01 May 2017

GODDESS OF THE FIELDS.




[This I saw was turned down as a both picture and an explanatory essay by one of those radicalism websites that  still push  their resistance shit, as we all hooddy dooo, I’m sorry, tooddle oo toodel ooo we sing and go to find the holy grail, imagine how much we could sell that for!,  as it only took the effeminates and their masculine wives, shades of Gibbon,  only five days before they got the all is clear sign from Budddddyy Sooeellll and  were told to do their rag tag shit, fine, but war is what makes Spartans after all.  Another asked me hummm, lovely work, but…do you have any thing else…just not this incendiary. Not at this juncture, no…

Always nice to know that I practice the roman magic of the Italian magic realism bad vineyard up into that salsa shit by Marquez that yes, even I can make these hags who dream of mass death and speak openly of which babies they wish for Yahweh to crib death, its Yahweh because Mars, he expects you to march yourself, which makes his image pagan to Shyloco medved, that old me can make them sanely more circumspect than you think they be, hurling fret as they do. Ah but I am a romantic as a Vidal, a truer Juvenal, although he was never my favored Roman, the creepy Latin epigrams disliked by sister Rachel was that what appealed to me, but then she didn’t have woman variants of Copula making her fathers race a new muscatel show did she…?,  and so this matters, it does warn, not affectation, thus, if you think my buddy Bill will be mayor of Salo ….I dont think so. Yes, write your poisoned penned memoirs to now commit perjury, all you like game changers, but this is the end of Roman Bill farce, far too late but roman all in all. He will be a comedian dell arte , an Artie Johnson, or a Johnson arty, say, but he wont, repeat wont, be the mc at the worst revival of Cabaret there ever was. He aint going like Elsie. Or Golightly, either. You can be  Apelius or Grimms , but alas…



You’d  think after seven weeks ago having my work torn up and hurled back at me, which like bidding cool juts brought more of those I thought would never appreciate old roman Tony eagerly on my side, they never learn, that Id accept the nicer emails from some and many even on submittable. You’d think id be grateful to those who you’d think be angered by my work and yet tell me of their  admiration of me and my work, it went about would be five to on three as Old gray mare Hillary and the democrats of Mars are down to the losers dregs as they’ve ever been, now we see a lifer like Califano is mere Palestinian to Bishop Sheen himself, that new York thug who again finds like letterman a democratic bent the best way to stay out of bail—if white. You’d think that that would be enough,….but alas, the point of  the wave of submissions was that Id be voiced, heard, seen, even sneered at, that Id e somehow accepted and noted, noticed as tersely romantically dedicated, and not a horse’s ass , as Kilary has between spasms of baby Jane and mommy dearest in drag, played the Vivian Vance end of the horse now for forty years. This was a true defiance, suburban resistance is something for DeGaulle  AS HE BACK CHANNELS TO HIMMLER LEST THE AMERICAN CENTURIONS FAIL, or some blow hard lard pig of remonstrance who as I said couldn’t resolve against vain Madame’s love of war and aftermath, we get that word from the Romans counting who was left alive, sorry, and old man Maccers --you are who you follow-- as I sort of knew but now is obvious, you, resist nothing, easily not that Imperial brass trumpet played at the edge of Tyber in the night. So, got  my share of resume liens on my own mostly without sanctimony spill called submittable, all really I am looking for anyway. As have had enough admiration in my life, as am no democratic president  fatherless am I,  so may realize that in this spasm of decency and paternity, no one wants to know about a boy when an Italian father was screeched to go back where he came  from somehow Italians are white now and the spawn of Torquemada somehow not, and may forgo dealing with these supposed radicals and preening alternatives and Indies everything’s now that they hate graffiti, as the clerics warned me, as much if not more than their grand fathers did. No more three submissions, no more explaining a seven page comic strip in which thought a media always on the outlook for bigotry would  see some at some rag convention comic book outlet calling my roman heroes colored would be self explanatory of,  as my brother said, just the pictures of the wonder woman should have gotten it in. Tell them to go back to Trump cartoons, he said, leave the pretty girls out of it, and go back to that witchcraft shit. I say as that means nothing and end up rejected anyway, as my sharper brother saw through that when he told me to tell these people asking for apologias over bunny cartoons and emceeing everything, I’m not here, he said to tell them, to entertain you. And to the résumé, being told its the best and most poetic thing sent in means nothing anymore. So the last apologia I did for a picture though lauded by some was still dismissed by a low level rag.]



2:26 pm 15 April 2017

This is a picture of a Roman goddess, Vesta or Daphne, does  it matter…?,  a goddess of the fields, of the pareiea at that the Jesuits admired and sued as  a  name for  land America, they adored land  as much as a a Luther, sorry Luthor, as I send this out as a  signal intend are like pages of a  Roman flicker of light. I am a dichotomy as have been admired of the soldier  ethic since 1974, earlier even, as  a lover of Virgil, and yet as am a big anti warrior than anyone as feel badly when mother Henna  herself Wife of the year, is out war dreaming through soiled up applause at  some gumabs coven as she creeks for more war, her only compassion whom to bomb and why.

It appears that  I was right again and that when parallel lines come together as they had there  with Yale alums and black lives matter chump bags all doing the bidding of monkey faced two bet war living patricians that such a constrain and Rube  Goldberg cartoon contraption machine cant last too well. It as seems  that Old man Erroneous Mackane and faggy Scarlet Gramnasty have gotten their prayers answered by Aries, their war god, Mars begins as does Venus as the Gods of fields, why we call them marshes, not hard to figure out, only wholly good empires like Jews Greek and America is always telling their victims what to read and what flag to fly,  as again when groining against the  sacrament of the death doling Bush crime family, what was after all the  pantheon but the greatest tomb to raid, with the mall is the road to Laurentium, but that’s anther of my  tales  unheeded and even seen as insult here, where all the  wops are  wrung from any sadness, without witch ,the Romans may as well be Nazis, but it wasn’t the Nazis who beat everybody by 998 years of the curse of power.

So ,as the assembly of queens rain dances for war, so good and decent a thing, even Bulgarian Trumpie gives into it, You’d goad him into it or else, even he can shone with the cartoon and farcical epaulets of a Coriolanus, boy do they hate that, as he sings and dances now across the imperial stage as Hillata has been the hag  who came down to earth as say Maryl Streep in that awful fag play, and threw dusts and fairy salt all over the place, as Hyppolyta is always out for blood, as wonder woman is more girlish than she ever was. The senate, called by Caesar a mausoleum once so deftly, as these things do have a life  cycle don’t they though, find pluming its beak on the nations around the globe, why Barry never heard of the Boland amendment, the idea of isolation is for suckers and maybe mothers sending boys to a perpetual war eve the first councils of Rome did feared as did know, the catapult marketers will own us all, they feared, Constantine will make us pray to the God he didn’t  have to, but then  as I have said, impunity is another way of saying a  chicken hawks put us at war again, or a  bubbas never heard of feminist cries how could be at the Tiber shore orgy and all.



And yet Romans get to be demeaned in pbs by good liberals who’d like to not remember even demean them too for how they had unisex bathrooms first, as if it mattered to a race this butch, but of course like with people empires of puritans are given to the slop and the sloth of various contagions, and meanness and  closets that the Romans never much bothered with. War is here, all, ,its only desire, beard and circus  is so  Roman and ways I guess that perpetual war  for perpetual peace is no, but then you’ll find out. A dimwit old man sings, loyally sings  of war with his high pitched banshee song, singing through the fumbling like an aging Traviatta, turned by word into Travolta to show how doomed we be, who doers death as wanton as all Grimms hags do, thinking each man killed with stave off how old erroneous’ own demise for another day, I am awaiting Jack Gifford here to start eating flesh in our perpetual death holiday  that the Romans just made a ball game, but that the  spawn of barbarians have always  imbibed  in as if a  holy sacrament, as the sun gods  have always been blotted out unlike Italy, the barbarians lived in  trees  arthritic  amid EC comics  like, inward India ink hallow wends, intoned else where,  dark black forests and the night of trees, eh were no goddess seemed to ever sew or  play with spinning wheels or showed the interest of a yellow elusive eye.

So, you are left with the stragglers, and the wretched of empire, scummy tritely filthy spics, Arabs and trash who comedy writers Buddy sorrels mixed with Cornelius Tacitus left they thought they had left back in the stoops with the stickballs of Ed Norton and such. So, the great crime family has to be careful with their barking dog erroneous Macccers, as he is always up for a good war, but his vulgarity has alas bothered the Bush the younger who seem to replicate like a Bender even ally getting in the well water, but never close to the front. As sings of war and arms to sell to any man, down the road to hell, this way to the armamentarium, swings and fumes shall our hostage bombardier.

Keep’em flying, you old bag of puss, our Slimmest Pickens ridding that perpetual bomb, the next one will do it you know, the next bomb sold will alas insure viceroy, sorry victory, as wrong way John alas is willing to sit through  the next  war and somehow always  cleanse  his war family name, as what is a pow but a coward, again too Roman, sorry girls they, even the nuns made me marinate  in this shit since I was a boy and as I  said before you can play your games of witchcraft all you want  ,but alas I didn’t get to Georgetown on a turnip truck, I didn’t find the roman after wending  my way through the various cheerleaders  and so if you think I am roman addled if you think my man Roman Bill shall  allow himself to be the mayor of Salo, as I warned before. Poor old Maccers now keeping his death loving albino face to the other side of the national Biscuit company cameras, ah but the wheeze  and the  high pitched  lilts unmistakable. As after all, we know now, at least heard on ABC  radio  as I sports radio at night, tuned out felt badly that now suddenly the sissies and guffawing fags of sports radio are saying what they really thought of Tony Romo, and now, not even as a Craig Morton, as they had hoped , as they are  jilted and they tell what they think of him. Still, I heard on ABC radio that the house everything Lester the Molester, interim host of NBS News perpetuus, the alarm sounded when  that when the shock poll came out, --oh there all false flag missions the Roman lives this aint—it appears now that our highest yellow queen made commercials as if covering a run of the mill calamity, but now we know that this was  as big a set up as where they shot law and order, perhaps, with even Max and Caroline could have made a cameo, and that this was  a fake catastrophe, funny you had to bother to stage one, but then isn’t everything, they seemed so useful since your turn of the millennium turned into Gore Vidal’s 1876.

From the tower of Burl now, we are the men of Texaco, we work from Maine to Mexico, tonight we maybe show men, tomorrow we’ll be working on your car—and how! From black narcissus, a fake concern, and the station of 21 dared call this real news. The Virgil of Van Doren in the ante camera of our city on the Styx, in the wood in which we are all lost, so good night and good, no wait, too devoted, Good night and gawdd blessssss, as now with the news is Clem Cadillhopper  and all the vultures in the shy sing a song of dooop de doop de dddop dooop doddd dooooo. And, therefore, To the scum buckets and resistance soldiers soon enough to be Inspector Cluesau, snatchers who made a point of  being ever so defaming and irredeeming over my works Tony Land and Bad versus over my more than implying that marvel comics and the democratic party  akin to America was a cesspool at a  abandoned mausoleum and all was septic and ec comic, to all you pompous hags and colored and niggers on command screeching of your matter and your energy and our importance until old maid Livia lost and thus if any had been stupid enough to have been openly shot by some cop , well, it isn’t cnn who cares, as a nexus search  of national news and not one national story has concerned a darkie getting shot by the cops, as you are unimportant now,  so  maybe as I as the only one who cared before. An alter boy of Vesta myself, a shady Italian, I might light  a roman candle to recall your sad souls  though was called paranoid for thinking we were the road to a police state back then, but that was juts because some dumb wop was shot by cops as if that ever mattered.

An Appian way cemented now bows through the marshes of sunny Italia once, our Marcus Agrippa’s and Robert Moses clerks all coining that time is money, as I joked, in this dark wood, in this black forest something that sad and roman and  decent and sweet as of all people Bill might have too be come the man in make up to think sadly and bitter sweetly upon what is lost. As I  always  put money he’d  be the one amid the laughter to recite some liens of Virgil, if only under his breath, to a last Brunette, like the dead niggers Hillary cant step all over anymore.  Ah past black lives matters humbugs, soon enough gotten rid of like Harvey cartoon smarmy snickering coons on comedy central as again we must air the vicissitudes of another white guy, do we ever not….who wanted to see and wishing death on all the baby girls, blonds too, is it ever…?, hummm, too Jewish, I say again, I am  the auger, as Hillers calves heave and  thwack in soulless clomps, as mother Hubbard throws elbows and spits chaw and bumbles her way across the war theater she has loved since Dallas 1963  didn’t so much  as make a dent, but then all those lamebrains voted for LBJ…There she is wither with mother superiority,  again a parody of compassion and her American ethic of  yelled decree bomb all and let em all go to hell expect cave seventy three….

I did get a nice response  on this streak I’ve been on, as am a hunch player after all then cold down, real down, man, and back off, but play the dice hard for all its worth, still  when some idiot scum hag was prattling on and on about Trumpie and the Pax Americana, you see Roman terms are , like Catholicism’s, a short hand for the mean and the vapid  and the worthless and the shot and such, but to be used as  vernacular to make sure Jewish hacks lawyers call bribes Honoraria so as they don’t end up  in the clink. Still he want on and on, according to this cute Lesbo girl I know, as sadly she is cute, as I am always on the meter as it were, I’ve  found unless on the pad all girls love being called booful and doll, no matter what is said, as got that from the  pi and Della on Perry Mason, as miss that America terribly, as aids to me ruined any chance of rocket ships and me becoming the Shadow. She a gal who like many has come to admire me and my cartoons of zaftig superwomen as an ante Stan lee, amid as this creep went on and on, about this she finally had enough and shushed him, to his dismay, she recounted to me, as I  am sure of one thing on life, the venial all have ulterior motives, who was this girl daring to shush this ninny, the rotten fruit not falling from tree and all  she said, using my analogy, but this she said, parroting and too admiringly of me, hey shit head, the assertive woman said,  this a party, you want to give it a rest...? Ah, but then she said, channeling me and the truer radical devotion I am a commedia dell arte ham better than any married perverts whom she noted unlike  my posts at goggle all shut up for the cesarean sorties, ah Trump called your bluff, ask Bill, Romans never bluff!, dutiful and good sissies all, she thought of old roman me, just my luck, I captivate the lesbians, story of my life!, and  she told me, she said to this blabbermouth, Motherfuker, Pax,….? she said, as some wrought all would be forgiven as the dying old men got the war they wanted. Pax, she said, has nothing to do with it. As a reply, for who is the enigmatic girl in the barley of a missing America, only recalled in the sad sonnets of the Italee of Chaucer in my youth…The name of the goddess by the way, is the brown haired goddess of the weeds and the rye, Ceresea, as Ovid said the Romans were the best soldiers ever  when they were still just patrolling the Tyber river’s blessed glades of grass.