20 March 2013


i. A late winter sickness hit me hard, as I had spent since new years trying to avoid the flu’s and influenzas that were seemingly out there in the mist.

There is a tiredness to political television, now that poly sci has become the elitist cheap version of the sit com. A hermaphrodite named Thom Hartman on some channel in the thousands--who else wishes to censer but the unnoticed praetorians, and the bribed…?-- was actionably trying to say that someone stole, Nixon, an election from LBJ. This was ‘Landslide Lyndon’ for you Caro Fans out there, and 1960 and west Virginia was not MENTIONED in the latest lists of grievances by liberal dirt bags. They speak of stolen elections often, but not to be a Jesuit, the elections were never theirs to be stolen, showing the verb you choose is often the key to the con. And such is what happens when Nixon MUST BE TAKEN OUT AGAIN AND BURNED IN EFFIGY, A PRACTICE EVEN GORE VIDAL HAD TO TIRE OF EVENTUALLY, AS IT WAS TO MERELY MAKE THE REST OF THE ROTTEN APPLES FEEL SO CHARMED AND GOOD. Lutherans, the Jesuits told me, infect everywhere. And this is what sanctimony looks like as not only new wars, ala drones, like Obama and his beloveds, must be a wholly owned subsidiary of the electric company, and funny, the warrior Princess Rachel has nothing much to say about Steubenville, Detroit is more her speed, even though that channel decided to be the guardians against Rape, you know, now that Clinton has become, like Marcus Agrippa, part of the history of Comedy. AS so sanctimony is where you can find it. Thank fully Seinfeld seems plays often, and a show starring the adorable Valerie Bertinelli is shown at night, as there is a reason the Romans swerved towards comedy, after all.

I knew I was slightly loopy as was watching Fox news, for reasons that I couldn’t really get, but was too weak to get up and turn the TV, and I saw the almost yellow submarine psychedelic trip, which is watching Brit Hume when one is burning up with fever. All I kept thinking as this strange star child 2001 creature was morphing before me was I hope when he finally does drop over dead that Brit is decent enough to leave that Hair To science. Oh, what hair,…!, I thought half awake, and me already so follicle challenged, to have hair as his, it was a mind of sight of Shangri La, with his secrets of shampooing like a dead sea scroll before me, only scrolls made of hair. To be so blessed, I thought, unsure what gibberish he was being paid to spout on camera, the hair made me wonder….

ii. The Roman newspapers had already chased Pope Himmler out of the anointed cage days ago, and were preparing dossiers as it as beings said to no matter who would win this last conclave, these old men had made a enemy in the Roman press as never really before, and  frankly there was stalk that a Italian pope would be returned to if only to allow the hectors of the roman fleet street, which predate fleet street some earned credit to allow then m to be less vicious towards a new pope than they already had been to the Hitler youth who had bumbled his walk across the Apian way.

I wasn’t so sure, but I can say I have said here once the popes as they had all those days ago in 1978, once we start hearing about the papacy and vacuous dramatis persona appearing in medieval Dante, popes whose thirty days regimes are eventual tickets punched to Distant bludgeoning, well, once their pope became the first pope since before Columbus to resign, I knew things were tough all over. This had a scent of the con job to it, and I wasn’t sure that they’d be smart enough, these old men, to return to Italay, as they had learned their last campaign as all dying armamentariums do,  from the Pollack and they think they have come upon with quite the trick of getting various ethic groups to wave flags, while old men try desperately not to allow everything to crumble again, when surround with that many ruins, makes one wonder if they are not as enchanted by the ruins as was Roman Bill, while being lectured to by Polish nudges.

iii.While ill, I stayed in bed and listened to all of this, as one could sense the edges and the polished corners being ruined of all of this, as I certainly wasn’t the only one who gets a scent in the winds from Rome, more or less open city. And dutifully, whoever the old men of this last politburo, had placed it out there that mother Italia would be paid off with a roman pontiff, fliers sent out, but one could sense that the Roman newsletters which has as much as anything been a treasure trove to Shakespeare, they knew narrative as well as anyone, weaned as they were by some pages of Virgil as Tennessee called literature, and it seemed that none was backing off now. Various cardinals of the Italian sea had backed away, not quite as famously as the cardinal from Camelot, but the word had come back from roman presses, that this would mean nothing to the mother country getting even, as the play was all as Ennius would say, and I heard that the Romans camps rather admired the fact the always preening and posturing England, took a pass this time, as I have said before it always did bother Cornelius Tacitus, exemplar of Italian letters, to see anyone as barbaric as a Englishmen try to recite  anything as winsome as Ovid. In the city synonymous with fall as well as any, these old men ignored the very brilliance of the street corners, if not the lovely Raphelean Madonna’s walking them since ancient times, as they try to keep their reeking boat afloat, as now frankly, all the virtuous old men start to appear to mirror the Andropov’s and the old prince lings fallen and falling here and there.

Iv.I heard the awful heinous thug of the radio, Imus in the mourning, our human toothpaste out of the tube, who made a point that the named sent out as a opening gambit by the priests, Milan’s’ own cardinal Scola, was unacceptable to this unfunny perpetual cancer vessel, by way of common cause with a vulgar ex playboy club comic Dick Gregory. The word itself was Italian enough to be poisonous to the ears of say Nathanial Hawthorne, who like later laughable scions of what is laughingly called English literature, hopes that you never heard of The Promessi Sposi, when having to read a dirge like the scarlet letter, showing one can make a historic novel out of that crew of chickens kept in the coops you had to begin with. This was strange coming from Imus, who when we last heard from him, was beginning ala Lou Dobbs to have his career saved by the Max Bear film called Fox news, whose he haw like daisy’s are professionally leg crossers, and who lounge Franzsettily with moonshine mcjugs lanqor on the imperial porch as Archie and grandpa give us the days news tween wittlin, --You met another and Fttttt yuou was gone. Last, we saw Imus he was on the porch with Goober talking about them kinky haired nappy sheened hos, so frankly his admiration and or diminution, like most anything American means nothing. And he’s sure they run it all anyway, no getting by him, as his making common cause with old house nigger Gregory was an exemplar of the America I was warned by priests to avoid and watch out for.

v.Ill, but not as ill as I was, I saw the glorious imagery of old Rome on television, which hands down trumps the Kmart imperia of Rand Paul and achita Mac Kane in its ice cream colored mausoleum place, wowing again no one makes a msueileium like the Romans did. And, too quickly for a conclave that had the stink of a con job to it, out came the new pope, Chance the gardener.

With a Vulcan’s awareness called humility, a dull man shockingly came out in vestments unfitted, with a cross that augured as it hung unkemptly to the right. This was an Italian alright, an Italian immigrant whished returned home to knock on that golden door for the years as he has been, our Pope Romney, trying to be pope now a good while. In garments all unfitting, Rome showed itself as still under occupation as it had been sideways since Constantine, whose church this was in ruins, down to the Fascist my mother pegged immediately, as a hutch of now suddenly lawyerly Jesuits had bitten off more of Bacchus bread, the center price of all Eucharist’s, than it could easily chew. When Ma heard in Italian that this pope was taking the name Francesco, that man for whom Mario Cuomo would adapt laws written in remembrance of more than any Jesuit hated Darwin and thus got the enmity of less than closet more than house fags of the dying republic of Regan, when she heard this word spoken it made her blanch, sick old lady she was, as she could as she said to me feel the effects of the panicking fiddling Orcas, again trying to scale that Roman wall he cannot seem to navigate as sexily as his legion could Tel Aviv.

vi. Ah but in books that tell the American and other truths better than any new York times on the spot, there is a book called Christ Stopped at Eboli, by Carlo Levi, an Italian intellectual used by the allies until Mussolini hung, and then his later works about the awful northern grace to Rome to make it industrial, the point of ww2, were awful, and the reworks were ignored of priests, he spoke of those sort of fascists who left Italay for—Buenos Aires.

Even my sick old Ma, having heard these words, brilliantly and astutely waved this guy off, knowing his like and his sort all along, and having had family in that dreaded country of Argentina, now cued to be the newest peasants dancing with flags, while the centre didn’t hold, she knew of purges in that mother church. Pig men who have scuttled pontificates before on Charlie Rose were now saying cross purpose things, a first Jesuit could be somehow the kind pontiff, as never seen in 2000 years, who could cleanse the church. Ah, no sorry, perhaps an Italian Jesuit, but a southern American Jesuit is a secret word for Fascist, sorry, my Ma knows it, the priests I had a boy knew it and this curtain is still reaping the whirlwind from that broken tea cup and the dead pontiff whose bride was left to nowhere while a dumb Pollock made a off ramp to Reaganism, and used a church as a way to cement conservative policies. All these old men, yes even the Italian reformer Scola, such and anathema to the dumb nigger, don’t tell that house coon that a little tin soldier fascist high priest of the junta has been installed.

vii. Of course all your tricks of verbs, all your womanish games of inclusion and rancid by the pound tolerance all were ancient in Mother Rome, and they showed these tricks have been sued by the powerful for eons. As so now, a Jesuit for the first time appears, one who got his second bite at the apple, like john Palo 2 who couldn’t quite let that go,  and deal mead his way as they had lost their greatest role, the ones they think they were born to play, as old men found another old man hopeful of nothing more divine and denied than keeping their drivers and their elitism, and hoping their butlers didnt turn nolo contraere.

With use of a Jesuit, its seem the mother church saw itself as lawyered up, the Latin, or Ladin, soon enough to lose its Brother Sun Grace and return to a language of writs and compacts and cut loaves in half. If you have no idea, oh, what I know now about the snoortfull of trouble you have collected here when unneeded about a Jesuit made pontiff, we need only go back to our Buddy Roman Bill, Brother Bill, Georgetown Bill, independent Bill, Bawdy Bill, liar Bill, Toyshop Bill, who when he was cornered and said ‘what the meaning of the word Is, so an anathema to the white chicks and their niggers, well, I have heard that refrain since 1973. Again to sue Bill as the Pinocchio who will lead us through Italian literature like a Roman schoolbook I had as an Italian boy, when the seta opened up on the supreme court, and a man named Boyce wanted it desperately, as he always did, Bill, our Bill, is said to have said with Augustan Wit, that he, Bill, Machiavellian student supreme, was not putting anyone on the supreme court who could only write dissents. Heh. This is why no Jesuit should ever be pope, their encyclicals, they may not know yet, will be in letters all black. Boyce to show the brilliance of brother Bubba in whole, is now creating writs of amcitas to the idea of fagots becoming house wives and or being allowed in various woman’s rooms, as soldiers, or in ladies showers, as we cascade towards a decline and fall of Friar Fwank, and he shows us all how there is in fact a dignity to being Father Scalia.

Viii.But, my Ma, she did see this all coming, before even the ginning up of anti papal Roman newspapers, which are coming. The sooner that building of Michelangelo’s can become a mere museum, the better for New Turkey, Italia, all that will be, even those plodding dying Andropov’s unaware of the mistake they made while the crowd was chaining and blue Silverado flags somehow had been as in the park across the street from the white house, the night Ben Lauding died, had been dutifully handed out by a previously befuddled dying imperia. My Ma did know of the secret wars and the colleted names of FRANCISCANS, --yes Big Tony has augured as much, there were Brothers Of FRANCIS, WHICH I MENTIONED HERE A BIT AGO IN MY SOOTHSAYER CHARM, WARNING OF TROJAN HORSES, priests killed off by the spics, called communists by the juntas, by the Augustos, that priests have been making time with and for scene the previously mentioned Constantine, Man without Roman papers, back then, who had been collected under the right wing prince of this country which may call itself Latin.

But please, don’t call them Hispanic, as they assuredly are not. Quick someone alert twinkling Anderson, shimming with professional jealousy at the collected genius of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, images not quite as frozen as he is, after all the Italian could make stone at least seem like life in their brilliance at stone masonry in ways the shining Anderson is mere exemplar of the amberoid arts, that the Argentines are not in his Americanization grouping of these themes. And as my mother said, whose elderly face blanched when she heard the name taken was Francisco, Francis, that no Italian worth his salt since 1140 ad and the attempt of the church to destroy the man, did a pope take the mane Francis, as someday soon, our aphorist papa will be sated there on Pharonic seat, dripping in ermine and gold, and purple and silk, and he wont be in a grotto somewhere making small household gods of various saints, a dichotomy that Ma saw coming, as shrewd as she is, but a Cornelian juxtaposition no American cardinal of the electric company sees as anything they cant deal with, if not ignore completely. A man named for Borroni, the man of dignity and poverty and brother sun and sister moon, and whose only prayer had lest to do with 72 virgins, or cities of sky gold, or raptures, or how blessed all we Jews are by blood, than it had to do with being an instrument of grace, that man, or at least his name, will be amid the spectacle, and washed over by the circus of God. No Italian before this Pinochet era thug could bring himself to sit there and be so…Felliniesque--, another word sued for the damnation of people who you fear, unlike dutiful niggers, that know all the punch lines after all.

ix. But Ma is a witch and a saint, and she can sense when the winds of her goddess signora Fortuna have spun and termed against the boys of destiny, easily this church’s shadow implication in the death of her beloved Cardinal Luciano Albano shall always be a mark of Cain, and no amount of sanctimony or Dutch cleanser, as she says, will get that red mark off of them. That moment she told me, is coming when the assorted day trippers and the bemused Romans, having made their centurions of more of a grafter sort of the selling of chackies and themselves to various barbarian ladies, will look up and they shall make note, now these, she said mirroring Montale’s Satan, who she is sure may or may not be in the gaze of this ax man they had insulted the tomb of JPI and made this cut throat and this state hachetman a pope, Pope Cheech, she calls him as if a low end button man, she shall warn both Satan and the earthen together as she feels the ability and the presumption to lecture all and both, Know this now, she warns the black and the red, the divine and the venial,  she warns all who will hear this—to God above and to Satan she warns, who she said she saw dimming in the streets: The Hour has come.

x. During this week of puss and circumstance, though Ma was as usual pertinent and wise, as thirty six hours into the Pontificate, the Vatican had to send out plumbers and or firemen to another sprung leak and or put out these brush fires unsure of having happened or about to happen, as recently as Moon day. No, ‘there is no Proof’, this is as romantic jurists Jesuits get,--whose been so warning of that…?, at the dirty war involved wayward Italian cardinal of immigrations to the happy hunting ground of various Euro fascists since Carlo Levi’s books. No Proof…, uh, Jesuit cachet at its best.

That’s my Verb, and Im sticking too it. Ah I almost feel sorry for this church and what its about to go through, as believe me, you’ll tire of it all, as did Roman Tony, too. Still, I feel their effect upon me, to the point that even a comic book made of a strong man in blue can be seen as a Jesuit allied agenda, even a Superman cartoon can be so infected with the devotion of men now dead and gone for seeming eons, as making a Hercules cartoon and doing it as I did as a moral imperative seemingly is off putting to various Comics Reporters, who like their cartoons to be less –intense. As now even Francis Ford Coopolla seems to be reciting my very words back, about how making movies neednt be a going Concern, and to fuck the Jingoas and the wise guys, I am the one who made it a moral devotion to return in book not only to the Romans, for which the house wops name their kids, but to the Etruscans  no less, who somehow even liberals who made a point of their love of noble savagery liked to pretend didn’t exist. 

xi.The church as I said, Lawyered up and that’s the story we are sticking to, for now, as the leaking Lena proved not quite as endurable as its architect. A decaying church went to a man two years OLDER than the pope now befuddle dandy ruin, and in the Castillo at lake Como, --will a Lucia be there or are they all handmaidens now to various old white queens like Vanessa who look about Rome as a vacation from cloudy wet London, to where the sun and sonnies are…as again the church finds itself as mute as were too the Paulo and Francesca, serenely though only 84 lines in the Inferno, was named the Italian love story per excellence, -fuck you Romeo!-, THE land of the Renzos and Lucia’s as it waylays has been. But, you could do worse than issuing big Roman Tony here as your peculiar Virgil for this particular hell, as I guessed that Benedict was going to be ala Tyberius, pushed out, hating Saturnalia in fact makes you seem more Nazi than just you were, and said as much, and say now, as lasted nigger BARRY FINDS THE ROMAN RULES OF WARFARE IMMUTABLE, AND HIS WORST NUMBERS COME FROM GE inc, THAT I TAKE IT IS Cardinal Imult dropped the handkerchief, --well you could do worse than listen to me.

Xii. That Syrian Grocer who put on Being There faces and stood amazingly too small for his close up is going to reap the whirlwind for this one, I can sense the Curiae, a bunch of stupid men unaware that all roads to Buenos Aires lead to as Ma said, the raped nuns that Uncle Severius told us of in a city just off the world cup then picture it , 1978, and I a little gorgeous boy playing with the die of the italic strong circus man, Dannunzio’s Red caped strong man,  in ways no one had since before Uncle Stan, perhaps back to Jerry and Joe, and an old man with strange pan italic looks gave me a small key chain of a busty woman in t shirt and midrift and sunglasses holding a global like soccer ball, as if it was as a giant’s testicular. My dad took it out of my hands, and looked at the overly sexualized plastic woman chain, which held a giants white ball reading ARGENTINE 77, and frowned that this old man would give me such a thing as a boy, but waved it off and handed it back to me. He shook his head at these italics who had left the patria for reason unclear and not the same as his, and he went outside and stared to smoke his Popeye pipe I had given to him from a Popeye toy I had as a boy. And Severio told us of the purges happening for this soccer tournament, and that whole city block were set ablase, with the poor in it, and where was Jorge-sorry Francesco,-golly the edit of a pope thanking that italic name as such it has become, made Ma, her even with a  fever wince and shudder,--you ;look up what cardinal Evita had to do with all of that, again providing the roman aphorism that the time is the curse, in all directions, back and forth. And what this installation of this ambition to a grievous fault thug needed to make his ascension almost Romulus, Was a white horse racing madly through the ancient Roman streets.

Xiii. During the week, I saw Boston Charley, who I had taken swipes at, but had to grudgingly admire for his obit about our mutual hero Father Gore, whose no longer in the Romae of our dreams, and what he could have written on this , no,…? And Boston Charley spoke of what was needed, not a black left handed lesbian leftist hemorfrodite, anyone so even touched by Roman inculcation  knows the ge shtick for what it really worth and useless. We need a John The XXIII, he said out of nowhere, I am just sure not pleasing to the channel that allows Reagan to be the ghost father of its always in common sense liberalism. This was touching. John the twenty third is dead; his idea is dead, crippled by a house Pollock, Mao to a dying politburo, as they recently are so often degenerate, old men who are there to save their crumbling seats. It is coming out now that our green grocer wanted to take the name Pius, don’t they all in the Augustan historicity, another book of required reading, except to lesbians white fetish herstory dirt bags heard wailing between the Saturday games, and their nigger studies goons. Ah but that would have brought up one too many thirteen’s on this Roman spring March day, --but thirteen is the number, all Jesuits worth their salt know, is sacred to Saint Anthony, another name too shining and important for a mere high priest to Augusto, a man it is now said who helped cul de sac uppity and upper-class spics, is there any worse sort…?, To steal children from wretched poor woman and handed them to rich daughters, like our new Francis was, Anthony was too like Francis, a name unsullied by clergies of red and black. John the XXIII is gone, as I dizzily go back to bed, unable to eat with relish, the best part of life, his whole sense of being is gone, the old men and their Pollock won that battle of the teacups, and now this aged fascist can try to make himself appear to be John, or John Paul, and I say here they didn’t need this headache that Ma saw before any of you, and the curiae didn’t need with the swirling winds as there was no need to hear of dirty wars and hidden names and pits into which not only socialists but Franciscan monks were sent by men with pimpish epilates. John the XXIII is officially Missing, until further notice.

PS-This pope is laying it on real think, but as Ma said, the devil covers your eyes and makes you think you're hid. Now suddenly the Pope Cheech thinks Roman criminals and convicts and his blessing them are a fascist perfect situation, but it shall not last. The bloated Irish thugs like Donahue of the catholic league think everyone saying anything about this pope is a left wing hoodlum, no, their on his side as long as he lets them with full mouths obviate, sorry Pontificate, I love Latin roots, in more ways than one, about their pets the poor. This wont stand, I the auger, warn. Happy Easter from the Borgia Papacy. Or at least Pinochet's. Yes, fuck your fox news pope and President,  fuck women priests and gay marriage I can smell a fascist at 1000 paces. 






06 March 2013


Showing the swerve of things, which is called serendipity, as I am trying to gain more Pub, more word, more notice, more eyeballs, more promotion for the coming addendum to my published work, Angela the publisher from the house I used, emailed me and asked for a series of facts about the book which could be belted in bulletins from their website. Of course, I took advantage of this faster than Bamboo takes advantage of the left –the latest two appointees to our traveling medicine show are from Wal-Mart and the Fracking industry,…really someone should tell Rastsus the Machiavellian line about the fatiguing qualities of evil, although I have inkling by now, even the study of The Prince couldn’t help.

So here are the facts I put together to push the product.

Ancient Romance is a continuation of a schoolboy era play written by me in 1980, called King Italus, so admired by the Jesuits of the school I attended then that it was published in a scholastic magazine as my first published work when I was fifteen years old.

Cornelius Sabsonius the narrator of the book of ancient tales and his own political life was based on great English actor Ian McKellen, as the tired old croaking and still lilting voice of the sophisticate fugitive and yet brooding and enflamed man.

All of Laurentium's history is based upon 454 lines of broken text found rapping a mummy in a Tuscan grave outside of Brindisium Italy. There was has been accounts of pre history records of men who would call themselves king of eagles, or Aquila, and Kaiser Quota is based upon one that the Caesars all took as a forbearer all the way into Claudius.

Gracie, the little girl-future vestal  left behind by the imprisonment of the Sabsonius family is based  upon a effete, cool and graceful haughty girl who had yellow eyes like a Tuscan, who I met in art school.

Work on ancient Romance began in earnest when on December 22 2000, when Al Gore was cast aside by the senate, as it appeared a scene like was what would happen in my then first drafted book.

Portia, a minor starlet caricature in the books, was fleshed out, and made three dimensional and central when she became based on Italian-American pin up starlet Wendy Fiore, who seemed to mirror her perfectly.

KEMETER the God of chaos and thievery, who falls head over heels with Tuan, also based on Wendy Fiore, and is played by Portia in the play versions, the demon was blond in paintings, as blond hair to the early Italians was seen as a signal of diabolic intent.

Somewhere in the bowels of NPR exists a tape of a show I had barged into, where a presumably fat overfed woman started railing at me when I announced to her with Antonine certainty, am I ever wrong about anything but women…?, that Romans took vestal virgins who had been found guilty of impiety and the men with whom they had relations and placed those in pits into which were added gallons of cement. For some reason this bothered this self appointed Amazon NPR radical who shops at barneys and she became hysterical, as her ilk is due and want, and started railing at me for reasons I wasn’t sure, perhaps in the saying that unlike the Jews who let johns free from capehiian dungeons, the Romans, no slouches, placed the men in the hole with the women.

---The last one I left off, not in self censorship but it as too unwieldy I thought for her needs though I am justly proud of that night as it more than any Italian polish starlets San Raphael house of debt and two red cameras, made me aware of my, as Paolo Milano said, Moral Imperative. It bothered this hag when I said all of this, why I am unsure, but went on and told this pig, that the Romans, They stopped this gruesomeness when it was found that ugly fat woman to get even with men who had dissed or worst of all not noticed them, or by other vestals who were jealous of a particularly pretty girl, or a mother superior, who had been rebuffed by a novice, which was hard to believe in sagffic Convents ever, but still,…the Romans stopped the practice when they realised they were left with the shrews the hags the wallflowers and the dykes, and then a decree was made, like a slave, seven years was the farthest one could be a  vestal, from 13 to 20, and then were free to go if they so wished. This seemed to be a slur to the self appointed hag types who feel a duty to lecture rape victims the same week that another democrat in the well  seemed to be afraid that a woman with a gun would take the life of someone who had only tried to rape them, ah you must be a stealer fan-we call sympathy for rapists pulling a Roethlisberger, and funny who both were unnoticed by the self crowned Alexander of lesbians, Rachel dearie, who like a good praetorian only sees what she is targeted to, say just like Drones!

I wasn’t going to post anything again, until found I have been this morning exiled from the kingdom of facebook for 30 days, for even the mere linking to The Lion in December, a few days back, so circumspect have our bribe takers and givers have become*. I find if I keep the original page open I can get in some swipes before it all catches up.  I was taught by Jesuits, though, and could always tell anyone that hate speech a favorite go to of fat pig men like those who infest cable television, and will who will racialism for food is just a con, and that it is away to seem like you are making an argument when you are saying nothing. Ah, here come the books by Hillary staffers, but too late, you signed your deal, or at least Bill Did, as he will hold his nose and get his hated fussbudget reelected to make sure you never sniff the mantle dear, the reason behind everything. And too, they all have Caphius eyed Krugman disease, in seeing him on Charlie Rose, there is no flip flop, no swerves no upturn he will not take, no double speak and no back out he will not use, as he calls anyone who isn’t as deceitful and vicious and needy as him evil and stupid and beneath him. This, as Machiavelli said, is the sign someone is being bribed. But, too, probably lying to himself. But then this is Jewish ethics, unlike pesky Romans sorts, where again he will announce no matter what he said before or will say again, this is what I firmly believe now, shaved corners rounded edges and all, until it no longer suits me, or am paid by someone else. Its this way a proponent of Caesar public works can take a paycheck from Enron, as a nigger gosta get paid.

And there was tiresome Jonnie again, really I notice in my Google analytics,  like they all do that the use of the even word Obama is poison to the people, and they wish to get on to 2014 as quickly as possible. But despite what anyone thinks, mister limpid screaming rah rah for the Dow Jones shows that Fox is as devoted to Obamie than anyone, his worst numbers now coming from a beleaguered GE as he tap dances backwards and in heels. His act is old and tired, and his masters got the drones and tax cuts he was meant to birth and now it’s all like sunset blvd, and an aging diva screaming at the wall. I really have avoided him, but saw for a second he came with all Jewish feign compassion and liberal care, which in his pouty delivery can seem as Paternalistic as anything, and spoke of how he thought the Voting rights act should be extended. Nigger, Please-- when I said that...I was being a bitch! And he spoke of the insidiousness of southern Racism, like in Passoilini, I often wonder about the presumed decency of our giggling Miss Milan here, as opposed to the southerners that the principia uses as much as anything to be their cops and soldiers, was systemic as opposed to northern, where the Jews are and racism is more like Nana warning against the shavatzas, but—not to go Romans, and Juvenal like, but somehow to our Champion of whooping idiots, it isn’t systemic when America is a sea of red precincts with small blue dots of Ghetto tenements, Negroes warehoused in blocks of granite which could have been put up Julius Caesar. And he asked that Sandra Day O’Conner whose brusque admiration of Scalia did seem to be off putting to Rachel, that that same Scalia be brought to his new Soupy Sales show. There would be Scalia to be castigated for not signing over power of attorney to Jonnie and his veracious white in-laws, and it would be something I could pay for, as Aquinas meets Cinderfella, despite his cards written by his Jewish frat house, the bizarro Jerry, hanging on for dear life.

And My old Ma, seeing Hugo Chavez died she seemed resigned, and made a sign of the cross, Poor man, she said, as if wistful, and waved it all off. Ma, I said, he was a communist-- I thought you despised the communists…Boy--, she said with the always at hand dis-missives that the elders have always had with me, as they have always seen me as something of a dreamy eyed idiot, This man’s army was being abused by the doges in power there, to the point they were eating dogs and the beatings they took,!, this man wanted to be treated with respect by the Herods of Commercia, --her name for America, unlike good black folk she don’t wave the flag now that GE SAID its Go time!!-- that they install down there—[my mothers speaks with an accent but I feel no need to make her seem like Tarzan, as was done to Clemmente, by such good writers of Jewish compassion as Myrin Cope, who after all taught you all you need to know about diminishing everyone and rallying around the rapist]—did you think we were all Faciste, because we liked marching around in uniforms and saluting la Bandera, we were starving then, and passvanate connected to America with Grossi, that big Five errand boy, were feeding their dogs steak, she said, Go to Jesus, she said, of the fat man who had smartly, like a Texas democrat never railing against guns, never trashed the mother church and thus could get the admiration of Ma, and all those people down there for whom America could make populists with deals with banana companies at the drop of a hat.

Ah, but in the same way a woman once told me even my admiration of Machiavelli –this was this after Zoetrope, I think yes, yes it was, that that was anti Semitic, as somehow Machiavelli had been stripped of his italic patriotic aspects, too, the idea that men become Communists or  Fascists because they are starving as Cicero Warned, and not is something that ties like a Palestinian scarf, an affection put on between homecoming games, well such can only be described as hate speech. A lovely Jewish woman in publishing I have been dealing with, said to me, Tony, you don’t really hate Jews like you pretend do you. I smiled and sent back an email saying to her that I hate Jews as much as the HBO creeps who put the sopranos on hate Italians. Oh NO! SHE PLAYFULLY EMAILED BACK,-- NOT THAT BAD! Then, she sent me a smiley face I still cant make, and unlike Martin Scorsese, David Brooks, and now Cover Girl herself Melissa Harris, didn’t think so much of her lies that censoring me seemed an important thing to do. Also, I said, I like giving it to the Jews as so they recall that the Mediterranean isn’t that big. She proceeded to tell me she walked out of a house where they were watching some history show about who wonderful the dark ages were, as I told her and she was shocked, --why are they always shocked!??--, that eventually the Jews in those camps would be as corrupt as the Romans that were killed and raped in 432 ad were. Evil is a word we use for those who will not take our bribes, and guess who in hell said that.

 *I no longer feel compelled to save my posts in any folder called ‘golden age’ or anything else, and saw this morning the dream girl Wendy had another of her sensual without genealogical exam pin up pages. I hit face book on this page of glimmering lil boxes, by accident and saw I could indeed post again, after yesterday when I could not. Perhaps a 24 bug. Perhaps they know the jig is up. So, I shall share this post, why not, she is my dream girl, as Hesperia Strikes back, a Sophia emerges among the man handed blonds.

And I see that the numbers are falling through the floor for Bammo, as I THOUGHT, they didn’t need him past the ides of march, drones and tax cuts made articles of faith, and I knew all along, like a good Jewy Wop who had codified the laws of farce and politics as both sides of the family Obama were living in trees, that he has become, true to farce as art, ‘box office poison‘. I tried to warn, but don’t care that much. Something familiar, something peculiar…

On Groove’s comic book website I saw the post of the dreaded  Jack Kirby’s 2001, in all its ugly metallic coffee pot vulgarity and it made me think, as I love Groove’s seventies addled site and the reminisces it brings in me, that this seemed like The sentinel as done by Jerry Lewis, but then took that back as I love Jerry Lewis who as much as anyone carted modern film making. I saw the monolith as the most heinous part how it vomited action liens as would have been done by say Russ Myer instead of Kubrick, as fair is fair even from me, who dislikes him. I said then there a first mention after years of viewing his When the Cowboys were great posts, that I had been stealing the monolith as an image since I was a boy.

01 March 2013


It was late and I came down to watch Seinfeld, in which is the only time I eat, as a way I found I again have lost weight. I must have been watching South Park as what was starting was the daily show. Egad, where is the remote! I couldn’t find it, drat! On this, our hero for the political punch line, Stuart Little was fresh from the night before when he was trashing Captain Nice, for the drone society that still goes on. But to accuse his beloved half breed of something is beyond our Jersey snookered Cicero. Then came on Rachel Maddow, as the funny Savage calls her Madcow, as she shills books about the sayings of Marshall Foch, with best seller penis envy, and she came out as is gaining steel in the way she has to back down from everything now, showing that Tranquillius was right and one is who they follow, etc. But its seems the trying terms at GE Theatre have given her a second wind, as the word that shant be spoken there, Drones, has made her think the filler she must speak of like say guns and race acutely means something, when alas we are just waiting for the by now by rote and boring capitulations, that which GE was buying in the first place. Where is the fucking remote!

And here, as usual, she, knowing the farcical resolutions of Plautus, that all Jews have learned from Plautus through Mel Brooks, or at least Larry David, she came loaded for bear, or fur, and started railing against Antonin Scalia. Scalia bothers the white faced other white meat like Stuart and Rachel immutably as he is Jesuit like, already a mark against him, and his having brown eyes, would be better positioned as criminal or a thug or a clown, than to actually ask the question asked of Augustus, in that if you can make it up as you go along, then why have a digest of roman law mister Augustus, anyway, a unison only an Italian may ask. He has sided against something that bothered greatly  our miss Grundy of the war profiteer set, and she was in full rolling eyes white trash diminution, with bemused Stuart waiting to see who he would hate, like Keith Olbermann for heresy, next.

I felt bad as wrote in IN THIS GOLDEN AGE, about a Christmas time night in which I sure had enough of Jewry Jonny this before finding Jerry and Elaine as loved by my sister still, and went to that, catching the last half of Charlie Rose, and one night seeing Charlie Rose speaking to the trashed italic brown eyed thuggish looking like me at sixty who is Tony Scalia. Ah, he was thoughtful and measured, not the monstered eyed lunatic that Maureen Dowd called him, but then she called God Bambi once, but we were all so young and stupid then, especially him. And I was amused at how Jesuit like he was, not having paid much attention to him, though he was called by a fat little pig man named Franck Rich, of the Joe DiMaggio school of living anti Italian stereotypes, which makes you wonder what he thinks of black history, or Purim or both. I found Antonin Scalia thoughtful and he, bless his Italianate hart--sorry must have been thinking about what might have been, as the Pompeiis abound and gather in droves, asks the question of Augustus why is it a digest of Roman law and can it be axed out like Christ in Latin because a amenable but prissy Negros ells his soul to the mri machine makers, amend what happens to the 2nd, but more important, 45678th amendments, and when they are vacated will a human toilet named Andrew Sullivan, like Sejanus before, call it all grand unless its his neck that is cut…?

I had enough of RACHEL, seen enough of this, and got tired of her when in med sentence her pretty little head seemed to snap when in mid show her going agonist Haggle was seen as verboten in almost mid phrase, and she as usual backed off. Our nigger lover was so aggrieved and was heartened by a fat washer woman named Sotomajore, under the major, you got that right, who did her bidding as she was expected to, and stood up for something allowed though it is un-constitutional, according to that pesky equal projection clause, But then Boston charley and his ilk have convinced us that niggers have been treated ever so well in Boston, just don’t have them bussed into near the southies, or the city will burn, that’s all

Well, it seemed to bother our talking bra that this was the day that Rosa Parks was immortalised in the senate by a panoply of the various beiges allowed to emerge bribes in the fallen house of princes. I still am waiting for the unavailing of the statue of Sacco and Vanzetti to be shown, can one imagine straga Pollozzi shrieking fained joy at that one, no, why that would make you feel bad about your imperials, sadness is beyond you smiling pork chop eaters, with perhaps Vanzetti, making true literature out of jails cells as Italians have been doing since Caesar, Vanzetti hung from the oraculum, --lets see how long it takes for Rachel to use that as her word of the day!--where a two bit fresco of signora Fortuna sits, him hung as a pendulum, how italic can you get all at once. But I had enough, as frankly, the mentioned boys of empire like pig man Sullivan, who find Obama a god until they shall need another temporary Jesus, well, it reminded me of another book never read by the Angela Davis, Al Davis UC Davis reading lists of good white folks, the Annals of imperial Rome, in which not the Christians, not the Greeks, but Tiberius, my long ago made analogy to Dido, our immaculate queen, demeaned that Virgil be burned. Cause it was written ostensibly about Augustus under whose shadow Tyberius no matter how many bribes taken and given couldn’t quite get out from under. It was this of all things that made the senate and the army start to connive to get rid Tyberius as Tacitus said, Virgil meant something more than some bastard child to a hated queen, and it gave the Romans pause to know that Tyberius and his henchmen couldn’t even let the ghosts alone.

This was written in first draft about August 2010. I am proud to know that I had an inkling of the underbelly of Obamaism which now causes the GE appliances with shows to resort to almost nothing left to say. This is the last part of AR-XIII that I will post. WATCH OUT FOR ROMANCE!


I see in Italia Julia at times here, a decency of Italian femininity now gone, she is independent, strong, wilful and sweet, not like the gas bags back home. She is whip smart, does her work without whining, as she playfully sweeps the wrens from the door of this boarding house as much as anything and then lounges at night and in mid day with dinners and suppers of her queerer personagi, playwright and poets, i.e. unemployed, with wolves hounded women who see Portia Incantata as their Amazon sergeant. I think of them ghosted women of cunt riddled Tuscany now, over fed and over wrought, pig women married, if at all, to silly effeminate men with the arms of little girls, who bustle all day of their self aware emigrant and importance they speak  for women as a whole you know, don’t witches always…?, as these Medeas of the porticos barter and bitch preen and spit within their sausage eating lives, and slick lips, about Gods great and small, reciting poetry, always wrong, and I see them in my minds eye, these porcine hag women as down this ways of Italay, the gals have the cagiest glares and smirks of goddesses and are allowed to get old as is Italia’s mater, who here is called Il None, the old woman.

This is unlike Tuscany, where a woman in her sixties if lucky enough to get there, shall and I SAW IT EVEN IN THAT GOLDEN AGE of before, as things were starting to unravel, that women of an elderly sort would be wearing white pancake makeup and rouge, dresses fitting for a younger woman, throwing thankless agendas of orders and demands all at Sicilian help, sleeping about with various pool boys and handy men, acting the roles of schoolgirls, as here they would be grandmothers already in a noble mindful age. But, ah in abortive, circus prepetuus, Tuscany, these woman used married if at all as a social contract, a way to get ahead, Love is unknown, and god help the father that arraigned a marriage for them, this is slavery of the Persian order. By the by, they’re heinous the Persians, at slavery at this the Greeks are right, and overseers in Susa, write this own, are exceedingly vicious in ways even Romans are not, as after all, a slave is a bought item as much as anything, and why go through a slave like a broom, using it until it falls to bits, as even a Roman would say. As there on Persepolis, the slave is as much as anything a toy, a human trinket and a psychotic sexual perverted element enters the always bald head of the whip carrying house persona Forman of the Aryan Persian plantations, as they are cruel for no other reason than they like it. The Persian men see themselves all as Princes is a way that even Romans do not, they are the instigation of the Aryan mean of superiority -- and no offences, if a Persian is superior, then gods help the Humana race,--these half breed as half breeds always do, must and shall always placed themselves in the centre ring and damned attention, which is why the more --if it can be believed-- sanative Greeks, half breeds of half breeds by then, and with a dollop of the sunny Mediterranean to affect the incursions creeds of bovine loving Persians, think them hideous and to be wiped out. In this coming global super war, they already to Persian disgust, have aided by caveat and fiat, writs and briefs, by terms and out and out necessary surrender, with the un- Aryan Romans, who come from their last great victim the Illiates, Aeneas, farther than make the deals that now niggardly  made Cyrus boys seem itching to make and be included into what is laughingly now called Europe, at which they and the grosser barbarians to their white trash north, the Dachas, are exempt now and if the Greeks have their way, forever. Place this down, if the Romans are seen as acceptable guardians to the Greeks, what must they have figured what a world of soot the Persian as masters would so create…?

I am not shocked to know that still and even sowed than before, that men of means came streaming into lower Italay, here called Apulia, though Italay seen as an insult here due to the Greek blood of the king for whom the peninsula is named, unless some is one of the Roman captains or Turin matrons mentioned here before. They come in her in drives and in lines, to collect low-level but blistering warm and sensual farm girls, as did prince Tyberion collect the field dove called Veronica, all that time ago. Now it is incessant, and though the stupid men of Tuscany think these wrens of the wheat fields of lower Apulia shall be kept berated and pregnant, they get themselves a nose full of trouble as the woman here, even more than the men, seem hard headed and stubborn and give into nothing. Many tire of the Alban lakes and the bubbling red Tyber, and its two chafed yellow and red designs, and return here with children, never to be seen in the sparkling divine team nets of magical led Naples ever again. Some of these hot tempered temptresses find enough of a yellow eyed fat bloated Tuscan giving out orders, and cut their throats, which hasn’t stopped the caravans of men from Tuscany coming here to find themselves a lovely ankle at all, as the women of scanty Lucan hills become witchlike, and here the gals have the lethargic aplomb of goddesses fresh from Parnassus. Here I think of Portia on the Seta again, which she can sue as if a weapon.

Then, --I heard my name. This, which froze me in the night. I had come down this way to ferry Portia to the theatre, where she was playing the girl in the italic love story so hated by the kind of fat porcine women I disquiet back home, or what was home, and being a senator still have a muscle reflex, and thus shall and will do anything for money still, especially if it entails little to no work. Standing here in the December coolness, I heard my name, called out by a croaking horse voice, Corenlio…!My Boy, my old boy! , he said, this voice rung against the slick cements and marble faces, it rang in my ears as my neck exploded with tingles of standing hairs. And it was as if a knife hurled at me that had just nicked my ear. I froze, though the night was not that cold. Again I heard my name, Cornelius...!, the old voice said, Cornelius Sabso...!, my name in truest Tuscan, no less, though it didn’t sound like the voice of a catcher of the imperial police. I turned. There on a stoop of an ancient house, all gray and stone and small porticoes and brick, I saw an old man stead in a night shirt on the gray steppes, with two granite Griffins, the flying leopard’s which are chimaeras and sacred to the indigenous Italics, lounging back was he, old as the sun it seemed, anointed as the steps. And brought down lower as once a Tinia he seemed, as he ever had been.

Cornele, he said with foxiness, but I couldn’t place him, I just saw an old pervert seeming dried out broken old man whose white chest was shown to the moon in a defiance against the cold that the old codgers hate so.

Sir…?, I said with some learned assembly grace, I had no idea who this at all was. He smiled and an old mans smile at me, he looked like a bull come to close to the city, that sometime seems old and forgotten by his tribe, or let by the young and virile bulls of summer who drive him out, to die in the highway weeds, as one can see in those self same italic fields from which the swells pluck their dandy Fucks. He smiled, sadly, an old mans face, a Chiron sat before me, old and feeble and mean and broken like the Plutocratic barge captain, but no, not completely I must aside here, he were as if a joker’s wild card game of Philistrata, a game of cards loved by the sailors boys, the harlequin in this deck, seemed to recall this man in my dark visions, as he summed as an old harlequin even loved by the Romans boys, in the twinkle left in his tired but still mischievous eye.

Cornele...dear fellow!, he said again stead there on the portico, It is me, dear BOY, he said, smiling through a lisp that seemed caked with wrinkles and recriminations as no one I had ever seen. Me..?, I  asked, I really couldn’t finger him. He tsked and rolled his eyes, He comically begged, with hands outstretched, Really, Senator Baron, I am that forgettable, young man…?, --its me, Titus, --Titus Lauro…! I was stunned. A thousand waves of recognition spun about my bean, in front of mine eyes. How could I, I thought now looking at the old crow, not have recalled him at first blush! It was him, the czar of the senate, the king, King Lauro, after the ancient Italic story thereof, he was the tycoon of the senate once, brother of imperial rascal with delusions of Grandeur Mauro, of the Mauritian families, both going close to the moon in wings of paper not to collect ice on their wings, and come crashing back to the Tuscan earth below, from the moon that is made of snow.

I embraced the old man, whose chest as I said was incredulously open to the brisk early winder winds. But alas here in lower Italy winter is but a rumour at best, as it has kept the warmth of the Africa from where it as a province first blasted off in the immemorial items. Still knowing how the old adore their heat, this was amusing, though nothing was abasing about him. I saw him, and kissed his dry wrinkled parched lips, not in the diplomatic way of all soldiers who must at peace conferences show that the faggot ethic of war has become triumphant either, but in watch ways of a long lost son might kiss his old decrepit father, as they had and did before the Tuscan women and their suckles husbands started trying to warehouse the old as they do the poor. I must say a feeling of ennui came over me, a sadness at so viewing the once great  and thoughtful princeps of the senate, war god extraordinaire. As like all Maurine’s from the marches where Mars was sacred, steady before me as if a an old man longing in a sun visable only to his tired but still streaming with playful malevolent eyes. My my Gracious gods, he said, To think on this night, with me in the midst of my night fevers, --[this an old woman’s code for something, an infirmity, and I am not sure what,  but would explain his sweaty lounging in the moonlights]-that I would look up and see you, boy of the Senate,..gods furious, I recall when you were a little shaver, a mop haired kiddie, your mother guarding you about, ah what a dish she was, no offence, tall and thin and lithe and lean, what a woman she was, how did we, we asked, that that woman marry a farmer sort, so strange, we all adored her so, and wished to make her our wives, so different than a mistress eh, old boy…?, he winked and said. 

I thought of Lydia. Yes, I said, sadly. He laughed his old man's laugh, as this old man, no matter how fallen, no matter how decrepit, no matter how devastated and demoralised still held his italic joy at life, as we all do have and cant be beaten out of us middle sea-ers. Dear Cornelius-- the noble and the im-corruptible, he said wisely and sweetly, So, did you finally take the advice of the dower men hand come down here to Regium to retire from your life of palatial crime, boy..? He spoke here keened with a moon reflecting glint in his blue eye. I must say cisalpine not withstanding I see more blue eyes here in the King's city than I do in dower but marketing up for it by being insufferable Tuscany, but that might be be cause if the Greek insertion of years now. The Greeks too find the siren Italian girls more delightful than the syntax correcting nags of the Lucan Hills, he said, And so they had no real intentions of stealing the counties up north as their figure seem to, like Carthaginians, dispel the cold. The now taken as choral group truth that Italay is a sun soaked play land and a paradise in the ancient idea of the word meaning a great garden of Eden like rain woods, where the earth brims with fruits and nuts is not completely true at all, and true less about Tuscany than most parts.

I laughed, well, I said, I suppose I am retired as much as anything, I am a fugitive, from Picots dogs, an émigré from the walls of the madhouse at Tiberius Castillo. He was not shocked by this in the means. Eventually if not lucky enough to die, all senators are taken in buy the bribery coast, he said a bundle of credos and reminiscences, Especially, evilly if they don’t have the sense to know they have stolen well enough. Ah yes, He said, This is at its core, the life of a senator, I stopped, he said, paying much attention when I got out of Tuscany with my neck. Beware..., he said to me, with an old snivelled finger up, when a life time of the devoted notion to even a party of the state can in a moment of madness be taken away by the cut throats of imperial power, dear boy, the knife welders are a sin to all political houses, you know. I knew, I said. A beauteous brunette with a body like a dancer, a specific type of dancer at least, came in and gave the old man a silver plate upon which as sausage and a kind of soft cheese they make down here and a goblet of wine which looked like a liquid Libra, a pound of dark black wine, a sort to me, that taste’s like schoolboy pencil, but which the older types like Lauro, I noticed, always did like. He offered me a bite, but a begged off signal was made, and she smiled a wide perfectly toothed actress smile at me, a darker skinned Regiumiate version of Portia, but more as the Greeks would say, Earthy, this a sin to the local dykes , with a bosom worthy of Versa, the hearth mother herself. The old man smiled and winked at me. She is my nurse, my wet nurse, the old man said in a way not as smarmy as it might have been, as after this, the old fool took the hand of the beauteous winch girl, dressed in white as if a vestal herself, who knew where she had come from and why, as his nurse and his watcher, and there was a moment of sweetness exacted here.

He took a half a sausage, which is made here as nowhere else in Italay, and bit it off and started to eat with what seemed to be teeth made of ivory of a elephant, an African clever innovation called dentures, but which has some comical aspects. I sat near him, awaiting for the show to end that Portia had graduated to from the Greek burlesque house now closed, I thought, and helped the old man to eat, the least I could do. HE was a giant once, yes, this old fool; he was a shaker of the earth, who could command armies with the stomp of his booted foot. HE WAS A GIANT IN THIS MAN, AND IN THIS LAND ONCE, STILL WHEN GIANTS ROAMED THE ERATH, BEFORE THE SALONS TOOK HOLD, BEFORE OLYMPUS--NO PARNASSUS, CRASHED INTO THE JAGGED EARTH OF TUSCANY. A giant lived within the now broken old Pluto I saw before me. He was virile once, devoted to the Patricia in ways the anarchists owned by the war consortiums and oil machinates, and goat owners and farm lenders, and sword makers, the blade handlers noted by the giant in Tuscany, are not, as spoken of above. I come out here at night especially when getting the fevers as I have tonight, I feel as if Icaria, flitting yup too near tore the brother sun, he said, And my temples all sweat and my body feels at fire, ah, the age of the closure I can see, a hundred years old I am almost, or passed it, who can recall, he said, another tear at the blood sausage in his white haired hand. I am sorry the finally got you with that crime of bribery, as it was, old boy, he said, but I shook my head, no, rather than that merest cage to cleans the house out for some other reason as bribery always is, no I said, I was seen as Impious, I added, To to the god man known as Aquila.

He rolled his massive eyes which stemmed as bright as ever and thoughtful and conniving as any student of the aster of Italian black arts Politics, Marco Valdo would have been. He sneered through lips made slick with meat and rice, and peppers and salt pork stuffed into this variation he added and told me, the innards of a sheep, the same sort sued for condoms in even sex crazed Rome. That buffoon, he disdainfully said, thinking of the man he only referred to as Quota, Oh Ye Gods,!, torture that rat, that Turgid booted Roman!, he swallowed, That, that misanthropic bitch, that cunt that queer little bitch, he cried,…I know to this day, he said, as I had opened a gash a wound healed , or maybe not so much long ago, That idiot in cisalpine Milania, he ruined the campaign and made me go up on charges, desperate to become the captain of the army as I was, I, a senator no less, this boy, this apparatchik, this cocksure queer of languid poetics, he thought himself the equal to me! Me…!, he sailed, the voice still powerful enough to ring off the dark colonnades of the areas.

I come out here at night, he said, and I listen to the symphonies played at the placed that sued to be Giro’s the dancing hall, the men there play the Violetta, the string box with a bow that the Greeks despise as they didn’t think of it, or can even portend to, like the Italian book, or anything else, that they didn’t see in Syria first, he said. Damn little bitch, he said with fresh undying anger, he thought he would make me a trophy of his like that fucking cunt Darius, and his Persians lions, hunting, you know he did, Hunting, while Alexander was at the gates of Susa, fucking punks, all of them fucking punks, women hearted bitches, they all are, he explained, and started to cough.

Silly little bitch Quota, he said with a sneer and a hatred that came off his lips like left over bile from upchucking, That queer boy lover thought hisself the measure of me, Me, the lion of the senate, they called me when he was still jacking off and belly rubbing like a Trojan in the boys pissure, I, he said with grand madness, I came to him and said he would pay he would, he would pay his due and his tribute to me, this smarmy little fuck, --[his weepy eyes glistened as he played the baritone in an opera that never ended in his mind] He thought he was something, a mere copy of our divine Canniolinus, ah but he was gone when Canniolinius was taken in the Roman guard, yes the Romans arrested him to show how brazen we Tuscans  had become, we begged the Romans for theirs teeth an their cops and their imperial mp's and Quota was going into the woods, he marched not an inch with Gaius, though he portended as much. And, I, Titus then said, gloating with viscousness, I told him so that day when I demanded him as a visitor as all men given capital offend charges can for their casum, I called him to me in jail, I wasn’t there to write poetry like some saint, I told him this much, boy, I shall take you down, you faggot fuck, and make you taste the ground like you’d never expect…, I had the papers and the proof that our Tuscan hero was a Roman blooded bastard, and I told him, he who was fond of the African roots of the name Kaiser, the killer of elephants, that I was a lion, dirt bag, a lion still even then as an older man, I am anointed!--, But I am a lion, young fellow, Soine Lione, Aslanio est mea, and see how you can hunt me down, Draius, as I burn your effigy to the fucking ground.

There was a stage quiet in the December night, only the strains of violin and music hall bands played in the long distance darkness.

I …I said, I am sorry if I upset him,. I said to the curvy lass who was his nurse.

Don’t be concerned, she said, He rails once a night about this Quota, she said, He stems firth his memory and was so glad when we heard of his death at the hands of his lover that he broke his hip dancing a jig. We laughed. Then with old mans redemption the readapting of out living one's enemies, the best which one can hope for the old man with gray plush of hair coming from a gray pot marked forint, early in the days of old he was quite the centurion looking war man, who had taken over the army after the fall of his brother Mauro and as the liberal party. I Was a target to the young man without feelings or sympathies, he said, Yet I knew Quota was but who saw the elephantine party as the earliest ways to advance, Kaiser. I knew he had sabotaged the front liens, I knew he had made sure the call to arms had come when it shouldn’t have to allow the cisalpine dirt bag cunts to slice the army up, making sure the armaments had net even been securely handed out yet and damaged the whole thing as a suicide mission from the get.

He seemed alive as anything, did Taitus now, I write, the night fevers not inhibiting him, in fact they seemed like coal to be sued to make the steam engines of his hatred and his nursed grudges take hold, recreating him as the technocrat pre excellence. I knew as much, and I could prove it, he said, That tit mouse, that faggot, that --this Aquila--[Yeeyyeh, he said, the word itself seemed to make his lips taste poison,…] thought he had me, me, this schoolboy thought he could out think me, well, I was in fact derelict in my duties, in the idea that I hadn’t cut his throat when that blond sissy came to the front having fucked his way with Strabo, that other queer fuck, I should have killed that sun fearing queer when I first laid eyes on him, as Mauro had suggested,  but was over turned, so much for his being a tyrant he…?

He continued, AH, BUT BOY FROM MY PAST, FROM THE GOLDEN PAST, recall this son of Tuscany, he spoke as warning…as liberali, as leftists we have our every scratch and our every drip of blood measured by the filth, who glom onto us, and make us into a party of pacifists and welfare givers lest these darkie cunts from sic-slay ever fight at a war’s apron, Oho, he added with joy, not me, war is leftist, I say, and I in a jail sclera as were you I take it, the only thing the left and right share as a belief system is the imperia, the police state, and I connived and I thought to and at the Tuscan Army treason trials, I was made to stand at I wasn’t going down like my pig trussed hanging brother, motherfuckers--as an old sailor in an navy that the romancers of Alba  to this day can not pull or float a ship bigger than a garbage scow, I, he said, I went at Agggeeeela…stinking half breed peon poaching bitch, that  I am the son of the marchland, I am a student and a soldier of Mars, dammit!, he said. He was triumphant again, --I took him on and made that green eye shade wearing faggot let me out to his disconcertion as I knew forever what he was and what he had done, and so a consummate fairy, he couldn’t do shit about it. And I got away to this tranquil spot to be freed and free for ever. He sanely smiled I am told that when Lucius allegedly placed the blade in his lovers guts, he said, Recoirdea Rexium Lear…Remember King Lauro, he said to have said, and when I heard that,--[he teared up] I knew my life had been of some worth in the ducts of the cosmos.

We spoke and he asked me what I had been up to. I said I was again Practicing  law, for pennies on the dollar, sometimes free, which he found a fools errand. But the people deserved an advocate against these Greek drag queens. I said I had thought of the play righting and working at ate theatre sidesteps so close to his home. I sounded him out about of my first play in treatments, The Life Of CANNIOLINUS.

His wide gray blue eyes, callused with cataracts and made all the more strangely pretty, were now officially wet. He carefully sipped, the last mad king of Tuscany as they had come to call him, and he recalled the to me that story that I placed here as verbatim as we say, as I can as each word seemed to cut itself into my minds eye. This Quota, he said to show how sometimes one become enamoured of the gods and all seems to spin about a fluke orbit of the pretty little cone hither finger of the pratfall loving Signora Fortuna, again who we have saved Turan from a fate worth than being a fish smelling Venus, and Titus seemed to be the champion of the mad man, he said, But too, lest me tell you this, when all was over with Canniolinus, that night was it December or October, who Can recall,…I saw as the chamberlain of the senate then, the die casting oats eating know nothings of the right wing literately against me for my brother who they had made a monster for his crime of speaking against the needs and the desires of the always people minded continuums of middle Italay, I saw Quota the boy come out of hidden finally now that Canniolinius was as dead as a doorstop. It was over, and the mad man was brought down by the kings of bribes called a senate, he said sadly. And all was over, as even the people could tell who had started to mill about as Cortello, he said with distain, that red head jackass had the nerve to demand a grass crown triumph. We had become killers, boy, you recall you were there, but a boy and cant know what I knew, old then, we had become killers then, my son, --[he caped a weathered old hand against my chin and cheek and this old anarchist fascist, who even recalled what he was, made me feel like a six year old buy muttering the wise men of the assembly again, in an empire now gone and recalled by bought men selling crumbling cement to the farce that is the state].
I saw this boy that night, the old man spoke in a voice of ancientness as I hoped to god he would write his bellicose, angry, and defiant memoirs as always have loved farce don’t you too…?, and he spoke with a gravity not most or any in the political marry go round, a circus instrument of Pegusi that fly on garlanded poles, and he spoke with a sadness that god knows no Greek can touch. That night, when the blond pale Quota was crying mad leapt that his parson had been killed by Roman mercenaries paid to do this, no less, showing a certain irony comes with shamelessness  no…?, as he ran into the woods around Laurentium, he missed, as a writer of farce would call, the best part. As Cortello faggily and silly lead this strange funeral paraded circus day across the ways and the vistas of Laurentium, a funny thing happens on the way to the requiem, and I SHALL CALLED THAT HERE NOW THAT I RECALL it, as I rectal it. As the fat bloated man in white, a true candidate, stood at the head of this parade with the beaten and bruised body of Gaius Canniolinius now lead as a carp and nailed to poles in the fashion of a Sicilian marionette, at which they are masters of making, at one proponent as the pretty woman and elderly old men and dice players and pimps and street toughs of Tuscany saw this variation on imperia which the always hungry and always needy Cortello knew as all Narcissus do, the only crime is to me, and to you there is no insult, he smiled and waved as if the dead faced people were enjoying this.

Then, a man in the crowd, a face in the dark, far from the torches of this triumphal, far from the white robed men of the elephantine party, the know nothing sorts who perpetually placed a proscenium of the past when their families were still wherever they were, as they are almost never in Italay these champions of virtue, took a ripe old squash I think, and hurled it at the procession, where the body of poor dead Canniolinius was like the Menvra that is often a plaster bassinet gal god who is carried through the old city’s stares. This I saw, he said, as the face of Cortello turned white, as he looked into the black outlines of gathered men a few years behind the sad woman who turned their eyes away.

But the gourd that hit Cortello  on his breast was fallowed by another, and then more plums and things torn down from the trees and globs of mud and things picked up by the street. Suddenly the old men faggots of the right side of the imperial eagle, seen as an anathema even to the dull like conservatives like Strabo, they started to as such men of the patria do, slink aback when in goad in a fire fight such as even with fruits, as they fear war as anything that will engulph them a whit. The men and boys seeing this strange crucible took to welting the men of the senate with figs and eggs and anything, he said, As finally the joyfulness of this senatorial moment wasn’t lost upon the crowd that had been made for it. A circs broke out, he said with glee, and these old faggots of the senate house took off, allowing poor beaten and broken Canniolinius to come crashing to the street, he said, So, as a last insult from the senate house, but he, now a naked old man and a crotchety fell to the cobblestone earth as men in silk and purple and yellow sun priest flammen vestments were flitting about and truing to avoid the food fight that this less than despiteful requiem had come. I saw the café of fat bloated Cortllo as he had had his bulbous face smeared with street food, he sassed in extremis, unable to think of the correct bromide to called here as his sort always must, and to which he has defamed the black but once fun at of the political.. He grabbled about demanding laughing policemen who are paid in change and accepted to be occupation forcers of the oligarchy, a stupid look on his fat face, his lips still slick and glistening from her perpetual diet of pork meat and booze. He now defeated in ways that Canniolinius had not, demanded that the people who had hurled invective and slop at him be gathered up as the melee continued, and he screeched for honour, the old man spoke, Needful of that thing he is bereft of and thinks can be bought in bags like so much winter wheat. We spoke as old friends do, until out of the stage door came beauteous Portia, men in swooning sing song calling begging her to be their wives, or at least give them a night. She said she was ready to go home, and I got the cart and prepared to bring her to home. But I knew where the old man was now, good to recall my life didn't start that night in the tempest. I told him he could come to have dinner with me on Saturnalia, as I would pay Italianne for the meal if so need be. And he winked I had done well with my nets, as had he, but advised him I was only Porta's caretaker as the massive man I thought owned her would cut my neck should I get fresh with her.

If I have ruined the story , well, my sincerest pleas applies, dear girls you all, as if you couldn’t see the ultimate end to the tale, deareis, well, then Tuscany deserves you in whole. …But back at the academy, an idea from Syria as so much is approached by the first white folk of time, by the dower and awful Greeks. As it became apparent that Canniolinius as a man of ethics must do if worth a grain of salt, was about to take off on his beautiful black Pegasus alike Horse, and take off into the hinter streams  as a mania addled enemy of the state, I as a boy then quickly walked to the temple of Concordia near the Carrere slate pits from which Laurentium was formed. There in then sombre temple aspects and the high valuated ceilings upon which the Tuscan arts of fresco were so applied, as to yet unknown  and unseen and unmade by roman émigrés, I stood before the smiling Goddess of fate herself, she smiling as all wayward and ironic Tuscan gods so do, as opposed to the venial drama gods of the Greek world. Tuscany was gone, I knew as much as even as a boy, and stood before the well that is there in the honour of the goddess at which a penitent shall wash his face.

The little girls, all dressed in white curriculum habits walked past me as an older lesbian mater waked them along, but she was kind as opposed to some, and smiled a smile not dissimulate to the one held by Turan the apostle goddess at the alter scene. And as the rest of our lives was to become a wasteland of welfare bribe and commerce, all roads leading back to the consortiums who owned Italay now lock stock and wells, I thought of the divine novice Veronica and the empty cell at the edge of the quarry in which she, as if an animal, this is how bad the viciousness of overfed sorts can become, worse  than Sicilians ever can be, worse than any staving men who keep their provide as the last thing to go, in placed like consumptive Tuscany, the first thing shed, was kept in Imprisonment. A girl the age of sixteen or less, was kept in a  box as if a quarantined animal, or a crate in the kennela, as she had committed the favoured charge of the ante now, no not bribery, but Impiety. I looked yup at Turan, as she as all Tuscan gods do, seems that they were persuaded know of all things that don’t you know. And she was now gone, Veronica, the soon to be Turan penitent who would be swallowed up in a well of cement, as this had bcome quite the rage among the vicious hags of the town, to destroy the prettier girls, leaving us with the fat swine as a way to be more easily married,  all any lesbian dreams of really.

But, at this time, that time, this same time, God help the fool who doesn’t stay close to the roads as set out by women who lunch and read as a joke, God help anyone who doesn’t speak as if in a farce, and doesn’t wait their applause and or laugh lines, God help the pitiable fool who doesn’t stay to the heart of the matter as set out by semen suckers of all hues, who stay in the shadows, with the white lung that comes from imperial marble dust. I felt horribly bad that the mad man had taken his vestal, and fucked her well and now took off with an army of men to draftee against the indefinable senate, so fickle with rot and spilled cum and wine as it had deteriorated into. I felt bad for our tracer hero, now doomed and marked as dead, in a senate now drilled with lovers of death, who found war and abortion as a similar cadre and a stand for both a malarial song for both as their feet were in silken slippers, far away from any turgid spills.

And I was glad that Canniolinius had lived out his creed as Quota his supposed best boy had gone way, fearful as his sort always is, wading for that destiny that is always later, by definition, as all is past and all in prologue, and all his prelude, and all is after all, fallen. I thought of pretty blue black haired Veronica, the girl of the white veil, temptress nun like none others, who escaped at least  for now the fate of being drowned in liquefied rock, and thought of how someday the Italian earth shall open up and show a hell or at least a purgatory an italic idea of paying the boatman to go back and forth, and they shall find entangled lovers talking the death penalty of mixed stone that shows how virulent the overeaters can be, as madness and swords are puling into the known gut. And I as a boy would, as if at a play of Hercules, I envied the man his Mars--he like Lauro was a Marsh Lander, and his glorious noble death, as we after he, would be stuck with smiling men whose alliance was always for sale and who spoke their chanteys and their bellowed marks at those they called pariahs, always charging by the word.