08 April 2013


Even though we have passed both dark ages and even Roman new years, I think I shall make this year, the year of the libretto. I have been told I have an operatic quality to my works, which again strange for a virulent anti Semite like me, is only a complement when coming from Jews, who as I have said have been kinder to me than any Italian lately, or white trash dog faced women, or the catholic league, who I take it who has tried to scour my and others work from the always needy and cash strapped face book, I do not care. Of course, having done Mister Stupendous in whole, maybe as many of four hundred pages when all was said and done, and In this Golden age, which a again Jewish gal called the closest thing to Juvenal she had seen since college, as she admitted me to John Stewart is too much the guy who asks you out to the prom two days before hand to be a real Roman satirist, and one cant imagine him having a dick much less using it in his writing, and again this coming from a Jewish girl who probably has a real resentment and suspicion of him, as I do the smiling wops of tv land. She then gave me a thoughtful and sweet ‘Good Luck’, tell me about it, and I have competed the ten year old broken coliseums called Ancient Romance, just to get it done, I think I shall return to a less strenuous assault on Parnassus and complete mere bits and pieces. I shall do Kingdome Gone, a pre Alan Moore take on the dying comics books I saw as a kid, and have a word out to a lady editor to help out as have made ‘All the honourable men’ a complete mess and mush, taking out and added so much, I have lost the story in a 48 page chapter. Too, am too tired to do so now, as will crib and copy every image out of old comics for KG, adding nothing, as that is the point, and have downloaded images of how to draw Tarzan by Kubert, just to get the sweetness and the pen and ink goofiness of comics before they were denatured. But perhaps next year, or later, I shall compete Rag, the comic so despised by so many who acted as if I was a monster coming into to their pristine Kirby world, and ruined it, the merely mentioning of how at its core the idea of Batman, a millionaire beating up junkies as a vigilante, the shadow with golden parachute, in more ways than one was far too queer for me. As in Rag, bitchy lover of literature, you know, pulps, Dore Duvall buys the hollowed remnants of Fee Cee comics, now named Allstar, and undertakes freeing it of fascists like Uberman, and sees in the inherent humanity of a character based on earth 2’s Superwoman, the sort of caricature that fan boys hate, who he thinks he shall remake into Vundergirl, as a geriatric fool, Bucky Arbuckle, the tony-verse Jack the hack, has went and gone all Fountainhead on the world, and wishes to take Jerry ‘the fairy’ Lieber out.

Superwoman always seemed to me to be like Woody's evil queen, the kind of woman even shlomozzels liked  before the sanitation process began, like how Seinfeld was attracted to Sidra, who could give as well as she got, before he went on to drenching brunettes with toilet water. On the internet I saw both documentaries about Stan lee and Johnny Carson described as ass kissing, by various who will be critics for food. Well, it is not ass kissing I once explained about the Life of Dante by Boccaccio, to a white chick,-- if it is true. I wonder if that woman who made a point at how mortified she was by Horace, the nice roman satirist, which puts Juvenal in a perfect light, --I’m sure the talking woman despised him, if she had ever heard of him, not that’s she probably read Horace nether. As Horace said it is honourable to die for ones country. As the drones fly I would love to ask, is it more honourable to from a distance, kill…?

[Early in the morning I was awaked again by a horrid achita, and had to incidentally whiz, and was shook by a continuously going radio, that Margret Thatcher had dropped her mortal coil and left us hopefully for where all Englishmen go, as Tacitus said, Hell. I was soaked in sweat, but thought she had dropped dead years ago. But, in this strange purgatorial recitations am in now, I recall as a last great student , in 1979, I had done a paper complete with crayola markers cartography, that we as America, there was still such a thing then, should indeed make common cause with the USSR, as was in ww2, against the Mujahedeen, lunatics all, who did things to the Aryan soldiers which no Viet Kong ever thought of, and call me a bigot, but giving any Arabs anything incindery is seen as a sin by Dante loving me. To the Amazon twerps who see canto Four as bigotry, Dante recalled what you Arabs had done in Sicilia, without even a Hannibal to goad you. But back then, as I thought I'd take sides with the Bolshoi over the Arabs, as Ovid wasn’t seen as impiety—TO A GOD WHO DIDN’T EXIST AND A HOLY BOOK THAT WASN'T WRITTEN WHEN OVID WAS WRITING, but if Semites teach us anything, like fecal book, all is a perpetual Now. Back then, there, a priest told me in my last vestiges as a good student, that Pope JP 2, Ronald Regan, the host of Ge theater emeritus, whose son amusingly keeps the fires burning on supposedly liberal Television, you know as a flammen--i'm not touching that--and Maggie Thatcher were a triumvirate that would oversee the death of their republics. I think again of my hero in AR, Titus Lauro, who was sad and told senator Cornelius as much, that it was a sad fateful thing to be so old and feeble and die as a war monger in a bed. It was a shame to him, and he tells Cornelius if anything he can do, it is to die standing in the roman-italic sensibility as after all, fuck DH, Mars was after all an italic god of the middle Italians before the seven hills. I was warned that these three were going to be the hydra that destroyed America as much as anything, as even Romans knew enough to march in the wars they started. I feet bad that old Maggie could die in way that the Italian a thousand years before Romulus saw as an insult. Die literally with one’s boots on, epic-ally, if one plays imperialist, in the ways allowed and made sacrosanct by tended gardens of drones, NBC. Really, I will watch Valerie Bertinelli, Daffy Duck, wild bunches, anything as after awhile, the swans go mute. I like when the hares begin to sing. I feel bad. As did i mention my feets hurt...?, in that she outlived all those coal and dole miners who were allowed to starve and literally freeze on that happy little island, going back to its Dickensian roots. I felt worse for Annette Funicello, perpetual Italian puberty girl, the gals of Anzio strike back, as Make mine girls with gates of goddesses anytime, and please as I see another show about Leonardo, who was about to be dug up to prove he was a fag, as if you’d didn’t know, because of a finger test, do leave my people go.


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