19 December 2011




TOY STORY 2.
LIVE FROM GOLGOTHA.

“I must go to Naples, where all the pretty girls are". This was a line said to me once by my Pittsburgh hating Brother. Then, I saw it was also a line uttered by an Etruscan Poet who wrote in Rome, named Ennius. One of the only reasons I did and finished Ancient Romance, was that I, thinking myself brilliant, made Turan,-Venus, a wayward nymph who then becomes a goddess. THEN IN READING BOCCACCIO, --I trod to recreate the book that a dower awful fag wop named Petrarch told him to burn as an affront against Christerism, Wops is what wops do--I FOUND THAT WAS LEXICONICALLY THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER, that my blood knowledge kept this from ancient days. What with my old man saying I was related to Agricola. Surrounded by imperial puppet show wops, he felt a need to say that to me. So, again, I hope I did not seem pushy or arrogant in my campaign here, as getting you all to read this had, for once in my always-fronting life, nothing to do with anything.

So, in having gotten a run around by more oligarchies churches whose un- caring has been ossified into liturgy guano eons ago, easily the Greek kind, see below, I decided to do what my first inclination was, and merely go to the Salvation Army. The day was cold and drizzle, sombre, not snowy enough for a Christmas scene, especially in literally bombed wreckage in our New Canterbury, where walls literally stay fallen and broken into shards and busted glass and brick until at least they are cleared out and then the one time city becomes spotted by strangely serene small pastures of green and wildflowers, held between chipping painted coca cola signs. I thought of some Nat Geo show in which the theorem was presented that the Romans deserved Caligula’s madness as no one stopped him. One Junius Brutus, as usual, too few, or too many depending on where again--you are standing. I walked to the old black church, literally and figuratively, the one on the corner of Fifth avenue, not far from where my pop’s candy store was, and now again is another of these patches of green grass between the dead and unlit jewellery store signs that have attached to the chipping walls.

I walked around, in my black sweat suit, wearing a thick Dallas cowboys assure sweatshirt of fleece, past the stately black outlines and black images of the large situated glass windows, which shine eerily and strangely prettify, a Jesus at Golgotha, the famed image of him praying for a reprieve from a father God who now suddenly I am alerted by Chrsisters on Radio that HE WAS EQUAL TO--really, I guess now that we have Rome we can placate the white folks. The black windows are strangely shining, anti shining, barely able to be made out, without the overt ostentatious effects that most stained glass has to my eye. I walked past some collected people I guess in need of help, most dressed in stiller garb, many have now given away, which they get at a discount, and too, saw an older drunkard man in perpetuate, half awake, half sober, wearing a white Seven on a black shirt, as around here, many stiller fans have backed away from, the quarterback who has made them make the Hobson choice of winner or being true to ones self. As, Job knew, one cannot do both. One cannot gain the world and keep his soul, as Job knew…or was that Caesar, I can’t recall. Many stiller fans , finally getting my respect , have washed their hands of the team of woman rapers and those who throw scotch glasses in women’s faces, and then wish to be admired for the vice of almost not losing to the chiefs, or beating the Browns by three points. There is epic and there is farce, a Roman demarcation that neither O’bama nor Rothlisburgher ever seems to really get. So, see, sue, no buddy done sold their soul to almost beat the Browns, or the Chiefs, except clever gumabs from the island wishing to ingratiate themselves to an audience, after a tape exists of Giannatti saying his most literate and bon vie Bon and sophist Pfffffft, when someone in new York asked if Rothlisbugher was as good as the then MVP of Roman games XLIII Eli. How about dem Giants…?


TURAN.

A larger woman asked me if I could be helped, and I said, I wanted to give some gifts to the chidden, especially the little mellotto kids around here that seemingly have nothing. I walked in and was shown to an office, this the first time I had ever been this side of this black church as to Sister Gertrude the nun who in ways destroyed my life, and for all her blue eyed ilk, the only true apartheid, at its heart is that shown here in America, is in these churches, where no amount of imperial fiat can stop the segregation of churches, something akin to how the Gotham Bus Company is run in Tel Aviv, where short dumpy Cyrano nosed men certain of their superiority to all other Arabs, Iran being of course Aryan, demanded they not even be forced to look at the unclean and un- superior Palestinians even if they themselves, these rabbis are so low on the totems that come with all Imperialisms, whether you like it or not. That in fact, after all, they are having to take the bucking Bus. Though now that I think of it, wouldn’t it be worse, this self righteousness to someone who had given their lives over to a god willing to play Land swindler, if after all of that superiority and fanned racial purity, pure you know, like a Pollock, when one after all, didn’t have enough money to by a Car. Can I use that Roman dismissing against the saints who were trapped with Mengele in Poland, or would that be a hate crime….? Yes, the Romans should have risen up in one, and dammed Caligula be thrown out, that is big talk coming from a nation who can’t seem to rid itself of mediocrities like Obomo and Romney. Get ready for the worst election ever to be shoved down your throats, kids! Why do they tempt me Lord…? Or as he said in vanity and pain, My Lord God, why do you forsake me…? That was said, after all, in 40 bc, by Julius Caesar, who damned the crypt of Alexander be opened and looking upon the thirty three year old unfinished skeleton said those words, but then if one really did take all Latin and Roman from your bible, Colson, you’d be left with a hallow Mithraism, and who can do business with that…? Promises, promises.



I brought the satchel I had carried in some of the comic books Toys, the small superman and batmen and copies of Captain Marvel. An attractive poorer black woman came to me in the dim hallways there, and asked if I could be helped. I am here to donate I SAID ALMOST PROUDLY. I have taken enough. I handed her the bag and she looked at it, quite pleased. Why, she said, these toys are actually new…here this year we have been taking what we can get. Ah the age of Obomo continues. It has been a dreadful year, she said, things are bad, she aid, but Of course, I thought one won’t hear that on NBC, as things are great and all can be communist when one doesn’t have to fill out a 1040 form, God bless America. These are lovely she said looking through the canvas bag, do not you have any children you know to give these to, she said, again, as is seen in Italay, where roman roads and now even buses are open to all the filth, showing a lovely grace that is seen in total opposite when Rush Limbaugh is sent to gnaw on Newt’s leg for his having motioned that Romney made his republican money the old fashioned way, he stole it. Ah but Newt and Bill are in League… why wont anyone in Hitchin’s left empire of mud believe me, and Rush, like many others will get theirs. Now, I could have made it a point to make sure that chill up my leg Chrissie would have a family member go to jail as he vainly bellows to make an argument for how noble he and by definition Obomo is deep down. Who else…? No, I answered her, thankfully I am childless. And I’m not forty anymore, I can’t anymore stand the sight of these comic toys. She blankly cooked at me. Okay, so if that is it, I just wanted to drop these off. She smiled at me, and took the bag and handed me a small flier of inch by inch, on which the three wise men were painted in a recollection of the 1940’s like missal art I recall as kid, WHEN I WAS TRYING to get kicked out of being an alter boy, they didn’t like my type anyway as I said, and stay home and watch Blondie, Underdog, Stan Savaran and the Penn state highlights, and eventually, either the nfl today with lovely Lee cat woman, or if the cowboys weren’t on, Rege Cordic Sunday million dollar movie. Merry Christmas, kind Sir…she said, and I placed my hand up, without turning around, as if to say twas nothing, as I walked out the unbolted door, into the icy winds to my driver, waiting back where he and his nigger hoodlum friends who accepted him for his own Italian olive skin, played basketball all the summer days of a golden age of space ships now gone.

I am glad to know deep down that this awful year, the toys were dusted off and given to kids, me thinking of the great Triumph the dogs exultation to the star wars geek. Direful year, the ending year, now that Praetor Obomo, he has capitulated on the Millionaires Tax, --oh Rachael dear was there any doubt ever, have you read the Parsalia, as I advised…? A year in which the unarmed man murder of Ben Lauding is the number one story--Tres Diocletian isn’t it…?, the carcass of Anatolius shown to the rabble whilst they are starving, but to the praetorians, showing their devotion in a saint Paul way, every little bit helps, or give till it hurts, or whatever. I do feel good, yes about myself, more than the white women would allow for a self published project, but you see, unlike your little nigger queen, and in fact like Roman Bill, I didn’t give up, and like the Jesus looking boy man in art school, a lovely boy, a fagots dream told me, in blue ink, Never Give in. Now, on my Tuscan Astrology, here in the moon days of Cellia, the month of saturnalia and the lovers, as Tarot sign, that while the rest of you have been stealing with both hands, I have been true to my saintliness and have been giving things away lest I wake up one day I find myself turning into Glenn Beck or Keith Olbemnech. Ah that is less midsummer night dream and more Kafka metamorphosis, is it not…? But this last Saturnalia capitulation as something, its taken days to unbind and ligature out, where the word Legal comes from, wasn’t it kids, how he is now a golden load to his enemies and since we got this much out of his ass, why not go for broke, showing again, either Boehner or you isn’t as smart or dumb as The Garafolo is so convinced. I am glad that here in town, some little brown-er kid, will open a gift at some Christmas party, a slight bit of tinsel in the muck, and get a toy of Superman or better, a book of Captain Marvel and see a bit of Romans satires, amid the projects, and will as I did find a blood love of the Hercules amid this rat nest Sicily, and the stupid nigger black panthers dumb enough to have voted O’bama in the first place.




I WAS STRANGELY GLAD TO KNOW THAT HUMAN CENTIPEDES WEREN’T SOMETHING WHICH CAME OUT OF THE UNIVERSAL MIND NAMED TREY PARKER, AND THAT HE IS JUST TUNING IN THE ZEITGEIST OF THE DYING EMPIRE. As I called it before and Empire of Mud. I sagely was delighted to hear the sadness in the only voice Ebert Ecco has left, in wallowing in his decrying of this filth, whereas me, I refused to read Twain in catholic school, and never opened Nabokov knowing what I was going to get. You cant un-ring a bell, even Paulus knew that. So, Happy Saturnalia to the dying god, his son and his lover supreme brunette Turan, so bothersome to the house Jews and the white gals, thinking they have made it as they never really do. As Rush and his oligarchies masters decree yet another rounding of an edge, as Dido, he was never told that most Roman of things, and after all who would have told him, an Imam…?, a father ghost like Dante and Virg--Im sorry the brilliance of Hamlet, a stolen relic, down to the cleared throat…?, who would have told him, or Ebert who holds back his Venus stars, whatever you do, do not tell him that is where such comes from for art and generals, all them who do not yet know this most Roman of ideals, that once you start capitulating, nigger, it can never stop.

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