28 December 2012


I notched that in my Google analyticals that Wendy Fiore is the number one search term bringing anyone to my blog, Jennifer De Guzman on that list at seven, perhaps thinking I was was another comics queer wishing to getting my closeted licks in to kick the women and the wounded. Those aren't the licks I am always looking for. But I was strangely pleased at this turn of stats, Wendy being like a Beatrice who was gathering eyeballs for me, and felt the need on Christmas no less to finally break down and join her site for thirty dollars--no really that's a Herculean effort for me--i had to go get the credit card out of the subterranean vault past the pyrannas, where I keep the cash, like a Jewish comedian, and paid her to be able to see her moving pictures, rather than steal them as I have.

So, an excerpt from AR, where her being discovered by me in 2010 on sports by Brooks as a Denise Milani who wasn't cold and lifeless, made Tyran pop to life, as Leslie, more subtle, keen, thin and tenet minded, doesn't appear until The Sabine Astrology, as a bitchy vestal. Too, in the late week I heard that Eddie Cisca, mentioned here as Eddie from Bloomfield on the dread and awful echoing and call less Fan radio out of Pittsburgh, was dead. He was the voice of dago reason, who saw through black, pie plate eyed coaches who were tokens unnallowed to play the defense that got them the job five years ago, and called this figure head the most worthless of italic insults, The POLITICIAN. Needle nosed wops made a point how distracted and abased they were by him, sometimes he the only call in a hour, as they would rather do voices like dago clowns. And, with the newest wop Kermit having high tailed it back to the mother ship Fan, with the Jews Shmoozer, lest he have to answer questions about why the quarterback he and they shoved down polish throats has gift wrapped wins to other teams,-- the Steelers play defense, You are lucky--, as I post this here as a small year end gift to show, frankly, marble halls holding small men, well at least to us Italian, its nothing new.


7. Then, in the bright December day, Portia, divine local Turan goddess actress herself, who now has a room here in the boarding house, and I have occasionally looked quickly into her always open door, like a still curious boy, should I see her in mid dress or changing into Cornucopia or Medea costume or the like, she came out and was the statuesque goddess. If Greeks wait for a play where the villain turns out to be a freedman or a darkie, or mostly a woman, we Italians wait for that moment in Drama when the diva, as we call her, appears in the play, around which all the players machinations must turn as if a lovely fulcrum.

Claudius, the wise and sinister loveable cur, he calls such a gal as this, the She, the her, the only woman in one's world, the one who is neither wife not mistress, but the one recalled when a man does heartlessly play with both. Portia examples this Italian third woman as no others around here, and hardy any in Tuscany who have a better placement, or a richer husband or who play at being concubine which are gathered in the gutters as so many hennas rats, over made up and over laundered and still reek of mans piss. No, not her, this Her, this she, as she was immaculate and gleaming, a perfect as the other girl, the kind disposed and distracted  by both the wives and the lackluster woman, hags in over done hair dos, who think they own the alliances of men, when a gal like Potrtioa is she is who is remembered while other lesser  woman swack like so many pigeons and magpies.

Portia came out and she was as the Jewish man who owns the Thetare, where she plies her feminine craft,  who adores her as a calling card and a starlet told me, she is a show stopper like none else around here. The divine dancing girl made her dreamy, half asleep, half dressed entrance into this outdoor stage left, as she was always meant to do.

8. She was Turan come to life, ‘the great Portia’ or too, La Lolla, The Babe, she is called, the sort of lovely who Greeks like to make the villain of all plays, the smouldering lovely girl who even Germans I have been told can fall head over heels for, and wish to bring back to Germania, or at least set up here as on the dole personages and priestesses of Turan, our Aphrodite, please,… please …please don’t call her Venus, this is as usual Roman misappropriation, which by now you’d think they’d actually be good at that, as like making others men’s sons bleed in alpine forests, as it is all that they are good at.

She came out and got a look even from the wayward on the take, on the make, gay boys playwrights and poets of the streets, as she is admired much It seems by them, as here in Italay the boys start thinking of themselves as sexually able and as satyrs around age eleven, and I’m not so sure they aren’t correct. He smiled as she gracefully and artlessly walked past all, in hangover actress on the boards of TURAN stages the night before, as she was just getting up this way past noon hour, as actresses like criminals and bats, wolves and cheetahs, live in the light of the moon, and like vampirea, they do not so much like the blazing mezzogiorno sunlight. But she was, though unkempt, still ravishingly pretty. My Goodness, By Taesus, now I knew why it was that I had seen her walking towards mother Naples, and had as I did, follow this magnificent creature to this house, and the thinner, older as beauteous woman I admire more so, the den mother of actresses and queer simpatico, Italia Julie.

9. A body like a Pirandellius’s statue come to life, as was one veneration  of Turan, which she plays equitably as she is said to have more than just a pretty face, and is a fine toying withy men's devotions and desires as an actress at that, in the italic way of naturalism, so hated by the always stilted always art making, always vile, always venial, always homily sprouting Greeks. I am told at the theatre down town, owned by my Jewish friend the rabbi, he calls it like Ennius the playwright, a requisites temple, and one that he can fill out high holidays or not, he who likes the idea of being so close to actresses as he can get. Pirandellius the stone carver, another Quilpa, has never had such a modella to craft by, this backwards Pygmalion, as I am sure though he is a Fancy, as they say here, or a queer, even they are not immune to her charms, as I hear tell that stern and Romanesque playwrights of Coriolanus as a serious topic, do often fall at her feet, a she is sexuality of any sort, or of all, Alpha and Omega as Aviddicus the poet would say, and she is glorious.

I have known Aviddicus, the poet, long before his censurer by poetry hating Aquila, -- and a note of caution, do not trust anyone who feels a need to burn books, as they use the fire to warm themselves from a cold heart, and frankly as a historian I know, few, if any, read real books that are not pornography anyway. Theatre is now seen as an art form called Drama, our word for the goddess of modesty, go figure,  by the book suspicious Romans, because of no less than gals like she, whom Aviiodiuc wrote for, who he lived for, whose feminine wiles inhabit the lines of play acting Goddesses, as she always gets the gate easily against Greek theatres where boys play Minerva, as the Romans now call her. It was Pirandellius, he who made the rooftop statuaries for the temple of Vesta, at Veii, and she was the beauteous incarnation thereof.

She is a perfect Turan, our italic goddess of Love, as one could eye as Portia sleepily, groggily and thus more sexual than draconian women showing hyper needy cunts at hooting men, that Turan has come to flashy life, a word made flesh as we say of Ercules. And in her lounging, one could see the most misanthropist demon, Orcas, much less smiling shamming Kemeter fall at this dears feet, barefooted now, as usual. Men who damn their wives be barefoot, seeing it as a sign of submission like some oriental, do not recall the Italic tale of Myth of Camilla, who was a tom boy, barefoot and thus that armed her escape all the more accessible until their last hero, Anis.

And she, the  lounging, perfectly, as if a sleepy Camilla, the Italian Amazon at rest, as though between the disemboweling of meagre men, and she looked fierce enough to do it, too, as by her even the queers here are enraptured, a word with another instructing italic meaning I won’t get into here.


10. But Turan she was, as Menvra is too clever and boyish for her talents, such as they are, ample and creamily, and yes, I am an Italian and cant see a goddess looking lovely raven haired, big titted, beauty as at all clever or conniving, her eyes gleam with invaders green,  to the point they are almost black.

She was the essence of Turan made whole, all from what Victor Curricula tells us in the last of Etruscan works not deviated to the furnace by the church of Aquila, as the Tyrant, once the king of an African city ,Tyre, and now synonymous  with all political smotherers, tried to make his fathers tongue of Latin, or Ladino as the Cambrians started it, the official lingual of Laurentium and this Veii , and then all of Italay, as we always had a feeling despite his love of Aquila green, he bled a particular Roman red. Be ware the Trojan horse, boys, --I said aloud, to the guarders, causing the blond haired jewfish Italian summoner of bribes to miss his place in a rehearsed  speech, as the men in Spartan helmets, a war council of silliness and fraud seemed stunned by my classical auguring.
She as here now, was Goddess Vesta in flesh, and now, even the Jewish man seemed to be at wits end as she gloriously and wonderfully, and exuding an italic sensuality lounged against the veranda like lace made of tin cheap metal wicket seats.


11. The Jewish Sardinian campaigner , that I was told he was by a quiet man who follows politics, as some secretly read dirty letters of women and are ashamed to say so amid even homosexual men, Turned at the seeing of the lovely raven haired as the Greeks call them but suspiciously  and with malice after that kinkier nigger hair of theirs no one is raven haired without it being orientalised and thus straight, even blue, as if a Hercules or a concubine of Hercules, he then, as if seeing the sun after being in a hidden away closet, turned quietly away. First at seeing this rhea of the stoop as a living embayment if the Italee here he’s as twice a emigrant, Twice the interloper, he knew he wouldn’t as political windbag compete with the eye of the boys for her, as she took even the homosexual breaths away as she pulsated with pulchritudinous luminous health and thus seemed a living amulet of good grace, as the Egyptian believe in enough, to sell by the gross.

She was loveliest heroine Turana priestess, really she was the sort we would dress up as little queens we called them in my youth as nuns and as playmates of various women gods in the pantheon plays now made mere farce by the always sombre and or laughing Roman men, and he, the alderman, fitted off for better patches of glory, as they, as we demonise the people, as constituents. That like Proletariat, meaning patrons or patronized, as there must have been less imposing sorts, out there, house wives less beauteous or graceful than Italia, mistresses less dancing hall starlet calibre than Portia, over the next hallow, where like generals and Colonials, the next bit of good luck and good fortune can always be found, no matter how stuck in the rust one feels they are stuck back here, where ever here is.

12. The two masked sentries didn’t dare take their bronze metallic faces from the now laying back on the seta actress- goddess Portia, as one could see their stockiness behind the square little holes made for Spartans to look through their betters lives of barricaded life. The angered vote soul seeking dogman politician saw his over braided Knights of the round table standing there gawking at the sheer dressed always in bed clothes actress of the night and the theatres of the late hour Portia here in her sensually day time magnificent unkemptness, though today she was better at seeming less at wits end and actually seemed to comb that thick glorious black azure shining bouffant hair today as opposed to most.

The congressman interloper saw Italy made flesh before him, and thus, gave up his less than elegant hustler act and walked along, towards the blue black sea that shimmered seemingly in the distance between the next row of houses towards  the unbroken string of the Apennines  of this gorgeous southern city which will, I say here without threat of a thousand years ever impinging upon this as fact, that no one shall ever truly take, as it shall engulph each invader, something like this political hack made up in gold braided and sashes here, who will, at the last see Italay as human being girl seen adn wanted  by Tinia himself, she as needed mistress and hoped for concubine, and to her and to it, no invader force shall ever truly take as their own.

13. As didn’t even the Spartan who supposedly populated Italay before anyone else was here and yet never did their empire having the key to all of Europe which is the middle peninsula, not ever  once did their empire grow lager than the walls the sea makes in shell around the island nation of Sparta. There is something unspoken here, that for all the stories that Greek tell that all of Italy comes from Spartan roots which explains their distaste for us, I guess as they abet the Spartans as too butchily unaffiliated or perfectly masculine for their mainland needs, that they parties were here in fair Italy first and in fact a story exists that a Spartan LOST ALL in his grandiose love of Thalia, daughter of Janus and mother of all Italians, and yet, though I am considered well educated in Tuscany, it is down here, where the boys and girls dance in jigs about the sea side temples of their beloved sun of God, where I hear what are dismissed as wives tales by so many which I haven’t the foggiest what they , the Italians, the truest Italians are even talking about. I suppose a book of fairy storeys of theirs would be something truly worth the rarest and expensive inks of Arabs in the writing down, if they can be written down, at all.

Then, Portia divine local Turan goddess actress herself who now has a room here in the boarding house, and I have occasionally looked quickly into her always open door, like a still curious boy, should I see her in mid dress or changing into Cornucopia or medea  costume or the like, she came out and was the statuesque goddess, whose presence made even the masked Spartans heads jolt, and make their bronze helmet faces comically swing to her. Then came out Imperialus, the local doge, all here would go to before ever going even too close to the blue painted state house down town, an seeing a rival to power real and power fake, the thin lipped rather pale Jewish alderman took his note to go almost scampering into the dray and leaves less December sunshine.


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