19 October 2015

GOODBYE, PATRICIA, GOODBYE PLAYBOY.

 


Once again, the dimwits and the comics sissy do not understand my Roman callings and Roman ideals and so, thinking they have censored me again, this time with out an out diminishment, I got enough of an audience even there, to facilitate different people being interested my work, and asking me to resend things in that had even been dismissed previously. Its why Hillary and BELACHEAT  WILL NEVER WIN, NOT FINALLY, NOT TOTALLY, AS THEY DISRESPECT THE Roman idealism, though even an admired by me pig named Bill Clinton in mid posing and signing and reposing and pissing and eating and stealing made sure to keep the works of Marcus Aurelia’s pure and doted to, even as well as he can do, which is not much. But out of not much some comes, and now I have been invited to send more work in, and things seem to be coming up newsprint roses. Ill get back to posting maybe later, as now its much work, which is more pleasing.

Like many, again, the ratings mean all in a circus empire, I have aborted Fox and even the nfl, as they see their numbers go down, as guess what, there will never be a new Americas team worthy of the title and so, America says feh to a hack thief loser punk ball of smoke who trek to sell them snake polish more doctor Oz than Ozzie Newsome, and like Rodger Staubach not a whit. So, I finished Rag as  prose pulp novel awaits that response, as being asked to submit anything it seems means nothing to me, as can always bee seen as somehow bothersome to them after being told to reconfigure a shitlaod of pages, as therefore hold out no hope. I AM THE AUGER AGAIN IN AS MUCH AS AMERICA HAS TIRED OF PHONY CATCHES BEING LAUDED BY ON THE PAD HACKS , WHO MAKE A JOKE OUT OF DEFLATE GATE AS THEY ARE TOLD, COSELL IS DEAD AND I FEEL QUEASY MYSELF. I didn’t catch much of that, sure somehow things would revert to the patriots way as they must when things are this fixed and fraudulent. I make no bones about my Roman ties, or helmets. Nothing is more draining and tiring than evil, it sounds like Aquinas but is Nicollo the shyster emeritus, and so hed know. Now, con begets con, fake become faker, all is in a swirl of fraudulence that in the end causes men in the balcony so say, so what…? But was offered a chance to place a playboy like cartoon in a book of satire, or what passes for it here in unromantic here, and had a stencil of Vundergirl I could easily make into something else, as this was the kind of girl, down to kinky hair that I thought would actually Marc Antony Playboy and eulogize it as again the middle brows and the snerds the white girls  and the sissys, all patriot fans would huzzah.

My elders brother’s playboys were important to me as were his mad comix,  found in a treasure trove of an adolescents cash to a kid, with the sentinel by Arthur c Clark, Julian, Boccaccio and where eagles dare, even a signet copy of the brotherhood he thought infinitely superior to the mafia as done by Puccini done later. all read by me when adults still existed. Too here were the playboys that introduced me to a delightfully vulgar, in in the Latin, life of single bars and turtlenecks and fast cars and sunglasses and pretty girls in Wally wood who was in both, voluptuary’s who’d be replaced by men with eating disorders soon nuff. Here I found Patty Fairinelli, Italian dream girl, and Gig Gangel, Fosse hatted,  BLOND AS CAPOTE SAID, THERE ARE BLONDS AND THEN THERE ARE BLONDS, AND NOW ALL WE HAVE ARE WIVES, EVEN MEN, AND OF COURSE BEAUTEOUS BRUNETTE LOVELY Karen Price, again a sort of woman despised by women who read, those who marry off their sons to other men as long as they wear the same types of bobs as mom. In ways felt sad to know that Playboy was going, as the internet is blamed for this, though one thinks a half century of sex mercantile could out do anything that the weirdo bean pole Miami hicks do with girls found at the Duane Reade. I felt badly, but of course we had to hear from Nations scold schoolmarm mater natura scar face Tina Fey, out of forced retirement as it seems fewer people believe her as Laura than buy her as Rob Petrie, or the head of any household that isn’t a coven.

She gloried in this, as a lezzy nun may, the perverts as I have known since fifth grade marinade in necessary cleanliness and scowling and finger wagging, as this was seen as good news to and by her, as her cheese cake she inflicts on the empire, well, its always been of a highest order and thus was sexual less enough not to matter, and thus be seen as okie doke. She came on to bitch about this, a show that birthed her in a hatchery now thinking itself Juvenal’s Rimes, but with enough of a wink that doctor evil can say ’ I didn’t mean it,’ and wed love to have Hillary come on and do shtick, sock it to me baby. Uhhhghhhh, this awful woman dripping in pancake make up last seen on television when George Reeves was frozen solid and Superman had to sue a similar amount of blush, she did trashed playboy as a hag might, which as strange for someone whose loneliest revue stream comes from selling henna to the queers and the Sadie Hawkins who have made her their Virgil. She was glad to see playboy go ways, thought it as here I read Norman Mailer and Ed Mac Bain and star ship friendly and Alex Hailey and Truuuuuuman in the fall, and culled the comic and the cartoons which were divine and glorious and now, get to be trashed as not decent and noble enough for sissies who like their queers licensed like dogs, as the whole point of Juvenal is….I looked up the very type sued by Playboy in its Alan Brady heyday, only finding some dimwit hack who recalled the lines here with less funny but sanctimonious and accountable liens showing his decency and lack of a funny bone. Funny or die...guess. I don't trust ninnies who don't like dirty jokes, as it makes me ask, like Claude Akins, whats yur angel...? Well I mean like this, if you were a thief all along, a lovable rouge, a highwayman, fine, but why I wouldn’t stand too close to our patriotic triumvirate nor their spear carriers we know now thanks to grantland firings are on the pad, fine if you cheat and steal, but don’t tell me that the rules  don’t matter after the tuck rule and a canine adherence to it, seems to be what was your creations, because now, you’ll just get it.

Sadly saw even a delightful Archer be sanitized by the school marms who never read Mad as magazine much less a comic, and was crestfallen tow catch an episode at midnight, then tired when to bed as this as strange turn of events for a crew who were selling drugs ala Breaking bad only a few nights ago, and now the mention of Isis is taken down, as again self righteous darkies like pretending they hold the patent on things in the public domain, like what Disney and the catholic church do. I Read Apuleius and found his emperors new clothes delightful as Statius, an thus don’t have to have white women lecture me about nutting. I was sad to eye Archer, a slight glare of masculinity in our awful middlebrow world now saddled with a kid, and a hateful spyess, again mine WAS like Cannon was, like me, I guess and Kemeter, like ultimate Jew Caphius in hell spitting up to the fraudulent Caesars loving God Christ, not like Jews now carrying water on afternoon sports television as yaks, yew must be unrepentant to the ends, as learned that in the inferno. I was sad to see this strange veering of a program where the hectoring black broad, oh give him a brunette as I did, a little more pat and mike and Roslyn Russell  and Mitchum and Russell , give em hell, in fact, as she somehow placed her own child in jeopardy by having ,wait, was it, having a Pakistani with live ammo shoot at her child and the idiotic archer, but with a heart of gold, thank you mister Chayefsky, and then, something happens, or not, as again one must intone, Simpson’s did it! This isn’t Catullus sadly, and one can only be sexy as palliates allows. Or is it Pilate. I was sullen and went to bed. On the grand Archer Vice only a few days ago, AS SINCE GIRLS WITH SLINGSHOTS, ADORE COMPENDIUM AS THE ROMAN HAVE, the pertly voiced Judy Greer asks archer, what satire …? No body knows, he says. and it was funny before I realized you was serous. So I sit here and draw up a cartoon I will send there or maybe somewhere else, and assumingly the words of Dante strike a echo cord again, and in fact, not being liked by the English school boys and comic hacks prove again, if you are admired by idiots you become an idiot and if you never give in an inch, as a playboy comics would say before all as sanitized for our proscenium arch into the cull de sacs and into the suburbs, and all that aids show was covered in scrubbing bubbles of Dow chemical, including the satire, well, you maybe come noticed, and there aint  nothing wrong with that.



14 October 2015

BURY MY HEART AT GOLDMAN SACKS

WITH AN EMAIL THAT I HAD TO POSTPONE SENDING THE FINISHED RAG,  PULP MEN'S MAGAZINE MEETS MYRA BRECKENRIDGE BOOK I TOOK OFF A FLOPPY AND REDID COMPLETED AND FULLY, I WENT BACK TO DOING SOME TOUCH UP WORK. I HAVE SENT A SHIT LOAD OF EMAILS OUT TO GET PAGES PAGES ANYWHERE I CAN, ALL LINES OF THE DIVINE RESUME ARE EQUALS TO ME, I SHOW A ROMAN LOVE OF HARD WORK, YOU KNOW, BEFORE THE IMPERIALISM TOILET WARS, MEN MARRYING HORSES, CUT OUT MAIDS WOMEN GUTS,  AND A CRIPPLED JEW SENDING OTHER MENS SONS TO DIE IN WARS,... OH WAIT SORRY, THAT'S  US.

With Some extra time, though, I found an email from somewhere interested Mister Stupendous, of all things, who and when that was sent out don't recall. I sent scans of the first few pages, in which mad Jewish plutocrat Caesar Carver Eaton plans for world domination with his machine di dio, MEMPHIS, and speaks with Violet Constantine, miss Kitty, about getting a  magical puppet from the clutches of an Italian wood carver named Giovanni Gheppeto, and bring the divine Hercules doll to him. AGAIN, THIS  STORY GOES BACK TO ABOUT THIS TIME, and I am always crestfallen in the fall and winter and this time, not only because my father died then, but because this was the time I sort of gave in. I was told they were lovely, as my 'style reeks through', uh huh, but again, at my best , like the high regard and glorious Kemeter model, sadly seen as grave robbed in the awful casted Sky Captain, a waste of a great green screen, Lawrence Olivier, whom I admire, I am always just doing the best that I can.

So with some days to wait before sending off Veronica, and the all star cast and CM on mars, I went at the pages here and I was told that the Cat woman image of Violet Constantine was somehow unacceptable, as it stemmed from, I was alerted, a Rip off of Jim Lee, who unlike most comics hacks I actually admire, but I am nothing if not dutiful. I sued a divine talisman called carbon paper, which I have three sheets left like a army clerk, and no one sells it seems, and I traced out my own image of Miss Kitty into being that Supreme story I cant get anyone to let me do, where Suprema comes back in full bodacious mode and wrings the neck of both violent Supremo and who ever that fat blond is that is accepted to Alan Moore wanna bes. I took the superwoman minted for rag but replaced when did the lil Abner parody in rag one, and merely united the two stock caricatures. But then having done this in a matter of days, sent off the pages as they were called now mysongist, which bothered me, as I realize you are all hacks and klans children, but if you didn't see that the first time, why on earth did you bother me. ..? And why is any image of any woman sexually somehow upsetting to this empire of perverts and thieves and married queers... ?See, in the original pages she is covered in a blue speedo, that YOU didn't like and You wanted redone, and blah blah blah, get bent. Of course, I had already pasted half these images on the original pages, as frankly it was something I want to do anyway, and recreate the book yet again, as I am want. I have been told I cam able to resend the prose, but I will go over it one more time, as am nothing if not over wrought about things, see above, and now have to I guess take each image in the book of Violet and remake her as Uberwoman until she became Miss Mary Amazon, which inst that hard.

Wanting no part of this Fox den campaign to see Trump destroyed by cripples and fat white guys on the pad, on hands on deck means fat lunchy Costa, showing the bag man an Italian invention,  can double his fees by saying the same things on ALL THREE  the news networks, such as they are. 'And thus time fer reals', is the Clinton ethic since their marriage, I certainly wasn't going to watch Bernie who I sort of called as a hack and a plant before you, it was after all 2012, who was so good at getting an applause line for someone else, and dont mean to be Vito Corleone ABOUT IT, but I knew from my Romans training on such things, Who ever made the most forceful defense of Clinton outside of she, was the plant, sadly its him, as this isn't the usual aspects of love life and corruption that Bill made a circus. This cunt for power was sending out names of operatives to people that amusingly, who knew...?,  don't matter now, what ever does...? How nice of the Sundance kid to make CBS martyrs, i could think of better heroes than kotex patrol Mapes, this isn't msnbc doll, the Cyclopes takes this shit seriously, and hurricane Mary brought down Dan. But Redford, boy he is so human and bleeding... what is it, not cool, uh that's it, bile and sanctimony, that he is the channel waited for Columbus day to show the Godfather in all its Bronze door glory, why I am not sure I understand, as those are the Italians that you love. Bury my heart at Goldman sacks.

Such as Bernies strange defense, were in the munnnie , were in the munny, reminded me of when a black man was given an award and handed it off to an aging white man who didn't need your strange largess. I felt badly as a hag was cheered for someone being against ethics, how far we come from wonder woman on the cover of MS, why the fags want her suit off, and not in a good way. I felt bad about the suckers who bought baloney Boiney's bullshit now, STUPID ENOUGH TO BELIEVE OUR COMB-LESS JEWEY KRUSTOFFSKY AUTO-MAT CATILINE, AS STRANGELY FOR A REVOLUTIONARY, I SAW OF ALL PEOPLE Chris MATHEWS TRY TO GET HIM CAL HILLARY CORRUPT, BUT ALAS WE ARENT A  ROME,[ no compliment] AND IN FACT HERE WE ALL TAKE DICTATION, AND SALLUST ON  THE STEPS IS SOMETHING YOU JEWS AND QUEERS AND WOMAN DONT OFTEN MENTION. I felt badly for anyone who thinks we aren't going to get another nigger other shoved down our throats  so Count Chocula and the rest of the heebs can keep getting that free money, as again, your Cattilines are all made of pancake makeup and cancelled checks. I felt badly for many, but this was a great one, where Paris and Prissy Rory are fighting again...I cant watch this debate, I thought, ive read Sallust, so, turn and pass by as Virgil would warn, and thanked God by accident I found a marathon of the Gilmore girls and then Archer, showing again, there was a reason the Romans spent so much time just watching dancing girls, after all. So I know your ethics are a Chinese menu, oh look, the lesbian coven at planned parenthood is redressing grievances, reformed it shall be, the floor is bloodier than your husbands like it, raggmopp, like the suffragette eugenicist who made it a place for wives to go, now that liberal television has reverted to better living through ecology, the kind that means the war profiteer is going green.





As I said I have actually been to a black mass, looking for girls, a big mistake, and when I had enough some grand high exalted msytic dyke cunt asked me, from my looks, where I went to school, you know not like a bigot, and when I said the magic word Jesuits she was sure of all, no bigot she, as this explained all my Christian bourgeois ethics. I laughed. Christian,...? I said, No no, I was taught by the Jesuits dear, THAT MEANS I'M BARELY CATHOLIC.

09 October 2015

RAG COMIX EXERPT 3



THE END OF DAGWOOD'S HOLLAR.

And her Etruscan goddess yellow eyes gleamed the yellow corn back as signet pupils of dark brown reflected saffron bits of weeds and winter wheats as flecks in yellowed, called in America, hazel Umbrian eyes. This was another of Dore’s laws, no, I would avoid the blue eyes of the National comics product, even though I had them myself as I was related to presidents  and governors and nominees of parties, but even with that, like the Romans I  was sure I came from, as was Veronica sure she was not one of the sleepy silly big haired and yet mayflower poverty, as was around her sleeping and lounging and laying and being laid upon pickle barrelled porches, I was convinced she and Captain Magus would have Italianate eyes, black as night or in her case, as yellow as a Tuscan cape. Either way no blue, maybe green as that was a colored eye that Shapiro gave all the Jewish monsters and villains of his comics, as that was a color too simple for him to use. Even  though the old German and his now in jail Italianate partner had little more than the cereal box printing machines of a sold warehouse of general mills, so fine work was left if at all, to the writers as much as any White or Franzetta who he could con into not Levant for Anvils better dental plans.



What would Veronica Villa, that was her baptismal name she now knew as the old bat had, let her leave the drawings and the less than Walt Kelly tree tops of Dagwoods for the glorious city as the old bag had relented and told the brunette how much she loved her and how, now that Daisy the blond hag had stolen her drunken husband, ah the thing that pushed her to the truth as  it always does,  how she owed this transfiguration that Franzetta  afforded to Veronica as something as she was owed.

A dying woman since 1962, the old bat has seen her back wards country life been defamed and disfigured by the relentlessness of Robert Moses and his pushy Jewish need to allow, as she was convinced he was the end of the glorious city of car 54, and world fairs and expos and blimp moorings  and the Latin Quarter as was Capote,  for mobility from the blacks who were getting more uppity by the day. Mammy was certain that not being in any blood line that her son Hank would marry her daughter, and not Daisy at all, who she despised but kept up a front to make sure the Lutherans didn’t find out how much she despised the American hicks, not Patsy or any other Julie Numar image or woman who came trolloping through the swamps. And that both children stolen as healthy human brunettes would cart a new line for her dying family,  as with all woman such as she, he was barren and stole Hank as a boy too to bring them here and away from the encroachments of papists, niggers, yids, even though as happened before, juts from their looks, one could see that Old Louisa, a perfect name, had stolen her children from Italians and Poles,  how even the beloved Adolf thought both made a damn good sets of brood mares, after all.

The old woman told Veronica her name, Veronica. Such like the biblical, actually Roman name, aren’t they all, like Maria sued by Jewish writers who had no sense of copyright, as after all, the story of Jesus birth, down to mothers name was taken from Livy’s early history of Rome, down to the stable, the vestal virgin, and a mad king amend Marcellus who damned all children under five, this is Rome after all, be slaughtered lest the true son of mars take his right full placed as ruler of Saturn’s Italia. The old  hag in black and white, as a bigot she liked the idea of things being not so mucked up with shades of anything, why in fact all the dresses she had given Veronica since a little girl had all been black and tattered, a kind of Grimm’s fairy tales thing, but too, she knew that the brunette lovely even as a little girl word the tattered black well, something when seen by Frank when here to draw a strip  as a ghost, sent him into orbit like none of the other girls who posed for him ever did.

The aging fruit bat she was, Louisa told Veronica everything, how she was stolen at a train station, how she didn’t recall who her starlet mother , Verna Rizzo, even was, how she had been taken from New Amsterdam by a biddy who as a witch woman and a laundress in the cat laden city and who as really as 195o, amid the gorgeous  city of apartments and gray flannel suits and the black and white movies of that era, she was sure of the end of America coming, and this old cunt knew that there was little to do than to wait for the apocalypse need by bigots long before her as the new Rome would fall, she was sure, and this only Red Rose  in the tenements of the underworld would survive as even as far back as then , her ilk knew the end was nigh. With the child of Italians, and the boy she stole for his already seen robust hood, and with others she took off and answered an ad to be in a comic strip about hillbillies and shed live her cartoon life there, away from the crime and grime of the city of immigrants having stolen as many she said to veronica her favourite, its is all very Grimm’s. I thought many things as the girl sat before me, at a table and recounted this story as a natural story tellers and all heroes must be, as she recounted this to me at a Chinese restaurant, The Hong King Gardens near the sons of Italy, as it always is, her first, that Mammy had taken as many as three hundred chortle away to live the unpolluted good life that Jefferson would call agrarian and noble.
Veronica hated it and as she heard this, took a amazons meaty hand, and hit the old buddy so hard that it used comically as would happen before in strips, for the old ladies teeth to come flying ahead and out of this time, an extremely  bloody mouth.

Veronica reared back, the name meaning literally a girl born in Verona, her giant tits flew out of the bat like black dress she had been made to wear since a burgeoning  girl, and with aplomb she took her tits and flung them back into the white bra that held them and as Mammy yelled and screeched and growled, a long thick curvy dancers leg took off and kicked the old bitch right in her gut, in a comic go around perfect for this strip, but which with the insecure egress of Dore Duvall into the magic and fairy kingdoms, had been made different and in a way as seen in old Roman books whose mammy ilk told immigrants if they wanted to be American they’d burn, but of course and again, don’t burn the pizza pies, the only non criminal work you’d might be allowed.



11. With the gate of a goddess, But one now owned by the pantheon of newsprint skid row, as Simon and Shuster called the comic kingdom,  Veronica came to the edge of the small hamlet made famous in cartoon strips read in various news papers by various northerners. Like the Milanese with Sardinia, who were sure these southerners were beneath them all, even on those days when northern cites had just burned as magnificent out Rome’s, or at least radiuses burned with raging fires, and white families abruptly left as the pompous lecturing newsmen at CBS had left for Yonkers long before. What would she say, she,  the little girl stolen from a sophisticated mother in this last golden age when she showed her fake mammy, her fake mother, her user and her abuser, her steal-er and her conniver what she had now become. What would she say to the old biddy. The Minerva from the comics pages stood there in the glaring sunlight, in the American   Sicily, as a sky the perfect colour of a blue ink and almost painted streets were in this true imagining of this old strip, …she stood there and gleamed with Parnassus shine, aspect woman in every-way way, especially, I thought, as she had the yellow eyes of the Agnelli, of whom that I wasn’t patricianly fond of for any other reasons.

In her elastic belt, a reasoning of the girdle that I recalled  knew from Virgil’s magical, her every exemplar and her model in all ways to him, Veronica held a Gun she had bought from a gumba hanger on at the Copa when she first went and caused the blonds on arms of gangsters to fume when they saw this creation \fore them. Amerigo Vespucci Ginsberg the mixed race king of the underworld adored her on first sight and gave her the gun for a paltry 100 bucks which eh sued to buy stolen furs and expensive candies he’d sue to woo her, showing both side of his family constricted to his various thoughts. Still, it was  a gun, a piece as they said in Guys and dolls land. To get even with this crow, for good. She stood and felt its steel rascality through the blue bodice, glad to feel its being there. It Made her feel more powerful than she already was. She was glad to have it. There was the comical almost cartoonist house she grew up in, where Hank had made her assuredly not a virginal Minerva.



But she had gotten there in the nick of time, as she saw through giant pretty lemon cello colored eyes that men dressed like astronauts, this the beginning of the fear of germs that would enrapture the American empire, men in dehumanizing armour were burning it to the ground. Her red mouth gapped upon, again comically as she was at heart a comedienne from a strip. The hot winds blew back her assured shined thick hair as she stated to smell soot and brimstone, and flames took over the small house. I hope she’s in there, V said, positioning her one pieces leg holes around her cunt, and spoken to no one. As then in this four color world, she saw an old railroad sign upon which Murray the buzzard, no fool, nor Skeltonesque dimwit came to perch there, as he had before. A sign was made and posted, and Murray read it to her, caint yew reeed, honey chillld, beware, it shouted in script all red and governmental, Stay away, this means you! The last days of the golden age were coming to and end, and a ww2 fallout shelters age was closing. Oh hunniechiiiild, the crow said, Dagwoods was dun gone, sho nuff,…and dey all there were dead, the buzzard told the gorgeous girl.

Exuding the sort of sex appeals that always had enticed and enumerable the boys of the dying empire, VERONICA Villa, soon enough to be added by the sad pin  ups of to which describe  show ex wives, or so worse than that, she was a remand at of the Raquel Welch age, and soon enough that would be recalled by many with the elites dishwater cows going from the gym.

12. Here there was a coated man, a detective of the sort adored by Roland Sattler’s boy hero, Big Hank, who by now, she learned was dead. Excuse me, sir, the bodacious gal asked the stele eyed hard lantern chinned cop, Nose Darcie,a hero and an accomplice of her boss here at the comic land,, without her knowing it, what had happen here. You’re Veronica right…?, he said to her massive eyed amazement, though not many girls even in this  vulgar and hee haw like holler in pieces would dress in so blatant aways, he said, thought seeing her in this old wonder suit. Although this as nothing compared to the strange cross between Gahan Wilson witch and laugh in dancing girl she used to dress as. Yes, do I know you, she asked sweetly, as the winds and the heat caused her think blue onyx hair to whip like a cat o nine tails in the warm air. No, he said, I came down here to do a favour for Dore, he said And he thought you’d be coming this way to…even things out. You are too late, dearie, the black haired super cop said to her, looking her over like Patton did a similar looking pin up in the great film just out.



 Exuding the sort of sex appeals that always had enticed and enumerable the boys of the dying empire, VERONICA Villa, soon enough to be added by the sad pin  ups of to which describe  show ex wives, or so worse than that, she was a remand at of the Raquel Welch age, and soon enough that would be recalled by many with the elietes dishwater cows going from the gyno exam of the stapled navels to the police blotters when their way ward suit case pimps  were caught and or found in the newspaper double murder suicides that that magazine had a penchant to create. But still in really seventies, still with a prettiness and a breeziness and a chained heat men imagines sexuality that would be put out of business by those self same magazines that found interviews with Norman Mailer and such would make them seem all the more intellectual and hip, she walked with a radiating sexuality as  close to the burning shore as she could get.

Mammy Louisa, or whatever that cows name was, that baby seller stealer was dead, he told her. Veronica pressed her lips and looked ahead, placidly, at the orange flame she roared from the squalor of that holler house. He, the Cop, in impeccable Chester Gould black suit, silver shield,  and a yellow coat worthy of a world war 2 Paris foreign  correspondent stood there, with his cracker jack and cheap seeming star on a billfold hanging on his lapel. I, he said, came down here to find out what was going on, as it seems Dore was right and the whole kit and caboodle here were wiped out by a CIA experiment, Gone bad, he said making air quotations, but all knew what that meant, expect maybe Mooncalf now Veronica who was  as it showed as as truly pretty girls are, but was better off than the equally stolen Daisy Lu who had been more accountable to the monstrance out of Grimm’s or maybe it as Gasoline Alley, when comics still mattered. But, who was loved as was the little girl with black hair that Mammy Louise Cantata, had stolen as she escaped the dreaded emerald city of Jews and pestilence  and niggers and cheap shot artists and all that acre music playing in tenements. Carnata…?, Veronica asked with astonishment, You mean, that old biddy wasn’t even a white trash Huck, she was an ethnic from the five points…She was your mothers cousin, the cop announced which made the statuesque girl in a heroine suit wince and almost double over. She walked away, as near her, as this Rose red of the turn pike she had become, the birds with sentience as if they had come from the worlds of Ariosto or Hepsa had followed her with intent.

13. The girl sat on the stones hewn there, and seemed to cover her long renaissance painting like stomach as it seemed torn with pains, as that she found out this old crone had been a family member who has stolen these children and brought them to some hick comics strip done by a fascist for white trash, a comic enjoyed by both Klansmen and democrats, Kennedy’s and knight riders, as it all seemed so horrid and mean and worthless.

But, the cop said with perfect clipped Jack Webbian astuteness, I spoke to the local sheriff a real red neck, real MACON COUNTY Max Bear studios sort of thing, and he told me, that gun you have hidden in your girdle dear is useless,…The bouffant wearing headed girl sat back and pretended she knew nothing making not a signal at the gun. I have to tell you, Veronica, the greying temples cop said, It turns out you weren’t the only one true to your kin, dear…He said, Big Hank, when he heard that the whole place was infested with some kinda disease, one that was tried out on the rush hour platforms at New Amsterdam’s subway lines, When he heard this, he came and found old Mammy, the old bitch who I have come to hate in writing this as like aforementioned  Virgil try to keep my sensibilities to believe in sympathies to a minimum.

He flew into a rage, sure his beloved girl as gone, gone with Frankie to the city that gleamed as a real Gotham as Jack Paar once said, an eldorado in the night, a city that the awful Ratman has tried to demean and depose into being a squalid hell hole, which of course is its charms,as the great Fran Lebowitz would in intone, as it had  never been before like an only noble man like an Agricola in a depressed and beaten and broken town of thieves, but wearing a suit stolen from Bill Fingers tepid imagination, this judgments all mine and not the cops, if that isn’t clear, and is, as they say, another story. No, Hank, hick and dirt bag and laughable coon harming hillbilly fool moron, raged at the blond wife and the old hag, and he beat her senseless, and then took Daisy Lu and pretty much fucked her over too. They are setting fire to whole dump, the super cop said, corpses sand all, as the crow tsked. The divine woman shook her head, sad to know that a bit of Sardinian love of revenge wasn’t going to allow her to completely find herself all the way back home, ever again.

        










04 October 2015

RAG COMIX EXERPT 2



HEY KIDS, SAY HELLO TO YOUR FRIEND, … NERO!

1. Frank found in Veronica the muse he had needed so, as he was a literate drawer, no Jack Davis he, fine enough. She was living embodiment of the pin up girls he used when drawing Dejah Thoris and Jane and other Edger Burrows Tarzan dream girls, these newspaper goddesses, as like mythology, all had been left to the seedy and the dismissed as the wives of gay men beards had taken hold of the earth for those with no discernable sense of humour. Once when still friendly me and Gay bon ve bon writer of trite I mean truly so, crime novellas and gossip, Truman Capote, hewing effeminate little thing saw what a vile man named E Howard Hunt had been given a prize in writings, and we both shocked, he more than I, we knew the world was going to go into the hands of Jew hating, catholic girl raping, pompous cretins, of which I always had an inkling.

He now, I take it is a miasma of disco balls and coke and panama hats and such, but then, I think as suit at my desk here at Mercury, which I utilize the name as a way to fight Anvil and its dredged Thor, a hammer stolen from old man Foxy, I think that Capote is a dissolving man as I shall never be, as he is left behind, nay dismissed by his scions and his dauphins and his matrons, who I have never liked , as I shall I think, be a bitch to the coldest, meanest, satirical and snide, to the bitterest end.  Kurt Vonnegut called me in my mid roman hero worship as I play Virgil again as I had when having a set of household gods sold as roman figurines in the back if comics when I was a boy in the chitlinsless south, and I sent away for this box of roman centurions sold as were Vikings, the 82 airborne, the infantry, ect. He tells me Capote has  had a heart attack, to which I bellowed not as angrily at him as I sounded, You woke me up at three am for that….? I was sure it was an attack of the vapahs. If real at all, such was from too much cocaine use at the discotheque he shimmies at. If true, I said, tis a wise career move, and hung up, causing me to now be seen as mean as I always really was.

   

2.  Later in the day, before his shift of watching the beauteous was done, Frank came to the bullpen and stopped everyone from working. The bountiful, red lips made up, and redder nailed, Veronica looked up from her outline maps. People, He said with a usual tiredness which over took him after lunch now a days, I am making a shake-up to our line up...The sales are dreadful and I want to jazz this concern up around here, From now until further notice, Stanny , your sports comics is cut to two stories, get a bell…. like a Gillette ad or something... The affable black sports artist, with an eye on anvil, took the suggestion almost more literally than he  meant it, which shocked him , …And, Veronica, you’re gonna do Saturnwoman, he said ... He  turned to the bow tied comics artist man who had been here a while, Professor Irwin, he said as the older man sat there, still holding the puppets and footlocker toys, which he used as a ventriloquist to do the war comics, You will do eleven pages of that out of date gi Joe shit as a back up and no more....The last thing I  wanted was some bozo , probably psychotic two faced war addled man with a puppet angry at me.  He winked at the bow tie wearing drawer of tanks and helmets, but was frankly serious.
     The Mortimer snerd puppet merely looked at his asshole of an alter ego and sneered with a wooden contempt. I shouldn't be surprised a jack sass like you would lose yur job to a toots, you big dumb jerk..."  Irwin, the drawer of a perpetual Anzio said through the aging, chipping puppet, as the puppet said to the forlorn man, a slick, pompadour, cigarette chewing, thin man, who had a exaggerated Adams apple.
     HEY, HEY, HEY, Frank said,  Take it outside.

A fat affable buddy of mine, a pulp writer of men’s life like magazines that the horrid Playbouy magazine had placed out of business with its pretense towards a kind of literary magazine with pin ups strewn in it, looked up from the binder in which he was constantly scribbling, as he had been since he wan a Italian immigrants son, in Canal street. Don’t bother, Frankie… the large Victor Putzo said to him, thick horn rimmed glasses on a moon face of a great Italian boy man, Don’t bother he said, I just sold a script called the Mafia to some Jewish hack at Mammoth Pictures, he said, and fixed his massive glasses on a more massive face. Im getting out of comics, while I still have  a chance, he said and walked towards a sign reading . In white mid century letters on poison green, ‘MEN‘.

This hurt the other Italian younger and talented who knew if anything he be doing a variation of this comic shit forever, and sort of started to get away from ghosting the comics strips where he first had and learned of Veronica, the Venus in the weeds, to where he now was going to try to sell paintings of Romans and barbarians to collectors for whatever he could get.

He was a fine artist as such, but like all mythology, in fact all which the ethnics have always been devoted TO,  was demeaned into ketch, a word for art that brokers cannot sell, and like cupid and other Roman affectations, been demeaned and diguareded showing the ethics of Luther, and of the Klan, are never as far away as the nimrods and Westinghouse news readers like to portend. But like Cupid, and the other things demeaned in a horrid book called The Roman way by a witch named Margaret Hamilton, or is that Grouchos  matron, or is that oz with the dear old lady selling chock full of nuts now. Ah whatever, this book is banished and woeful, awful, and yes there is a reason that even still after the fascists that there is a streak of Romanism ruining through everything dreadfully English including if  I may the rags of lefties called the guardians and other like classics of bullshit. At times, the cupid, as I recall him from Virgil sets the stuff of Pocono’s newly wed bathtubs, and sometime the Roman stuff embossed as irrevocably earnest and real, as despite what they say, the Lutherans and the white trash are more superstitious than any Mediterranean ever was or would be, as they in their puny soul fears the sun that can bake them all.

Again this is 1970, and a revision like this hadn’t happened in a decade, since Jerry Leiber and Shapiro his bag man, had repented Anvil from a rancid little cartoon book outlet, to being hip among the college crowd with its campo and Lichtenstein colours. And yet in saying that work looking back is amazingly silly, bad, Which in fact, as BD Crumwhieght had become a stand in for mods and howling bongoing Maynard G Krebs, well, that was alike and a mistake as old BD was a fascist, Anglican division, as unlike Mussolini’s Italy , where my beloved home, La Goldfinch, all English pretence was allowed, even glorified, and his little peopled middling earth was a not so thinly veiled battlement at seeing the world  as one giant shire to be controlled by Mother Britannia.

And too, Shapiro used as camp was  mistake,  or even an insult to both he and camp, which a good American, like satire he knew not of, as he was always as serious with his shit as a tooth ache. I make the connection,  As seated here, see a newspaper that BD Crumwhieght, English poet laureate of the medieval, had been somehow and out of the blue, self immolated, as it seemed to those who saw him attacked at Oxbridge university that he has been set afire by a gaggle of what seemed to be butterflies, which if true is a perfect way for a English fabulist to die, as somehow Mater Natura gets even and back at its accuser, as funnily all the German barbarians seemed after the fall of Rome to die at Parthinium, in Italia, showing the return to the ancient ethic, though to get around this the white trash would alike to chalk it all up to VD and the gracious ladies if NAPLES, WHICH WHEN ONE THINKS OF IT...








3. Well, the trick worked, and soon, All star was a steady number two, in a matter of days. F. knew what he was doing, unlike the other full of shit analysts who merely kept getting long nosed, schnauzer,  bottle heads to do boring newsprints. Every sad house husband, every player, every black and Chicano drug seller band every wop Mafioso who sat and dreamed of sunny Naples was glued to the newsprints cast from trucks to newsstands to watch the bouncy girl who, he had settled the argument, had to wear red tight clothing.

One day, they brought her out with her black hair in over styled ringlets like a porn star... he demanded they take her back and take that shit out of her hair. There was a nice gal quality, a good girl bomber art ethic at work with this chick, which was played against her big bust, and played against all which that bosom has been said to announce since the middle ages. They quickly got her back to the way she was, but not before we had to switch the run down around. Frank knew that he'd made a star.

     As she stood there, her hair still wet and making thick swerves of basic black waves against her neck, he saw the goddess AS had been needing all along. I like the way she points at the Atlantic ocean, he heard the male anchor hero, an old fuddy duddy, a bloated bag of walnuts, a human Wayne Boring cartoon say with a wink. I have become an admirer of his National Uberman work, which Jack Vernay has committed  sell to me for the hefty price of 5,000 dollars, a pittance to cover his boy Biffs’ Bar Mitzvah, ahhhhhgh, as I am told by him he wants no part of National in a place that doesn’t take well to Nazi anything and Uberman is Nazi with a capital N. Boringly saw a humanity in this Achilles tripe, like Statius before, which is why the ninnies who preen their hardiness constantly, hate him.

The next day, when Frank  had come in at eleven, rolling in as thinks he owns this place as I am an unwitting stooge,  as had done before, he took a look at the overnights sales , up 40 percent, and saw that her use in a comic called Saturn woman, in a style his parents had told him about, a fumetti,  had made this the greatest success ever. He put her comic’s report, against all known research, to last in the book, as was never done in comics, with a quick cheap photographic daily news calibre picture shot of her reading the days comic at page O6. The other marketers thought he was nuts, but they didn't have Jane Russell doing their comics crap, and I did. Later in the week, before the kids show that ended everything,  he got her on as a guest, Nero’s Palace, a strange image for a kids show, the bloated Roman mad king, but appealing to a Romantic Italianate crowd of immigrants, WOT, called Rot tv in the hinterlands, was on channel nine out of Secaucus new jersey.

He, as all star’s eic, got her booked in this afternoon cartoon show as a heroine, just on the strength of just seeing her image in black and white dots shown to Paul, the gravel voice of God, who amazingly liked Saturday morning and showing cartoons with his dancing girls and a midget named Rex Read teaching kids to read amid the dick jokes pop got , and a lovely Dog named Maximus, and the styriophome palatine, in which they had made for this adventure time show. It was  on five days a week with a  Greek  host named Tricky Nicky, who, It was said, tried to now famously fix the lottery with his shady underhanded Greek buddies, which of course made  all the local Italians laugh.

She was booked as a guest, many of whom under Paul had a well turned ankle to appease the Roman Lord grumbling bald anchorman at canal 9, who again, like the dago weatherman Chilly Phil, loved his sanctuary Midnight  monster chillier horror  spectacular in which he parented to be a count said to be based on Me, Count Gore FUGAL, and so introduced badly made movies made by funny Italians artisans who would sadly show that the b movies would be the future of films. A coming truth in the winds, in ways I, writer of QUO VADIS DOMINEA,  and The last days of Atlantis, always trying to give this trash a underpinning of decency, while others just trudged through it all, the last fil before Brutus the God hit big, despite the Timers open hostility, with smouldering Sophia rebuffing the advances of Victor Mature,  a sludge that couldn’t have imagined, but which drives Jack Vanrey out of the goddemned business.

4. She was seen and booked by Paulie, from badly remade photos the cereal box presses of All Star could use, Frankie went up to her. He took her red blouse and he undid the buttons which she often, being naturally shy as a busty gal, had all this time been buttoning to the top. She winced. Oh, Franky, She said, as he was more randy than usual, but more publicly. then ever here at the station, as a bloated fat man anchorman dressed as Nero stood among cute park way broads in a Doric salon made of plywood, and whining about beanie and Cecil or other Jay Ward fares amid the  pillars made of styrophome and marble, which just was painted old weather maps.

She pulled back, but her in the rosy Speedo with the embroidered Saturn ringed planet on her long formed torso drew the drawer a bit mad with ancient desire, as was seen in a long ago Naples, which both families had left for a golden door. Frankie, puleeese…she said pulling back, afraid that Italian girls in America are always ore step from being whores, if they ever give in to advances espially from married white men. Yer one of the few allowed to call me that, he said to her, And putting a pink hand to her breastbone, she said, I'm a meteor girl, a super heroine, I'm not a piece of cheesecake...please, sir, I'm trying to rehabilitate...Just as in Dagwood’s holler, aint huthin wrong wid sex per say, she said giving into a bit of a Virginia esque drawl, But taint good round here, Frank, please leave me be…

    5. At this, a giant arm out of no where, not hers, strong  and meaty, came out and took Frankie Franzetta by the collar and hurled him onto a wall of pulleys backstage. Frankie turned around to eye what this was, and saw a Marty like Borginine old Italian Nero, a Centurion  of the drainpipes and the pop bottle signs, an acting cartoon show Nero, a Prcineipate from the jersey badlands, Nero himself, stand there next to the pretty and exotic woman.




With a TV hostess dancer vestal named  Vickie something between the Damon Runyon anchorman, and the man who played Fred Flintstone, but had been in guys and dolls, but not Alan Reed, the grumbling man in sheet toga came and socked Frankie in the jaw. Did yew hear wat de gouil told yuz, handsome, you faggot fuck, he said, with deep sunken eyes and massive figure draped in white and gold station identification Romanism, and with giant laborer thumbs said, Beat it, touch guy before I mudder ya, you capish…? Get lost, he said gruffly, See, or ill make yas lost, got it, Casanova…? Girls there as handlers of the kiddies dressed as vestals stood in the wings, wondering what  had happened. The children stead in the penut gallery cheered their hero on. I called Mister Pentangeli to apologise voraciously and tell him when I had heard that Mercury, I lay that name on when trying to show off, or seem better than the usual hacks, was in no way assorted with Frankie anymore, and that he had been sadly when I think of the numbers and his thoughtfulness at knowing the ancient pull of the goddess, been summarily, fired.

The Nero dressed man stood there at the tall lean figura of the comic book goddess next to him and smiled a big toothy grin somewhere between scholar and button man, she wasn’t sure, but she had met many of these Italians who ever no where to be seen in the holler of vicious hillbillies who had all seen her if at all as a combination of witch and or whore, which is what most of the war brides from Anzio found when they got here. Though the rest of the week he growled the news at a angel to the camera from the desk, he enjoyed his Saturday morning stint much, and strangely he pulled off the look amid all more real by his glowering and his girth. He did make it count as they say in the theatre, proving there are no bad parts, nothing that cant be given dignity if done well, oer at cross purposes, as carry  it off did Paulo. As somehow his material, self same, inherent  grumbling disposition did help to sell the white bed sheet with gold trim, the throw rig mantle and the lettuce leaves like Laurel eh wore on a balding comb over head.


     He smiled, did the smitten Nero, Paulo Pentangli, called now as ethnics must analgise a name, Paul Strong, and let her collar open, as he was in control, he to show the great swell of flesh just begin. NO honey, he said, See, he said with dead end kids charm, You’re more like a lady finger.... This made her smile, as after dagwoods and the strange mixture of being constantly made to rival daisy Lu and yet still fend off the unwanted advancements of Klansmen always wishing ironically for a vampire like they saw in the newsprint comics handed about, she soaked up praise as did Captain slurp up the sun raqys. But she was uncomfortable, as if she really wanted no more attention paid to her bosom than it already took up. She did her affable heroine cast, to boys who knew somehow instinctively this was someone they wanted, knew they wanted eventually before the America of Donna reed would make them choose from homogenizer wives who, as the war brides knew, and as Victor Putzo sadly realised to me, they would abort their Italians children these women would, with agree and a usefulness which would evocatively become American law from all woman, those who had stupid Italians husbands or not.

But she was strikingly preoccupied. SO was F, as he watched a small circle of pink flesh, as it popped and hovered over a fold of red silk. Seeing him still there, Nero gave a signal he hd given before and a blond TV goddess in cheap Toga dress hauled off and kicked him off the Jersey premises. Nero, the grumbling newsman, who did this for fun, and dancing girls, looked back his country woman, the sort destroyed here in the country he had come to as a boy and never bought the shit about quickly waved flags, and he knew somehow he had fallen for one of his girls in way undone before.



6. There was something about this woman, something beyond her striking, dark beauty. There was something even beyond a scene of giant bosoms, which as the fetish of every man, as the cheap men magazines then said, before they were re done by the gyno exams coming in the dower and Lutheran pressed Playbuoy, at least those red blooded and from the Aegean sea as was curly haired Francisco.

And, soon, he found himself not just falling in destructive passionate lust for the Sicilian chick, more so as he had for his gaggle of sport contest cheerleaders and lotto ball holders, but found himself desperate to want to follow her around and beg her to be his Sinorina, a fear deep in the heart of every mischievous  boy man, and Franzetta was no genetic exception. He was thrown out of WOT, TV, CHANNEL NINE, as Nero w as showing already old copies of Cisco and Poncho and Sea hunt and Uberman when It was played by suicidal fat actor Loren James, who never worked again, and when those first shows where a lovely and immaculate creature named Phyllis Coats perfectly played spunky newspaper girl Rhoda Reign. A seemingly old now sixties show of Ratman, now certainly disavowed comic camp was shown, and the boys in the audience looked and saw in the wings  Veronica as a herald of what they both wished to find and already missed caught their blue and green and toe head eyes.

    At the end of the show, he  walked out to leave the building when he saw that the dressing room area door was opened. With no bigger thought in mind than to just shut the door, he walked over and saw, far off in the corner, the Super Table girl, who shined here with more than a van nyes shine many porno queens and bus girls used here had, had come to get out of clothes which were basically owned and bought by the comix company. A lot of the women anchors were not trusted to buy the right clothing, as most actually were quite frumpy even after the hours it took to carbonize them into something fit to be put before the skyline scene at six pm. He went to close the door, but instead, he saw Ginny, as her friends called her in the weeds holler, as she unhooked her clothes, and stepped out of her skirt, and allowed her blouse to fall off her shoulder.
She now stood before the mirror half clothed, bundled in thick white  underwear, of the sort her fleshy, though not fat at least not then, before our queer anorexic age, body needed to be placed in. Frank’s beater was there as silent as a boy peeking through the windows of a mother's friends house, to see a neighbor in her hidden truth, as he had done at the first emergence of Levittown then, when Lucy bought the horse and all were told to journey to the suburbs like Ulysses buying a station wagon and a grill, and he began to smile. She was mindlessly humming some radio tune, but, he had stopped listening to that new fangled be bop crap a few years ago. This girl was something else he thought, like some Italians do, tiring of the American scene in his warmed dago blood, and gagging in images of horrid women in tweed dresses constantly shilling the better lives found through the goggey signage and space aged dishwashers and appliances from Westinghouse, the grumbly, angry, strangely dispassionate anchorman before this Saturday angel came. He stood there slightly hidden, as he more impressed than sexually voyeur, he watched her dress back in a this time blue, but similarly cut dress given to her by the only friend she made lately, of her mothers Romanian maid, the only person of her size, and Nero stood there as of a naughty little boy again, as she had as his mothers war bides had, both inflamed and interested that boy whod be another well off gumba on the parkway, with a decent job and as far as he or Jews could get in the suburban wasteland.

7. He didn’t know yet that WOT TV was being bought by Group W, who had plans for the station, which didn’t include news at all, but showing repeats of Gilligan’s island and the direful, heinous, Mets each night. As this had seemingly become a road to riches among the plutocrats with daddy issues, and the charm of local television would melt away into screeching Negros with bad cheap k mart deshikes screaming about bus fairs, but the days of Bennie and Cecile and Bullwinkle and Rocky, the mighty heroes, and Flash Gordon Buster Crabbe movies soon enough made by Gordo Lucan, bought by Pizney, bought by Colossus, bought by Matsomuro motors, et al, and days of Phyllis Coats  on television as usual, were numbered.




A man named Fred Silverman was sussing quality television as a kind of gimmick, he always held tit shows in his back pocket, anyway,  and so well see how long that lasts, but today, at the quietening studios, where big mouthed capped teeth survivalists demagogy would wipe their ass with American flags just for the sheer great circus of it, as the statuesque girl who reminded him of Julie Numar from that camp tv show, but with Hershey’s unsweetened chocolate powder colour hair, no, it really showed blue like an Arab queen might have, he stood in awe of the woman, who this time Paulie didn’t have to, once important in casting, actually see naked. This w s the powre of Veronica, once called Moon girl, now freed of the dying woods, like the ancient smart ass princesses in John Hespa, Angelicas long before who, God knows, not with his late lest cash flow, the dissolving Arthur Pizney would and could never make into one of his plastic haired theme park goddesses
.
So, Paulie was out,  and would find out soon enough as the station would bring in cheap awful Jap cartoons, sorry world war two and the Aleutians sticks with one, and a show would be syndicated about some effeminate who drives a car that looked like a white feminine hygiene product,  down to the strips of red blood and who like them all, had the bedroom eyes of Elisabeth Taylor. But for now, as he tells me at the arrangement, for once , here as the over sugared brats played prates and ball players and superhero as the kids do and did, and which abortion on demand shall turn all in to little lord faulterloys if not worse, who rereads Trazan now, I ask.,..

As this magma Grecia will soon enough be a Sicily unto the sons, always freed from the abortionist sink, as the awful women always have a inkling taught to them by witch woman mothers, that this day in Secaucus did the days of wine and roses returned to The bay of Naples, where he grew up and as a little thief watched the goddesses frolic in the surf, Cynthia’s all, from a middling awful and middlebrow earth. And he looked at the girl as she in fact did take everything off making him wince with a kind of pain, as Vickie whatever watched this unstirred what to say or do or think, but sure not to tell Martha his American and hateful and awful wife back home. The days of cartoon colorama and Merv would be taken away recapped with a dredged live and Five, as helmet headed bimbo’s and cocklebur fat black men spoke in hushed tones about the next thunderstorm. He, he said remembering looking at her as she redressed, didn’t yet knew that even bore Westinghouse had sent him the pink slips they would send to almost everyone outside of management.




02 October 2015





THE MARTIAL SPIRITS.

1. I watched as the blond biddy chomped away, growlingly, divaly, queen beamingly bitching, her hitting the air to make her lacklustre points, with gauntlet-ed white opera gloves in a blue and white suit that had been designed by wonderful Walter White. Seeing this in the feasts of the woman cartoon book, VunderFrau, like the beer, umlaut stained, as a waste on the woman whose Americanism blinded the immigrant Rosenberg, and which left me cold. So then, I asked him, WW,  to design a suit befitting Veronica, but no black and no overt flag, as that seemed too much to me to be playing to the tenth row, always out there in comic land.

In ways I merely stared there, really rather than listen to Denise, but was seeing Veronica coming to work. Here, she said to Mario, was the only place she felt at ease, as a family unused to her and a junior league mother racked with guilt about that old crow Mammy, well she felt more at aware here, away from the well off family, who frankly saw her barefoot charm as something best to be gotten out of her, shown mostly by the fact that she liked, even in the fall, to sleep under the big dipper, as if a voluptuous Snoopy who had come home, but in ways owned the place. Id rather not listened to prattling Denise, bitch Away, then watched Veronica, as she walked with verve and vitality towards this respite from the holler and its era of disease, and it wiping out as, she would have been caught up, but the fates who adore such as she had to save her for something more than to be some artist’s modella whore, or Worse of all things, a house wife. Is there anything worse than that…?, if so, I can’t imagine it.

She, I saw through the windows or those not cross crossed with lead spines, or clouded, walked with joy and vitality and a pep in hers step as we said in a previous day, as she crossed Broadway and tenth I coolly followed along  through the dirty windows, some gumbas and hacks, looking at her out of cabs, though she wasn’t dressed provocatively in yellow dress she seemed to mostly be in, did she have another…? I wondered, and she walked with a goddess like March, as  even the diuretic pigeons of the decalcifying city noticing her as if they were blue birds in one of those dreadful Pizney cartoons. Rose red had come to life, as I saw here, but had a first purchase of the famously bank of America familia money, bought a pair of ray bans which made her look a new Pier Angeli who had come looking to star in black and white silver nitrate films in this salty ebbing ending United artists, last golden age of great films.

2. She smiled with as if an electric neoned beam I could see from up here, the kind of woman Capote collected before the fall, the kind of girl as Saint Lucian’s school for boys would fall for before their dragooning mothers would out and end to the love affairs, as she was a Mediterranean, thus, close to Negro, and then, they’d all stand up at the local democratic party enclaves and hiss and spit about what non bigots they were.

She was the kind of woman that abortion was being accepted for, lest gals like this come home with half Italic scions for the sissies of skull and bones, but mostly they were aware of this glass cellar, an knew not to ever play in so sanitized and vicious a pool. The frequent attempts at equality, mostly  payees for by the USSR and snapped up by the local new Amsterdam Jews well I can attest, has caused a mixture of races and little brown grandchildren that have the teeth of the old Roses on edge, as their vain testaments to make sure their families were free of Poles, Dagos and Greeks has left them open to this, which serves them right.

She passed the Rexall drugs sign, in this sleepy Any Wednesday era Sunday in New Amsterdam afternoon, and then passed a billboard written on a script in iron that read Bloomingdale's on Fifth. And she walked closer to the building here, as Falsie queen here prattled on with a story that, to me, seemed to be a hidden attempt at exacerbating a lover’s quarrel. As she and Uberman were connected as the sixth grade mind at work in comics would agree to, as I knew by now she had been thrown in with Uberman, who was Shapiro’s bag man in all of this, cause of unsteadiness on a newsprint Olympus.

And whatever happened between these two lovers, it certainly wasn’t going to take my attention, as had the tragic story of the school killing between Veronica’s sister and that idiot who wore that inside out fedora as a fashion statement. I was by now waiting to hear the lovely girl tap tap tap against the metal steps of the almost desolated building. She was the future of this place, at least to me, and Denise was a dreary present in which everything as drowned in miss Clairol and spermicidal cream as way to always find the 3 martini dream of a button down, Madison venue life, that Marlyn Monroe, speaking of sickening Capote, had left us all with, more fraudulent by the nonce.


3. When Captain Magnus finally got up from kneeling and up chucking and ruined and beaten at the Martian dusts, he was half completed, and tired and sore and broken, and he wiped his blue black hair back from his punctured and reddened and whipped skin. The fact that he had so black India Inked straight planks of thick hair, and such a brow, was not by bad aiming by the fates, as the human battery of sunlight he was made into by that meeting with the Star man, his godfather fairy, the black of his hair allowed as it did for Italians and Arabs and Jews for time immemorial through a Darwinian exercise, the ability to soak up the divine sun. It had allowed them, as he, to store as much sunlight from the Martians sky walker sky god Sun. So now for the next time in millennia,  Catha, the boy who rode the white gold chariot across the sky, gave the boy man sunlight as he could get, as the yellow bracelets he wore, a remnant of the great  Curmudgeon CC Gimbals, who worked on his ancestors strips, and these sleeves were protectors of his almost Popeye like forearms  too, soaked up the stilted, rounding, almost bright light of the forth planet.

Now he walked with torn cape and torn chest insignia, a recalling of the signage all centurions wore on burnished chest plates of yore, with the pretty purple shinning sprite next to him as she as if a be smitten Bea, took a joy in being and alighted about and around her beloved Roman God who wore so convincingly royal, or was it blood, Caesars red. Even the hair on his hands sopped up the sunlight to regalia him with solar power, as he walked less tired and less at wits end than before, but, she kept along an anti Tippy toe, an anti fairy, against and buttressed from those as you’d see in those awful Pizney drawings, or that heinous doll given to girls to learn their place as math hating boy mad whores, and so, Bea the butterfly girl kept up with him and felt a certain joy at all of this. They walked along the crashed path, playfully she spun and caned and flicked about him a creature of an Ovidian knight time eons before the midsummer’s of the Elizabethan age, as he could feel his soaring, growing, as if eating spinach in Segar, almost cartoonist made,  musculature gaining in the vitamin d energized blood he had been remade as, and given unto, when the felled Starman hit the earth, when he did, and decided to get somehow away from the adventures he had tired of.

She laughed, and burst with joy this close to her beloved, as she adored him so, again put here by conniving Anvil commix group as they vain gloriously called themselves, he was no less a mischief loving, dark Browed Mitchum, in a world of weirdos and pansies, sissy’s and chumps, goofballs and ninnies he was a return to the laconic, tired, listless, fitful and yet lazy, honest and yet shady, marker cared reader through tired droopy eyes, that Magnus was to her. She laughed and he was glad to have seen her, his fiat moneyed, baby doll protectoress, as theirs could have been a sacred attitude by him being found or kept alone on, Mars. The Roman planet in whole and parts, stolen and hidden from the usa and its beer drinking cheater hordes,  waters and springs not here, necessarily, but the water of rivers under-did, which rapids and whooshed arises from  the red planate in photos seen by Brezhnev quickly called Classified, or at least the Russian word for such, AS FRANKLY THE DEATH OF COMMUNIST RUSSIA WAS PRETTY MUCH IN THE FACT THEY NEVER STOPPED BEING ORTHODOX, at enlisted in its worsted parts, which was most of it all.

As he would have to stay here, the short haired dancer sprite said to him, until the cocoon he lived within and survived within had to completely reassign itself to him, something’s seen mostly in the gorgeous art deco monstrosities of Fletcher Hanks, lest he be torn apart trying to traverse the escape that the star wizard had eagerly tapered about until he had as all men do, tired of the centurions creed, although some never mouth it to begin with.

4. You’re a heck of a man, Bee said in best Olive Oil Admiring of the sailor mahn, as she spun her white wasp wings about , frantically and blue birdisteically, to keep her afloat in the light Martian air. Thank you, he said, not realizing yet that she had saved him as she had by twanging her magic Twanger as she had, but he had a good idea, that she was behind his freedom. I must get home, Doll, he said, making her swoon, she loved him now so very much, but all, as in tales such as this , if she would break the magic spell,  had she made herself anything other than his guardian, Mother Gaea would have been quite the angered den mother of her and the other woodland friary woman.

Oh, she was no Virgin, god knows, this isn’t the works of Grimm’s, who took the works of the show makers and the babblers of Italy and made them sexless and dull. No, she had her share of boys or men, other warlocks, male sprites, doges, kings, princes as  she used her sexuality as a weapon at times to get even with vulgar men in a way in which cardinals or rabbis thought they were immune and why they paid Florentine indulgences between rapes. She had had them all, none like this monstrous centurion, gods knew, and with males sprouts, as in all of action it was through such copulation that all living things are born, including fairy centaurs and Satyrs and such creatures, a bestiary demeaned by boring English minds, as usual, no matter what Arthur Pizney said, but rules were rules.And she thought,  she lost her heart to this massive boy made man, though she yearned and  longed to know what that giant Prick behind Red corduroy pants and suit felt like within and about her, should she berate the magic seal, they would both be destroyed, as did Romans take vestals and centurions who were caught coupling. As back then, and still in ways, they would be thrown into pits and showered with cement until they were made human fossils, now seen all over the place  in old mother Italy, from where she had come. She admired the man, and had to get some sort of pleasure just by being with him, in that sort of sweeter and yet sad, way that the italics call literature.

5. He walked now a good mile from the plumes of the Vesuvius made there confounding and terrorizing the watchmen of the night sky in Los Alamos, as the paranoia of empire cause smaller clerk men to see all metre of threats in the night excepting,  of course,  the ones that are possibly real. But by Martian noon, the weakest sun high in the Panned sky, making the world here shine with a red worthy of a Spartan cape, they had come to the edge of Cryse. It was the name of the plains here, made by long gone glaciates in the Martian foreverness, now gone but a small white cap to the planet, as it was called the sea of Gold. So, don’t think the Ussr commies haven’t sent drones to find out of that name was true, as they search mightily for enough money to keep their surveillance state afloat. On Mars, the days, father from the sun can be indiscriminately long for the season of poles and shifting and angles there of  which may have devastated the war planet back when Jack was its warlord king, three thousand years ago, as implied by books that the Greeks, those original imperial hacks, burned as mere apostasy, but which men called  as a name Naevicus kept alive, and Ariosto too, inventing something referred to now as science fiction.







 He had by now ironically veered back away from the centre of Cryse, which he now made a black smoke and immense flames Temple to Vulcan, worthy of death of a Roman scientist or thinker or poet, all were once intertwined, a mount which now existed, which would have drowned a thousand Pompeys. The flitting purple dressed organism with bangs ,she flew about in circles as her sprightly body as intoned and intertwined with his in ways both sweet and dangerous, but a lover of the Roman hero as was she, she had to make sure she never made herself big enough to be with the massive man, lest she go down in history as a kind of Delilah more akin to the woman hating epistles and screeds of Jews ,as every woman in Italy if pretty enough has  more of a Delilah in her than those sad girls and haggard marginalizing yentas of the similar and yet diametrically opposed Middle race. Delilah is a goddess in some parts, which the Italians at least never  much give into making into an archetype as the Jews had. You have to stay here on Barsoom, she said, cueing the name from the yellowed books she and her literate magical ilk adored, read by many a boy in thieved pre Imperial days of forced decency and civility as they call it, way before our Caesar FDR decided to , despite being called a communist, gave the military the America it had hoped to get its hands on for decades, and now could own, openly,  as Roosevelt had gathered together all the trash on the same said en gave them payments as a Caesar would.

They walked, again he in a kind of physical shininess, and they made it past the remnants of the face, an ancient monument,  looking out over and into the night sky that they had mapped when the earth was still full of creatures  who lived mostly in the dew of grass, after the last dragon lizard king fell to earth after the meteor had struck and would make them all museum pieces literately.








She couldn’t suppress a smile, knowing that the burgeoning vendetta in her beloveds  mind was now added to and matched for some reason by the Roman writer Dore, who she had come to admire for his love of warding off the vile eye another thing as so many Gaius and Perpetua  Brought TO Christ’s table, whatever he would like it or not, as Paul again knew to always go where the power leis, and to Jews and Greeks, despite it all, that always means Romans and never means slaves. Look it up.- Ed. No, she said, gingerly, this anti Tippytoe, this Beatrice of the vines, Fox is gone, replaced  by Dore Duvall. The name immediately means something to the boy hero as he had read Brutus, as a kid, and saw Dore often being bitchy and wonderfully so, acerbic,  on the David Susskind show when hitting PBS on the uvf dial by accident on Sunday afternoons.

Ill get you home, she told him and buzzed by his face,  her immense in most ways, especially to her,  light peach south side Italian cheek and gave it a slight peck, as she had to by now. Ill get you home, big man, she said with a slight goofiness about her which as beguiling, No matter what.

He now stood there shimmering, as if a Roman antiquity that Moma despite any bullshit, will always buy in the black market from whatever Sultans or pimps, radicals or rich Agnelli are willing to haggle, and that their art thieves always on the lookout for. The selling of which as much’s Sulimans actual brilliance at war, the early Islamics sued to sell to crusaders to finance their church when they were artifacts that were more Homage than anything else. Like the Moljiner hammer, which Jack Varney sent to Dore as a remnant of that lost time and hero, it said, fittingly enough, property of MGM  prop departments as was sued by Kirk Douglas IN SOME PIECE OF SHIT ABOUT Vikings. As in they were fake, but great  fakes, which is after all, an art in itself. The suit he wore started now to have its divine cotton rescue itself back to together s the uniformed star started to re asserts as unbroken a garment as it tied its every loose ripped ends back together and made a suit whole than it was. I must get back him, he thought to s the next Dorothy in the forever chapters of the best fantasy which has  been allegorical  and not not just Pizney falderal and white mans dreams since the age of Italic folktales. Here was our little John, dauntless and strong, egging and poised, as he was through muscle and in shirt restricted  himself as if busting ahead,  together into a super human that now Shelly or Kafka would have ever imagined as again, the Ubermench was nothing more than the ballyhoo of the Roman Gallanthomo, the great soldier remade as Mythical, the don Quixote nothing more than the couturier of Venice, as in our hundred years of Solitude,  which s the dreaded 20th century of Foxes and lairs, the roman boy had returned at least to himself if not the Kansas to which, like home base we all wish to return. He held out his hand, and dutifully the spriest came and handed on it though she seemed a bit unsure as he looked down to be a goliath who would survive any slingshots, and he could with a flick deviated the ancient alkali of woman and bumble bee which she was.

11. With a gentleness, not often seen by the horrid scope and science heroes of anvil, they actually  take a few pages out if each issue, you see,  when confronted by another to alwasy beat the snot out of whoever is accosted always in the sort of ,mistaken identity, which you would ahev thought would have been over by 1966. They, them, all looking when done in the dreary house style of Jake the snake, no, Capt here, he had a Neal Adams formatted style to him, as he summed up the kind of Comic God that that infinitely superior artist who’d move on to the commerce of cereal boxes and shoe ads, had seemed to make Captain Magnus one of his sketches come to life. Actually and no insult he was more like a Wayne Boring creature come to magnificent life, as it was Wayne boring who pretty much invented the American way of comic book and was as this is written working as a security guard at something sprung out of the mind of the true Buckminster, now called a strip mall, as who doesn’t know all his genius, like Bauhaus, will eventually become that which is cheapest to do, as the fountain head is always first come and first serve.

He took the small ephemeral creature with white tissue wings, who he could have quickly killed, why dos anyone kill, but she was nervous this flying solid gold count down of billboard songs  dancer made a woodland imp, and she bit her big lower lip frightened,  but landed on the massive palm, unsure what he’d do nest, always a Mitchem attribute which made him, as a hero, unparalleled. Recently, the film of Patton had been made,  and though it is unthinkable now without George C Scott, it was first offered to Mitchum. He, through wise guy, before that word became synonymous with idiot,  heavy, concise eyes, glassy eyes, and with lips in perpetual pout as he and some wise ass Italians always had, he took a look at the script and passed, saying, Naw, You need someone who cares, a now famous line. But Captain Magnus did care, as without caring a vendetta, as his people knew since time immemorial, was merely carnage and worthless if it didn’t have a shtickle of devoutness.


The more sullen and forthright and disgustingly decent Kirk Douglas and his buddy the more affable and big circus boy Burt Lancaster, they looked like hero well enough, but both were always so earnest and decent and lecturing they made one , at least Curtis when he watched the late show sick, as they ere sticks in the mud. With a surprise genteelness, the giant killer giant man, one must be a monster to destroy monsters, or better a saint, as he revivified the idea  of the comic hero in ways Shapiro and Leiber the Holland Dozier Holland of funnies could not.


12.As he had been freed now the earthly equivalent of an afternoon, though it seemed to be light here forever, perhaps some trick of the curvature of mars, Capt breathed in as much air as he could get from what was in the thin layer of torn bits of Martians astrosphere, and filed his generous lungs, He stood at the base of the tower which once held the mad Martian king, who Goddard was sure had sent his proto loopy roman kin to come to earth to save their red soldier capes, and Magnus looked through MATINEE IDOL SQUINTING EYES TO THE FLAG WHICH FLEW ATOP OT STILL. In the flag was his insignia, the yellow star, sued too much now by commie pinko’s and fat girls feigning radical chic ties between blind dates. He then like a man would, and taken away in latest films done of Uberman, in which he seemed to float like a queer joke, he flew as Dirk Decker, a cowboy star did in the adventures of captain Magnus, which had been a republic serial in 1940, in which dummies and trampolines were so implemented and used to simulate the concept of flight which, and not Uberman, he was the first to commit to in comics, as with a female sidekick, a bald scientist villain, and many other things that the heinous creeps at Fee Cee couldn’t even start to replicate after having destroyed the first one.

He ran down the broken martial wall, and with a spring as he recalled seeing it done by that actor who he had met at a local comic shop when Curtis was a boy, he sprang upwards sousing the ground as a launching pad, and he flew up into the aria, as his predicator had and he would again, with arms making a sign of strength,  a flex almost, and he spun around with saffron cape snapping and flying behind him, again sopping up the powerful unfiltered sunshine. And he as if a Michelangelo sepia pencil lead sketch, it now come to life and reason, or perchance the old yellow paper of study guides for Captain Magnus made by the Fleishman Brothers and the old con man held onto as if a Magna Carta by the deflated Pizney, the Captain flew and hovered, flew and stood, zoomed and hung in the airs there. As from here, he could see the curvature of this planet, as it spun towards into the indigo images of the reflected sun, which frankly armed him as more powerful. And all through this, the sprite, as a stowaway who stood on the shoulder of the man, though she could fly herself, she squealed with glee and slapped her hands together with joy that the man had come back to town, or at least to wherever this was.

As he landed, he gently let her go as she buzzed about him, and dutifully and smitten. She floated in mid airs.

He blew a gust of Martian breath at the lovely sprite, causing her to close her eyes in sexual rapture, as she spun backwards into the tunnels of space and time, into Magna like steals of black lines made by fascist sized tipped markers that expel a thick smelly line. She fell backwards naked, as if a dolly is often undressed in ways by little girls who are given such  toys as children, and she wheeled backwards into the backlash as her dress had turned back into the Lilacs from which it was originally sewn, and she went backwards in a circle into the tunnels that creaks and crosses the creation and space, as only starting to be guessed at, to the black energy that keeps the universe sewn tighter,  which was only truly known of as there by geniuses like Giordano Bruno and of course, the salty comic genius, Fletcher Hanks. He stood there as a red figure in the coming Martian dusk, sure that somehow the pretty little girl of the weeds and the vineyards would somehow allow him to finally get home.