20 November 2012

A TREE OF NIGHT.

 


MISTER STUPENDOUS LIVES.-PART THREE.

9 November 2012


Yesterday, a professional Jackass named Chris Mathews had to publicly apologise for having said he thanked God for the tempest that allowed Christie and Erkle to save the Oligarchy as they did, with help from Clinton. I always did think despite the Aurelia’s shit he was at heart a bare footed two named thug who would do whatever he was told anyway, but hell have to deal with that later when he falls intro the inferno for having taken no moral stance whatsoever. Think about it. This is an example of how low we have fallen, and the smell you smell is of sulphur, not just the rotten eggs of unsold MacDonald’s breakfasts, so welcome to the decline and fall. One man ambition being worth all of you is how a republic dies, and you have him now, your answered prayers. YOU are the sort of evil, as an Italian saint who speaks to wolves would say, your compassion is not just unused like a mean little boy, but is conditional, like Love, making it worthless and a commodity. As Rachel plays vestal, in a blazer, throwing rose pedals at the feet of the briber, know this garlanded path leads to where it leads and with him, nowhere else.

It has taken a few days, as it as unseen at the time, but the reaction to human spittoon Matthews Praetorian prayer that he thanks the gods for the storm that blew nigger Jimmie back to woe in an inhumanity almost breathtaking has socked achita among the already Arod abused new Yorkers. Of course he wasn’t supposed to actually be dumb enough to say any of this, and I do hope him falling from his tree would be almost perfect medieval revenge against him, as revenge as it does in old and new Sicily becomes the basis of everything, until of course we are all blind, but can at least use new halogen light bulbs from the company who has been given the republic in the divorce settlement.

At Five pm on the close of business of a Friday, and something tells me Barry never closes to business, an old Italian joke as old as the seven hills, it seems spooked as he was by the fact that the wall had breached and lost four percent of its take and get by then, Barry came out to announce that hell, he wasn’t marred to any of that shit. He stood there in the strange perpetual gloom he has brought with him from Bob Hartley’s apartment building, though god knows his wife is no Emily, he stood before a crew as if the campaign hadn’t ended, will it ever, could it be so,…? Ah, Jewry Jonnie speaks of America taking a shower, I sure would take a shower if I was you, creep, just to get Onama’s  spunk out of my laugh lines. By now, the first day I noticed it was dark at five, and that autumn, The Roman goddess of, guess what, Cornucopia owned the fall as Verna ruled winter, Primavera ruled spring and Juno rule summer, but once the last leave left the last tree  she disapproved levying the land to Alpena, which is why the frozen alps are named as much, who as the first Turan, the first goddess of love, who tired of lovers, she did, and became if not a paramour of Kemeter, his fuck buddy, before he found her later replacement, Turan, windily stared at as she gleamed healthily and shining-ly by the moon stone bathes. A sweet sorry, perhaps in the next book. And a real pall was felt by some, as he stood there in his its always gloomy in Cisalpine Gaul half breeded act, standing before white women with empty expressions on their double stuffed faces, as he intoned and for all to hear that he wasn’t marred to any of this, even not Rates, after all, as finally the lump of lead was in fact after all not made into roman gold, but a pyrite not worth anything, a coin, and after all, that had a face on it that looked a lot like a devised bizarro version of Theo Huxtrable.

O, that all meant nothing, as we veer avante, towards one man’s opinion of himself as paramount opinion. Always of himself, and are you still here…? But, this is I noted, Roman me, that this is the second time in a row that a cataclysm had to brush tap dancing house coon Barry into power, sadly enough. And like the Romans you hate, eventually the people shall ask themselves of the utilitarian of ruin, how much are you a bulwark against the disaster and how much do you bring…? How unlucky exactly are you. And as the suspicious Jesuits would say of Spartacus, to them the first Christian, he weighs to get even …but with whom…?



And there during a lull in the election night action, we had to carry things through with innumerable counting until the polls closed in California, you know, before I turned it to Superman which is my go to when Romo is playing for an Americas team, I saw a commercial  ironically and fittingly for--Les Miserable’s. We were all here watching this, although CBS and election night once like so much said something and meant something s nothing does anymore.

When my Ma actually heard Chris Matthews say he thanked god that a hurricane came to avenge his beloved, Barry, she heard this, as well, he screams like a fucking basstan banshee, and she shuddered as if the thought as too much for her to bear, she, as she adored as Italian girl once were, saint padre Pio, one the last people a dying queen of Pollock’s, Karol, made a saint as over bloated jolly anger by them who traffic and boys at Notre Dame. So, like a good catholic she can sense the smell of sulphurous Luther and tithed diabolical when she hears it.

She demanded it be turned and I left in on Superman and Hercules until she want to bed. She told me a story again my father had told me as a boy back when it was happening and that as this. That an Italian cardinal named I think Leoprestei, I could I think look it up, but who cares…this is the best sort of history, Unsatisfied and un clerked by the John Meacham’s of the world who now are willing to post Gore Vidal call Thomas Jefferson a pol, when it as done by Eugene Luther Vidal jr, twas a most dischargeable sight. He had lost his bid to be pope, Uh,I think he was from Sicily, good luck to you Sicilian thrush, as if you have any by now, still, he had lost his first gambit, and instead of lose to an enemy of his from Milan, such things only matter to the venial and the stupid I was told as a boy, who frankly quiet keen on like Dante calling myself a Apulian like Father Dante, who was gathering violets, this cardinal instead threw in and all his Sicilians with a Pollock who had American backing to give it to the then dying, who knew soviet union, as conspirators and conservatives are stupid and everywhere they bring restriction. HE THREW IN WITH THE POLE WHO NONE OF THE MAJOR PLAYERS SAW COMING, and who didn’t even know he was being groomed for the holy hat still worn as it was by Etruscans millennia ago. He won then by haggling the influx of southern votes, as if they were looking for a whore that than a pope, but he won, and the Italians had lost of all things, the bishop of Rome, as there is, as my pop told me, nothing worse than a Sicilian who thinks he is getting even when he is frankly doing the bidding of his masters, as Bamboo shall find out soon enough.







The cardinal was sure that he could now have true shadow power, as in fact a position as Woyjoylas brain, a slot taken in by lawyers grasping later pope Benedict, whose pigeon Roman after thirty years of Roman life was seen too late by the multitudes in Numa’s piazza to do anything about. The cardinal was ruined, as much as that, and three weeks later, when his ties to the VATICAN  bank were being still looked at though he and his Sicilian thugs may have killed my mother’s beloved last pope, Padre Luciano, probably a last Italian pope and made a saint by a later tired and left to die with out aspirin in the sun, the Ovidian sun, suddenly the cold war hacks there wanted no part of this story to get out, assuring it would just that, making me wonder if they realised they were in the town that Tacitus and Petronius made famous, with outside of oral sex, their favoured sport is gossip. The cardinal was out and about already marked, but fate as she is a bitch intervened, and he was in a car accident at the via Flamminia, right in front of the Italian red Brigades, no less, at the time, the socialists bazaar of the leftists youth. He cried out for help, but once the carabineri saw who this was, and the socialists too, showing there is Roman and it is more important than anything else, even the atheist socialists felt betrayed, and let him bleed to death. This…is Roma.

He cried out for help, but both fascists and communists around him, did nothing, as Romans love no don, and life on Gore’s  Roman street was just a bit more unconcerned with a man in garments all Caesarean-ly red and redder by the moment. He did, tres Pompeii, fall against the base --I wouldn’t be surprised, before a statue that is up to Pope John the 23rd who is now getting some Claudine forks like admiration, as the Romans despise the German who speaks ill of their saturnalia as he lectures them in gold shoes. The cardinal who made a Pollock a pope after thirty days, for the first time since Boniface the 8th, and look him up, which I say when I have a better story I have fallen into and cant get around to, he was left on a street to die, like something so viscous that American Sicilians can not think it. The cardinal was left there rot on a gusty street of uppity beauties and curly headed centuries to bleed to death for a hour before he started to, as his creation Karol would, stink amid the trattoreas and the ruins. So, Chrissie, you are that cardinal now, and even the socialists shall not help you, why would they, thou art Brutus, and no one likes him. One can be Vicious, or one can be vapid, A young Octavius said, a favourite personae of Shakespeare who gets all the best lines, but once one is both, they are finished. This was said By the later Augustus to explain why Brutus was doomed. As I write this, I hear that Chrissie will be on Saturday night live this week, like his friend Opama, who you’ll find out like the democrats did, he owes you nothing, will be on to take a victory lap as shit gushes into the East river --more than even usual. Who said he was gleefully doing shtick among the rubble ten days ago, ah, that was me. This explains why my missives from the front in Roman dates, have been censored by Martin Scorsese, alas Rachel Maddow has not. Why thuggish Sicilians have hated me since 1975, in a nutshell.







Perhaps next to be in the reclamation project of the Tonylibraraia, it will be a collection of pornography stories I did, with like my police procedural, I was told could do with a more straightforward accounting and a lack of Calvino like italic folktales garlanding it. The liquored up injuns are upset of beautiful women wearing headdresses, but do make sure that you all spend thanksgiving with the GODFATHER, on amc, again everything depending on where you are standing. Maybe I will complete another boyhood opus, and then be done with them, The Black Knight. It was to me and early version of Manzoni, in which a black heartened brigand medieval soldier of fortune is predicting the renaissance, goes back to Roman ideals, wearing the Armour of a centurion, ala King Arthur, which caused some dissertation at the time, and now is so known even house niggers at Burbank allow Kiera Knightly to use it as a pejorative against Arthur, again no one ever recalling what Cisalpine Gaul was. Perhaps I shall go back to seen as anti- Catholic but actually pro Italian story I had written as a boy against raped saint, aren’t they all, Maria Goretti, whose book I had to write a paper about, chaste lovely Italian doll, who made her cunt a sacristy, as women often did then. I was spooked at the way the nuns approved of my disesteeming of her and her fetish of virginity, as sister Cecilia told me, as a boy who was shocked and appalled, that this woman should have had babies and made her husband a Minestra. But then they saw where this was all heading, as lesbians in the coal mine. You see I have tired of Chris Matthews and his spittoon grace as he makes a fool of himself in a perpetual telethon for little nigger Jimmie, the Caesar in the wheelchair, as It makes my Machiavellian senses hurt, as I recall the nuns, and their like Pop’s clever advise that tongues go to teeth that are rotten most, if there at all. I wonder why this bloated sanctimony about Obammy, from a political hack of Boston town, where the races haven't despite blue paint everywhere mixed that well. I am tired of spittle and shouting, as I wonder what he holds back, as I know who Len Bias is, and you should too. Get THE ASSHOLE OFF THE AIR! Gee, were the little black kids pulled from the muck the Sacrificed flesh to make Inca god Erkle queen again…? Too much.

I was shocked by the reaction, to my not taking Goretti’s side, but then they hated her with a passion. As, you libertines got what you wished for since Margret Sanger and the fifthly Italians and Poles, irony, have aborted enough children as to make the Italians and Polish nations have not enough people in them to replenish the race, all that beaches front property opining up, now if only you can do that to niggers and Arabs, you’d have something. The nuns adored me for this, more than usual, as it seemed to them, all unmarried, scholars, thoughtful and the like, which is what so unnerved me, that they saw this woman’s first devotional as a lovely woman was to bare children for some Fat Tony, AS THEY all somewhat disquietingly called the basic Italian Present with a heart of gold, which they had been issuing as a moniker far before me. But they hated her the ways the Jesuits hated the equally sanitised for your perfection Spartacus, as again, what rascally are you trying to prove here was their whole devotion, deep down, as you’ll find out maybe in always siding with them that Republicans, like the Romans to a  previous high yellowed sentiency god, was never the nemesis to him that MSNBC Sanhedrin always were. Its what the Jesuits called the fruit of a poisoned tree, in Latinesque, Arbor Noxious, meaning all that droops from it, is irrecoverably rotten and diseased, useless and vicious, rotten fruit of a poison oak, easily when sued in a honorific cluster form.

So, the miserable is here.  I take it The Betrothed is out of the question, but to be fair, the fairy Princess [this a lovely woman seen in a commercial for the various fairy tales shows that have fallen flat all coming at once, imagine that, but who all didn’t have the guts to make a princess a brunette and a demon a blond, again, that was me] would make a good Lucia. I think of these scenes in that masterwork, of the crying girl melting the icy face of the unnamed gangster, the supreme tyrant, and think of the fact that a man on national television actually is so absorbed by his queen's ambition, more owlish troll than any Neapolitan fairy tale, that he spoke like good Sejanus of how much a stroke of luck it was that that storm hit when it did. A stroke of luck, or a bad omen…? she, Fortuna, cornucopia -Turan reborn as a higher god as her father Janus was when Jupiter came to town, owns them both and both are only distinguishable from where you are stranding. There he was I guess, I couldn’t make out its ugly turgidness and incessant brown as Gordon Willis is dead. There he was, who I have been calling for ironically, there he was, himself in the celluloid flesh, there he was, --Inspector Javert. Need I say more than that…?










































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10 November 2012

GIMMIE SHELTER.




MSL-INTERMEZZO.

Julius Caesar once said that if one has a Greek as a champion, then, de facto, they have none. Its true about Greeks, and truer about a leftist, who are always willing no matter how vituperative they have been, to turn on  dime and do the opposite always willing to  show their patriotisms, as all married fags are, much less Germans and or Greeks in Roman clothing.

There is a scene in that Play, written by Willie from the shards of the Tragedy of Pompey, which no Elizabethan aged passavante wanted to deal with its republican tones, where a mad man in the Romans street says as he does to the glad filth seeing a dictator as messiah, as they lazy do, lest they have to work, you niggers are late to this Roman party, you stones, you worse senseless things, in that something evil had accorded just here at the other side of the Rubicon, and that it as no time for this, triumph as insult. And God help me, who has called Mitty Bob Hopeless, and Mittcompoop for a year, a wasted year, a meaningless year showing the jig was up, I feel bad for him, as I did for Newt, that this nigger sold his ass to his masters as only a nigger can, and that we are struck with him, no matter what. But as Crassius would tell you on she steps, they aint stuck with nobody, not the purpled grasping sash wears, and it shall be fun to see just how much of a Becket we have in Massichusex from our new Pocahontas, another overcoming by the filth and the trash, another incarnate other, but with thin lips, and Nordic fold. How sad one can legitimately compare befuddled mitt to Pompey...I think that says it all. 

I find myself feeling badly for Mitt, as he had a election sewn up, until it was stolen from him, not even by his lacklustre worthless opponent, but by a fat man with mean eyes and double chins, who seemed to grab the republic as if it was a lusted after Turkey Club. How sad this is. But Erkle did find a brave new world on his true grandmother’s God, Thors-day, which wasn’t here on Monday, still Roman moon day, when he wrung out his mantel and tap danced, and perhaps his royal, nay, divine tears, have like an Ovid’s  poem, given us the strange darkness and gloominess which has seemingly taken hold during this two week restoration. As no fooling Kemeter says his brother Tina, Jupiter, in Ancient Romance available at...anyhow, he says after the flood, a trope in all Mediterranean lore, Yes, old man, you can make it rain,-- but can you make it stop...?

Perhaps soon enough, hopefully, the master of disaster has so cursed the patria that we will all be up to our Tuchueses in rain and tears, as he becomes a Lake, Veronica or not, but cries incessantly none the less. Was it worth it boy, I ask...?, as have never had the disease he and now Brother Virgil Bill have, was it worth it to be transfigured again by boyishly, and like a cunt, souring tricks beneath even Roman Bill, that is still in flux, like issuing a ballot instigation for weed backed out of as soon as that Thursday, sorry, Cheech, and by, as they did to Iran, listen up niggers, as they did to Iran, tossing a stucknet virus at the rnc, proving there is no depth to which he shall not go, as long as ironically he doesn’t really have to take a forward step.

Was it worth it, nigger, or did the crying make it so, sorry Roman gods like fate are paid in Blood, not Jewish tears, not like Yahweh, who seems to eat them up, …? Will the women on leashes who laughed at Newt for crying for his mother in the mist of a campaign be back again to say a word about Erkle crying for power...no that's what they all cry for. Did you become a whole man yet, does the paper bag stand up yet, or is it still a pad…? Dido, did the paltry victory, did uit salve the open wounds?…is it a Roman triumph if the Germans help out by not voting, or by killing Pompey…? As, are you a victor now, or a Roman, as Marc Antony’s said there is a deference, strangely enough. Did good old dad, like Hamlet come and visitation sonny boy in the Dark, speaking of foulness, did Dido stand silent but have eyes that screamed for someone to avenge African she, or Mother …is that you….? And if Dad did come to haunt you that night, would you have even recognised him…? Ouch. I hated my pop, deep down, more on that later, as  I didn’t seem to get from him the free to be you and me Marlo shit of fraudulent parenting, which would eventually devolve into sons killing their mothers over Osaka game-spheres, unbought, or women dying from having to bust their bladders for their good for nothing spawns. But, for all my angers, Vincent Acri, he didn’t abandon me, not even horrid and selfish and angry and taking me, he didn’t make me, even as angry as I was, make me chase the winds ala Bill and Rush and Buckley Junior and dear Obammy. Unlike the fathers of monsters, my father never hit me, not once, not with a frittata skillet as was Lesley, and he did, I must say here in a post I shall not ever take down, as opposed to the rest that have to go somewhere and be bundled like Obama devotion, he did, proudly, take pictures I had drawn, and sadly and sweetly masking taped them to the wall of his place where in he played pinochle with the Wops, Jews Pollok’s and niggers he knew all of whom were never allowed in the Wasps and worse yet Milanese run sons of Italay and elks clubs, so he made himself a Garibaldi club of his own.

Was it worth it, Barry…? As funny but he had to come out after the loss of a trillion dollars in economy, all bribes are contingent, well, skip it…, 3 percent of the stock market and 50, 000 lay offs from no less than Hughes Aircraft later, it wasn’t the triumph he had hoped for, and he had to gather together in the perpetual campaign, --don’t take that shower too soon, jewey, that semen may just coat that tongue of yours‘, bitch, some one do tell Erkle he cant run again, even though he still feels the challenger, as Antony said of Senator Brutus, and shall be the challenger until the end, a tabernacle of white women cunts, one of the pillars of his Islamming, as a Eucharist of yeast infected lips, and said--he wasn’t “wedded” to any of this, precisely rates. Thank god the narcissists in all empires can be bought. And are stupid. So Cry, Clown, Cry, don’t waste laughter as that is just for others pratfalls, which are coming by the bushel, and a happy Saturnalia, in the air. NOW we see devastation, now that the cheap infanticides are available to the wicked women who are ugly too, you know the ones who hate brunettes too, out of jealousy, as Anderson Copper has been literally sitting on stories for weeks, lest they cause Bammy to fall from his allowed slender silver strings. Sitting on stories if we are lucky. But alas now, he shines amid the ruins again, as all is decided. Ah, but even in Empire, all is temporary, all is fugit.

A republic is dying, and we have a man so incompetent that he believes lisping queers like Ejay who tells him he is in a better possession now to allow the Bush Tax cuts to expire something he never found himself capable of doing, as a lame duck as opposed to a president with a fresh start at 75 percent approval ratings. You have caste your die, kids, as when Fat pig Chrissie thought himself a Clinton, although were I Mitt, I would use my money to trash him good, maybe even cut his fat throat…as the Roman would say, the deed is all. I hear that he cried when self parodied, once Elvis and now Woody Guthrie Spring -Stein, hugged him out of grateful ness. Ah the oligarchy, perfect together. Also, after a decade of diminution remember it is a fat bloated Soprano like cow man , a Gandolfini doppelganger clown from the decried and dehumanised land of a perpetual Columbus day, that has fucked you over, as we wouldn’t mention again the tea party, again, seems to have come out of the same going concern as pays Rachel, but we wont get that circumspect, and that a fat man being badly and inopportunely Machiavellian, as a fat man or a woman would think it so, will be behind every hurt you feel. And I enjoy this, as a line of Seneca’s comes to mind.