15 February 2013


I have tired of anything political, as the last straw might have been Rachel descrying anyone saying something about a palatial appointee whom she herself had been hectoring with her lesbian  charm before the quickly sent fax. At night will watch movies cartoons, anything BUT THIS POLITICAL HORSE SHIT, as I think a man who gains power and then appoints fag hater Jew hater, men who hide 56 large in Caribbean bank accounts, boy you are a democrat!, and sends out pictures so he can show us his big gun is going to fall of its own incompetent weight. That picture of saint Julian anteing the birds sure came out quicker than any constitutionally mandated birth certificate no...? Its been hard times lately at GE theatre what with them having to avoid the word Drones, as that is what happens when the socialists are owned by the war consortiums, that Cato and general Eisenhower warned the peons about, and now, like Cicero have to avoid talk of a mad man fat Albert who was crazy enough to catch Boston Charlie and think it made sense. And then I heard fatso Eddie kiss me goodnight Schlitz speak of Benghazi as a farce, showing again you like your beloved nigger don’t know  a Latin word you wont demean just by its sue as Tacitus said of Germans who dared speak his beloved Latin tongue, it unnerved him so. This as written around my birthday August 2 2010 and I think got a like from Keith Olbermann, no less, as I believe was one of my posts which girt him to affably start saying good night good luck and good news tomorrow like dufus Pittsburgh drunkard newsman Bill Burns. Try getting something that affable and delightful from Ed there is a fistfight in the Bronx Shutl--szzzie.

We are surrounded by the true believers, as Machiavelli demeaned them, meaning their devotion is for sale, and no matter what they spoke of vile and hateful last year, from drone strikes to camen island tax shelters, to fag haters to guns, all is quieted when they do it, a recipe for disaster then and now, as eventually the people to whom you bellow will ask, and they shall ask, what excatly is your point. And then all they are left with is a canceled check. I said we had reached the Augustan history portion of our program and again was too Romantic for the room, but then I know what seventies faggots Jesuit thought of housewives, an anathema to the double stuff Oreo eating women of Valkyrie now. Life is a Tarantino movie, old chum, sadly enough. I know when I go big, roman big, Boston Charley wont be my Marc Antony, I wont be needing any house niggers of TV land to back track, calling someone who killed Asian girls and terrorized maids a superhero. Maybe Batman. I would kill them first, and packed Rachel dear in a cage, where she shall dance fer her 'daddy'. NPR wont Spartacus me, always a bad sign when we are all anything, as i would blow them up and show them not only the dark sides of valentine day, and they mean dark, MELISSA, and they'd be on lock down, as their befuddled pussy queen now at Forty three percent again, with Christie amazed at the lack of good graces, is mugging with a gun for the camera, sho nuff!



6. So with this Romantic thought of war, and the scar on his face which set him off as a man who had been upon the ramparts himself and not some fraud as we saw all the other merry teachers of war and poeticas, in Canniolinus we found that sort of adult we had yearend for, someone who it seemed had not completely become a ward to the state in all things. He was sombre, yet affable, a hung head, but was not cruel not oppressive as were some. He adored the theatre and the poetics of the saturnine past, but he was not overt about it not effeminately urbane. He did not have always to top each joke heard as do some, and was witty with an aside that could be cutting to them occasionally, who felt wit as something never to be used to at them. I recall when I was allowed entrance into his cadre of boys and some girls who were tom boyish and or started to reveal themselves as lovely, as I SAW THE first girl who enraptured me, the first girl who stole my heart as no one would, least of all until the later noticed and targeted beatitude giver herself, Lydia Versalinga. There in the rows of boys and some barefooted girls all sent here by his mentor and his friend Tyberion the prince, was the lovely teenaged gal who all the local boys adored, a divine creature named Veronica.

She was a daughter of the weeds, as we cackled, she a lovely farm girl like in the by now ancient italic road company plays and jokes, and she was novae here and was she something like we boys had never seen before!--Even in those recalled sepia soaked days of your remembered and placed down now for the posterity  that a Tuscan can gain in this muddy earth, the women of Tuscany had become bloated horrid sorts, made a point of their reading of Greek texts, so afraid they were that even their allies, girl armed imps who spoke of noble savages and libertine policy as fetishes as political science, even then, men of means scoured Italay, and Naples for lovely women, leaving the Tuscan hags to their chamber pot levis of warmed over poetry readings and wheight gain.

She was a young woman brought into the Tuscan royal house by Tyberion, Reggie, who had the prerequisite gumption to make old man Fausto, Tarchon the Newest, royal survior of the fall of Mauro, cast aside his own worthless boys to make this pushy hillbilly the prince of Laurentium and thus of all Tuscany, whatever that was. He had seen this vision among the cardinals and the ravens of the bright Italianate roads towards Campania, as I might have said as am in the blue streak of memory as I try to gain and trap each ,memory as if a trap for swifts before they are seen and flit away perhaps never to be seen again, as I make my aviary of recollection, called here a memoir. She was a farm gal, and taller than many, by already emerging as a woman might, and she had caught the streetwise prince’s eye as perhaps more than just a simple concubine, at which he lured had made a harem, as would a Persian duke.

No, we were advised, that Veronica, wither his name for her or her own, who knew, was to be his hand picked candidate for the highest up a woman could go, the mother superior at the church of Janus, where pope Macrus sits now, if not even more than that as his latest queen, when he finally did take over as the king of all Tuscany, not that he was champing at the bait for this, as who needed the headaches, one of the things that made the then king distasteful of his worthless sons, one of whom he had beheaded to makes sure the others got the point, some who now live in poverty as having dispirited the old man king with their lack of scruples, even the very scant one needed when a politician. Tyberion, delightfully corrupt to this day believes in the italic ideal shown even in Rome under Numa, of the constitutional monarchy, as it as best an institution he thinks as man has ever come up with. Expecting perhaps a Romans senator, as he is now, housing his own lack of morals he was first to jump on the Roman barge, buying up whole cascades of Roman plots, and is a senator now, which is as wonderful a worthless job as he can conceive of.

She had come to us fully formed, as though surrounded by the air from a Turan of the Ionian sea, or Venus if you must by now, egad!-still she was quite the imagery to us boys, whom she hovered over in themed adulthood, the perhaps beast flower there of, fifteen or so, as all the rest afterward being decay. I recall as a moppy head little boy, stocky and red skinned as a Tuscan, how I saw her when she first appeared and I thought I had been bowled over by that thing that even the thief Sicilian, who are as all Italians are devotees of Love, call the Tempest, or the thunderclap. Too soon, when the first blush of love is recoiled by the venial and the vulgar and the stayed and the corrupt by brothel men and kitchen women, and love becomes les a quick slice of Epp’s arrow, the strange disfigured son of Turan and her helpmate cherub boy, and more like a wolf in the snow looking for carrion in the wintertime’s, as all becomes pray and preyed upon. Sad. But then I was as a boy knight, being taught the ethics of the noble men of old, so strangely now admired even by the racialism of the street corner who finds themselves surrounded by middlebrow filth, even the lesbian warrior queens of academia grind their canine teeth to themselves, secretly perhaps more than not crying out to Juno for a man to appear on the soldieries bridges.

As, When I first got here, a flood of repentances came to me of her, Veronica, when I saw her newly minted type Portia, the princess of the portico, as she did look the part, as the Rabbi puppet show owner would say of her, and yet now I was old and no matter how beauteous the woman none shall affect me as did that first sight of her when I was  a boy. At a play I was invited to by the still a bit arms length Italia, although Al and I had become fast friends as we had as a senator and a thief criminality in common, Portia played a lovely Neapolitan girl in a love story about the full blood mad flower of teenaged love, a central image to all Italian plays, and it was constantly poo pooed and divisively spoken of by some hag from Turan‘s city Veii, aren’t they all by now; loudly through the play to the point, I, still fresh from the bin, and the flood of accusing I felt at my feet with Inspector Picot’s dogs who I heard in each street and alley I ran down, tired and sadly I got up and socked her in her fat jaw, to a gale of applause. In this part of Italae there is no insult to a Greek.

Such a thing was madness on my part, as the over feathered blue caped cops of the city of Regium could have taken me in, and then what…?, admit I was senator from a busted gulag who came here to what….?, rearm and be the separatist I was balked as being by mad Aquila…? Sheeesh! What was I thinking! Ah but every Italian worth his salt is a master of the literatures of Saturn and so, this boxing of this mother sow’s ear was seen by a laughing cop as no harm done as she seethed away to Imperialus laughter. I felt a need to make a stand for poor Italy, and the lovely actress playing a girl named with no reapportion to the previous tale, Ophelia, and this cow seen a known abortionist of Tuscan girls not far from my ancestral home, in Italay, you take your chances when you deal in blood as a business, that a credo if not a moral no fallen empire has ever seen fit to know.

This sort of woman was the sort who thinks all glory is found in the middle ages, is one who as a teen and a young woman was wall flower or a swine, and must make up for it now. I thought for sure Italia would throw me out, but this seemed to make her less suspicious of me, as she insinuated that such a story is in every personas life, if at all lucky, before Love is decayed into mere contract law, codicil and land deed, as all great things are by men with the souls of clerks and bureaucrats. I can say having been on the aside of the scales where one knows the thumb is spaced as we say of the senate, meaning, we are the ones who capped our thumbs on the pallets of bronze, which Turan does hold as justice, I can say this without fear of contradiction: Avoid the smiling men of the power boys, avoid the pompous and the mean, the self assure and the snide, they are useless and workmen, fed as they are like imperial dogs, their throats clench with the pulling of a strap, they taste for meat, but will take bread if that’s all that is freely offered by the princes, as they life in fear of work, and of black hands in the night.

They are crooners of disaster, smiling beady eyed men of placed and rank, self appointed priests of the city council church, they are heinous and they are a subclass, and avoid them, dear reader with all you are worth, as they like collected birds at a villa feeder scatter when the princes do stomp their feet, or are to feed the hawk holding duke shall use the small swifts to feed his more precious birds of war, as it amazed me how many senators and gallanthomos found it necessary to have a hooded, and thus crushed and made vicious stringed Aquila as a pet to chase away the mice and poor who clotted in filthy shadows on their lots.

Be ware I say sons of Hesperia to this crowd of laughing boys! There is no one they shant destroy when egged on, and not that much, even thyselfs as so devoted they are to power they will even take the plunge into Marcus fire pit of inferno, as some will if they can conceive of themselves art being the Roman Curtis, which is a merest retelling and sanitation with boiling roman water, of their apparatchik myths. Be sure to avoid the living punch and judies, a Umbrian affectation of a child puppet show, strung as they are to the principate as they always are, beware the guests of the praetorian, the two faced prestos of a lower Janus, whose homilies come from less the empyrean and from the recorded mean memory like gutter political mirages, where gossip rules. Beware the boys of empire, dear children, IM A OLD AND BEATEN AND USELESS AND WORTHLESS FOOL, AS I CALL FORTH A CHILDHOOD DIVA, I have nothing lest to bleed ort forget or give out or hide. Now I might be caught and killed by imperial policemen, who am I to now weep for the police state we made Tascna into to avoid the coming Roman wave of red blood stained water…? Who am I toga less now, the toga is seen as prissy symbol of affectation and want and need and hate and power here and so it is unsorted,  cry now for my polluter self…?

I am a Tuscan in the cobblestones of delightful Regium, a city ancient before the first Greek grafter came here trying to spread civilisation in the strange wayward Ulysses patriotism of the émigré. So, in the bright sunwards I see the past, and now in perfect relief as the Romans say. I SAW A herald, one of the sorts I hated even way back when as a senator, the kind we used and abused and who took it well as if political bottoms, a fat ballot stuffing man speaking of ‘farce’ concerning a war ethic and a campaign that the previously mentioned Jewish alderman was rah rah for as they live in fear of Italy falling into the ashes of their truest enemy, no not the Arabs, but the Persians who displease the Jews as all Aryans must for reasons I am, as an Italian, unsure. He called this a farce, showing his lack of erudition, his lack of book learning and his truest veniality and heart of deepest darkens. Any Italian and even any Roman knows, a farce is a light hearted play, and no oen dies in it as much as slapstick can demand, comedy is anathema to death unless as black comedy, and then it is surely not a farce. Learn your letters fat man, learn your arts, black as they are, chubby. Or else do us all a favour and shut up, as I fear you do not know you must, and will when the prince lings you think arte your protectors demand it as such. Italia pops her head in and asks if I would alike a brunch of toasted bread and Jam, a southern Italian affectation of persevered food, berries made into a spread and held in clay pots like pickled fish. I have never seen this before, in always unaware OF RAINY DAYS and thus garbage spewing Tuscany, and have taken a taste to it. Sure, I say and will leave the pages for now.



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