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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06 December 2011




COMING ALONG…

As I set this all up to finally quit being a coward, and merely stand there with a mano scripto in hand, reading aloud, like the mad man on the Roman street Doge Coppolla and his polish starlets compared me to, I had to say I think It was seeing Ursula K Le Quinn and Sarah Ruden, a couple of gals, actually doing battle with the monolith of the Aeneid that was an effect on me. Out of AR, having had 600 pages of stuff from which to choose, and taking only the original libretto of the pre Roman bible and adding a slight story of the narrator, I took out The Aeneo, Gracie’s womanly take on the Virgilian epic. Rather nice, was written in mixture of Sabine and Valley girl, concerned her girlish love of Turnus, her detest of Snow White –Virgil words-- for Helen,--all as if one of the saturnalia verses that he had wished to save. I do hope my Italian folktales from then and now have at least taught all you something about crocodile Liberals and woman’s tears, you red skins, niggers, fagots and the rest of the filth.

And I thought, if these girls can do this, what in hell am I, a masculine creature of a masculine God, doing…? Playing with ones dick all day can’t be a vocation, no matter how hard I tried. But, I had noticed a sneering, white trash, distain for Virgil, even Dante, in our globe theatre here, of Iron Poor men and house hold Jews with their distained for the word Empire, I noted a real aspect of “who did I think I was “ to anything I wrote in to these now unraveling nook pimps. In looking for the Garry Wills review to find the book, and who wrote it, he secure enough in his liberalism to like John Wayne and Virgil, without heaving to spout his mesmerized dogma at us, including the racket—scues me --Bracket shows of march madness, and found of course some white trash woman I think wrote a book about Genocide, and somehow connected it back to Virgil, if not the Romans. here birthed, of course, at of course, showing she admirers niggers as almost Human, Carthage. But not at Veii, gods knows, or with the Samnites, who might have been the first true genetic cleansing in history, unless some counted the Canaanites, which do they ever…? See, as Italians killing each other is not only requested, but also ordered up at casa D’Scosese, like a good plate of marinara.

The scene which caused the black scholar woman to like my work wasn’t so much Kemeter and Turan, though she as a black woman liked the ear I had shown of the brunette as goddess which after all, the always penny wise Walt demanded, after seeing the first prints of Snow White, that there would be plenty of time for blond whores later, this HAD to make money, you see, ...but that I spoke of the killing of the Samentine by Sulla’s race , when their hearts were actually torn out buy suspicious soldiers, not so much to gain the iron rich blood, but sure that they couldn’t as then ghosts reputing the earth, come to haunt the Romans millennia before crazy horse. Really, the book where the dearth of Turnus is not foreplay massacre, to the marriage bed, and what about Canaan, after all, I would have to ask the white woman who in her diatribe of genocide shows the sympathy and empathy for statistics, all we are allowed anymore, anywhow....? It is amusing when it doesn't count. Oh, in daily show land no one recalls Cumae here. Yes well, Hun, it doesn’t surprise me that the ballad of Turnus wasn’t anti war enough for you is it ever, Virgil wasn’t the first or only wop who wasn’t Enough of enough for this Viking reciting blank verse crowd.




And, in finding the essay from the affable Garry Wills, who don’t, like so many in that wing of American property party, bloviate so endlessly like a Spanish priest a particularly heinous sort to the Irish, Italian, and polish Jesuits, as alas, I recall as a boy when Spain as still closer to England and white redemption than even Italy was so, ….I found that the Vergil essay was unlike the giveaway stuff, under a pay wall lock and key, lest anyone think Virgil and Rome for that matter don’t hold the same magical elixir and aroma, the secrete word, as they did for old Willie. In the essay available, which I print out for bored relatives, I find that a book about the western cannon, dead giveaway right there, was written by joyous middlebrows who thought Homer superior to Virgil, a wrestling match Virgil didn’t even want to be in as it was Apollonius and the saturnine who were his guides, not dared Homer, all as his Characters don’t have an internal Life. Ouch! Wow, I cannot stand homer and that mad me feel bad for that Turkish fag. Yow! As to show why this is that Homer, shallow intellect he is, makes no distinction between Penelope and Helen, whore of troy, and this in woman’s land, is good. But Virgil as I SAID, a true Italian, as even Mantua is closer to Africa than it is to Edinburg, calls Helen Snow White and heifer in his hated codex, showing again, they don’t make fags like they sued to, even from when I was just a lad.

And, I must say, having a fraud like O’bama thrust at you, clearing your mommies boys out, with spics and women and gook and black mayors to open the path to the nest of spiders—I’m sorry, his latest’s begging of suspicious Jews for Money, coming the same day of mass arrests, shows me perhaps you didn’t read Virgil as Closely as I had. In reading up on Sarah Ruden’s Aeneid, which my feminism take of Virgil precedes not that any of that matters some smiling self important English lit fag smirks that Rome would be the die from which would be cast, --my own lovely puns here- a myriad of dictatorships. Well, not so adherent to old Rome, as they were suspicious enough of kings to ay nothing of messiahs, to make sure that the dictator was never perpetual, and lasted only a year, an interregnum of which Numa was the most famous thinking of eventual revenge for his mother from Inauguration day onwards until the knife in the ark. Hmnnn sounds familiar no…? Anyway, this English lit fag makes a point of this, but in fact, the most famous of later wanna be Romans, on this lists starting with Byzantium to Tehran, Hitler’s, was not so admired of Rome as is me, Bill C. , Henry James and Gore. No, Hitler like a good Aryan, couldn’t bring up Rome, as it was a power word filled with danger, as is the word Newt now the white house astutely realises, and in fact Rome has its discordant monuments, but one of its most famous monsters, Caesar, again, the name of a royal Family in Sabine lands, sorry, but so, as an epileptic , he would have been drowned like a cat as little boy, as he would have been seen as that most heinous of things to the dried and sun drenched dates the Greek legacy tried to be, --he was weak. And, therefore, no society of fagots can ever take anything as weak as they fear they might be. When I was a boy, I knew of nuns, cloistered, medieval, and fervent and smart who would have called Rachel Maddox and her incessant laughter as being merely silly. This showing those Greeks you love had a serrated agenda, just like your pompous over fed and sly faggots now do.

Never forget, like Machiavelli , also at first adored by foreigners, Virgil was adored by the Greeks and the symposium at Naples, as again hatred of Virgil, like that of Catholics, and Dan Quayle shows there is a reason that MSNBC seems more often than not to do the grunt work Karl Rove merely points the way to. That Greek elitism love of Virgil as best of Romans, Ended when he spoke of "Greeks bearing gifts", as not every Italian is like Scorsese and wants or needs hagiography from Ecco like fallen critics. In fact, if anything, the dismissal of him by Gene Siskle, calling his act a 'mob shtick' and calling his Wharton crap master piece theater bullshit more probably rings in his hairy ears. And too, the trashing of Virgil Began from Augustus back at the reading when Virgil by accident said the name Antony when he meant Turnus, and Romans knowing this even mister do not call me King Augustus could burn it as he really wished to. But to be fair, at least Augustus stopped Brutus from becoming king, more than I can say for the Democratic Party. They now, who, in destroy mode, hope to be able to hurl fagots out, but as Chrissie tells us on Charlie Rose, even the test pattern Birney couldn’t be bothered to show up an actually praise the carcass of a hated Caesar, again showing the different between Romans and Jews, and it’s a mother thing again. And, atop everything else, I found in my spam folder an ad for an austere unnoticed Coppolla movie named for a candy bar, while Scorsese doubles down with a trip to the moon hagiography, as showing Ariosto, also drawn by Dore, left be. I thought, as Rodger again shows, as Gore said, that he bought shares in Scorsese Inc. years ago and now like GE with O’bama must lay it on thick, I thought of telling his polish starlets to again please remove my name from their meagre lists compiled by writing contests and others things, but instead, found myself letting it go.

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