16 August 2013


"'XIII ”

This chapter was removed to allow for the burning of the film to a cd. I feel bad that time and money constraints didn’t allow me to do all what I wished to do. I showed my brother who helped my greatly, even as a Camera man,  I had planned , especially about the film including images so if King Italius, the Italians Herod for whom the peninsula was named and the instance of a Roman vestal woman in the street liked decay of Pittsburgh. HE ROLLED HIS EYES, telling me that hell just go into the garage and take out his Roman caldarium, of course that Roman wall I envisions as an anathema to the Barbarians of jersey has queered the deal for me a few times before. And as for Roman vestals‘, he told me, knowingly, this is Pittsburgh, they call it the berg, I call it the Pitts,  there isn’t a Venus within a thousand miles of here,. Still, I am upset but used  the public domain where the unnoticed and un remarked upon Italics are left in a perpetual  pocket Purgatory away from our greasy Res Publica on its death bed laws and did the best I could. I offered a gal named Kartina five minuets of my time, in the film, that double my usual---anyway, if she would explain to me why a woman who tears up at Village people ilk Indian headdresses can be so lovingly for the minstrel show called Scorsese,  but have yet to hear back. I was hoping more for Wendy Though, but have to Spartan on. It all came together here, and now while filming saw that four out of five lamebrains are now living in poetry, which allowed me to do my refrain welcome to new Sicily. Also, they tried as they try everything, to make a big deal about the Redskins name, but again, as I told the Great Stan Savaran, sportscaster emeritus here, I would pay teams to drop those horrid injun names and to take more fitting and vaunted Romans names, as I did I think find I had something to do with Indian red so  despised in the crayon box of my youth to be renamed Tuscan red. I still have to OCTOBER 1st to get those scenes in there, if only for myself and will be taking a rode to the dollar store at the old abandoned jc pennies, and the weed covered broken mall, good pictorials there, and I shall buy a cheap prop sword, and an early holly wreathe, if I can actually find one of the girls of my dreams.




It seems I have been banished from the Maddow Kingdom, what was it this time dear…? You know it doesn’t take a Oxford education to be a bull shit artist hun, cautiously that was said to me about a Georgetown education, so I’m just transference here, as I am not sure. It was the marble fawn that sent Scorsese over the edge, and talk of Patviaum reborn that bothered saint Anthony of idiots David Brooks. I do feel a certain vindication. I was after all warning of the dry kindling like opera stage wooden boards. After all, who was describing Coriolanus as a comedy last year and spoke of Buffos twinkling and bell ringing and tap dancing through Roman farce to the consternation of white chicks. I feel as played out as the Obama administration, having done this work all summer,-- the summer of George it was supposed to be, but that petered out and Sharptoon and various household appliance coloreds had to go back to the voting rights act, his test pattern  Ed Sullivan show when ever Imult gets ver shvitzed at his racial chic-edness and bloviating Minstrel show radicalism. The black draped faggots of St. Loyola warned me that people who keep hurling the word Evil at people whish to say something without having to make a pesky argument. GOOD LUCK AGAINST THE COWBOYS, EDDIE, but then the programming is political. Ah, but some, like me and my buddy Farrakhan,  and Kordell West we saw this coming, me before them, but still…With the devotion of a Roman Foot soldier, is in poem censored by white two baggers at football factories, I was on the crumbling bridge made my canto to myself and my poets, as Martin has become so threadbare and fallen, an old stereotype since 1980 fir Christ’s sake has been replaced by fan radio shilled documentaries about Jewish SPORTSCASTERS. Oh, Cope proved you all get yours, in the end anyway. But the worst part was that a bullrider clown had to be the last Tarpea, without which the good optimists are mute, victim of touted swine praetorian hatchet men, god forbid you nigger go after anyone in power ever, know thy place, y’all, as somehow like Lucas this last money boy hack cunt bitch Obama thinks he is not nobly above politics as he read as every email Google alert that says one doesn’t like him, but he thinks he above the laws of Farce and comedy. The world is comedy as Seneca said and Dante picked up on, and I thought of Augustus our patron saint of empire, was steady there as Virgil read his massive masterpiece, --the decrying of it and the sly diminishment of it would soon soon after as Augustus felt betrayed, and how he had to at least preened to take it, fuming all along. His wife, knowing the connections between Gus and Aeneo, and Antony and Turnus, whispered to her white knuckling husband as he sat there fuming, that his angry silence was the least he could do. Today as I write this Dido is at 38 percent in the polls, showing again, somebody should tell Tom Boy in mascara Rachel despite being a human drone for GE, nigger, you aren’t above shit. Who was binning up Julius Caesar in the snow of January, kids…? Sure it was Orson Welles and he was in modern dress, but like I said, it is the most Italian of stories that aint played on a loop like the Godfather…how a republic dies. What else is on...?





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