05 December 2012


1 December 2012


1. I hear that the Hobbit, though I adore Ian McKellen to the point of issuing his mellifluous brogue as a voice in my head for various figures in the Tony verse, as narrorator and as old man king- chancre usurper Tyberion, isn’t doing the boffo work that they had hoped. Hell, I once watched return of the king and its insufferable almost unendurable endings which of course went no where, as to keep the scenes and sets open for some part Five perhaps Disney would like its legal departments to cobble together, as one coda came after the next to the point of looking like tentacle rape. Enough already I thought, What’s the connection!

So I don’t know how bad anything starring Sir Ian, A fag like I recall them being, funny erudite and keen minded, could be, though on Drudge the disheartened qualities of the mercy, Again a line of Ariosto who Willie seemingly had on speed dail in his mind,  are spilling ahead. Fan Boys I take it, from reactions to Alan to CS Lewis, like to be disappointed, which is why I like to avoid them as much as possible now, and take the presumptive distaste and the exile by our valued customers as a truly noble thing. I also hear that barefoot in the park hobbit master, Peter Jackson, who  as Chuck Noll would say, found his life work, as it were, has killed up to 27 critters in making the bloated monstrosity which not to be a bitch, was a death cult that Catholic JRR started with Ariosto again, as the first liver to be read for its integral brilliance, not that he was that good a priest of anything so classical. No matter Ian can make even Stan lee look good, and I am glad the man who enchanted me as a boy in bbc black and white flickering of Macbeth bless his heart, has enough cash for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

2. On November 29th, the year of our lord 2012, before the Mayan switches of poles, I finished a comic book began in 1978 and destroyed not long after that, of a blue suited man with white gold centurion plate of tin and Roman --no even then I took the saffron cape of the Samnite artillery foot soldiers in my endeavour as a recreater or of all Italic things, a Roman Conan that I whished to make then, Mister Stupendous. He lives now, complete and whole, in a book of  263 pages in four electric files of 1 and a half Gigabytes, the most I have ever crated of anything including Sabine astrologers, Italian inspections, Pygmalion starlets, or Christmas appearances of Virgil who looks like an ocean elevens cast off when they aren’t yet all exceedingly white and sissified. It could be even larger as I explained in a feverish warmth I decide to eliminate at least a hundred pages of newsprint, what I think the go to of all comics to recall its pulpy roots, and go help anyone in America the good and in the age of somatised niggers who extol pulpy or roman roots, after all, and removed some of the nicest pages away to the trapper keeper I have had since art school which now is , like a decent ghost of Clinton past, bestrewing with a mix of vulgarity and classicism, sweetness and poisonings, as Bill, no fooling, you are out of the club.

Thou hast conquered, Maureen Dowd, yecukkkkkk, and I am not even sure if that can hurt Bill anymore, the Roman isnult,  as I had an inkling all along, despite his yellow Etruscan ties, he might not have been the soldier he thought himself to be, as his wife, a strega from jump, seemingly has run out of lamps to hurl at befuddled Romans without or with too much portfolio, in a dynamic now old and forgotten looking less like Downton Abby and or Annals of Ennius, than after all its seem like Hee Haw. I truly and am not kidding feel bad about Bill hoping to the dark or at least high yellow side, as it seem to be that like the Romans when after the Christians came to burn copies of Metamorphoses as gleeful born again Jews, but who could enter clubs, me and Newt seem alone among the Semitic pushy fucks, who learned too late, and must bring out Irish stew’s Officer krupklies war on Christmas as something to whine about and goggle their eyes, as opposed to the act that Uncle Shylock seems not that perplexed  as Queen Hussein might not be, that Arians Persians are getting their next magic rock, and that has nothing to do with his Arab side, as much as his white side, and our lipless wonder is still a murky figure to those who do not want to notice the bags of Italian wedding envelopes that he seems to see as an oiliest creed.

A note of warning from me, the Roman Auger, as a boy I read a story called the life of Napoleon, and in it, one of his lt’s, a man I think named Chauvin, as in Chauvinist, was rah rah all things Napoleon, but as it has been since Cassias, he was in truth I think, an agent of the royals in laws still then hopeful of restoring the monarchy. Just before as I recall Napoleon, now we can admit he was  hero to Jefferson as BURR has had its effect, cut his head off, he said in his pithy way, When one who has been a devoted soldier, demanding blood and without a whit of mercy to ones enemies, constantly screaming for victory and devotion then starts to become Pragmatic, they are to be exiled as they aren’t on your side. I think of this having seen once mania pushed Chris Mathews sanely starts to act all pragmatic and thoughtful, sayings funnily no one voted for any Leftist triumph, of course not, you dear niggers, voted for General Electric, and don’t forget it. But then, I was taught by men more like Newt and woman like Rachel, more than anyone like Dan or Michael Savage, both demanding a Brutal devotion to the extremes. Meet me, at the temple of Concordia.

3. I have completed a book started no less than from 15 October, 2007, when I first posted my indications to make the book whole, as I have tried, last being around maybe 1988, or a bit after, then allowing the charioteer I made, like so much Roman to be turn, burnt, forgotten, left behind and abandoned. So, it has taken me now 1868--I should play that, days to complete the schoolboy’s opus. I did take twists and tires more  than I should have, thinking of doing the entire epic at once, which was a mistake, but, with 100 pages taken out and another fifty not done, I removed parts about Eaton’s complex buying of CBS, and filling it with hippies, a prediction of MSNBC, while he strip-mines the govt, the pages of Eaton’s super colluder, which I saw as a ultimate weaponizing of the computer and space stations, or MEMPHIS, is out, as he destroys Stonehenge, out of pushy Jewish nastierness, the kinds I have gotten behind since days of Phil Silvers and Zeros as Romans, in ways predicting Jewey Jonnie screeching about enough with the Christmas, huhhhhh?…Also out is Albrecht Spearman, the captain Nazi-- I loved the Mac Rayboy Captain marvel Juniors dark take on the marvel family, who turns out to be an Italian, as Rocket man turned out to be Jewish. And out is the Herman Blackfist, The pre comedian parody of Nick Fury, and his agents of H*A*M*M*E*R, AND IM NOT KIDDING, as was a real fan of the slightly just over my head then Nation lampoon and they did a comic called G Gordon Liddy, agent of shield, like Batfart, which I thought quite satirical, as he was a super patriotic paranoid ass hole who saw the Romance of MS as a threaten to all which as flag waving and holy, as they do see roman anything’s to them. I took out cousin Irving Eaton being turned into Ro-burt, the robotic weapon man, complete with tin body and C.C. Beckian glasses, out is sadly Jerry the fairy Lieber, gonniff comic hack superior, or should I say Excelsior, who seethes with jealousy that he get his hands on the new superman , MS, lest he be struck with recreating all his insect men and Tor, the strange cartoons of him and Buckminster Arbuckle, Bucky, who also seethes also behind his co creators back, and I took out a young reporter, who I did adore, who goes by the name of Chloe Kane, platonic girlfriend of Rocket man who takes a liking to Mitchem like dour and dark and masculine, Rock Hudson looking, though not like him in all ways MS, as Rocket man starts to Go Messugina, as Carmine Infantile says,  and is recalled by FEE CEE comics with a robot of his who has attained sentience, ala Arthur C Clark. I liked redoing all of this, as I don’t write like this any more, having replaced the place where Stan Lee and comics get smote of their ideas, the late show, with Dante and Ovid, showing I am either too hip for the room, or certainly they are. Basically from what I read of Alan Moore’s undone opus, Mister Stupendous  was Twilight of the superheroes, as usually with me, always Romany played along for laughs.

In the book as it was envisioned in 1978 though kept is sky lab, Eaton’s swallowing up of the Phone company ala the presidents analyst, his destruction of a black mayor of New Amsterdam, predicting the fall of almost every elected black official, once the oligarchy is done with them, kept in too was Miss Annie Amazon, Jewish lovely heroine, sister of Eaton, who has tired of her unbinding quest for justice after the shooting of Mosconi as a unnoticed Martyr in the midst of a queer lovers spat, predicting the future of American politics to this very day. Also obviously kept in was the metamorphism of Miss Kitty, voluptuous Cat woman thief into new MMA, a full out reaction of her no comic has had the temerity to touch or be close to mirroring. There are no conversion scenes in comic books, the t shirters don’t like them.

As Gifts and payment for things I have done to fulfil the resume,-- the résumé is iron clad, the résumé, like the nest egg in the brilliant Albert Brooks Lost in America master work, the résumé is stone cold and irreversible, I have received some things called Essentials which I would never buy for myself or think to buy. Some of these, especially Stan and Steve’s early Spiderman’s, are quite well done, I say looking back, as I did have the old pocket Spiderman comic paperbacks and I did see his brilliance in deconstructing the hero, on a different level than C.C. and Bill Parker had made the superman intro humorous good fellow, that Stan had made the superheroes as angst ridden baby boomers, like all artists of worth as much as anything a window into their surrounding time. I read these early comics, and found them relishing and brilliant, and I think its not for nothing that Stan the Man alleviates his best creation from the con of weed less cement drawings of Elks club ghetto Raphael Jack Kirby, who stinks have I mentioned that…?

He stinks,…. Just stinks, and I think these early Spiderman’s show a real genius at work in Uncle Stan that frankly may not have needed too much in way of a artist to do anything but, as in Shakespeare, another genius and the swipe and the swindle, get out of the way of the collected craftiness which all artists are at heart. You, the comic hacks, I noted with some distain at the time, were the ones to defame comics by calling it--Eghads!-- literature, to seem more adult as you go about in your strange anti world of supermen and bosomy yet sexless gracious ladies of kung fu grip action cunts. If its true, then the idea is paramount, and the dials were Stan’s, not those of comic creeps and doodlers who wished to get credit they if adult and didn’t believe in strange women who extolled the virtue that all men are islands after all, and that is worth something that no counter jumpers, and automat Giottos, and pushy new York bloated ethic hacks can understand. Its not for nothing that shaker like middle American waspish C.C. ,w hen asked if he wished, like Kirby to constantly moan and preen and howl for credit, make it rain with balloon subpoenas in the war to make his career seem morally equivalent to Jerry AND Joe, as one man, old Beck the heartland man, said he wanted no part of it, and did what he was told to do as an artist of true merits might, not having to constantly gain some acceptable as genius as if he didn’t have enough boy men in t shirts who smelled of BO, thinking he got credit more than he even deserved. Don’t mention this to any comic Journalistas, as they see this as a closet thing to an apostasy.

4. To be fair to myself, I started this book on 15 October, not the ides of October as I have seen said, and didn’t really have  to rush through it as then I had done about a year of works and posts, almost none of which was sued, ever, but as I had answered on various bullshit-ers, where they like, like Hillary, pretending to want to be artists, more than they want to do the actual grunt work of putting pen or in my case, flair, to typing paper. During the time I collected the pages as if so many as Lesley would call them unsure of it all, Colourful leaves from trees existing only in my noggin, I also completed Saturnalia, a play about America in the turn of the millennium and how closely allied in my mind Kordell Stewart and the sopranos really were. I completed Big Bertha and the mafia cops, a movie turned into a novel, as I write or did, the screenplay first and then filled in the empty spaces with prose. I did a Christmas memory like Capote short story about creating Mister Stupendous, sent to a gay magazine and a Christers publisher, liked and admired and passed on by both, and did a found collection of Tuscan myths which made it to the top 250 of submissions to Amazon, not to mention was accounted by Penguin classics, who was willing to over look my anti Romanism, now suddenly a crime, who would have figured that…? And for 99 dollars and a commercialese check to go over my typos would reveal King Italius to the world as an eBook, the future is now. Or the past as the case may be, which to me is as close as I have gotten to not out right hostility  as long as I packed my money in the wooden box, as Obammy can discern a real democrat from a fake one, one willing to pay through ones nose. You’ll find out exactly what you voted for Bernie and Detroit soon enough, but then I read the annals of imperial Rome and thus can’t be schooled by this crowd, God knows.

So, Mister Stupendous is done. And written of more extensively in that novella I wrote and got to the top 200 of a website open to submissions called Authoremity by Harper Collins, which as symmetry in that I think it was Harper Collins who I traded down all those years ago with a novel about fascist cops called Tarantella, when I got the strange vibe that I was equated to be a clown, or whatever it was, as  Gore Vidal was not their hero as much as was silly Capote, and I begged off. It exists now as a thing a tangible thing, the comic remade from scarps of memory and pure blarney and gumption,  which means more to me than it could ever mean to self appointed Liberian at Alexandria Scorsese, who like many ethnics seem to need an Obamian and Clintonian love of admiration by white girls. Why did it effect me so when that German nun--my first white woman enemy--multi enimici  molto honore, A credo Clinton sued to seem to imbibe in as does Newt, before he became an actual good boy as Maureen Dowd in her hair flipping way would say, and what would indeed Marcus Aurelius think of a man who could eagerly destroy women and then not destroy the nigger who sued your carcass to bound into the praetorium, after all…?,. --took the original pages of MS and tore it up, as if an apostasy to her Irish Catholicism, if not out and out hostile to the Romans as if a Lutheran, as seen on display by Billow all day long when not being chided by good friend Jewey Jonny, whose hatred of Saturnalia, as I SAID I think the roman parts are the parts he hates the most, is something akin to how self appointed Jew popes like Peter always feel to the Tyberion rabble rousing.

Why did it affect me so when Sister Gertrude as she did, and that is a slight homage to another boyhood hero, the only kind worth a damn, rip up a bundle of pages of Roman Superman as if the first oen wasn’t, as he has become Jewish despite the uncoloured braided boots, and her distain for my now apparent liking of dark haired Cathe--Lynn Napoli, a boyhood admirering of a lovely girl I had known and liked since 1974, her girlishness now having a burning affect upon me in ways that white girls who watch or make Anna Karenina can not Machiavellian and sun worshiping understand. I say Machiavellian, as he said before Shakespeare, who adored him, and don’t expect that connection ever to be mentioned on Charlie Rose,  That Passion  is a contagion, but then, talking everything Italian out of Willie, like staking everything Latina and Roman from Christ, will leave you with the husk and the threads and the shaft, especially the shaft.

Why did her tearing up my book affect me so, cleaving into my soon enough epilepsy, my long hiding way, everything turned on that day, when my colourful pictures, and not even nice finished pages, but crayola markered images on loose leaf in day dreaming class…!, why did that effect me so. A silly little punk I went to school with, a queer named George Peccoraro-- these bridges by me are better abandoned than even burned, he a real gumba Jew, took it upon himself to somehow run to that fat bloated nun, and explained something I am still unsure of, as after all Italic art is and has been an anathema to the Barbarous slobs and the Gibbon mentioned masculine women of the north, since the barbarians. He took it upon himself to write all over this comic-- I knew never to take anything I had done well and hid away, to not bring to this rats nest of crucifixes and fags, thinking I wasn’t like Nicky Lombardo who had bullied his way through a decade here and wasn’t thrown out for diddling Peccoraro’s beloved, bkleeceh, Viola. That’s where again On Roman Warfare is a primer better than any art of war, and when one isn’t so devoted to the strategy of things and just does his business I shocked all by taking George and hurling him into a wall, I suppose giving that fat nun the excuse she was looking for, but who wants to go through life tap dancing for fat women like an Obama, not me, and that is after all, my saving grace.

Or was it my fathers reaction to it, his sneering that I somehow upset this German hag, as he was afraid, deep down that wops here would eat me up as you nigger do your own, and recall that Fat man Roger, more or less, the next time you think Scorsese is so grand and vital, artistic and clean, but then, the mafia like the equally italic stolen senate seem to have reached the level of dregs like Boner and Balmy, and an age of Dante’s Passavante being garbage seem to be at hand. See, nothing but the dead of night in my little empire.

5. I have gone on about this before, and wont really now. But what was it that so innerved me, and sent me off like a planet spinning off into the sky, as Patton says in another Italian’s script filled with cadences of Tacitus that pointing them out by me was seen as an insult but that first Obama that’s ever been, Copolla and his polish starlets. Why did I take this so seriously, as to ruin my life a good chunk there of. Or am I just lying to myself, the sin, the only sin, in politics that pig men can Niccolo said, really do. I recall if I am not too boring, the fat old German cunt smacking her lips as if she were a vampire bat having found my aorta, and sneering, that I, Roman Anthony, more than than ever, that she held out hope for me, and not in the playful ways I could join in on with Jesuits and upstarts, but she as stone cold and sober as a Nazi, that I, after all was Garbage, her word, just like the rest of the wops, and somehow I was made equivalent to Jimmie, no enough pretences, Nicky Lombardo, an oaf wop who had made some distain by raping or more or less accosting, Viola Augustino, a piggy girl whose sexual playfulness, and early tits, was to Mother superior, who saw dignity in raped Italian girls as her ilk always does, was the perfect sort of defence strategy. I was like him through my drawing of a Roman God, as we are all the same, and you niggers have the nerve to think I don’t get or understand how you serfs feel, deeps down, in ways unspoken between the mri machine ads on ge theatre. Nigger Puleeeze!

My brother is a sharpier sort, worthy of songs of Loesser and Burrows but not in the ways that would be seen as a diminution by always there, to lend a hand wops like Dago Hobbits, Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman. They are I hear, kaput, perhaps she realised too late that their children, dreaded!--are half-Italian, as much as any coupling of Italians and Jews can be half of either, if not all of both. At the time, My Brother, he seemed to fill in the vacuum of a gone, or so I thought before Obnama, father, as he had had enough. He told the old man as I SAT THERE IN A ROOM as I would pretty much startling later that year for thirty years with a intermezzo of arts school and finding buddies and loves all along the way, that he was truly upset with the old man acting as if I had done something evil by my draining of bountiful beautiful brunette amazons kissing giant Herculean Lou Farrigno like supermen of a sort Hollywood has always been afraid of since the Yeshiva. He angry told off my pop, that it bothered him that after all the shit they made me read, he too was pummelled with Ovid in Latin no less, ten years earlier, and he too disliked Gertrude and her always being on the look out for pubescent ITALIC girls as she was sure, like a badly written play, that italian girls were using blossoming charms to make priets go astray, --HOWDEEE!, are you up the wrong tree!--as she learned all her Aquinas, as a priest said, from the book of the month club. I quietly admired Lynn, yes , her white skin in a red one piece and wet black hair turned young me on, as we Neapolitan are meant by Apollo, His son is your dark hero, not mine.She as first goddess, half JEW HALF ITALO prstess, and though even gay priests found this sweet, like my Amazons, this was seen as suspious to Mother Gertrude, also my Roman distaste for Pollock Karol was seen as my demanding that the girl in RM be a bruneete was seen by vineyard gonnifs as, of course==racist.

So my brother soldier went through all of this, down to Caesar in yellow textbooks and drilling in Ecologists, and it didn’t rally take, that a boyhood love of superman and Captain Marvels seemed too much for this stupid old man to let me have, as the faggots, his word for the priests that he didn’t admire as much as I did, were draining old ladies of life savings. As Fiscus, the dago Bishop, who went to estate sales looking for angels for his opulent pimped out dago church, were causing me to read Statius for forth grade Extra credit when he knew were people at Penn state who didn’t assign such reading lists. LIKE my father and like the priests, he had too had told me to read the great Decameron as I was a boy--hoo boy was that different than anything Galen wrote!, but again there was  playful and Italic aspect to my brother's looking out for me intellectually, else  I become a Lombardi type, as theer was a real sense of the Sunday shool to the Prussian like Romans the fags of God adored, and my Brother did want me to recall  the more italic and graceful  aspects to the Patria that the Brothers  and their drilled Latin never seemed to recall much.

To be better, that was the credo that my pop showed , like blacks who say one must be three times better than a white man to get a job but which I think they only apply to the syncopated rhythm or the gasser. That  was my fathers answer for all, as he lived in fear of the Scorsese of the earth fuelling the nation with thimble theatres of Gypsy wops to the admiration of Ebert’s s Siskels though bless him , seemed not as enthralled with the Copollan crowd as he would often in full blush of eye rolling say of something like Jack, or Tucker or bring out the dead or Mulan, not a  shot was seen that’s appeared cinematic, much like Gore’s dismissals for the source material of the last temptation of Christ, which Gore rightfully, gaining the admiration of some Christers, all is fair, said that thing was a viaduct in which not a wild flower or a dandelion could brake through. My Brother felt bad for me that after having been as used by the priests as any wee wee played fagot boy, they made to read Roman Diaries of everything hen I should have been allowed to be a kid, that this as one Milvian bridge too far, and suddenly the woman hating fagots ere going to allow Sister Gertrude, to through me out of a school I had been in since 1970 over cartoons that weren’t even that x rated at all, while a sansbalt wearing thug named Lombardo was duck tailed and lords of flat bushing all over himself…? He went to see Father Ginnocihius, and basically reasoned with him, telling him that should they fuck with me again, that my Bra would lock the doors and burn all these Boccaccio perverts in the mausoleum of a church down, a looking at his sparkling with malice and anger eyes, they didn’t take any chances.

He then went to a play ground where he had been playing be ball with the brothers since 1970, where now this growth Lombardo was on the tip of the par of American niggerhood, a white boys preening niggardliness that would explode in a few years with hip hop hurray, and seeing Nicky the fink, he took him and as they say Jacked him up against a wall, telling him if he or his little whore, Viola,--this is NSFL, not safe for Lesbians, fuck with me, Tony,  again, he’d take them both and put them in a corvette and hurl it off a cliff when’re it would crash and he’d make everything think it was murder suicide. I was, as late as AIP, confronted by cola black Zulu like older men who knew my brother and admired his madness. This was told to me by local Greek Sicilian  thug prince of mafia Phillip, as even they feared him, as he told me the Roman edict that all is fit to the willing, and all knew he was more than willing. But I didn’t ask him to run interface fir me, but having felt abandoned by a stoic father with dreams of American delusions in his eyes, it meant much.

Later that very year, in fact only weeks from after the confrontation with Mother Gertrude that was late fall, and as my beloved sister was doomed as anything and I could feel a German chill in the previously Romantic air, My pop, Hearing an earful from Ma, who hated the nuns here who had the temerity to question my mother‘s inherent catholicise, as she had refused to return to church after Vatican 2. Capitulation is an evil word, easily to an Italian, Romano jokes or not, and no oen demands you be a catholic, she said,  at least now, so either do what you are told, or do not. It sounds like Yoda, but like so much George Lucas has sold at paennies on the dollar is Ovid. She would if need be, though was ageing in a menopause worthy of Verdi, which was dampening to us all, would if need be for her Antony, go to see sister Gertrude herself an as she said in Calabrian, Sheppa essa chum polo -and yes, it does mean what it sounds like. At Christmas he want and bought me a copy of how to draw the marvel way, by Stan Lee and Bushema, as close as he could come to saying he was sorry, but I am at heart cold, and didn’t give in or give up and whatever I was going to do or be, I wasn’t doing it now, for him, ever. I can be sometimes adored for my resemblance to a Roman battering ram, and true enough I did nothing, even giving up opportunity to sit in a  bathrobe all day, playing at illness, occasionally  using seizures as an excuse for everything I needed, and left him as I wished, totally heart broken that I, a possible Jesuit, was nothing.

When I was published by fawning new Jesuits when at a dump called sacred heart, I didn’t buy it, of course I had to buy it a con sued by literarily rags with Salmon Rushdie on the pencilled cover as late as 2006, and I didnt show it to him, or even speak much of it. It was a school which I was cast out of once known I had the devils disease of epilepsy-- its never 1980 in a chalice school, I left then Oxfords and the Georgetown’s Holy crosses and Boston Colleges, they said I could go anywhere I wanted the fagots so adored me,  and the Harvard’s to the Rachel’s and the Bills and the Bammies and their eventually ad answering wives, once Reverend Wright made it apparent like my own father don’t bring no dirty shisksa into my house, a side of niggardliness never even broached by hbo, I left these Church schools  to the Sandra’s and the thick necks tight ends they make on assembly lines, who were all so willing to eventually takes checks from war consortiums, as I had much too much admiration for the city of Ovid and the sanctity of a bribe to shuck and jive this way. 

6. So, Mister Stupendous is done and done. Five years of off and on work, collected in a plastic sheath, a book is recaptured, as it should have been eons again. As has been done by Italians for time immemorial; I recalled the ancient texts and restarted them, not hopeful of prises like Turks or spics who plagiarise, but just that it be done. When I first started blogging as was sort of egged on my an admiring Jewish producer who didn’t want to touch my sure fire hit with a  ten foot pole, this is the business we have chosen, he could have said, and he still lived his life under the precepts of Plautus. I admired bloggers, and  blogging, and was entertained by them all. Especially comic book sorts as written by t shirted girls and other survivors of the dc crap machine. Oen such blogger as  lovely Asian sort of girl, Jennifer Guttmann , or a name to that effect I cant really recall now, an editor in black nails and who drank her lunch as a cappuccino from the far left coast where I never wanted to get to as much as  I did Capotes New York. In one of her posts, she bemoaned that no one was doing a Superman of any worth, with Spencer or Tennyson overlays and fandangos. Oh, Bitch, please! But she was a lovely woman and Tennyson is as close as a Master in English is allowed to get to Virgil; without sounding the alarm. I have a thing for dragoon ladies, buts stopped reading her hen I realised she was married, not that I was ever going to put the moves on her, as I have some, but like Lois and Clark, I find I cant watch or care anymore when they make you marred off as they wish now to do to fagots. Sad.

So, Mister Stupendous lives, and not even as a publishable thing, as it is in the wrong aspect to really be published, but just to be made as a thing, a real actual thing, as unlike Obnama, I don’t need to be adored by nobody. Three cheers for Roman Tony Roman through and through, no foozle faced piker like woman destroying,  praetor saving Bill, hip hip hurray for me, and someone cue Aaron Copland, and recall the heroic before we drown in pickpockets and thieves, clerks and women, The Roman Conan, down to the sue of several pictures by men named Bernie and Gil, Neal and Frank  is alive and made, the Roman A Superman, a new Hercules as is my Italian want,  exists, and unlike Captain  Marvel, he is not in any army, but merely a Mister, a GUY NAMED JOE, as Roman as  Roman as they were against Hannibal, who eventually respected the men who would die at Cannae, and yet wouldn’t sue for pace ever, no niggers are they, a Mister he is ready for the front, as they once were. As he is a Mister, a citizen foot soldier to a dying Respubblica. He is a strong man, but with power Not from any sun, or any gamma rays, he is warmed by the eternal flame.

Labels: , ,


Post a Comment

<< Home