who introduced me to Martin Andelman set the stage for Reagan’s Rehnquist ventriloquism showdown with a team of Clinton allies: Kirshner, Katz and Gordon, who had me in D.C. when Mt. Desert Island shot James Brady. The BB gun of Wade Beebe is now worth to Jon Voight (Mr. Wright) and the mystical ovoid of Penis McCartney what the Mauser initially said to have shot JFK must be.
Having an African American pirate and darling of the industrial behemoth installationed by combat of assassins is grim tidings when presented as progress. Blacks have been no help at all. Vera Clemente is being shown to have colluded with Mark Nordenberg and Miles Kirshner on Mt. Desert Island. I should have known from the fact that Lisa Cassidy insisted on taking cold showers the virtues of which were known to have been preached by Roberto. Dexter King helped set up the rape of deaf Jeannie as honorary non-violence pursuing intellectual property claims. Aaron Dixon is about the most loathsome bigot ever to set up an auction block. Nostradamus has nothing over the syphillus of Iman Bowie and Michelle Obama’s ethnic pussyball longknives campaign.
The fact that the case has secretive clients has insinuated Our Commonwealth government and forces into profiteering allegiance with the assassins while frauds, heaped in martial law, from Britain incite shock troops from the Queer Right and Skinhead Army claiming that trampling on the flower of my rights and dignities as a deaf writer is the only answer. The Black leadership of the Civil Rights Movement and their wormtongues like Bob Dylan and Wm. Pepper are heralding the violently wrong and criminally insane acts of poison crime by The Green Party as normalized ethics of the New Way.
The reason why Pener Gabriel thinks he is invincible isn’t just his sway over the bereaved with his cloak and dagger show about the hegemony of the unclean. Pener’s partner Pns. Sinfield loves to quote The Prophet by that Dracula Kahlil Gibran with his arabesque humming about slaves who sing delight for their dictator even though he slays them like gargoyles holding matches to the moths that collect around King Crimson’s brutal facelying goblin lattern. It positively makes you want to buy a book by Banana Yoshimoto, or learn more about Senna Matsuda, go to Neumo’s no matter what Dustin Ackley or Adm. Rickover might say.
But which came first the razor or the apple? Like the oddly Burstynesque Carter Era made for TV Halloween girls melodrama about two tart American princesses getting their teacher arrested by faking a cut lip with a razor in the apple story, Midori Goto has pursued with Obama and Lew Lapham of HARPERS an abomination of cruel and unusual slurs proven to be semiotic content of a SShintoo pussyball war game clocked to the AIDS Onslaught in 50′s era Japanese and American cinema.
Fake chivalry is behind the rape of deaf Jeannie. When the Pnrs. Flipp home wreckered my marriage bed in Pittsburgh twenty years ago they crushed the amnesiac head wound harboring the screams of crimson Jimmy’s brutal hostage of a kidnapped childhood under vile allegations of auto-eros in the shadow of Pitt News anti-war eccentricities to get away with scintillating films of me with Rosine Monet (and a painting that belongs in The Louvre) that are rightfully the property exclusively and only of me and should be turned over to me with damages and apologies by The National Security Fiction marauders whose Palinesque novels constitute the FBI. There is fundamentally no difference between Al Haig’s warpo stories about Yellow Rain and Pnr. Gabriel’s Red Rain gibberish over Leslie Katz.
Due to the gruelling horror of what Vince Eirene unleashed with his carrot tape, I have been in Emergency Rooms on cardiac monitors, jails screaming for dear life from neuroplastic head would trauma, I’ve had my erectile dysfunction (due to the sanctimonious frenzy of acid envy in the plastic soul of Outhouse Harkin) turned into a talking point by the criminally lurid in blogrooms, to name a few of the Jeannie-raping ordeals Captain Ringo Starr commandeered. Aside from what HAIR, AIDS and California women make of masturbation why a brutal heavy metal gangster who thinks he is the Ayatollah of Altamont smashing a deaf poet with gastro-fluxus like, “We don’t know where the Gas is coming from” to justify home invasion with the war cry that a brutally impacted neuroplasm “isn’t healing properly” (Wm. Wheeler) is a gangbang of guilty cover artistry not witnessed since The Fort Pillow Massacre.
What exactly is it that this murderer and his henches, set to loper mode for cultural values that don’t exactly represent institutions of higher learning, claims that little Jimmy blamed Hitler for doing when really it was Jimmy, pimmy, whimmy, dimmy, and why, when this is so hotly contested, is he packing the profile by manufacture for the truly guilty?
I’d like to run it by M. Christian Robinson, but he was insufficiently shiemish unto the von high.
Opium and Echo
by Mac Crary
copyright Steve Thompson, 2012
A ventriloquist’s dummy she was not;
nor was her forlornment the hypnosis of a Houdini spell;
she had a mind of her own, sure as a suffragette
but no voice of her own.
Echo had the misfortune
to fall in love
with a poet named Paradise.
For who had such a smile as Paradise?
(Who loved only his own).
And how could anything be so perfect
so wonderful, so beautiful, so good
as this cockeyed clod all shut up
in the emerald pearl green imperial salon
of the three-storied pagodas?
Marvelling at himself in convex mirrors
awash with remorseless self-pity?
As Opium sat on his crimson throne
jealously eyeballing the foreign town
his yellow sabre of the Union Jack rattling in fury
to secure the echoing minds of the mills
For Government he sneered had no right
to lesson the burden of men
and he commanded thou shalt be flowers
of lassitude instead.
An ocean march of voices echoed
as the shackl of the yellow sabre bondaged
the multitude of their safari.
While all Echo could do
as the gunboat showmen led them away
was wail to the lilies of the valley,
“Paradise! Paradise!”
