30 December 2012




I posted this on Facebook on Friday. 

I take it Niggeralia is over then…? I saw President Erkle come out andmention how adamant he was about 98 percent of the Bush tax cuts, and he didn’t make a peep about social justice and or making anyone pay anything…he does make his capitulations a devotional though, don’t he…? You see niggeralia was like saturnalia, but with more malt liquor and handguns and more white trash angels than Christmas. But I knew we were screwed when GE theatre interrupted their usual coons, to flood the zone with Jews and republicans, Ezra and Coburn as a comedy team said it all. Ah, yes, The cover 2.

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Again I am not so sure if the sin was use of the word Nigger, or linking to anything about the Etruscans. Its an open question.And seven days no less, taking us past the feast of Janus that you are patriotically mired in, as Jews and Lutherans all. That should take us right through his capitulations, after all its what GE paid for, right  through his probable being corn holed on the senate steps by a triumphant McConnell, as after all , the senate strikes back!


And like the good praetorians they are, they decided that this was far too vulgar to be seen on a page belonging to Bill Clinton, he once affably Roman before somehow struck by the need to go from being Emmitt Smith to being a Mooooose. Ah, but in your imagic kingdom, where Obama the lord God it seem scantly can give away tickets to  his inaugurations, ROMAN WORD ALERT!—SEE  I think niggeralia was over when he pegged a republican who dealt in witch trail Best Man against gay democrats to be his war Caesar, but the con is on, ...But remember this kids, I’m not the one you have given your hopes to be your champion, and too, I am not the one who despite my narcissism, I was the one losing both elections as late as October by five points, nor was I the one who has never won a majority of union household votes who are white, so, maybe he isn’t a beloved as he thinks. I’m not the one running to NBC to plug leaks, And after all, I am the one who called him Phaeton years ago. That was the petulant boy who fell from the bowl of the sky, not ready for the chariot he stole. The ROMANS called them back benchers. Maybe this isn’t the Nixon to china you think. And despite trashing a giant like John Ford, now myopic little niggers on the pad, and including comedy central bag niggers clowns like Katt Williams no less, in distress at Jingho and Tarantino as the white wash is our anti Augustan creed. I recall when ever an Italian dared say anything about the sopranos though, they were given homily from fat pigs about lecturers about what is art, but then the whole point of this blog was that some pigs are more equal than others. Is Seinfeld on yet...as it was telling that the night we found out he as whiter than usual about the idea of going over the cliff, why there was our Buddy Jack Klompus. Take the pen!, and a happy fest of Janus to you all. I am taking a break, after all.


  

28 December 2012

SATURNALIA INTERMEZZO, -- A. R. XIII, ALL THE HONORABLE MEN. COMING SOON.

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.








PORTIA INVICTA

 
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.



20 December 2012

STEP INTO SATURNALIA WITH ME.





1. ... I had a sense that when football players started falling to the ground like they were, and that complicities Fox news was suddenly demanding apologies from all, as was trying to wash its hands of the disaster maker Obama, sorry, like Clinton, you are in, all in, like Flynn, and tangled up in red, no matter what, I knew something had to give, and things started to seem strange. And to show he is adept at the disastrous masterstroke, while children were bleeding Barkkie poo made sure that even Eddie The Shultz and anyone else knew, not only was he going upwards of 500, ooo dollars as a benchmark of what is rich, on wards , no forwards, to a million, as Gonniff Senator Wall Street Shymah would think yur not really rich sees, untils you hit yur first million, ah Jewish sanctimony, almost as virulent as its cousin Arab sort, and that too Social Security is on the table, as we all must change everything. Except of course him, I love that we will be getting a few days of head shaking from Ge appliances come to life, then of course, they shall eviscerate his enemies for him, knowing never to bite the hands that feed. I’ve read enough Roman history to know that all will indeed change soon enough, as Mario Junior awaits his turn of the ge light bulb spotlight.



I went and put up the saturnalia decorations as I am to do, and it made me sad that some of the cheapest oldest and thus most liked trinkets were GE Murphy's doo dad’s which like so much of America couldn’t survive the death cults of abortion and Reganism, lets call it Thatcherism, to be a feint point, and was sad they were gone. I hadn’t yet watched George C Scott's brilliant and perfect version of the dower and awful A Christer carol Scrooge yet and still, I think just sight of him in Victorian finery had an effect upon me in the way that angelica shit gets into the drinking water as it does. Perhaps too many strange brown images from The hobbit are out and about.



2. But in mid December, at four am, I found I had a vivid dream of eth sorts that are made when you take too many Seconal like barbiturates to get through the Capotean life of mid century liesure, though I do neither. In the dark dank black and brown topography --this a remember of Hobbit commercials I am sure, I found I was in a no , not a cemetery, different than that--ruins I guess, the kind not yet ore ever sanitized to make them tourist traps, the background I would guess to a Halo game, or a dystopian car chase movie. As here, in the silver leafless trees of abandonment, I was alone and in the dark wood, and there, puckishly, that Puckishly was sometimes Dream girl spirit guide Wendy herself, who bless her heart I see has made it to various actual big time model sites, where fat chicks eating crullers while nude in bathrooms, is beneath the slick and manly clientele. As She was nude, pacified, sculpted as she looks, an hourglass gal as unseen anymore outside of Valerie Bertinelli on TV land, which is based on Nostalgia.



A rancid writer, a horrid middlebrow named Michel Chibron made a point in the Times that my family reads AND I only peruse, still smarting from their strange love of Scorsese, also following their love of Mussolini, --Italians they think, like sniggers must be corralled--made a point that he despised dreams. Coming from someone who made a career out of loves for Pittsburgh and comics books, well that isn’t shocking. I say this is real, that it is a true story, as true as a dream can be, and who knows what that is. Anyway, I was in this gloomy dale, the She, The Wendy, was flamingly beautiful a baroness of these trees, italic woman par excellance, gleaming within the bare twigs and the mud.



3. She wore red ribbons, elf shoes, was striking as she was princess of the woods, black hair like whips, and too, she had a pair of Wings in the Turan manner, that sort of angelic that low brows, as here the word fits, like Bill Maher who think a visual representation of a spiritual idea must be, like all things, taken at face value, although the internets start grumbling with anger at a president who is using gun control as it always ahs been, a cover for capitulation about to go down. Don’t Blame me--I voted for Newt.



There, before us both was a white wall, a monument, a headstone perhaps, but long and thing and white marble, on which in gold leaf was written Vincenzo I, like a wedding cake monument to a gone Italian king. She stood above me in the trees, heroic and sensual, wearing bells and wings coming from her olive arms. Like I said, I hadn’t seen the only Christmas carol worth watching, the Scott version of Scrooge yet, but perhaps the sadness ingénue seen as a basic ideal of in Christmas time, so missed by so many, had an effect. Then, soundly the walls rated giving away, crumbling, fumbling, as Wendy laughed. I started to slip, as the marble wall snapped into, and although there were no horror movie affectations here, and just a kind of mudslide, somehow that was more impressive, and worse than if voodoo masks and other more Eli Roth affectations started coming out. Nothing came out, it was just mud, and thus worse, a feeling that the wall was going down deeper into the sulfur, and the land was receding with it and I SCURRIED, like a Clinton startling to save my percentile, at getting away, to which a bemused Wendy, showing a strength that her Magnanimous era body could exaltedly by thought to show, pulled me up and out of the crumbling land, up and away towards the yellow gray light of wintertime.

She, heroine like, pulled me over to the infernal like cliffs of the overhangs of the set. I stood there, tired and beaten, as she shone there in perfected prettiness, more like something off a Tuscan wall than a whitefish cunt in wings as is seen in ads for stores that sell extra large teddies to housewives at the mall. I told her I thanked her for her graciousness and she smiled, a doppelganger she was for the beloved Lois, as seen in reruns on Sunday night. Winsome, I believe is the word If I am using it correctly and though she was naked outside of her bells and ribbons, as Michelangelo wood say whose body type she seems to have perfected and readymade from the various models that Italay gave to men to make Italay a preeminent nation in Arts, she smiled with a sweetens and a not so overtly sexual or dirty aspect, nude in an artistic way if anything, though I was surely overwhelmed and had a raging –anyway, I had read in my Google metrics earlier in that that 366 people came to the blog on the week past by entering Wendy Fiore as a search term, and I thought, try doing that with the brunettes even score girls who acutely pull open their cunts on demand. I told her as she stood there that there was a toy soldier, a small trinket, but as bought on the old days gone now, and it was lost ins a storm, like Americas future, and I started to tear up at it, strangely. She smile and from her lovely French manicured fingers, always, red nails are for faggots, she produced a silver twinkling bell like Pegasus, saturnalia real and true, the undercurrent that Jewry Jonnie knows not from enough to hate. I then awoke scared why I don’t know as I stayed asleep through the falling ground in the monument, but felt scared at this lovely woman giving me a silver bauble, go figure. --[I note in editing I mistakenly placed  Would with wood, which is a Freudian typo.]




4. Now this seems to reek with symbolisms, but if what I am not sure. I know that at 4 am or so I got up telling and screeching and gasping, which caused my brother, less concerned now that I have pulled this as often as I have, to say from the other room, Shut up and go to fucking sleep…! I stood in the darkness alone there, wondering what this vivid dream meant. What did I guess at, and now about on December 13th the night of this dream...?, really, can Ed Stutz now make a point in his Soupy Sales like cartoon funhouse to show tweets of over fed woman who cadre to ask now why is O’bama capitulating....why does the sun ride in the east, why does Phaeton leave the Gobi desert in his incompetent wake…?, ...because. I thought of how in the last four years by Saturnalia, I have made good a check I wrote in the past and didn’t cash, Big Bertha 2008, the return of mister stupendous in 2009, Ancient Romance --the catalog of italic gods 2011, Mister Stupendous and In the golden age, only a last capitulation left to catalog, no Kemeter and Tuan in that one, this year. Perhaps this coming year will be the year I devote myself to making Saturnalia, the sad Christmas story that seemed to be replicated in this dream, down to Wendy as Signora Fortuna, with I as befuddled Marius afraid that the death cults of Pittsburgh would engulph me.



Perhaps that was the meaning of the dream, though not sure what it means, other than my father is still an open wound to me, that and that Wendy is built like a brick Proscenium arch.







5. Too, It was being censored by Martin Sorease, now looking for the roman stage all Sicilians like him do, on face book which ignited me as much as anything out of any lazy, downwardly doldrums. He thinks, does Ebert’s Giotto, that one can actually censure the world to make themselves seem to themselves which they wish to seem, as opposed to a true artist like me, who, as Gore taught is not supposed to care. The tongue is red with puss and blood with him, and so, it was my snide rejoinders to him that made him aback, though without the hurt should it have come from a man not like him, why Jews allow blonds to mistreat them so and are always quiet in ways they would never be even with a Wendy, or anyone with their mothers hair color. It is all very Freudian. Does Eddie and the criers have the temerity to actually show twittervesre credos and snippets of ballyhooed thought coming from Rabbi Krygman, --not to tell me you bought this nigger was selling, kids.



Ah, but even Augustus wouldn’t as Marcus the Jewish banker abide go about and make sure that graffittied walls were white washed once having been marked with images of father Gus with his pee pee hanging out, as Augustus, the name is literally from the Tuscan word for Priest, why we still have an inauguration day, it will be a small affair this year, in private, away from the south bound sun, and how!- patron saint of empire and no communist knew, whets the point, I am not eh said, afraid of scribbling, no Kim Jong anything he. And to be fair, Marty couldn’t take it anymore like Obama the triumph the way things are now, lest as Cato said, he forfeit his own self told lie, and my temerity at comparing Scorsese to Nathanial Hawthorne, and his marble fawn after he had sued MANZONI WHOLE aspect to make his dreadful puritan book was more than even that illiterate gangster squander could take.



And mostly what caused me to get on my stick like a witch and fly madly towards the lovely girls in the bathes of the moon was that hump I thought I didn’t hate as much, Copplla, who had said to get his later crap made, to be snarled at by all, that he would if need be, sued a flip phone to make his images seen, a kind of perpetual anarchist student thing more like me than him. Ah, but when I said it, I didn’t have a vineyard at my disposal, and neither did I double booking trips to the Colombian as a money making scheme, and neither did I create the idea of the blockbuster , nor operated I had invented things done by Jerry Lewis since the sixties, with editing on tape, that our Leonardo of San Raphael pretends he invented. Do again, it looks better on me.



6. I had heard that intellectual giant Robert Bork died. I felt sad about this, as it was the destruction of Robert Bork which led us to the where we are today, much like the Roman senate never quite being the same vaunted placed, after Cicero got in and made it a passel of thieves, he selling bad meat to the Centurions as an only creed.



Things were never the same after Cattilina, who has hovered over this diary here as a sentinel, a beloved icon, a word dear Rachel used in daily news black and white 72 pica type to give it the éclat oomph of the police blotter, but I admire Bork, like Cattiline, and like Bullet Bob Hayes, after I started to mention got his just due. One must I guess wait for smarmy little Copasetic Jews to wheeze their last wop jokes about Danny Marino and croke away in a terrible shroud before anyone can get a word in edgewise. I do , thought glad he in ways got to bury Teddy, our bloated Irish pussy loving mic Pig, hope that It is Ted and not Bork, who stews in the hottest paced of hell, as to me, standing for something is no crime, and portending to be a champion of poor and women as you berate and rape your servants, and swim laps while unsearchable seceraies drown, yes, is a egregious fault, See, dears, nothing that Bork could have done to the nation couldn’t be undone by a senate willing to vote, its as Roman as the Spanish steps, and see, its all very ratio-ed and balanced, and frankly it was that senate of yours which could make your sacrum  Abortion, and anything else you wanted legal toady, but alls learned when Pelosi was still learning how to keep two sets of books, that why actually vote for things out loud when you can hide behind Praetorian Black silk…?



7. I felt bad as I admired Robert Bork, as I do Antonin Scalia, as I do Newt Gingrich, as Keith Olbermann, as I do Rachel, as I did Daniel Patrick Moynihan, the ultimate Jesuit priest, Irish drunken division, Donahue, Tom Landry, Jimmie Johnson, all also willing to tell blacks how empires die, sorry, all, as I do Bill Clinton, oh bare feeted Marius, I cant stay mad at you, fats, you are our last Gleason, you run that table like a dancer. As too I admire Father Gore Vidal, even Truman, Mortimer Alder and Patty patty Buchbuch, and most all of Brother McLaughlin students, no where now to be seen.



I felt bad for Bork, because his destruction was a triumph for the middlebrow, giving us the decay we have today, he just a Cato without the Roman spiritu to commit hari karri, to mix metaphors, and I felt sad that this giant somehow was too beneath the men who voted later eerily for a nigger named Clarence Thomas, showing that when dealing with the Men Who Bilked America, no sanctimony in the gutters is too unseemly for they. I felt badly as saw our Chirpping Vanessa, Rachel made motion of Bork's passing, with almost John Dillenger like rat a tat tat, Walter Wincell for some gangster Squad persona, as he committed the worse sin to her, he didn’t agree with her. And had the temerity not to agree with her while not having the imperial veto to do it neither, as Caesar, knew it is amazing what the poor let you get away with if you are holding the stick for them.



Ah, the fascia. Think we are not Fascists at heart’s...? See on the wall at that pre death Mausoleum for Lahee and from where Teddies carcass was carried out’s, now past the purple and yellow draperies mimicking exactly Augustus mantle that was hung up on the wall for the reminder of the Empire that he founded and destroyed, see that ax with the juniper around it on the marble wall, see…that,…anyways, It saddened me that perky giggly Rachel reduced herself to this sort of strange ad corpus attack, as this after all as they say, that the answer to all your prayers, Our Nigger Jimmie is like a thermometer, paid for by Goldman sacks, going up and up in his floor, as his ilk does, as we are now passing 500,000 for the untaxed rich and never think a house nigger is going to be a vendetta holder—to anyone but Mom, dear, even a girl should know that.



8. I think too of the story that made it into a play I wrote years ago called head over heels, and it is a truest story which I again sue easily in my Clay Romans. When Machiavelli died, a rival of his, I think Giucciardini, his equal as a thinker, to the dismay of those who believe such shit, but I made it my fictional Italian mastermind, was a story I have sued before, as no one can as Anthony Bordain said, beat the fucking Italian for anything.



The trashing of Machiavelli’s very name had taken hold, not from women and Englishmen yet, but by the Medici family, as the rich are behind the caterwauling always, why in two days nigger’s and polloks went from pants shit fear that Blamey would abandon them, to quoting Glenn Garry Glen Ross, always be closing, and Shiva’s come down and said, sign the deal. Take the pen…! And when he, Niccolo’s rival was asked why he was inconsolable, he summed to hate Machiavelli, and be his rival, Giucciardini, I think, lashed out at the smiling step men, and like Inherent the wind said, A giant is dead here, you small little fools, you bought and paid for nothings, a giant lived among us, and we, he said, before sir Isaac speaking of Galileo, and History shall stand on his soldiers now forever, as things were changed. Maybe a healthy admiration for the amoral is not a sin not a a crime, when a tap dancing nigger can use blood baths to drapery his inclinations to giving in. Lest play Imperial Plinko! And the Italian lawyer’s requiem for that Italian master, the man who changed the universe forever by saying that even if the sky was filled with angels, what that they even mean to men on marble steps, …nothing really, and that signora Fortuna is raped by no body. She like, an italic girl seen and admired in Ariosto, can ht back. If you don’t believe me, I was not the one, like leather face Rottenburger who threw an interception and came up small again, no matter what lascivious smirking faggots and fat men say as they blame some nigger and never him for losing a game, that had even middle America strangely rooting for the Cowboys. It was Machiavelli, patron saint of priests, who said when the woman in the sky tiers of you, and tiers of your act, like so many people at la scalla, or the Apollo even, they sweep you off the stage with boos.



9. And By Monday, desperate for cleaning, desperate for place and needy of position, our Augustus Mallfoy of the way we live now, always hungry gonnify Harrr--veeeey, pig man Jew spender and bankroller of equally con artists Quinton, and really I hate neither as I do the pervious mentioned con artists, still, but Monday, it was said, quietly that Jingo Unchained was pulled from circus owners Weinstein’s cache. I love when things work out in the end. I expected to help Ma make, of all things , something akin to a sweet ravioli and, and I just know like everything deserts she makes, I do not like it. And the house stinks of a slated Viking cod , too I hate. So, happy Feast of the indomitable Sun, which the Romans celebrated in December, no elss, God Bless them, and a happy saturnalia to all, I take the remained of the end of time off. I say, fuck whatever these middlebrow priests do in the snow and gloom of incessant rains storms, as I saw even dick lickers thought it narcissus like when Balmy made all of Roman government cerebrally seem like all was about him, as what else is there. Ah, Tranquillus comes to mind, and If Saint Joan dares send me social disease bulletins again, hopeful of not a bloodletting of cuts against the untokened blacks, I hope a sock of manure hit’s her in her yap.



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17 December 2012

BONA SATURNALIA.




12 December 2012

As I was in the garage and was preparing to go out and get some stuff for Christmas, a kind of enjoyable jaunt, which would incite the wrath of Jewey Hercules Jesus, who found an anger for Jews preparing to enjoy Passover, a self righteousness I found he didn't share by throwing any fits too close to Fort Antonia, while telling suddenly his followers that the problem, you see, was with themselves and not star Caesar. Ah, the first imperial JEW KISSING CAESAR’S ASS, starting a linage of blue noses praetorians unbroken from him to white washing fleabags today. While here I found an early thumb drive, applied here in a last spasm of going out around 2007, though I think it shall take hold now.

It didn't even look like the thumb  drives now, it had a lipstick colouring, smelled like Dior, because it had come from my sisters Purse,  and she had given it to me to save my work, rather than lose it again every time going to fat girl sites made me have to swipe my computer, or worse. It flipped over itself and would be packed into the old Emachines I had in the port in the front, and so, seeing It, almost strangely circumscribed, or like an art thief, which I like to act at anyway here in so decent and honourable and dissolving America, I flicked the thumb drive into my coolest pocket, less salty and without change to plink into any kettles, with a coin trick slight of hand I was quite good at once, and I went to the mass up that woods, and to the Macy's there, to buy an elderly mother a gift, as whatever Jesus, Savonarola, or the crew of soloists at MSNBC WOULD LIKE IT OR NOT, SATURNALIA COMES OUT OFFA BOX, as apposed to their beloved president who seems to pop out of a bag.


Once home, as the Mall seems rather empty and lethargic, the rich you see as have since Lorenzo are pulling the reigns on the economy lest talk of mandates go to Erkels head and he does something crazy like stand for something. But while there at a fast food place where I bought a breakfast while the Golden arches symbol of America was deserted and pretty wall mart girls stood abound as giant televisions boomed ahead with strange Peter Jackson like garishness, unnoticed, and certainly not bought.  was deserted, I picked up a hand fill of salt packets and shoved them in my pocket. Now, why, not that I don’t have salt at home, or money for salt, but then that is the receding point of all empires isn’t it...?, but was more about getting it in packet form.







Since I was a boy, my father would tell me, --despite my cold dismissal of him, I was the apple of his eye and his beloved, tow which I gave a worse than mere adolescent, Feh,--that before going out, where the evil demons and bankers did dance through fire, as all in Italay keeps a decent whole, a sweet and romantic golden mean unseen and unthinkable to those red skins and women who see the universe as strictly good and decent, no, here there are no repercussions, and no one has read Gibbon, as empires of the largess can last forever, or until You’re foreclosed upon, now that’s a fall. And boring and cleaned is the spheres that Move, as Galileo said, much as are their own toilets, one was to have packed a small packet of salt in their cloths to ward off the evil eye. If this if source-ary would be seen as superstition to any Lutheran, it would be as would be the speed of light and the distance to the moon. I did by accident, as was waiting for a Charlie Rose show, as was  pushed back because of Christmas doo-wop specials on pbs, see again in even feigning a distrust and dislike of Lutherans, that Jewey Jonnie, when daring to even preened himself capable of Jesuit thought, that the audience, gasped and murmured, their whooping howling American injun like, Germanic barbarous bellowing of acceptance was puled back, like the commerce is being now. And, with anger as one would get from the whooping cough mezzanine, who are most provably all Lutheran, and thus remember, their admiration is a curse, and the applause as a warning, as Plautus, someone else he’s never read, would know. Now, that was funny.



I see an Ameria in disarray, sensed even back when this thumb print was made. I could smell the decay and the destruction-ing in the air, as what makes Italian folktales so wonderful, the keystone of all fairy stories, if not literature as known to all from Walt to Willie to JRR. It is that unlike the sanitizers, in  the trees of the woodlands of silver Giotto painted leaves, within the woods and the towers of Italianism fairy tales, it is not so much a horrid collection of Good and Bad, such Jewish delineation is beneath an Italian, when sharp, Clever as they’d call me at Copollas vineyard, a real to them slur, but alas, we don’t all wish to be admired by Lutherans, as does he, and so when I say something it isn’t usually so I can gain an acumen of likeminded, liking, admiring white women, like you Jews and blacks can think of nothing else.

It was a fulcrum around which my life started to spin to a energy making degree, being dismissed by the man who made the Sicilians, of all people, Romantic, a wholly disagreeable legacy if you ask me. I changed and became different after then, the equal opposite of what he and his ilk likes Scorese are hoping for, as they are given peanuts and a bunkhouse, that affection to which the niggers haven’t yet escaped not really, like political owned coons, until and unless they make sure, like niggers who’d dare speak of civilisation as acting white, that Italians are made demeaned by men of olive skin, puppets of the white mistresses they collect. But alas, as had happened scene the days of Diocletian, eventually the usurper finds out who was in control all along, as they always end up, like so many Marcus’s, so many Ohio state discharged coons, for the crime of gathering Pennines for things they own, as opposed to the socialists and communists of academe, who are making millions from ESPN without so much as a coin dropped in some niggers direction. Stereotypes are usually, I was warned, left on imperial roads sides without the dignity of a cross, just meandering around looking for anyone top remember like Maurice Clarette WHEN they were great. I look out for the Wendy’s, and the Lorna’s and Chloe’s and the Tawnies and the old time pets and the Danielle’s and the Rachel’s, not every fat white woman who drinks Port with her pig meat thinking herself a sophisticate. There is a madness out there taking hold, which begets a nation of the con as this, and don’t look so glum Ezra, what after all where you expecting but the art of the deal.





But Niggeralia, a word I censored not embayed of any love of the house pets of white women, sanctified and sanitised black trash, but the connection to Romans irked me to use, came to arching halt too, besides Rice, and fuming Valerie. Ur, it seems again, Erkel shall do his master voice bidding, and place another Republican white male as war Caesar, I guess out if tradition. And high pitched Jew trouble makers on the radio ouch about this, as that Hegel isn’t republican enough. Well who is for the administration …? Arrogance has its discontents. War and Fiancé, after the Roman Fisca, was signed over to the republicans years ago, soon enough someone on the payroll will call this brilliant, and some idiot woman will concur, but best laid plans…Though Bless him, in the golden silence, or showers that GE has paid for, as long faced women keep their mouths shut on demand, our buddy Dan Rather, said with usual Big D adroitness--, talk is cheap. Ah the credo of the Obomo age. My credo is,-- HOW BOUT THEM COWBOYS….!

[I do not mention those things that I do not wish to mention. I got this from Manzoni, the master Italian writer, who is unknown as thus will never be so honoured by having two bit white trash pompous and preening filmmakers and their trained starlets explaining his work is some latest Christmas movie with an eye for Oscars, also it means thankfully, he is mute to those low rent Cantors and Ebbs who wish to take his master work and make it a musical, and place in just enough toe tapping melody to the conversion scene as to make it acceptable to pig men like Frank Rich, slumming as a theatre arbiter again, when he isn’t doing his Clausewitz impression explaining it all to us, as if a rabbi or Mother angelica. America has reaped the whirl wind, as all is connected, as the politicos and step men of cable wish to preen a sense of austerity, virtue and dignitas, but are alas more hatchet men than they are centurions on any watch.

As Pig meat Sharpton, says that which he is allowed to say, for a sad second heard him trifling to connect a tragedy to teachers unions, always good to have a load mouthed nigger on the pad when its your children they are warehousing in gladiatorial schools, as if someone should be getting merit pay out of this. And to show we are doomed, monsignor Oreily, like a bell ringing priest is looking for bonfires, announced on his toxic spill of a show what and who is evil, by the transfusing he got in divinity school, or at least west 57th. He thinks he is a republican, as he demands punishment for all, our umbrella wielding Penguin, actually, as Manzoni reading would show, he is merely a Sadist. So, I wear the salt, I didn’t vote for anyone, I avoid the fall, I WANT no part of this morality play, as Bill Clinton scurries to be above it all and pox both houses, sorry fat man, you got away Scot free once, do not  tempt fate, that was your biggest mistake.]

As again, I, Roman Antony was right, having recalled that last great Christmas of 1974 as the year the Jesuits started making me read Cornelius Tacitus, and it didn’t take until Saturnalia istlf for two faced Joint Erkie to show you what I have known all along. It is the Roman aphorism, never let a wolf into a church. The New Numa is a fraud, and a cunt, surrounded by frauds and cunts and I know, Roman me, that cant be good. It didn’t take until Sergilla yo see, that Susan be thrown aside, a black woman no less, say hello to Jesse Jackson junior in the drink, doll. Why who is more arrogant than those who have sold their soul, ah but is that cello music I hare playing…and am be sure the pawn ticket is kept here you can get it, kids…Romans hated Homer and hated the Greeks, as  a Trojan horse, like the bluff is beneath them. The horse appears as we know it not so much in Homer, but in Virgil , who shows the detesting of the first Roman , Aeneas for the art of the swindle, again beneath a Roman, and thus though was lauded by mother fucking Greeks, when writing about boys and bumblebees, ribbon-ed as a good Roman among the lot, eventually if one is worthy of  anything, they cant be Erkle or Ray Romano or the jug headed football wop Jew who made a point of trashing Connie Francis, as not white enough for his tastes as no less a grunt as Tony Bruno looks on in radio horrors knowing Connie Francis was another Italian girl raped for sport in the golden door. Did the wop know that,…?,  does it matter…? But Virgil eventually writing a book he didnt want to write, Poetry in the thought process of Augustus’s as an imperial trinket, no different the Greeks, or Jews, and yet he couldn’t pull it off as inhumanly as do they, a book he didn’t want to write, not everyone is Ezra or smirking boys, who will be boys of the hissing Chorus at Texaco star theatre. He had to say, I have had enough of smiling alter boy queers tell me how brilliant Ulysses was, as even the gay poet was roman enough to think, fight like a man, not a eastern middle sea Semite. Stand or Fall, its what Erkle and his ilk fear, more than anything.

And sadly, as always happens, as Lucian said, the empire gets to the point where it places the cutlass in its own guts. the disasters, like endings to hobbit movies come in waves. In the never ended American  old west even Christmas shopping has become a blood sport, so much for you noble and self loving niggers and white masters, its hard to keep up. But, for the third time since a woman at Four Swell Guys, Tarantino Inc., called my work 'unmitigated trash', a bit too Ebert for my tastes, but, still, it seems our lantern jawed hero finds another movie like Roman Mythology on his slate, without a Brutus around. A Jewish producer told me no less that a Killer can be a hit man, and Italian, but he cant be a stoic, a banker, liberate and certainly not all that stuff you have in there about falling in Love. He, as more attuned to his enemy audience than I was, said, it will bother too many people should I make this movie and show a mafia as vulgar as they are and a banker as a killer. But, he told me, he enjoyed it more than anything else he had to slog through that year, just before the fall. Did I ever tell my Vincent Pastore story, --? So, A Christmas  movie about another lovable killer, how unlucky is that...? And the girl mentioned  in the last essay was named Jennifer De Guzman, not Guttmann, a name I have used often as a pseudonym on poetry reportage and cashiers checks. It’s the least I think she’s owed.





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05 December 2012

CREATION.




1 December 2012


MISTER STUPENDOUS LIVES. PART FIVE.


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.



















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