I NEVER METAMORPHOSIS I DIDN’T LIKE…

When I heard that old man Chaney finally did give up the ghost that, according to Dante, he many have been all along, as a demon who walked the Erath, I was hearted to think that had he seen the Orcus God and his boatman arrive so very close that it as a jarring fantasias to he and his horrid fat little war loving daughter and that in fact, no matter how much blood you gulp as a good vampire, eventually that Pluto came looking indeed for him. As ma warned me of men like he, and his life of sending other men’s sons into a neat grinder had indeed bought him nothing but the modest between kicking those men to be killed and wondered in his chicken hawks Iliad, which turned into an inferno soon enough. Burn in hell, old man Chaney, I thought as perpetual Greek boy scumbag Stuffingeleveloeps didn’t learn anything and spoke so shiningly of him, as did the doge faced women of new Amsterdam viziers, which I have heard on the roman street didn’t go over well with the proletariat that he and they all after all had seen as nothing bit cannon fodder and human carrion for the vultures in their war adoring Cumae that their world as all along. 

As what is a love of war, or even abortion, but the grossest fear of death and by death mentioning not being able to count ones lusher. As I have heard that with I  added simpatico that doesn’t become her, the fatso, glasses wearing hag daughter Cheney did indeed go off to tell rancid patrician finger-painted George w about her father’s coming demise, which may or may not have had an effect, but which didn’t assuage  him from showing up at Texas atrium without Portfolio, i.e. victories,  to toss coin ironically, that may or may not have been used to garner Chiron to ferry the fat bloated man across the river that shines too close for comfort to the television cities of the elites and the war quest oars after all. 

Gouge W, who indeed was noticed as a taller man than Gore, by the by, still net to the Cowboys hinterlands and with the advising of a star struck Jerry Jones who loess games by three without his greatest player, they proceeded as much of the year to lose again, but close enough for the dying old man, IADS and horseshoes of flying packages leaving crap to stain the clouds. He, the last prince, and who was sure to make sure that both men who had a Gracchian hope for reconstructing the empire lest it snap in half, both men had to who got to the White house over the corpses  of Bush boys had to pay for that with being the first men impeached, but they were sure as shooting, that family a lover of CBS westerners, to make sure that the clowns of mars all thought they did it over Hillary whose love at the MSNBC coven wasn’t stately that devotedly that she could actually beat the sissy boy back bencher who came swivel hipped all that time ago, and whose own museum has run out of imperial coin enough to finish its ugly monstrous facade, as it was preverbal ways mothers jungle fever dream need to make certain that sonny boy buried as she wished, at Stonehenge, as a requiem only a mother could love. 

An attempt by me in this dower age of Karen's with Larry king glasses and homicidal sissy boy, GIRL armed twerps with knives, to return to the age of Mad when I was a kid, and frankly no one really believed a word said by the then gummadis of empire, like the larded horrid Gummadi Pilosi. And due to her being a good house wop, she made certain that she was, with all the Bush acolytes around, to be the face of corruption, like a good titled wopsketteer, and was dutiful as my father warned me to be a house dago and be as dumb and as corrupt as she needed to be to hang around the marble tables. Well, I have seen again an amateur at work in New York, and the smarmy little punk who let his MASK OF RED DEATH SLIP OFF FAR TOO EARLY FOR ANYONE WHO KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING, AS THERE HAS NEVER BEEN ANYTHING THAT HAS EVER BAITED A MACHIAVELLIAN AS MUCH AS A SUCKER WHO STEPPED ON HIS OWN entering, which should be laughing or at least not so heinousness devoted. So, as he with an amazing lack of grace which can only come from a colored in a private schoolyard he is let in merely over pops accrued cash. Well, Angel Martin, I will indeed mentioned the name Cuomo as the red brigadier tells us all not, no I will mention that vowel ending name, whether George Will paid for you not to or didn't, as I await not just silly Angel to be there the day that cops are killed or a building comes down, and the friends in medieval drag amazingly disappear, but I await that first great time that the virtues and time and space and the fate of frozen winds comes calling for our Indian red, as I await the first test of his alleged manhood, a Snowmegeddon to make the misreading swells bitch about getting their crown vics out of the drifts of destiny and empire. You can pray five, ten, TWENTY times a day, all in the windows and with the affectation of a middle ages priest, marionette, but when the fates of the woods come a calling, well, they'll, and signora fortuna will take the measure of the con man well. It is ironic that as the radical chic cocker spaniel takes the emerald city, the collected rhinos of MSNBC are told to vacate the armamentarium, which serves them all right, as these over fed white hags seem more devoted to Disneyland than to Basile anyway. JIMMY! {he now, true to a cons man creed wants a daddy caliber windfall for hos Porch loans, a wise career move, before his incompetence and sleepiness becomes too openly a given.}.

As I was sleeping during the afternoon, tired as ever been, my brother was watching an unkempt, unshaven, burly soothsayer named Bannon, a navy man who was meant to go to jail for things not as bad done by the party apparatus who finds comeuppance usually in the cracked sidewalks of the Appian way, as I have said before. The man announced the self-serving Bushies of the station that the network, of not even Paddy Chayefsky and not of Laura Petrie, but eleven of Jeanie and of rowan and martin could much take anymore, have diced to as he said, Turf them out of the war tower which I’m sure the war hacks thought they would always find a ledge on which to perches. 

But, they have found out now with Zombie shows on television, without the artistry of Tom Savini, who I met in arts school and who admired my own more Dore than Johnny Craig ec monstrosities, the gaggle of colored woman gone recalled by titian haired housefraus must now find its preachers and its surveillance at a street level dump, a closet on the once vaunted upper 42 street tin pan alley, at a automat where Buzz feed was, perhaps like Rori Gilmore reeling against what happened along the way. As I came into the room after the sun had already gone down, earlier than ever it seemed, he told me of the trial of Pauline , our Rachel and how now, the heft and the gravity of reading out of Clausewitz out of Toscanini’s tower was now over and done with, and dearie Bess Meyerosn, Ozempic faced cat on a hard marble roof, MacKane apparatchik has to find a new placed to again as always, sell GE DISHWASHERS, ala Charles Nelson Reilly selling washers, AS THEY HAVE ALAS divested of the men of the people. The Romans said of the liberals of the senate, they are all here to wash the floors always. The Super train does not stop here anymore. 

I don’t know how to go onwards and make a truer connection with a girl from my past, a pretty bargaining starlet type whose penthouse pictures I once bought, as I recalled the essay I wrote in Ovidan magic realism, yes it is Italian of an art form, sorry Conquistadores, and white women, on how Chaney came to me as a dark eminence last Christmas as a lover of death and a priest of the dying and how he is now dead as a doornail, a Scrooge who in fact never got to the saturnalia joy no one but George Scoot showed well. Of course, of I wanted to deal with the caterwauling of an Italian girl, I would listen more to my unmarried sister, who as I warned her became wither too fat or too sarcastic, or both not to be left alone. See, merry daughter of fake Windsor Chaney with that horrid Learish touchline name of Liz, she wishes to make this requiem for poppa dearest into something close to the Canterbury tales, a state Tales worthy of Cosimo Medici or Joe Bananas, whatever, and she is stampeding it says here to make a requiem as never seen before to the chief of staff who couldn’t defeat Jimmy Carter, a one term peanuts framer whose halo glares so much now, no one dares recall Burt Lance. It is a celebration of murder with bloody flags, a funereal for a Hannibal, though of who is playing that Saturday in which CBS likes to program its cantors of imperial life, as George Will ask, smeared with paint as opposed to blood, are the Cowboys on…? And after all what he has always feared more than anything, as Gore would say, was a knife in the dark, all along. 

OVID AND THE END OF REPUBLICS. 

In our horrid war tragedy, a lesbian reading out of Clausewitz mixed with the yellowed pages of old EC comics books more sentimental than pulps should be, the Roman goddess, my mother’s queen of heaven, a Virgin Mary with garters and bows and silk and stockings and bustier, our beloved italic saint, Signora Fortuna appears and smiles her Wendy Smile that shines at us all. Poor scavenger Roman Bill, still on the percipience of the Styx, he still tried to evade the tax man and the truant officer and the headmaster and the mother superiors and wives and hags and chicks who he has hated with his love of bookies and bows and stragglers and all, a hateful amid the hateful women of his wife’s Saffic charms and their Dworkin needs of mastery, oh how gleeful I become, yogh Beamish day, oh glory be and kapoks in mod lettering on the batman silk wreak bloodied up. 

Though using chill subs, a broker for works and essays as the big shots of letters are crumbling to the ground, =the devil eventually wears Burlap- I still get sometimes bitchy emails about sending the wrong thing, or the wrong sort of thing, to the middlebrows, Gore’s Perfect word, to sanctimonious hacks sn hags who think they are Bennett Cerf the Moment  they signed up for a Medium account. And though one thought I had perhaps sent a wrong thing to a wrong place, as I am want to do, they had to, on the level of hell they are, to swipe at me that I pedals these papers sent to ,as sometimes get, impress these “literary “magazines at the speed of light. I almost wrote back, as am tired of always hailing to define and defend myself to the overfed imperial pigs quoting Homer at the vomitorium, I almost said, sweetheart, you try designing on the fly between how many things you overfed white chicks wrote that dared have “Venus” is the title. And mostly if I wanted to impress you maybe more lower brow sorts than not, and New Yorker wannbes, the last person I would have known since middle school, the last person I’d write like is Gore Vidal. They were so upset that I had broken some magic boundary, the dared to hurl dastardly after the self-appointed dotcom, but alas, I recall when did impress many, how every work was in Courier New and some I knew sent out works wherever they could get the postage. There are always the moment of Revitrovi, but te well-wishing radical gals and even my own relatives have told me there is nothing now that serves illustrations by Gustave Dore. There is always that moment when like Brutis trussing around in Freemans cloaks and daggers, hat in the ring, there is that moment where the liar realizes that f the New Yorker , Niccolò was righter than not, and the prissy little sissy boy who fared tariffs more than he even feared going to that perpetual; front he gave new Sparta,  that Charlie Kirk , gone but at least he’s still with Jimmy the K at hands reached, was indeed more William F Buckley WITH HIS SAD RETORTS.

Well, Mona Lisa and mad hatters, sons of bankers and Oz is reduced back to its file cabinet. This despite that link that said like 10 places that were open to submitting’s before the end of November still onrushed, so happy Saturnalia to you all from New Carthage, as an attempt at 12 Caesars hated then, that brings nothing but true admiration and a shipload of trouble, anyway. But then unlike George will whose persona made the Trojan horse have to now cross-town bus at Buzzed closets, as Rory Gilmore is your Beatrice, I can say with pride, I adooooorrrrred Joooolian.