08 January 2013


I wasn't going to post again all month of January and keep it well and sacred to Roman God Janus, but I saw that I was censored on the facebook again. Look, guys, I'm not taking any ethics lessons from you and your junior college my space page, certainly not with it seeming more and more like...  what's the word, oh yes, Fiscal Fraud. As recently departed great actor Jack Klugman would say, remember its Bail before Jail so you better not Fail. I saw that the Friday before new years I was told I was banished for five days, then seven, and now,  after epiphany, still have six days of censorship left...ah, lets call it the Haigel bounce. But it isn't my fault that your messiah for whom you made voice over spots about the charms of victory is now packing one white man after the next in his Pretoria, all talk of my girl Sandie Flukie is gone, and his praetorship is looking like a bund rally. I didn't sell my soul or cunt to this creep, and you deserve having to look up and  see a Republican, does he give war or fiance over to any one else...?,  war Caesar who went on anti queer witches trials and best manned someone not in the golden age, but the turn of the Millennium--my gracious what Mark Madden like disappointed Krugman passed on the job bitch...?

So, a lovely sonnet of mine to hidden italic History, or herstory  if the overfed Eddie Schlitz groupies would like, which somehow made the white women defend the Romans I thought that they hated, as I say my heart is there with Newt, Gore, and now a Ray Ray less world, it is different than it was when I was in that temple of Janus before all of you, and I must pause till it come back to me.See, someone tell AFL- CIO pollock blathering queen Eddie, next time you call someone  a racist, prodded by the fax machine which is your confidence, try to at least between grinders, get the phonetics of the never seen back bencher who thinks the world is open to her now, and from whose bleeding hearts we hear nothing of dismay at the mob wives who always seem to followed my censoring, doing their delightful mixture of Verdi meets Mamet that never bothers  no body but my ma... Happy fest of Janus...


It is not in the wayward threaded, chipped, worn, and scratched up manuscript I have before me, sewn pages in successive waves of fairy storeys by the grand and verbose Victor Curricula, still, here in this cascade of bedtime stories I place here another sort of fairy tale recalled from my own life.

1. When Gaius Canniolinus!  --as it must be said, with full Gusto and a exclamation point at its end, as if  Senator Cortello, the enemy of the revolutionaries, as he dammed them all, -us all, as we were boys then too,  in the dreaded oligarchic senate was screeching his starry-eyed name, --, finally fell to the converts of the Tuscan state, the people -- remember them...?,-- were crestfallen and shuddered at what was next.

If they, the lowered, no longer vaunted Senate, assemblage of princes, as we called it, now a merest stable of jackasses, could destroy the great linguistics teacher of the Apennines, we thought, they could, or would, destroy anyone they so pleased,  and the Republic, a Tuscan innovation a thousand years older than old man Brutus, I'll have you know, was over. The Res Publican and other words the Romans had to appropriate from their hated sissy Tuscan's, so unlike them in their war bonnet best, was fished out of the ocean of time, and taken like a carp to be gutted on that day in --what was it, I am so bad with dates and names-- and without a pastel of imperial secretaries, I find myself doing the clerk grunt work, even women in Tuscany are allowed to do, but alas, have merger money now.

Hell, I laugh with Imperialus, the street doge, a decent and an honourable man, I kid him, and joke, as he is as honourable as any sneakier senator, I say, and am not kidding, as our crime was a much more sanitised sort, without the decency of vetoing too close to these we shook down. I say, I  cant even buy a cute prostitute, much less a literate maiden, which we call a secretariat.


A gaggle of senators all in one palace are less to be called like swans, Turan's favourite and some instances say her come to life, bird, as an exclamation, as more it is like as what is called a flock of crows, as a murder of magpies. Too many senators in one place is no phalanx or Tuscan legion, another word apportioned by the Romans, as much as it is a grouping of bums, a clan, a gang of thieves, with no alliance to each other or to anything as much as to the bribes they dream if as if mother milk,-- though I was told as a young man by the delightful Veronica, call girl emeritus who serviced the senate with her own gaggle of lovely broods of delightful girls, that senatorial, shall we say, peccadillo's were worst than most, old men holding golden showers behind that golden door.

But like all things, looking back, even the perverts of an earlier time were better than the ones who recalled us, as after a while, the perverts become strangely inauspicious, a crew of literal narcissi, while the Republic, like Ecco, cries  saliently in the background, whispering Coaemus, over and over, knew that the parrots of power can only repartee how wonderful in woile they actually are. You see, we knew the Republic was over when a fat little man, hated by all, --no he wasn't Jewish, or a Zoroasterian, --what permeation did Janicus Fata put on...what was he again?...ah yes, a devotee of Isis, that catch all for all homosexuals and white chicks, which meant nothing, as he prayed openly and devotedly, thinking wrongly that ghettoizing and all Africans have no ethics, and that in fact, the church of Isis, an ancient and noble one,was, in his fat little hands, merely a goddess of the whore house. It was his placement in Aquila's rubber stamp senate which caused us all to know things were over, as they were for him later, one Imperial day, when a partisan of Quota's, a lover supposedly of his,  beat him, the senator monk, to a pulp, and stole a good bot of Aquila's hided gold, who he stupidly trusted him to horde for the principia, not realising that his being a pimp was both perfect training and the perfect end to his life as a meaningless senator. [edit: this was written in the first days of ore, back when Keith as still on the air. I am the auger.]

Like the sonnets writ to the fair black haired dame Ophelia, the woman who, as every culture has this story, was a woman pretending to be a man as a war hero, in the mythical legend called the Lex Oppia, as she was, it is said, kilt by men who funnily are never there when the auricle sounds,-- the Romans are a boys greenhouse of flaggy intentions. This crew of over heated war machine sorts, almost always meanest faggots must be the ones, not the Ophelia, who are taken and killed off, they are heinous and soulless, as funny these men who found themselves horrified by a woman as soldier boy never were willing to wear the boots of imperium their own selves always hopeful of leaving the battlefield and studying the arts of wars as if a geometric scheme, not one that gets anything but ink and carbon of an assassin minded accountant upon their silver shoes, and never ever blood, gods know as much. They are to be killed off as their never hear the truimpetta  when it sadly announces war in the night, and are the most unromantic to sue the term as best as   I can, word. We call them cottonmouths, as they spew their invective well, on street corners and on beer garden  rallies, but never do they find the trucks that bring stupider less beloved by fate men to fronts to die in snows and sleet and freezing imperial reigns.

They are Spartan, these Trojans, through and through, they preen, wanting the Sabine girls as much for their bloodlines, as if an emir, an Arab potentate as they now breed horses to be racing machines, as much as even the Greek queers admitted they were a comely lot of italic brunettes. Although they fear being recalled as Turks, these Romans, and who wouldst blame them for that…?, and as Ophelia was made a tragic heroine, of the sorts they hate, as they collect one Tarpea after the next, still such is how they shall treat all Italic women eventually--they think.

It is this story, like so many they haven't burned out of existence, to be fair, no Greek are they, born again Jews neither who see a need to burn everything, but that which as written by a homo countryman, who God must have spoke to,as  God doesn't speak to Italians or Vikings, Africans or even Macedonians, thus they call out works Saturnine, OR, literally from Saturn, but what bible could really survive a good accounting...?NONE. This story of Ophelia, whose plays is among the italics who are starting to realise the hegemonic demands of Rome, as she plays big and well, the kind of mythical she woman who Portia could play well, I must bring this up to the Rabbi who owns the theatre of Vesta downtown, as he is always looking for more product to push, as frankly, he, honest within reason will always pay a innovative boy --or perhaps yours truley, a good hundred Seteraces, a nice bag of silver, for a quickly and knock off play, without having to have them always legally minded Greeks come but for their latest scientific discovery, the residual. That at and for which the Greeks constantly clamor. As, but beside being a Jew, he is an Italian, and we are the kings of the theatricality, and no one is our equal. I must bring this up, and to turn the screw well, will use the name for Ophelia that the barracks boys Romers dispise, no, not Ophelia, but in some circles she is called another name, Mother Roma.

Her name is seen by some as Roma, as she was a war goddess princess, a trope more italic than even Amazons, as no one can see an Amazon ever falling in love with a man, as does Roma, and how Romulus, he brother-lover or whatever he was, has her kill'd, the title of the play the literal words for the law made that never shall woman trod the sacred bloody spindly crumbling mud hut called the Roman senate, of closure a good Puritan like Camilus bringing in hordes of almost prepubescent cutlery into his office when there, as after all what is tradition but pretence after all?

But, alas Rome is a inland atoll of war loving Spartans, but caught within real Spartans, who as I say had found Thaliana eons back, and will lose everything for a woman in ways that no faggot Greek, or worse yet Trojan with a father holding grudge can ever understand. And, soon enough, as is seen in the dancing girls replete with fan dances and sparkling bathing suits seen as sport and devotion already within the meters of the puritans Rome, as always what happens, a certain decay sets in and to be fair, Like one of Italia's gay personaggio's  playwrights, who she den mothers so, I say not unlike them, perhaps what you call decline and fall, is perchance merest civilisations. This as opposed to the virtue inherent in catching Sabine women with centurions sent out on reconnaissance for thighs, as if handmaidens your first enemy’s and the almost Jewish like deviation to a mad sky god of almost Odin like vehemence, which as at latest census proven that there are now more Israelites in Sun Chapels in Naples, than in any city of Judea. That is utterly amazing, but a similar thing to what is now called humouredly cisalpine Gaul, as Italay is the new world now to all those who wish to be patriots from the Ionian as the indigenous Italics so wise acidly say.

There is a  cult to mother Roma, to this December day itself,  alay in the muddy viaducts called Rome after her more than anything, as it is said she has become the Madonna that is the only godly fixture any Italian can true be devoted to, every masculine God coming in from Aegean ports of call seen as extremely wanting to the boys who adore Hercules. I am told Mother Roma, Ophelia is still devoted to an's much as any woman, as much as any God, and in fact, as Romulus, the ad lover of Ophelia who placed her on a prier its is said to ave himself, that instead of traipsing to the sky haven, as they call march 15 assenting day, and start the senate on that'd day, in devotion to Romulus, that in fact, it was Ophelia's lover Marcus, who hunted down the grass crowned king of the woods called Rome, and beat him to death with his own iron scepter, as Marcus was head of the garrison. Then, a gaggle, if I might, of senators come not to un-treasonous aid, showing that cowards yearn for power, but scattered like those crows, leaving king Romulus alone with the burning lover of the woman who made the romans who perpetually screech for war,  feel bad about their already growing love of games and street ways, and with each blow given to the self named king, he shouted the name Roma, over and over as if being butchered  like a holday goat by this massively chested uber-man of early Roman godhood wasn't insult enough.
 'THIS REPUBLIC IS DOOMED."--Cornelius Tacitus. 

To this day, the name Ophelia there is oft not sued, or even spoke, the secret name of Rome itself, or was it that his name wasn't even Romulus at all, ...? who will know, and that in fact, the roman word for Love itself, is Amore, the name of the loved woman of the captain of the guard spelt backways, it is  all very lovely in a  rustic way, showing the Roman are not the tight asssed the Greeks think that they are, and neither shall they be the Greeks policemen and allow them to be a guard to kill off the southern rivals to Greek power only to back ways into mud walls then,... no the Greeks, the Romans know in Trojan anger worthy of a Mari, that they shall be next, and after all with a utilizing anger no Sabine can match, they shall be beaten best.

I am told to now even, the statuary which Romulus fell against, one of the few the art works, no, not dismissing, but suspicious of bitch romans, was that ironically of Camilla, the Calabrian Amazon, countrywoman of Romulis, to whom the always slippery Camillius  does take proverbial a fake bloodline. Funny thing about those who preen that they are new men, that they are as messiahs to those who are forwent and forlorn, slaves like Calabrian Romulus, who came to middle Italay for a kingly conceit, is that in fact, they are the first to preen a patrician hood, like Romulus claiming heritage to Mars, then a mere shadow of Larson amid the weed eaters of Umbria, and as Cammilius the war criminal, as even the Greeks who rah rah the Romans onward and upwards, thinks himself of the race of the Amazons and of Camilla.

But, it was this ancient Tuscan stairway figira of earnest tom boy extraordinary Camilla an elegist stolen stature who was placed there in the rotunda where the Senators fell upon Romulus, as they had , some taken up with Marcus, the guard,--who shall guard the guards, as is already a credo, ...?, why no one of coirse, knowing it was best to move with history, keeping one step ahead of the circus elephants as all good politicos do. And as Romulus felled against her, a perfect pitched revenge I take it for un-named she, the she  who can not be named  Roma, his sister and or wife and or lover and or mistresses and or gender blending senator war hero, whatever, the truth of maris madness was so gleaming, so much did he love this fabled girl who wore men clothes and breastplate and Spartan cape,  as the anointed farce so demands, that the Rutllian cutlass sued by the guard as nothing was heralded as Roman just yet, and so great was Marcus sheathed as in always the gay tinged noble savagery of erectly Rome, he wore the uniform of the skin, menacing, he was a massive creature who wore no clothing but blood bandilerros and burlap pants, he actually did cut the stone of the statue of Camilla  part with every blow. This must have caused the senators, an effeminate lot even then, to scatter, those who didn't take the opportunity to cheat their licks in against the southern hick with delusions of mastery and king shit, until Marcus left nothing but as bloody sacrificial to the ways of power. And, he left a statuary, the first Tuscan ruin, and there will be more I take it, a headless leg less Camilla, a statue cut almost into as many aces as the king of Rome was, until that nut tired of regicide, or as close as Romulus would fit the theory, Marcus relented. Then he, a sweaty and it is said stoic hero, throws his massive bald blade down at the gurgling half dead decomposed man, and wipes his sweat from his massive brow, Rumula come back to life it was said, and with one flick, gave the kill shot blow, a coins throw of the sword into the middle of Romulus, without looking. And the statue falling a top him, shattering into a left torso and a mille picas of white Tuscan marble,  as a perfect first tomb to that first king. Soon enough maids, early vestals, like we have, who keep the dust and the thieves away from treasures,  came in to clean up the bloody mess, and set fire to Romulus, this not a Viking appropriation, as even Sabena do set fire to lost heroes, but was done as by now it as believed that Romulus was a bag of disease, having caught every venereal desiese named for the Greek goat lover, and named  for Venus, showing the devotion of Romans in a  nutshell, as he was considered too filthy to bury and allow to contaminate the land of Rome,where after thence no one was allowed to be buried either. It was soon enough said that Romulus went up into heaven--only the first--the moon, and not into the rung of honor, a Tuscan variation much like Valhalla, only the moon was he allowed to go, but as still corporal, as the first man to do so, ensue why he could only be accepted into the Earth like moon, I guess, where he was they say reunited  with his love Roma-Ophelia, who famously rebuffs him, she gleaming in her war damsel best, having been brought to heaven by a flock of golden eagles which caused  the soldiers who adorate her, to carry her image on silver chains or as a pained card in centurion folds, as she aappears as justice now before the Roman courthouse itself. She waits instead her lover Marcus, who is  reunited with him, to Romulus upset. I think this a sweet ending to the play writ by a man named Ennius, though the ending, as always happens has been changed to alleviate Roman audiences of the fact that their king was cut part like a slaughtered pig. It by now, and forever, wouldn't be the last time.

The bits of statute left of Camilla were placed atop the then still dome less roman senate, as a figure of victoria, as she having survived as it ere the first great Roman assassination seemed to them to be a worthy image, as Tuscan as the Mars at the field of mars, no less, to put atop there, with none other statues unlike we how make walls of stairways, with statues on each step, so they seem to understand understatement better than we. I learned this story from soldier boy Marcus, who told me a blood linage back to this early Tuscan swamp man as member of his tribe, as frankly and the Romans do not get this, the family in Italy is the race, and all other affectation are meaningless, our said to be doomed nature by Greeks, but I think the italic spirant and their salvation. I place this here not only because I have a insurgent love of the aside and the unraveling clause upon dusting making by the motion and the speed clause. As such is  the only way the truth can be found, as Canniolinus told us as boys, the epigram is fake, the credo is a lie, only in the blue streak of words can a truth maybe geminated and found, but too because of a love I now have for the dial of revenge. It is like no other devotion an Italian can have. It is  after all everything as it as to Gaius Sergius Canniolinus...it was and is everything one can hope for in this smarmy, bloody, muddy land of puke and make believe.