09 December 2013



I certainly dont mean to be the skunk at the perpetual garden party where all the SANCTIMONIOUS come and bleed for us all how wonderful they are, but like more than cnn would think, I too started to feel esoterically triptifaned by the Reqium Mass for Mandela that was going on. None can do hagiography as well as the fraudulent, Father Gore taught us that…after a while I felt a bit, what was the word, well wherever it is I always feel which causes castigation to come from over feeded white girls. Mandela…ah, to me another house coon, sorry, who made sure to throw the Tutu pitch, why it was said of him he made sure that he fought even more against ‘Black Domination’ than white, isn’t that always the case, I mean to be beloved and all….? But then democracy has been a con since at least Claudius or at least he noted as much. No Sallusts here, no body here but us independents, son, listen to me when I am talking to you boy…the saint painting, literally what hagiographer means, is thick as thieves, and I recall again some white man saying Joe DiMaggio didn’t belong in the top ten of baseball players of the centary because he was just a one man ante defamation league for Italians, and who needs that….? No such anger at placing Yogi at four, as he was a lovable idiot, the way we like you wops.

But as I shall say more later, who has given us more one man saints than Assisi and Padua put together, than the good porch monkeys hoping eventually to be as human as their white masters….? Makes you wonder what this sports drivel writer really thinks of films about 42, no…? Or is it servants…? Make mine Cattiline sorry, radicals who die in the bed at 95 years old don’t twang my Roman heartstrings, sorry. Though it is the ultimate in white admiration, sorry but true, the idea of civil disobedience, which as the Franciscans taught me, leave the police in their perfectly made perch, and thus unsalted until the niggered, trash filth, Spartacus sues for peace, was tried by a giant named Cato against the Ultimate monster of the STATE The stoic senator shown in hbo anti hagiography as a mad man and as a fool, took his men and staged a strike at the armamentarium, causing Caesars beef eaters Germans and Sicilians to beat the living shit out of a seta senator, in ways we could do better now with Franken. It got so bad as the men were beaten almost to death, Caesar himself had to come out and call off the dogs of war off Cato’s neck, as the sad people of Rome looked on, realizing now that even a patrician senator was to Caesar just a another victim, if need be. The placed was quiet , as now shown I think as there is no turn of events that the Africans can not turn into a Paul Simon performance without the Jewish cleverness and the plagiarism. All civil disobedience, the fathers taught me is consistent upon Caesar calling off the dogs, which to them, is wholly unromantic thing to do, as a beaten and battered Cato is to have said to Caesar as he was dumbstruck by the stupidity of his men beating a senator no less in public before the rabble. Cato is to have said, famously, like so much stolen by Christ JEW BABY INCARNATE, --I AM LEGION, ABOUT THE FACT THAT MORE WERE AGAINST HIM THAN HE TAUGHT, AND THAT WAS JUST THE SENATE. All I know is that the fat bloated pig man TV crotch Tom Shales is the one who called Virgil propaganda, upset by a bbc teleplay about that book, a womanish heart is doom, as Niccolo said, and loved the sopranos, as to say if something is honorable and decent and human and poetic it is by defamation propaganda while those human bags of Jersey grinder farts and shit gumba minstrel show niggers were somehow not...? Oh, please, there is no winning obviously, as so I don't weep for Mandela from the land of Salvetti, who to be fair the Obamas have never heard of, and wont post a picture of themselves to in their narcissistic tribute. COEAMUS, YALL. When Cato did off himself, a feeling begrudged Caesar is to have said in tears, what good is Rome without a Cato in it...?, showing the always there anger at dismissal of the poor by their liberaltine godfather. When Obama finally does break down, unromantically as usual, it will be for himself.

I wanted to take Christmas off, as much as I could, feel put upon already, but got a email from Tribeca, telling me that my work was in MP-4, a turn which as has been with me since I first wrote Ancient Romance on a brother wp, is unreadable in this form. This gives me the chance to recoat, redeem rejoice re-- everything. I can now take out the clownish parts for real and send that in. And I noticed as Mandela again elbows others out of the way as the sort of saint that is made and seen on TV, as a lover of Rome, anything that happens to Africans and Germans or to to the other, is fine by me, and I do recall when he’s freed from jail, all the cbs cameras were devoted in, besides their self made love, was getting Arafat out of the picture by all means. Some freedmen fighters are different than terrorists, as Machiavelli showed us with clear eye, in that Evil is the word after all for those who don’t take our bribes, and Negros will take bribes from anyone. As how on Columbus day I toast the Etruscans, I recall that Sacco didn’t get to be 95, and we still await that film as Netheyahoo is willing to say that its about ‘costs’ that keep him from attending the Mandela beatification, probably worse than any Borgia funeral would ever be. The same day that Mandela died, a lesser saint, Gandoilofifi was to have part of a Jersey cause way dedicated to him, vacated by the requiem for a bantam weight. But to show my righteousness, I noted that the crying of the saints didn’t stop a pre ordained marathon of fat bloated mob wives, sloping again the wops always seem to have a knack for showing their Sicilian creed at all the worst times. Mob wives without Ramona, fuck this...click. Having had enough of their modem frescos, seeing the stream of midnight ice, I took my Roman cutlass bought from a Halloween costume shop and packed it in a frigid glistening ice covered brush, me in nothing but shorts and a red tee shirt no less, hit by the moonlight, as a scene needed once I saw the snow fly, for whatelse…?, the still unfinished clip called Cattiline.



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