31 October 2009



THE REINVENTION OF LOVE.

II. EXTANT COPIES OF COMMENTARIES.

I saw on Drudge where some apparatchik creep said that Bamako is the most ''powerful'' writer since Julius Caesar. ''Oy Vei Gahvalllltttt...!'' Hmnnn, what would Caesar do...? I wonder if Caesar would make a war suggestion predicated in the Yetta haranguing of white women on msnbc, Such Antonys,  who had disdained the 40 thousand troops-- as that would be war mongering, while jewing down to 15, ooo allows him to clutch his Peace Prize. Yes, mister Fitzgerald , they are all accountants.

There is a great line, of course which says everything,  said by an Etruscan about the then burgeoning Rome, That '' in Rome a pacifist  is a general who takes prisoners''. This is why the history of Italy must be demeaned and hidden , as I was actually supposed to be able to , like a woman or nigger, believe that Sir Bamalot was culturally able, even as a hateful half blood pimp,  going to be a pacifist. Puleese. And what is never mentioned is that Rome was  an obvious Italian reaction to combating to the Greeks  and Hungarians who had taken away whole parts of the Tuscan empire with their over fed consent consent, so , as I said,  I have seen this before.   Ah, but it'd be Caesar , not Bammie who said one becomes that which they destroy. I love how in shitty America, only sending 15,ooo centurions into a death pit, maybe as a suicide mission, allows you to consequentially lecturer us , saint that Greg Morris thinks he be. How satanical...as if counting men like souls you have rapped for that final assault in the empyrean...but even he wouldn't be so Madoff about it all.  Yeaccch.  BLOND WIGS FOR EVERYBODY! What bullshit, yeah, Caesar, more like Cleopatra, dears. Well, Caesar wore red and fought at the front, as opposed to President Wayland Flowers, and though an engineer, Caesar didn't see his men as merest numbers on a page, as if spare parts. THERE IS A COLDNESS AND A CALLOUSNESS ENTERING AMERICAN LIFE as never before, and Even though I am no fan of the bribing, burning, republic destroying, derangement full, dreaming of mother fucking,  egomaniac...wait a minute,  I see the resemblance now, ...oh wait, Caesar had guts...., shit Negroes, Thats no Caesar, Its Halloween.


4. But I thought, as I had collected and figured the cast I wished to show, Danny Aiello as the pontiff, Bill Clinton's smiling face as C. Claudian Claudianus, Megan Fox as a lookalike to Gracie, Patty Farinelli as Turan, Quentin Tarantino as Kemeter,--''That's Pofioct'', My buddy Bernie Sanders says , as he is still hiding out here, and he is eating a pickle,''And I dun no what the hell yur talking about!''-- and , of course, the always willing to play trash as much as anything, rather Roman seeming gentlemanly Magneto, Ian McKellen as Erba, saint poet,...that somehow after Virgil, Homer, Dante, Boccachio, Terence, Ariosto, Galileo, oh, do read this mother fucker’s shit on ''the moon'', it’s like a love letter, and leave it to the Italians to make a scientist who writes like a poet,a real dago 'Fuck You' you to the dry scientific atheists, or Torquatto Tasso,....I think How sad that line strikes me as. Oh, shit Niggers I don’t mention these names to show off like a broad, I know you hate all these names, if you even recognize them, ...damnit, all the works I had read, even Chaucer, Bede, Aquinas, Ovid, fucking Ovid, who is more human and humane than fucking Ovid...?... What are you, Bloomie, a woman like Goody Dowd, you simpering cunt...?, ...good God, what a horrible thing to say or espouse. Shakespeare...?, that tracing hump, now as some inventor of humanity in works of literature,... what a heinous thing to say. So, this means that what all those names, that Dante and Beatrice, the rites of Bacchus in Virgil where the one non gay boy shepard falls in love with the pretty Sardinian girl at a harvest , the gracious ladies of Boccacce, Alatlante the original pin ball wizard , Aeneas looking down at burning troy with the first Roman’s hatred for conniving in battle, Gilgamesh, Catallus and Claudia, The boy who cried wolf, Isis, Scheherazade , Sinbad, Aladdin, The shining roman knight who rode his Charger into the fire, into the fire, not like the queer Christ, the Knights walking towards Canterbury, --see I don’t hate all English literature--Roman Arthur, Miles Glorosus, the fool, the old man, the wayward wife, Plautus, Hector, ...they were all what...? Inhuman...? …, apes, perchance...Of course, a line as this, that Shakespeare somehow invented ‘’humanity’’ on stories he collected from Italian newspapers, by the way, should never bother the household niggers at the ncaapp, as well, did so the idea that Mortimer Adler loved the afore mentioned Dante, which can’t be so allowed here in nigger woild, sur, thus calling him a racccccisssst. Gee, has another honors student fallen to a bloody nigger mob in chi town, ey…? It is .funny how they never seem to get the affirmative action niggers, or when they do, does it make a sound on the news, like Pompeian’s, that You niggers maybe deserved it and had it coming...? Oh cans of worms are spilling everywhere. And shit Negroes, Why Malcolm the tenth, pimp saint himself , did love Shakespeare so, sur....yyyyyeeeeeeeeach.







Herb Edleman.


What an awful thing to say, I thought, and found that I didn’t post 'The song of Kemeter', where CCC has his old teacher-trainer of soldiering and poetry ,-- in Oldest Rome, like West point,  they were intertwined, bitch,-- the pontiff and his pretty scribe at a dinner for his fiftieth birthday. In a kind of revere after having just committed his wife, a schemer harpie shew to a Mad house, he  recounts the love affair , a true Etruscan tale , between satanic kemeter--though Orcus was more what think of as Satan and kemeter was more like a Loki, --oh do add him to the list--and the pretty brunette goddess made from a swan Turan, soon to be recalled for a blond Venus who smelled like fish, but who the Clintons of the world as signora Fortuna would not so ever easily forget. Tinia Jove never supplanted inherent, and dare I say indigenous, Janus neither, just as Christ and Mary have never truly supplanted Romulo as Hercules, or Minerva, either.


Next. The Reinvention of Love III

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26 October 2009


THE REINVENTION OF LOVE.




I-GODS AND MONSTERS .

I am having trouble with my on again off again girlfriend, Marlo. Marlo Pawtosnek. If Jewish girls didn’t give the best head outsides of Neapolitan chicks, Id have kicked her to the curb years ago. But I am so lonely….


You know who is cute...? The blond girl who plays Paris Geller, the hyper competitive bitchy girl on Goldwyn Girls. I think she is disruptively cute. I had always loved girls like her, in that Rachel mold. Personally, despite being called an anti Semite, I have always had a fondness for Jewish chicks, as shtupping them makes me feel like a Nazi. I saw where she, Lisa Wiel, I think her name is, was supposed to be the original Rory, but alas, the Jews who clerk the media, --soon the memo will go out to make Chaney full of gravitas again, if it hasn't already--saw her as ''too Jewish'' to play a brunette’s daughter. Instead we get the perpetual waif with the bony face. Shades of my man Herby Edelman, who was ''too Jewish'' to play Murray the cop for the heinous Glenngarry Glenmarshall, who can never ‘’be too’’ Jewish, being an Italian. Herbie was too Jewish to play the role he crafted from a play and a film by Neil Simon, --hoo boy!--and too Jewish to play Maude’s husband. These were roles taken instead by Al Marinaro, being never too Jewish as an Italian...wellll...and Bill Macy, a total nebbish. Know thy places, everyone...






2. I was looking to post some pictures with the previous excerpt of AR, before settling on ''veronica'' instead, was the Song Of Kemeter, which I felt I needed to post as I was told it was far too whatever I was too much of, as for a Romantic book, though I thought it was the fulcrum of the book. I was looking for a picture of the great English actor from gods and monsters, and Richard the 3rd, the great baritone, perfectly capable as a roman, actor, Ian McKellen. I have loved this guy before any of you, though I keep thinking he was Sejanus, when he was not, and that was instead Patrick Stewart, which was another great job.








He was seen by me as old poet of Tuscany, Tyberius Erba, friend of Pontiff Macrobius, as despite he is English, like Peter Falk being Jewish, I wouldn’t be as insulted should he play an Italian. But in looking, I went to Ebert's site, which I do avoid, and read the essay on the adaptation filmed version of Richard the third. What is never mentioned about their beloved spirit guide Willie, is that the real Richard the third was trashed to make a piece of total Royal propaganda, though unlike the Aeneid, though trashed for such a sin, is never called that, in that Willie trashed that king who was nothing like this, did none of this, for his patrons, showing what a fine gentlemen that severe poet turned out to be. Also, the Machivelli--I am issuing every spelling I have seen of his name in a strange honor to the man the heinous sopranos called Matchibelli, showing they are such good puppets they are willing to nit wit on command, and be idiots even in their fathers tongue—anyhow, the Machiavelli adoring Shakespeare, lover of Rome as one could be once, wished to write a tragedy of Pompey, the man not the city, though on Hitler channel, both can be summarily trashed.



Vea, But, zounds and alas, always at least in life holding a bag of precious, precious, money, as opposed to a later grafted on pen, his patrons, --roman for,... well, patrons,-- again found that hero as much too Republican for their tastes, sort of like later niggers, and he let it slide all into the disjointed play called Julius Caesar. That all explains why Caesar isn’t a real presence in his own play, why it seems to be 2 plays, and the first scene was the ultimate scene in Pompey, who, like Plutarch, Willie the ultimate Queen of England, tried to make his best work. Another play the great humanist fag hero writer couldn’t bring off was ‘’Paulo and Francesca’’ , another pair of doomed Italian lovers, which, as an Italian at least somewhat worth his salt, I thank the graces, the furies, Fortuna, or whoever stopped him from rewiring Dante, in whom Paulo and Francesca are entombed forever thankfully and haven’t become the dramatis personae for over actors everywhere, thank God. The best of both Plutarch and especially Dante seem left alone, thankfully, as he seemed able and available and stone heartedly able to do to everyone Dante adored, like Virgil…the greater author ever called ‘’Arms and the man’’ the greatest English sentence , though it has no verb, but what does that matter..? He’s like an earlier Obama,…and some he hated, like Ovid.













In this essay, the queen of Middlebrows, Sur Eberto, --actually the name of a priggish thug, false intellectual slob count in Manzoni or some such Italian thing, no fooling, like how Fonda was the name of a radically minded half prince, who was railing against the Borgia, -quotes his own anti-Virgil, the spirits guide to all house ethnics, a evil little toad named Doctor Bloom. I call him that as it makes him sound like the supervillians of pulps, who are always amusingly recognized with being Jews. Everyone thinks that say Ebenezer Scrooge or Lex Luther is Jewish, the fact I kidded with in making my own doctor Eaton out and Jewish, however, of course, reformed. In this essay, Ebert the Obtuse, he quoted Bloom, or is it Bialystok…?. in saying somehow that Shlockspere, as he was actually called by a priest I had, as it were, in seventh grade, the unsunny eyed mistress--ha! --keeper Willie, dispensed with and hated by the followers of Francisco Borroni, was somehow, some ways, the inventor of drama, a roman word, …but more than that of Humanity in the arts. What a horrible thing to say , even for a house Hebe like Bloom, or Bialystok, who , like them all, is always afraid of being girded in pens again and thrown into ovens, and therefore are unlike their Cousins Romans , as when Flaminius said to Hannibal that genocide on Hannibal’s parts was the only way that that crazy nigger could win. 'As long as one Roman breathes...'' Flaminius said to the war god, 'Victoria is not yours and so, ...you must crush every Roman spirit, akin to the attempted destruction of a hive of bees.'' God, I love that Book.





3. But something that has me kind of sad is that, here in Pittsburgh, a running back of some distinction, called Willie Parker has lost his job to a numnutz nothing called Resheed--already this is a disaster--Mendenhall. Never trust a black football player who sounds like he has the name of a seventeenth century writer of chamber music. WILLIE PARKER CARRIED THIS TEAM, WHILE GENTILE BEN, AND AGAIN I AM NO STELLERS FAN, WAS HURLING BADLY THROWN PICK SIX INTS FOR TOUCHDOWNS ....YOU KNOW , SEPTEMBER OF THIS YEAR. But Willie has been cast aside, as all players are but wooers in Stealers nation, for a nothing who was deemed ‘’too stupid’’ to play the position by the house nigger, red lining, block buster , token negro coach , who in showing Obamaism is catching, took a job where he was told what defense he could ran, and not the Tampa 2 which was his onliest résumé, he was a coordinator One Season, was the newest African Sphinx. --‘’Poifict!, we can get him Cheap!’’…, the Ambassador could be heard rejoicing, and was made coach, as soon as he accepted less money than the man Cardinal O’Roony had already signed , a Hog named Russ Grimm. But Rothlisboiger, the poor man’s Tony Romo,-- egads!—had a vendetta because Tough guy Grimm, so in-stiller like, thought Bennie was a Pussy for always hurling that shit about broken bones and having leprosy and playing through Gingivitis or was it that he was coming down with black death, every other Fucking game, which indeed, has abated a bit as more fans can’t stand Madden ‘s boychick. But, I DO WONDER IF smiling and or perpetually angry niggers, house as house can be, like Blackistone and Steven A, I wonder if they even consider poor Willie, but then, do they ever consider anything they haven’t been told to, like say women and or democrats...all I know is that Willie singlehandedly, with the refs, wins a tarnished superbowl, while Rolishboiger couldn’t break the Chuck Yeager like barrier of double digits completions in a game. For one reason, that says it all...we are all Herbie Edelman’s or Paris Gellers in this world, easily when Jewish Cope, lecturer of Pollock trash who made Kordell a non person, and who equates gay sex, of course, with more a sin than Rape, is recalled instead for Fat Jack Madden , the cocksucker, Jug head Benz, closet Boy, and of course, who can forget Zorba the Greek. Outside of Pittsburgh that all my mean nothing,…but we are all Herbies in this world, aren’t we all...? But then, we are closer to Saturnalia aren’t we…?

next. The reinvention of Love 2




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07 October 2009



Most of August was spent, when not sending scurrilous, demeaning, and vituperative emails to Kieth Olberman --who could resist?...--in the editing and cleaning of the seven files found of ''Ancient Romance''. Most of the story of Camila was gone, but two small chapters, as was missing half of the birth of mars, all but 20 pages of Kaiser Quo's life, and too, a ''life of...'' type thirty page biography of a personalized forgather, Gaius ''Acricola'', a drunkard, womanizing, Tuscan prince and his roman Jewish wife and their assent to the throne only to go up against Numa. I saved the collected chapters in a jarte file, as not to lose the story itself, as I know this another blind alley, anyway.

With the cuts I had to make anyway, I was resorted to a 288 page book, a pamphlet really, in comparison, but am determined to create something out of the cracked clay jars. The excised parts making a better book even that that which I have sent to a publisher in a flat rate box. With Columbus day coming, I think of presenting parts deemed too scurrilous, vituperative, and email like, to be allowed in the volume, concerning that most sad and beguiling and endearing and enduring of imperial victims of a likewise empire, the Etruscans and Italians, right here.



ANCIENT ROMANCE
CHAPTER EIGHT. 'AUGUST'
THE PONTIFF GOES TO THE THEATER.

August 21, 1147 Annum Continua Villanovis, [309 , or so, BC]

On The stage at the theatre of Turan, that portal I have used to both the past and futura, just as it used as in my abandoned masterwork ''Life of Kaiser Quota'', I saw the tattered curtain, stagy, self aware, pompous, flickering of a limelight play production called ‘’The ½ Italian’‘. Aren’t we all, after all…?

Since I was a kid, playing hooky in the Italian country side, I like others, would walk past the slope upon which the Theatre of Turan was built, looking down into it, to watch the dancing girls and the puppet shows and the situation comedies. And , of course, the plays, all when I didn’t have the crowns in my pocket to buy a ticket. Or, even back then, the pennies. But then inflation is the scourge of all empires. More likely, I stole a show rather than be at school being drilled in Greek--I wont touch that--it was when a show was deemed ‘’adult’’, meaning it was ether dry as fire wood and greedily , greekily, dull. Or better, when I had heard from older boys, like Erba, that a show was full of pretty Tuscan brunettes, with big asses playing the ingénue to some old man in a comedy. Walking past its yellow colonnades and its lovely depiction of our raven haired goddess of Love, which the fag Greeks art so determined to recall with their blond, bloated, fish smelling, crab infested Aphrodite, I stopped and looked down the hillside again, into the round stage at the heart of all Italian open aired Opera houses. I was feeling nostalgic, as I peered down to see what was going, on as audience sounds came wafting up the Tuscan hillsides.






I hate both Marcellus Histrionicus, the name of the thuggish actor who plays essentially the Miles Gloriosus part, who both it and he I quickly noticed, --and God knows that isn’t a fake name--, and also hate his puppeteer Fuscullus, the director of this crap.

They play at ‘’acting Italian‘’, whatever that should mean, to whoever is paying to see an ‘’Italian’’ at work. Meaning should the a rich influential Spartan official be in town, and wish to see a play at which the Romans being their sons and spawn, then the troop play at roman-boy red caped heroics, and should a Greek be in the city, they play at being enamoured players of triangles and mathematics, and such, and use memorised liens from Homer, that dreaded Homer, to show there is a cousin hood. Should a reeking with money Arab be in town, they play at that Semitic jargon, using the warbling octaves of women that have been used in palaces of sultans for millennia. Because Italy is that the veridical cross roads of three continents, every peoples who agates another can find a cousin phantom menace in Italia, if not a mirror of themselves. Anyone who was willing to be a backer to their shows they get what they want, which means, less Italians, or even Jews, broker this fiasco of theirs which means , as I could tell them, their merger arts shall become more threadbare by the day, until, like all minstrel show creators, their hatefulness of theory of stagy black arts will revolt back upon them, and they shall be venially, third rate balladeers of heinous puppetries and comic plays, and be stuck in a low class burlesque the sorts so ill defined and hated by gods, even Turan, that they are done for cripples and drunkards in fruits cellars. They await such a life of the last act of such a play, and I frankly cannot wait for that to happen to both.




The Romers, Bless them, know this all, how Italy is seen as a boiling cauldron of allies or enemies, and now, openly put their noses in other‘s business, knowing that now they are on the map as ‘’good soldiers’‘. Now, they are more than willing to take sides in a amazingly ostentatious way, and sell, literally where the word ‘’soldiers’’ come from, good solders to rag tag armies hither and yon, and thus be flush with Greek or African cash. This is beyond the ancient ideal of mercenaries, in that, the soldier of fortune has always been a lone swordsman, an adventurer, and usually ahs been a style of man, who in any civilized country would be the types found in every jail. But Rome now has taken that ethic, if not that practice, and has made it something akin to a kind of foreign policy. Really, it is brilliant, and the others of the squalid Middle earthers of the sea do so wonder why they hadn’t thought of it first.

There have always been proxy wars between whatever powers there were at the age they were powers--Its is ephemeral, this world stage power and praise, do tell the Romans senate that warning someone, Please do!--but, Rome, and it took the Romans to figure this out, that those proxies, slate board chalk outlines of the powers themselves, draughts on a table top, the very proxies themselves might be always indebted and even yearning for a third party to come in an upset the apple cart completely. An upper peninsula Greek lord was bothering some dishrag rag tag, half ass, prince along the Adriatic, the old story goes, and he sent out word to Rome for auxiliaries--they call them ‘’advisers,’’ even then you see, --that he was willing to spend 100 crowns a body. Some mercenaries charge potentates as much as a1000 duckets a head, even in the age of Numa when this supposedly happened, but alas Numa is their blinding star child, their God, who would have civilized the brutal race, literally, as Aeneas, their queen’s brother name was Brutus, a favourite there, and left them before his mandate of heaven was fulfilled to make the Romers more like Greeks. I am glad he didn’t, actually, as we are up to our asses in Greeks, as it were, and need no more. Again, I can’t help it, there is something, dare I say, honest about these Romers, and to make them Greek, is a sad thing. Here, in this story, the Romans show their almost Semitic love of war and business, or better war as business, or nosiness, at which they are ultimate auctioneers. They literally call these men ‘’corporals‘’, as in corpses, and so sure are they of their prowess almost flaunt their manliness in signora fortuna’s pretty, bitchy, beguiling and ringlet falling into yellow eyed face, who I am certain, as befits a hyper emotional, stupid, woman, adores them so. I am not one of her priests. At least anymore, as I am at least nominally a pontiff who ascribes and channels all prayers to the awful Semitic god Ynia, or Tinia, an awful backwash from the earliest Trojan invaders into already then civilized Italia. So, I can’t speak with scholar knowledge that she, Sister Fate, loves the Romans. Still, with the hunch of an old woman witch of a soothsayer, which I preened to be, and was forced by my patron Quota to become, I am sure she loves them to pieces, as who wouldn’t, deep down. Except a Tuscan.




So, The Macedonian king, with some delusions of being a cousin to Alexander, that faggot god, heard this strange pact of Amicitas, and surely, almost dreamingly, waved it off. ‘’Who the hell are these Romans‘’, she said, which I say for in that most Roman of literature, gossip, In the only annals they devotedly collect, graffiti , they have taken to luridly calling this nothing princling as a hermaphrodite as they gleefully see all Greeks. The lisping, --oh, what artists those Romers are--, king said to his aides de camp, ‘Lords, who are they, some sunbathing Neapolitans, short and kinky haired and sex addled and money loving and lazy…? HEHEHEHEHE,…’’ It is said in tattered old roman books, that he-It, that she, laughed like a girl, as they are fond of repeating. Well, Yes, yes, Alexander the 4th , you have that right. Also, in addition to their affable and sickening Italianisms, as so taught to the world by the dire men of streetcar nearby stop theatre stagecraft, like Felix the dreamy playwright fool, the Romers do carry a blood strain in that they have a similarity to mad bees. In three days, the prince rode away from the battlefield, laughter having died down, in a dress like a woman, as the incessant Romans do with their incessant points, having never seen such men at work. He was, I heard, tracked down--they are expert horsemen as are all Italians not too Greek, and thus have not lost the inclinations of our Bactrian- Mongolian true Aeneas ancestors, as that while we orientalist Tuscan's paint walls with God with giant dicks and angelic naked women. And Al the 5th or whatever he was, if he was even that, and had his throat cut and his liver sent to the other prince ling, who was the familial regenerator of a family whose patriarch is still now a senator on Rome streets, but like all, stretches his limbs, as they like to say, in the lush verdant Veii countryside. But, as far as Romans go, he is a good man and an unbelievably honest one, as which, he should soon be weeded out of that growing and thus corrupting palpably, house, forthwith. And yet, I must say, this political stratagem of divide and conquer, is quite they way to national cohesion, especially when there is no such thing as even a pretense of race, as a roman is anyone who calls himself a roman , and can dutifully, pay the charge, fees, levees, taxes and finders fees and tithe of such Mercantile Patriotism. All in all, though.…





.

And, too, they have some two bit state somewhere indebted to their fine solders, who after whatever ever scrums they have instanced themselves, those men stupid enough to make Amicus with Rome, soon find the wolf now glaring its mean grey eyes at the one time previous, sometimes only moments before, ally. So, rather than do likewise, we Tuscans parade and preen and shout and war games it up, adorning whore houses with painted angeli, and paint screens and white walls and temples, while we abandon one part of Italy after another. We convince our dear ancestors, more snowy and misty by the day , and ourselves; that we will eventually fight when the barbarous are at the gate of Laureatia, or the temple of Commodity, which are recalled with dingy roman recreations of Hill gates and their temple of vestals, which are down right Roman forgery , showing that they mean to recreate, brick by brick, Lauretium, Naples, Veii, Ostia, before burning the originals to the ground. Unlike Rome, we take a more Fortress Tuscany attitude, which is why the Romans distain us for being makers of ivory towers, meaning our ivory citadel which every Tuscany city has at its heart. Somehow, the intellectuals at Rome, such as they care, Have convinced the other Italians, that ''Ivory towers'' is a synonym for intellectual elites effete simpering sacred types, which the building they besmirch is in fact, Ivory for a reason, built with brick sold top dollar to us by Thuga African warriors in those wars with the hatefully Persian Phoenician Punic , from before even the punk’s came a calling, and which art least in Lauretium is called the CASA LARSEN, or temple of Mars, to place it in the roman vernaculars. Perhaps, deep down, they are right, as parts of Italia are stolen away, we huddle in ivory towers , and wait for their full coming assault, when we will fight, supposedly, and vie with them then.

It is a wholly womanish thing to do and say, as priest as I said, I am not, and the soldier in me yearns for a thousand good men to make Quo’s final assault, in relays upon the chaotic trash of the Po, to at least box the Roamers into the Tyber plains. Yet, alas, we are at that point of all empires, where the sins of opulence have taken hold of the nation forged once by blood, and men who took every hazard to acquit themselves as soldiers now have OVERFED CHILDREN’S who posture and parade, as I say, their civilized nobility. And by then, when we shall fight ‘’for when Tuscany itself is in danger‘’ , an always over sued epithet of the pax parrots of Concordia, the ultimate draft dodge welfare queens have used since Babylon, as the dying old men warn to no avail, and the inner maidens called pacifists hope, it shall be too late. I hope when the Romans do take all of Italy as their art demands of their howling wolverine spirits, as we find their love of war, as their councils are amazingly openly fond of calling it, quite disconcerting to over civilities up us, as we take a much more Greek and Turkish model of city states only loosely tied, I hope the loudmouths who screech of their pompous nicety and the glories of the saintliness are the first the Romans kill. Of cause it shall be such, for solders as are the Romans, --tell me about it, as I have seen at least a half breed of their fox den and the blood of etches war loving men, up close--, are as hateful towards traitors and the sanctimonious as are anyone from that stripe. And their stripe, another affectation of curia honorific stolen wholly by them , what else is new…?, it is a red stripe, which lately has turned indigo, but is blood stained none the less.











As I wrote this, I looked out the opening down to the holy lands below. A rustic temple in time immemorial built to Vesta, by the indigenous nomads of Italy, the Aquino, is there near this more and less ostentatious building here, this Mons Sacra, at which I am a last personnel of the deviant Quo. On the wooden and stone small garage like temple building, a crew of swifts had amusingly marshalled themselves as a line of bores perched and collected and perfectly allied atop its roof. Are they now, with a winter coming, readying to fly off to Africa for warmth again…? Italie is never that cold, but too cold for Swifts birdies, perhaps. Then, I saw them all take off, a sheet of wrens , flapping madly, following what seemed to be a elite bird, a leader, as he held a sprig, much like the Praetor here now, as was done in pre Tuscan days by those very woodland savages the Aquino, or men of the eagles, from where still, to be honest the praetor calls his throne. The bird king was wearing laurel, as had been done since pre Greek days, as the savage auininians had. Then, past the small strictures which Quo himself had moved here to Lauretium back in those days of his, I saw a fat little bully boy, gleefully hurling stones. I saw in him the mommies boys who the deaths of men under Quo and others have left is with. I called one of the yellow caped helmet Sentries , the Guardia dell dues, who actually are less ceremonial and more needed now, as junkies and perverts , always at wits end and needing, have actually crashed the temple here to fens golden implements. I called Marius the guard, and pointed out towards the small structure , so rustic and honest and decent and savage and pagan and out of place , of packed wood, and ready to fall apart so near to one of the Roman's favourite hill buildings to demean as a ivory tower. I pointed at the boy, there on the yellow brick street behind us. ‘Have him arrested, and then, stoned to death. ‘’ The handsome masculine figure was dumbfounded. ‘’A little boy, My Lord…? Are you absolutely sure...?’ He asked, very unsure himself. Yes, I SAID. And send his dead body back to whatever mother he has, and tell him under my assistors as a father to Tuscany, that this land is too red and brown with stains of blood, too many men and women--I thought of Ligra,--lost their lives here in New Troy, for me to coddle the noxious killers of wrens by boys who have eaten all too much. The soldier was stunned. Then he popped to command. ‘’Uh...well, yes your grace ...!'' He snapped a salute. Really what the Roman know of war and its loveliness and its stage setting they learned from us, as once upon a time, as all Italian fairies tales begin, we ware quite good at before we became such welfare queens, is all, ‘’Yes, sir.’ He said, his saffron cape billowing out behind him in away much more imagistic than the thick Roman red blood capes of their centurion fanciest. A girl , a nun, looked fiercely at me. She smiled, as this is the sort of perpetual boy, killer in ova, all women, especially pretty women, despise. ''Tell the old hag mother of this miserable Fuck fat kid,-- if he wasn’t hatched--, that I am possibly not as a decent and honorable and righteous as she''. ''Italy...'', I added, thinking of the priestess of Vesta, And that smile that curled on her pretty face, ''...is not yet doomed.''






Next. The pontiff speaks of how'' talking women'' shall undertow Rome eventually , as they have Tuscany. He also explains, from memory, how that in a republic, should a man really be a man of the people, and not an elitist fraud, he is doomed.

02 October 2009



that's opera doc.

Going through the channels, I was looking tor something to watch. I cannot abide any more of Erkle the God, as he becomes an electronic version of chairman Mao portraits and burns his smiling visage into every cathode tube in creation. Really, enough. Forget Epic, perhaps a good dose of Plautus would be in order, or maybe Walt Disney even.

I found the great show from when I was a kid, Barney Miller, which is a wonderful show. You kids out there, may not know, but when I was a kid, we had a thing called ''television'', and it had shows on it that were written , unlike the hills...or at least written better. On tonight's show, Chano showed remorse as a cop having to have killed men--in a sitcom no less--, as in an episode a Latin man showed more humanity than seven years of that Erkle paving the way commedia called the sopranos. And then the brilliant actor William Windom and Barney, the wonderfully tenored throated Hal Linden, did a twelve minute scene about the mess new york and the world was in then, as opposed to now, where and when our fags are busily shopping at another Barneys, and all but cave 73 be damned. It reminded me about how on Andy Griffith they would stop and sing a hymn like ave maria in the middle of a show, ...sweet, sweet stuff.



I thought, reminiscing, how my father, who I might have mentioned here, looked exactly like Abe Vigoda, --who is not Italian, by the way, but likewise with Peter Falk, I never took any anger at that...-- and yet still is not hard to believe that an Italian and a Russian Jew would seem to be mirror images. But it is uncanny, down to the dead pan delivery they both shared. I, on the other hand, look like a stockier version of Gregory Sierra, especially around the hair, but alas both are type's unseen anymore, as Shnookie the god is an explanation of the kind of ''diversity'' as wanted and needed by the Democratic party, Ford modding agency and the media, after all. The Erklettes are revolting, and as Barney Fwank and madam Pollozzi are unwinding acorn--Vitillus mobs didnt last the year either--as they concurrently they hurl empty charges of racism. Sorry, but don't hurl that shit unless the nigger won Ohio, as that is Nicollo 101. Cassius, as I warned, didn't like Roman filth either, just as our Rabbi gonnif pimp Fwank doesn't, and never did. I love how now as things seem to unravel at a Minerva indicative rate, how the white trash and their women and niggers and GE bought and piano players , for not ready for prime time communists speak of ''Decorum''. As if.



2. I saw the heated, heinous, sopranos burping in unison on a cable channel, where they were out to kill a man, a human being, a cousin who looked like them, as house niggers like them have both their provolone stinking privileges, and a kind of less than Noble oblige. Five thousand dollars I thought,...my that's cab fare for my man Boiney Madoff...Oh I am sorry, but I think the lasting turns of Minerva are wonderful, especially to Roman me. While the democratic senate destroys both the public option and the funding to one of there niggerized trained monkey groups, I think it all just so wonderful, even as this heath care scheme appears even to NBC eyes as a gigantic windfall for insurance companies, which even took me by sooprioze-- spaghetti! After all, a straw man to Erkle the magnificent is always nothing more than a possible contributor. But there is my man, Roman Bill, Kemetre himself, flying about with Butane wings unruffled, blue eyes sparkling with malice, spilling Gasoline and his own ample apparent and willing to always be shed blood upon fires he will not allow , as the god of arson, for Erkle to put out. Even Beckle, a house clerk from way back, starts to try to dampen fires t hat Kemeter is exacerbating, knowing , as even Madrasa boy knows, that this playing with a fire, a hell fire, which can immolate them all, and yet...a fire started by the snake charmer, strict nine drinker as the witty Savage calls him, that buffoon of power, Carter. It is a slip of self righteousness which is used by Capetian Bill to show to as a Machiavellian, one must never create anything, but merely use the things the gods and others stupidity gives to you in spades...as it were....One can hear him smilingly singing in the recited badly roman night,...''A little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Erica by my side....TRUMPET!''




Brutus

3. I recall how things took another nose dive after 2003, after those creeps at zoetrope, or Mount Doom, literally that is what ancient Italians have called Vesuvius for millennia, - and the fact that I Would use even stolen Tolkien in any form shows the contempt have for them, thought in an age of a coming Babylon Rufus, that I, Tuscan Hero Anthony, Was worthy of being censored. Oh, how that bothered Me....censored, in the age of Ganolfini and his pollock henchmen, by who...you...?...by who, Romanticizer of hooligans, freed man frauds, rites of Aphrodite lovers, pimps , apostates, and Czar Francis, and his white trash matron whore wife…? I don’t think so. It did bother me, as a Jewish producer who liked my work but admitted he wouldn't use it as , ''hey , Tony I have to sell this shit to those who already don’t like me ,..or you, that much,'' he told me to avoid the casa d Coppola, as he was a shnoorer--[the first time I heard that word, meaning a... what is the Italian variation--ah yes a Cornuto, a chiseler, a wimpish type, -] and a fraud.

I, you see,was called by these creeps, as clever, a Jewish slur word, which Jews and wops so afraid of being smart amazingly, like the word Machiavellian, whirl at people. ''I was taught by the FATHERS...'' , I half playfully, half seriously hurled back. Give as good as you get, that is the Roman ethic, as I was taught, and as My man Bill administers to this day. Oh sorry, Keith--and again, why is this sportscaster quiz master yelling polemics at me...Fucking H GAD!--but, I WARN AS THE TUSCAN SOOTHSAYER, AUGER BOY, that Bill will destroy The Imperial Schnook, mark that down, as he can do nothing else, and still avoid the hell to where , lets say, Shnoorers all go. The tie of Monica, Ovid thing, was sweet but hardly, uh, indulgence enough. As for Copolla, Being in his personae dramatias, unibrowed army of affable killers was not something I nor dad not ma, and not the Franciscans wanted of or for me. You see, I SAID Fathers instead of Jesuits or even Priests, as that is a roman loaded word, '' Father'', and the Coppola's and the Erkles who rise in White trash empires, dept down, know and fear and resent everything which I and Bill gleefully open our veins and spill in public. Again, Bill drips only from his roman veins if we are Lucky. No. Better I should do battle with the white women Minerva and her charges, the nuns all hated. It felt to me like being lectured to about morality by a pimp, about pacifism by a war criminal, patriotism by a draft dodger, morality by a pimp. A few years later that all would come to be known as the Obama the cat dancer administration. Fraudulence is catching. Yet still , things could have been worse. On the Ellen Fox show, as such it is, the dweeb who adds nothing , adds spike jones like sound effects of flatulence to the doge's precious fresco, The Godfather. Ouch! Can I be a bitch and say there actually is a fart joke in a book called the Divine Comedy, which never had to place on the airs and the persnickety attitudes that of a man trying to make art out of what is essentially a B gangster movie, that no less than Robert Altman, Robert Wise , Sam Peckinpah, a young television director of night gallery named Steven and others, and even the turn coated Arab who made On the Waterfront, --nigger please --, wanted no part of....?