A LETTER TO JENNIFER DEGUZMAN, VALIANT COMICS, MARVEL… ET AL…
Dear Comic book submissions editor.
Posted are drawings, images, pages, ideas and writings all sent to see if there is any interest on your part to give a modicum of say to anyone who does anything other than self encysted adolescence is tough comics, womanish prattle, and of course assassins. I show my bona fides by both having been dismissed by assailants credo hack Warren Ellis, than seeing he did a book using a idea of mine called Planet of fiction, which posts could attest to if need be. I wish to know if there is any smallest opening in your comics consortium, as these pages are despite being enamored of the hero an archetype somehow hated by the floppy makers comics have become, are devoted to the Roman etches of Hercules and Venus, if that means anything.
Though in works in have the ability to personalize this letter, I wrote it once and Xeroxed it five times, never changing the heading, as this is after all only comics books.
Oh, I occasionally out of no where I am given a thumbs up from someone, as was reminded of a essay I am writer of which amusingly is still up, a first for hated me, called ‘Capote‘, in which I was not amused by the making of Truuuman, though he is still a boyhood hero of mine, and created the New Amsterdam village I saw in my head as a place to escape the Warhol hated Pollock town of Pittsburgh, into an epic hero. The Truman I admired did a jig when he hared that the man he had come to hate, yes hate, Dick or Perry, who can recall, was killed by the state, and could be rid of that book, which by then had been more a crimp in his style than he thought when he wanted it just to be a piece for the new Yorker, about the American Prairiea, that Gore avoided like the plague. This came out of the blue and now dead Capote is refashioned by to me over wrought artiest Hoffman, which I always made the case, an acting turn was done much more ably and unfemmy by great English actor Toby Jones, who had a edge which caused him to be un corralled by awful English attempt at unromantic intellectual imperialism again, Harried Poftre, along with Ian McKellen too prefect as a wizard for that anglicized shit. Caveat emptor as perfect magical incantation. [I was told by someone snippy that I was wrong, and that Toby Jones is in fact in Fairy Plotting, as agin may not have made myself clear. I think Toby Jones is a consummate actor and could have brought a humanity to that drivel as a teacher, especially the befuddled academic, always, who allows antichrist not quite Kemeter to become the evil so incarnate only a child post heavy petting can save English hegemony of the earth. But who ever said the English have to abide by any ancient rules when there is a deadline…? There always comes appoint where Victoria, like Octavius, said enough fun is had and woman have to start birthing children, future tax payers, as we have done to queers, as we push to marry and adopt before the teachers unions, see,,,?, doth make illiterates of us all. I think I hated Harry Pauper as thought magic couldn’t be taught like liberalism and or car repair. I think he could have been a wizard, or an actual being and didn’t have to have cgi paled all over him, but instead might have given some humanity to that crap, had he been left to act as a human being in whole.]
As was at a comic book store with a girl, a shady character of comics I speak to there, spoke to me about last night’s Comic book men, which I luxuriated in as saw the great Adam West, as now a Southey pretends he is Batman, and all is as they say in synch. He is not a fan of that show, as my brother whose only comic book was Mad, told me Ill meet you at the pretzel stand. The guy tole me, as if with contraband, that he had a name If I wanted it, an in at Marvel, and I said sure why not. He handed me a slip of paper with an address which I guess can be found in the yellow pages, but attached to a name, which Might be the money shot in all of this. I have a letter here somewhere from Jim Shooter, so have been seen by the biggest, and yet, I took this name dutifully as the pretty woman looked at old heavy metals, which I offered to buy her a copy, at seven fifty no little gesture on my part, and bought for her. So, I decided to send it off, left over Xeroxes the earlier unheeded comics makers who either see my work as an anathema and or as ignorable, more latter. I thought the fact that I never learned to drive as an epileptic boy and would have to be ferried about would somehow dissuade her from going anywhere with me, but she was fine with it, as likes the act me and my brother do, Like Lenny and Squiggy, a buddy of mine in art school would do a bit called The Gagazini Brutters at stores as gumbas, except with my brother its more real, as I am perpetually catching up, as we have fun. And I started to think about all that shit perpetrated on me by the overtly sexual of that catholic dump, in the land of Penn state and on cue tears by sissy's no one weeps for you because the jurists made you read Ovid in third grade. And thought of how things I was sued as a knock against me, were how people lived outside of the perpetual lords of Flatbush of catholic school, in that I find people like Jimmy Fallon and Will Ferrell did things like haying their mothers tape Letterman for them or had a lp of Saturday night live as kid and sued the things bas a way to calibrate self made shows, all things that just so bothered gueers and lunkheads here in Pittsfield, and it angers me as I watch the lovely girl reading a book she had the pretty girl impunity to take out of a bag and flip through, An affable gent who looks like the bear man from the Sarah Silverman show is not amused, and I feel a bit off put as already walked into a new fifty two set up, backing into it last Halloween. It wasn’t just that my dick strongly grew at the sight of a long lean yet slightly chubby ish girl reading a book with a robot in drag on it, it was an image that encapsulated all that was life, sad if she were an Italian girl on a clamshell, and all I eschewed as I stupidly even my father told me allowed these hakes and immigrants now no better than drag queens and perverts, a fine place for the people of the wolf to be, as I had strange mixture of bile and anger up in me. Not to mention out of nowhere it seemed my body as producing lubricants in my cock. My meter is always running. It was strange that a gal in a cottin t shirt and jeans would produce this affect, as we are slathered in sexual everything, but then thought of Nero at the orgy, enraptured with the girl in the window, and thought again, something that the queers, fags Jews, hags, sissys and Negroes never understand, maybe not.
I therefore, occasionally I give in to a kind of nicked aorta sort of ambition, it spurts out and then an applied pressure makes it clot and stop. But, giving in again I went to veracious classified comics ads such as Mandy and like usually after a half hearted admiration as I gain mostly, as like when seen by Disney artists, was told this work, Machiavelli in Love was lovely and pretty , but not quite what we do. This used to mean much to me, except now Id like at least something on the divine resume besides good intentions an attaboys from people who gave up to the mouse factory long back. Like I could explain, Disney once did story’s about Cyrano with basso profoundo Mel Ferrier, and Verne, before they sold out to user car lover Lucas and his fairy tales of the cold war splayed cross the milky way. I send these out as both electronic and too, as Xeroxes here and there, as find spite doesn’t work in a Roman circus, and when surrounded by house everythings at cable television harems and covens, who find nothing is ever wrong with anyone who pay them, eases that these house coons are without shame, and after awhile, hoping for the Irish beg men and such of Bellicheck and Barry after a while starts to get on ones nerves, as was warned early on by priests unaware of the gloom gathering then which like Virgil I can now use in hindsight as the backdrop of Rag, being in the high noon of 1970, that there is no sanctimony more insufferable than that of the paid, and worse yet, there is no ship that can lose its rats as easily. Keep a look out kids, for Rag one, circa 2005, being finished and polished as we speak, and soon enough sent to printers, as again, if there is nothing as fake a salon queer, Jonnie never having reached that state of the queen in make up in Ansonia recalling the long lost and sadly recalled past, I never thought he would, as again Tyberius lives out his curse of outlasting them all, its better to bug out before the ratings complete crater, there is nothing as real as scribbled big titted girl or an insult left on a Roman wall.