02 June 2015


After about three months of diligent work, became tiered and though had sent off a myriad of résumés, begged off doing any more commissions stuff. I went comic artist better than last time, whose pages I still have and cant quite make the vamp ire femme fetale spy assassin book one would need to make all the pages make sense, perhaps a mind more keyed and keen of comics like Warren Ellis, a schoolboiy forever worse than I, it would take to make that mud world a timely atlas could carry. As they are some lovely work I have been told, but cant quite do anything with them as don’t know who to either wrap them into one thing or make a whole book about vampires and or assassins that would be worth the while. I did about five things, only one going south, only one being something I didn’t want to do or complete, as I couldn’t do even a Son of Satan marvel in the seventies sort of thing, as gore and shit now is their sacrament as the comic book queers have gone native and mean, something like the white woman and their negro charges. I am too Roman and too italic deep down not let any Irishmen warehouse me, as my Roman ethic of the thief is too hard too fast to fascinating and too affixed to me, like say those Cutlasses that would be tied to arms to not only steep the bleeding but to continue soldering while in a tourniquet. But that’s just me.

The post made by me because of too many humors and bloods approved in me wailing and crashing into each other, Madverstizing, has become my most views post since of all things, Rachel Maddow and the kiss, as within three days according to analytics I went from 48,000 views to the milestone number of 50, 900, all because of the Sunday post in which I, dare I…?, said something against and agin the sort of things that Franck Rich and assorted yentas see as culture. This is big to me, like say placing in a Amazon contest as was told by a white woman I didn’t understand the great needs of the grand oracle of middlebrow, Amazon, so when took a bunch of stories about the Tuscan calendar and the original rapture and bound them together, and hurled them in one championship Sunday, to reach the top 250 of such and even moerso devoted times to the tower of babble, made me feel fine. Of course the woman who I had to prick with this acceptance that well, this meant nothing as ten thousand books were all shit and amateur and the like, ah but that not what you said, as an agent of the culture, you said I didn’t understand what Amazon wanted and now, well, here it is, as I have had a knack of turnabout that the black creeps the comic queers and their miss Anne comptrollers find infuriating. And as I said, this as without single flourish or demeaning debussing trick to make my work acceptable to the opera sots of middlebrow, as that wouldn’t be fair. And too, since we are all about synergy, and no one may have an recollection or thought that hasn’t been vetted and cleared through legal, this post bothered some as I noted, who had to make a point to me about it, but the whole point of truth is in the telling, as the Jesuits said, only lies need validation, its only leis that need affirmation, ask Bill, to get as they say traction, and so made my point that Saturday for coming Sunday, and the leaving of another of the hallmarks halls of fame you make for idiots and incompetents, epics as writ for woman and such minded, and since we are all victims of the hard sell, we must hare sanctimoniously from a word from our sponsor, which is why after all, now, liberal television is unraveling between sad realizations from the folks who brought you Tripoli and Len Bias, and agin, and maybe for a first time, really, not a nigger, the acceptance and approbation of good white folks means nothing to Roman me. Go keep your niggers as planks of Wood still Chris, then add up all the votes you could get from those blue tenements amid and adrift in America, but always make sure that the white chicks are there to lead the coons  wayward from the apple store, your rat fucks, as that the hidden secret and warning in that check you cash from War Incorporated, which after all hollows your every argument out, which is why no one is watching as no one believes you, or the bag man whose now again looking for salvation from Fox news again to save his paltry ass.

I saw horrid house coon newcomer, plucked as heir by Jewry Jon himself, that Nightly hack, that high yellowiest of sneering, wheezing eye rolling ghost fearing chicken eating corn pone cunt Larrrry, as he lays it on quite thick for the camera, too late, in fact, unawares as his is Jewish handler that that ship lousy with termites has sailed and Barry himself was forest off in his little dingy, like Fred and Carrie as the lesbians in drag. Always tuned in Barry saw this coming as the senate in hit dying days of democracy sued the opportunity to get as much done as it could as the people sadly has spoken, what again…?, watch me pull a dead egale out of my hat, …and leave behind a fossil of a show where the Jewish hack friendlier to Bilbo than Keith, which says all, is getting out, to that constant strain of toaster mastery general liberal telecom eulogies that are unbecoming and sad, silly and without any real decency, as to them, once you are no longer able to read sanitized scripts and jokes on television to tell the white folks how good they are, you might as well be a corpse on a battlefield or in the phantom zone, anyway its not that important any more, and we have to talk about something other than the 93 cents. Ah but the economy is down turning, contacting in the sixth year of our green shoots turned to Arab spring, and no more you, you’ve had it bad all that time, that golden age that we can discuss the poor now cause you’ve lost so many seats and men of the people that the bribes aren’t what they sued to be.

So, I didn’t expect much more from this hack and his low rent brunettes like Jonnie had, wow this stuff inept isn’t even air worthy, but saw him bitching about the poor again, the memo went out, as I said, now that those sashes, like so many Cavalier jerseys, were sent onto the floor, Le Bro extending his fight the power bullshit to be recalled up, as so much, by someone working for the man every night and day. Didn’t see La Baron say two shit about the dead boys in Cleveland, as its money time, if not show times, and unrested is the head without Dwayne Wades crowns on it. This time its all about him, amusingly like Obama, the least place a narcissus really wants to be. Hello Larrrhey then between self litigious irritating shtick of wheeze, eye roll, I get it see see, and smirk, really it is insufferable, he is off to the unwatched decrees, have seen the ratings, again that ship has sailed, if not capsized, and so he goes and does his everyone is a racist shtick which after all got him the gig, as Jonnie didn’t get the laws of Horatian satire as writ by Lorne Michaels, types, my boy…Types,...you don’t look for another Belushi, as that is a fools errand, you don’t look for another Dan Ackroyd, you look for a another fat guy, Chris, Horatio, Bobby, or waspy boyish mime, a Hader, a Taron, you don’t look for another Jane Curtin, you look for another wasp princess, a Tina, Amy, the great Cecily, Kate, …Types, Disco Stu, my mahn, I thought you’d know, types, its had been the centaur of comedy since Plautus, a comedies dell arte of who you have come to know. Of. I don’t even know what this nigger was talking about, but heard the magic word Rome come from his thin half low brow high yellow breed lips, of course before eye roll, rim shot, and head cocked to the side as to see so much of his saffron skin. All for which I hope the gods who have his hero Barry mulling and scratching for votes from those he demeaned in his salad days of drone hurling impunity,  he now expects to save him, aha but everyone isn’t  dumb wop like Chrissie, glug glug, and so I hope the Mania, the witches of Roma, that Germanic Freud still saw whipping in the night destroy this coon, and do it quick. We aint like them the good nigger said, and I wonder what the hell Nephew Remus was talking about….what preecicely in unlike Roma here…?...vicious wives yearning for power, gloomy sentries taking bribes, welfare, perpetual war for perpetual pax, please Lahhhhry, explain it with whatever education Matthews let you have, as that drunkard he grows with a landholders almost a Leopard disdain that the Sicilians  weren’t better sorts,  between the feedings when they came, yikes!, as I was warned of the Irish priests and their eyes for the boys back since 1970. Oh good, Robert Altman’s brilliance is on, whose has it seemed a group of days devoted to his brilliant eye, is on, with Elliot Gould no less as Phillip Marlow, in the long Goodbye… and sadly will take any image from the seventies as it hopeful pre aids meaning and decency in this mess as I can get. As a Roman, I love a parade.

In my collected works, a trapper keeper from arts school days still shoved full of things which go no where, I found a brother word processor disk filed with txt and wps files which are unreadable and might as well be Sanskrit to me now. Sad as there is much good work here before I gave in as much as I have. One such file is a chapter of a book in my Roman trilogy from years back called Aliquis.

In the shape I feel I had to look the word back up in Google translation, as don’t recall half of what I knew then. This isn’t my usual blarney or windswept Italic stuff here, but hard and cold and firm writing, I once was castigated for for calling Curt, as that bothered some white woman heartily, though I found it in the book united states I think maybe in the famous essay The Twelve Caesars by Gore, as he described the ladino words of Sallust as being 'curt'. Meaning unadorened, no breathless crud here, And I got what he meant, and saw it here again as this was me at my most Heminwayesque, I use the esque and its clownish appropriation and not the more masculine and roman Ian on purpose,  and that wasn’t a compliment to me or it. The declarative sentence The papists taught me, is the sword of  liar, which is why Hillary wishes to unlike her blue streak husband, make every word count and every utterance be seen as a jewel, whereas Hubby sells baloney as they say by the Libra. WE SHALL SEE WHO UNDERSTAND THE ARTS OF POLITICS MORE, SHALL WE NOT. But these pages in txt were underdone by me and my flights of fancy or tangents as said by the comic’s journal explained to be before their cartoon dies, who wish a certain daily news staccato to be the foundation of their devotion to funny books. It was a tatter of a story, the second part of my Roman chronicles, where amusingly and not helping me, the Romans are all in all the villains, the grand city of Laurentium now a ghostly hole, which Barry avoided at Aquila, yes named for that tyrant in my book, Italay, and which Bill marinated in recalling his past Roman life.

Our story so far is this. In Rome, after Philippi, Caesar is triumphant and victor. I will try to sue the teletype, US Grant, missives from the Roman front verbiage I imbibe in the book, as if a Roman campaign diary, at which Caesar was a master. Caesar is lord of all he surveys, and is the top dog of the Roman kennel. Returning to Italay, he becomes sure he must be inedited to no one, as Caesar don’t like the position of being indebted to anyone, as see Chris Christy Above. Do you think they know at GE THATRER, that when they gleefully destroyed Christie, that since this was done after he saved Barry,  as he had that once they made him look corrupt as he must be as a Italian, that that sheen, or afro sheen or oil and vinegar, came off on Barry too, and made him look like he was a creation of a corrupt sort too…ah do they ever get that deep...?, I take it Imult didn’t tell you, does he know…?, does it matter as we unravel unwatched and just need to play out the string before we strike the set.

A campaign is begun, in these pages from 2007, to kill off any senators or anyone who has helped Caesar gain power under the guise of rooting out a conspiracy against Pompey, at which Caesar was its head and its soul, but now, with Pompeii dead, Caesar is racked with guilt and will eliminate any senator who net against the Romans state. In as now, after much work, he has Become the Roman state incarnate and sees any act against Pompey even though were done on his instigations  and behalf, as a crime against the continuum of Rome. It pays to be able to think this lawyerly when dealing with politics and or supersetion, if not both. A man to whom Caesar has plead for support was a godfather of sorts a keeper of button men, a gangster of the Roman tenements, who helped Caesar to foment trouble in the home front to allow him more time to coalesce his anti governmental forcers in Gaul, and allowed him to amass troop on the frontier at Rubicon valley, as the senate was racked with riots bread and other wise, and internal strife always a calling card of fascists in the wings as now. As Catilline said, riots and parades are similar and thrown by the same people. But unlike Fulvius, a senator whose was ripped to pieces, whose wife and daughters were sold to Caesar as concubines, ah Barry your soul is an ancient one, this godfather of the Roman ghettoes wont go down so fast, so neatly, and wants that most vulgar of things, payment for his Services as a trouble maker or the sort now owned lock stock and blackberry by the drone consortium. Caesar  is appalled by the temerity of this vulgar thug, the Barras of the world once at the purple think they were born there and don’t recall the cobblestones and alleys ways upon which they used to get footing for their pole vault into the faulty but ivory towers. As this criminal, as Caesar doesn’t want him to go to the senate and exclaim like usually, those riots weren’t done by spur of the moment warehousing just exploding one days, as it never is. These rioters were prodded by this godfather, owned by him and the stomp of his boot, a favorite allusion in Rome, could cause the house niggers of Rome and their anger to stop on a dime, or drachma as the case might be. Caesar goes up against the thief, who thinks he has the upper hand, ha, and Caesar has him arrested, charged and imprisoned, a Christ you never heard of, just with less admiration for the Roman lord than Gesu had.

The thief king tells Caesar that he will cause the tenements to explode and riots to continue; until he is given his due and a senate seat that he was promised. As if, Caesar says,  that the senate already corrupted enough demeaned into a shell would deserve to have an out and out thief in it pollute it, as I think we all felt when saw Jewish Prick Al , Al Franken get in and summarily hide as Jews do under a table. Caesar takes the crime lord and cuts his throat, hanging him from the triumphal march not long ago gone under by Caesars legions,  and hangs him with a remarked warning  written in blood, ‘Now what…?’ He stands at the tenements wound and controlled by the prince of thieves, and asks the filth and garbage, now what will you do now, as he shows them his spinning body, and they know their godfather has been taken down by the ultimate criminal, the tyrant, the crime lord of lords and they all shuffle like good Roman niggers away, and Caesar take hold. This as seen by Antony, my stand in, as the end of the Roman republic, the killing and exicutioning of this man for no reason, no real crime, but Caesars won personal animus, and the republic was gone. The ideal the republic was that every die player, ever chiseler, every pimp, every thug, derived legal representation, a thing we kept as the Romans had, not just for the rich, whose bribes mean they have impunity. But there are no heroes here, what some cheesing eating wine swilling woman said to me, as I said back, not everything ash to be written by and for Morgan Freeman, not everything is mush, or be like the later Selma, misquoted Angelis King doesn’t have to be there to allow the grandchildren of Klansmen to feel ever so proud of themselves fore being kind to the help. Caesar is Victorious, but with Roman caveat for now, the last scene still hear a screaming seething Brutus thinking aloud whose else at that table, what other dog who ate Caesars scraps will be next to go as the godfather was.

I got a lot of interest for a tagline as I wrote with Hollywood simplicity as never before as had a script and or book that was gladiator meets Godfather which got a load of interest…then my luck , they had to go and read it, and saw far too many of their own traces for me to get way with it. You see my Roman maps have warned me of the starless nights of this infernal hemisphere all along, about our dear departed Freddy Gray…we aint seen the bufaunted mother carping on cue, nor fatso Pig meat Marcum down Sharptoon  comissartein wed dee family sho nuff, and only standing at the mayor’s stripper seeming Ebony Ayes side, which told me much, as he was tethered to the desk all along. We aint seen much, as I was wary when our street hustler Freddy the freeloader was wailing in pain,  and then when behind the door of the paddy wagon got on sweet as you please, and nothing was botching him. Oh our poor snitch probably somehow kilt himself by accident, but when all six blue knights were charged, instead of just fingering the one Italian, I knew somebody , somebody,  yo bet had to make it look good. It’s another summer of George kids, and were taking it all up a notch.

Who would make this Roman play….?, or circus about the boxer, or the Roman army treason trial , as the least people allowed to be shown as victims of the Romans here in new Judea are the Italians. So it was kismet I found this in our own Arab springs drone striking free trader Barry ahs to sue the niggeralia now in tatters to hide the dull duplicity and by rote vulgarity of his ge heart and his bag breaking ion marble steps. After a while he stopped being Caesar in tourniquets and just became son of the Mummy…Mommy is that you…?, and he tried desperately to be saved by men whose hatred for him is almost more than their love of Calvinistic money religion, which again I was right as I said against Copula and his creed, all was personal. Hgis go to , vote my way or ill burn trhe republic down has less and less force as white bosy came out of that wooden mare and Illium is burning down. One thing after another dies in the senate,  that house of Cattiliune, strikes back, and he don’t know as Brutus says in my play which throat to cut, but then dido was headed towards suicide all along, watches before he must lose power like an interregnum that word gains stricture echo day Hillary floats from the press, he might hurl himself down whatever flaccid copy of the Spanish steps you’d made yourselves. I might’s send off Alquis next, as have some opportunities but not as much as  before and might not draw another mans book for awhile, as did a lovely bit where the Fawcett world become’s marvelously dank and imagery of violence in the well written as I had to remark Mr Immortal, and cant pull that off again, as like mine, where in MS, the world of these seventies is joined by a golden age hero who is birthed amid the garbage strikes and gay day parades we , at least me, miss amid the good wholesome faggost who proceed to be wed.

In ten days, I took a bunch of doodle pad images of strong men and Venuses still in this binder and aged, and tread with scarps of old paper, as I vowed it had to be, to make enough placeholder pages to recreate Mister Stupendous, as a whole and complete thing. Drawing in color for a first time this year, I eschew all cable television shit, spolier alter, Dido is always destined to commit suicide, and instead watch tcm festivals, showering such as Telly Savalas movies, Patton’s, MASH, dirty dozens, Kelley’s heroes, which frankly said everything’s said by the awful though cinematically brilliant Saving private Ryan, but with the Roman attitude of war seen in all from Plautus to Catch 22. And there in this hit parade as shown the brilliant Chimes at midnight, a film so glimmering and brilliant even the dread and awful Pauline Kael had to praise it. As Orson that magnificent Failure, who turned away from Obi Wan as couldn’t abide himself in such schlock, played the incarnate of those detrained by power, and I watched this as the rest of you were finding that broadcasting vocals made to having to be on ten on bullhorns was always a disarming way to go. One such blowhard amusingly and inhumanly speaks of floods in Texas as some sort of retribution by God for their temerity to vote against his masters, a stagey turn of events I knew that the transvestites were heralding us towards but then went to catholic school. Id be careful with that as this bloated cunt acts his part, as in their brilliant retrieving and maybe even now admittedly first and not interpretive grace of Mediterranean God, the Italians, those glorious thieves, made sure all knew that Mercury, and his naked tridnet, abhorred a nothing called a snitch. Somehow this attribution of hick theorem wasn’t noticed by our Aquinas in a blazer, as from niggers, superstition like imperialism, is fine.

I have been offered a job from my blizzards of hurling of a Resume hither and yon, and it is in the friendly confines of New Jersey. I am so bad off lately I think of taking it. Actually, I say that as a cheap joke, but loved Jersey as a kid, and wished I didn’t leave there, and going back seems …apperpo, as the lads of 1974 are mired in a crumbling America nothing like what their parents had, thanks to Scorsese and your love of Mob shit, again on an upswing making me wonder what you Jews steal this time. Better do it yourself, because Barry is bumbling his way to the end, never sure of the Roman art of policies, and now has to scurry to do to all he was sure was is beneath him, again a warning to anyone who thinks the bag of canceled cheks is a sacrament. Even the attempt would be keen, Id like a adventure and traveling the hills and green of summer to Jersey, as the America of interstates and white castles fades away, I will take it if get through an interview, which my brother will drive me to if need be, he more bored with this dilapidating place than I. As this strangely mirrors a dream I had in which Rachel was my Virgil through the almost Octavio Paz like verdant brush of Jersey, in which she took me to this strangely gypsy land where we saw Keith Olbermann at a cabaret sing Is that all there is…?,  amid the gumbas and the cigarette girls. The American dream. I will gladly take it, as I turn, as does the proletariat of the empire of the keepers of rioting apes on command, having every dime. Or nine cents of it.


Post a Comment

<< Home