ACRI RADIO COMIX

MY FAERIES ALL LOOK LIKE WENDY FIORE.

2012-02-11T17:24:00.002-05:00

I found several ripped images of my comics yet were somehow saved or at least not thrown away in other pages, as though I couldn't part with them even though i had somewhat decided it was time to grow up and be a hack. A handful of scraps had to be put together to in 4s to make pencil images of pictures done before I stated to take the advice of a legendary artist I met at a comic site and started tearing pages in half to be more complainant. I got my share of angered responses when I sent out Roman Mythology, as people were then on the outlook for a another Harry Poofter, which even a lobotomy, or a bottle in front of me, I couldn't give them. Why did I ruin these Roman or Tuscan fairy tales with my unwanted Political diatribes, I was accosted, as if trying to get away with something.

Still, I have at last tired of the Roman Lessons, as I guess I did as a boy when I couldn't imagine Georgetown, and another go round with the burlap brothers, this time, as affable as ever, they admired my King Italus at 15, ah, but a growing gloom of virulent Pneumonia, which I had heard of before even the elated Rent theater goers, as I saw those angels in America since 1970 as a boy. And they called Newt, did the masters of the party and told him, for the good of the cause, to back down and not go Catiline, and he, as outspend by Love at first Bite Romney, who believes in nothing, did back down, not that it helped, a positional I know all about. I was hoping to for Newt to go Sallust here, or at least Clinton, and shove it all in the faces of the over eating womanized like saint umhummmhummmumph Joan, and their acceptably matrimonial fags, but he backed off, sadly, always first mistake I refuse to make.

Then I see Newt destroyed by closet everythings for Count Chocula, the first man to give the republic socialized medicine, and I realize again, I was always on the right track. Why bother with the Roman studies here in Niggerland, as after all I have been more a chronicler of Johnnie Gammage than any Augustine playwright or house light bulb coon on television, and why bother...? You know the true leaders of the Senate, no not ever the ones ever who walk around in gilded skirts and who hold golden lariats, but the true leaders, who dont go on cable TV, they asked Catiline to back off, and if he did, hed be made Pope, a position Caesar demanded, knowing its worth, for life, and he basically told them to eat it as he did Spartacus, and I wonder if now a cable television star, if that meeting between Spartacus and mad Catiline could be wedged in the miniseries, though I doubt it. If I ever had to be shown that Machiavelli was right and that the political is a banquet of rancid food served to beggars I know it now, and you'll miss Newt, especially with our Monsignor Rick as he runs for the same post that Caesar wanted, the Papac--Praetor. I cant wait for that closet to bust right open. They, the men of the steps , having emasculated Newt, now ask Tallulah Romney to back off of destroying Rick, so good luick with that one. He isnt smart enough to back off, as in Destroying Newt he, like Cicero, destroyed himself. They liked Newt-Cattilne,as he was defender of the state when you were still a pimp. They don't like you, no matter what ass you kiss. Did I mention I was taught by Jesuits....? Meet me at the Arch of Severus. As Niccolo said, I am never shocked, yet am always disappointed.

I wonder If next I could just write a fairy tale, no gulags, no raped girls, no Tuscan armies, no Roman generals, no destruction of Tuscan Veii, no pugnaciousness on my part, as I made enemies in refusing to Di Nero it up. I wonder if i could cobble just a fairy tale, as sweetly innocuous as Narnia. But then, I read it all in the official Italian, and so...I once wrote an x rated version of Lord of the rings , and an Oxford educated editor tole me I had a even better ear for adventure than I did for fetish, --a mere bag of shells.

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.

2012-02-09T14:06:00.002-05:00

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

i. When I was a boy, I saw the great and dignified Ben Gazzara host the Life of Leonardo on PBS before it became all fags and be bop, as my pop used Leonardo as an antibody to the virus of Coppolla and his ilk, which would only get worser and worser. Marty as a name doesn't mean what it used to. And I thought, who would do that now, speak of the magical name Leonardo, as the Italian Portier enters the music of the spheres..., Di Nero...Pecshi...Shnooki...? I think partly they are paid to never mention such names.

ii.With more than an echo of the incompetence of Mitt Romney, the Giants have been so insufferable and verbose, specially lovable on a team which was 8 and 8 going into a last game with the insufferably good enough to not lose his job but everything else Tony Romo, still, they have been so insufferable that the Patriots, like Newt, have become something amazingly close to sympathetic favorites.

iii. I wasn't going to say nothing, but this new found strange hatred of Our Newt among the Republican praetorians leaves me queasy. I think to me it is akin to how Favre was treated by the usually as the republican are, hatefully dense Green bay packers creeps. Favre, like Newt, took the daily slings and arrows--as that very phrase can be found In Virgil amid the unnoticed sonnets of Italian Camilla, Books vi-xii, though again, its all about the translation, you know, Favre was cast aside, like a piece of fruit. As the great Arthur Miller once said, in a better time than this. And like Newt, and Bill, our Mercury theater Boys, he occasionally let his dick hang out in public and it was all quite too messy for a fan base who loves itself insufferably. And his high wire act was quite compelling and very humanizing, as of course, the closet weirdos, as they have since Altman's MASH, love shushing slight of hand lest you find out about what's going on in their closet's, God only knows. So If you think that nominating everyone's cousin Rick Sanctorum is a way out of the Ronco morass, well, lets just say again those fags made me read the Satyricon in 1974, sparing later GE niggers and gals the heavy lifting.

iv.And Newt was cast aside for our now legion of Frank Burns and his cadre of dog women, but funny, if Newt hadn't been Cattiline in his ethics, why, the Mittcompoop might have gotten away with stealing, or at least renting, a nomination, and leaving you with a tax dump in mid May, the Roman Month of the goddess of the earth, by the way, as far too late to do anything about it. Ah, ther's the Rub , as Virgil said, really he is a treasure trove for Willie, sorry Charlie, the rub and why professional losers like Curly on msnbc, where he do plays the role of the interpreter amid the giggling lesbians, capitoline pencil sharpeners and niggers fo hire, that's why he was so upset, as the con, as it has been since Sallust was exposed. They had to have a plutocrat, --ROMAN WORD ALERT, KIDS!, in that nothing else could have made Obama the whirling dervish, actually look like a man of the people. After all, despite or because of GE theaters largess, he was the man who signed off on the Bush Tax cuts as he seems to do each Saturnalia. They just had to have a plutocrat play Snidely this time, as again, the difference between Epic and Farce is the length and too, the stress one takes on the punch line, as Augustus said of Plautus when he ordered his mammoth Livy like history of Rome be burned in whole and replaced with the work of the Jewish Paduan, well, Plautus, he said, wasn't funny enough to pull it off.

v.And now, having shown the con to Cattiline like effectuality, this comedy is almost Peckenpah--a comic genius and no I'm not kidding,-- Doggedly in how relentless it is, Newt as baddest Ernest Borgnine, which, I saw through first, and still I warn, I have read enough Roman satire, much more fun and literate than that shit that house hold Jews give us between the giggling, to know, --again maybe this was more akin to the epics I have read, Romney might have raised his hands to be the imperial stooge, sho nuff, but still, he yearns for power in a way previously only seen in the back pages of Tacitus, and the Assad Family, as he wetly seethes for inamorata Fortuna to make him queen, and he is rather open and above board, too much, of how desperate this man wishes to be Praetor.

vi.He wants place and power Ronco does, in that way of the truly Vacuous, really he makes Obama look like Cincinnatus, alright, with Colter as junkyard bitch, To the point it is almost vulgarly, so much more so than any Bill Clinton - Newt Gingrich-Brett Favre love of sexting brunettes he has seen smoldering on the sidelines. This is always an anathema to the Jews and white trash for whom they clerk, so close they have become,as they are still looking for that perfect blond, not like Yenta Mom, yet not Aryan enough they recall sad stories of polish ghettos, nor too blond they would have nothing to do with the deviated septum crowd.

vii.So, the littlest Foxes and their almost perfect Judea mistresses, blond but dishwater and tepidly so, see above, try like the dickens to fit that squarest Peg, Romney, into that Roman Hole, though , to quote Moms Maybly, Lord, Boyee, he Is so incompetent that it hurts my feelings. And what can you do with Pauline, as he sweats about, Police Comix spit curl falling in his eyes, when he in mid shvitz says with by rote charm that he is not swooned by the rich, his fear and so stupidly says he is not concerned by the poor, and then half way through his diatribe, like a bad actor doing Shakespeare, and yes it can be ruined, especially by the author himself who did make sure all Ariosto italic italics be whittled off so his barbarians troop could actually say this crap, Ronco in mid rehearsal and soliloquies, threw up a bit into his mouth, realizing what he had said. A moment of lie truth, a moment of brown poison Oak, as the bouffant-ilicious Soledad looked on in a horror that somehow this incompetent had made it so and this far, just underpinning the secret histories she already has spinning in her pan Asian, ie, brunette head to begin with.

viii.Well, I hope Newt has enough of this farce, though to be fair, the same people are telling him to get out, are those who always do, the men on the steps, like Stuffingenvelopes told Bill after Monica to leave with honor, and thus get out, not least of all Al Gore, our new Statius' Nephew, who could have used the running start. Although when you listen to Donna Brazille, aren't you doomed, anyway...? I mean, I didn't have peace and prosperity and cut to a dead heat. Ah, but I recall this well, and was asked if I was a wayward Clinton apparatchik, when utilizing it in a story I wrote called Imperiumata, in which I attempted a string theory book like something out of Harlan Ellison, that when Bill had made the point that he was now involved in his own Catiline assault on the capital, literally, he didn't like them a bit, he was going to use a variation of Mad Policy, of mutual assured destruction. When the ashen faced Staffer asked if he was kidding, then bluffing, Bill with Roman assurance no Jew could ever dredge up amid the sarcasm, and the vitriol, though the Romans too achieve that side of the Mediterranean in spades too, said to his knife man, Romans never Bluff. And though the Democrats who never liked Bill thought they were finally rid of him, he hunkered down and suddenly made the NOW hags become not only available to, but complaint in, the dispensations of any woman he told them to, as he more than any Irish pimp or blond on Fox news, knew the difference between Roman everything's.

ix.I still though hope that Newt gets out, as somehow going to Florida and talking up the space program was seen suddenly as madness, though I do believe the swath of bought rouge of Ronco in Florida never did make it up past Tampa, and had a small oasis of Newt support at--Cape Canaveral. Human actions have meaning, despite even the bribes at work. The right stuff. I do hope Newt gets out, as the Romantic has always been a anathema to the red necks and the six toe crowd, the barbarians still; even, in the age and now building Bauhaus gates of their own. Newt is weathering his time with this crowd, this republic is dead as is shown by GE theatre consistently calling him as being in a Circus, which to be fair, though you think they are so lovers of niggers and filth, the praetorians of now know what happens to an imperia, when the money runs dry, in Gods we trust, and all others pay cash. You see, in Sallust, in Cattiline's war, at the end , writing while looking back something that can not be done in a land of the on the fly Satire of a show called Daily, it turns out that Cicero, the essence of all that is political and thus ironically hated by keen and cool Niccolo, that while he spoke incessantly of a republic, as do the bought and the bribed, that as an Appenine senator from the dago farm belt, he amassed himself quite the haul by selling tainted old beef to the soldiers being sent to protect his way of life to all the ends of the earth.

x.And while nothings like Michael Savage now forget their pervious attaching's of diminution like "Man tan" to Ronco, the Mattel man, and blame Newt for somehow this plastic nothing having gone ballistic in the feast of Janus, still, that man for whom Favre was destroyed, all about Eve Aaron Rodgers himself did something quite amazing, at least to my Roman attuned ears. He lost in the first week of the playoffs, with a fifteen and one team, as Favre and Newt have never squandered so much to easily, they never fell apart when you thought they would, and then, after blazoning the gods, who even the Gladiators pretend a sacrament to, and angered herself, fate, blamed his receivers and the curvature of the earth, a week off, the tempature, winds, or lack thereof, almost with less cie la vie presumption than a Romo, as he went to the Pro Bowl and was pissed these millionaire black folks who wish to be all pros more than play the damn game, didn't give him their all and try harder to allow him to win a meaningless game. Then, he went on NBC TV on super bowl night and told the free bread Multitudes, to watch the Giants, they are cheaters. They'll fall down, and appeared to be hit the now unsuitable Romo with portfolio said, as Bob Costas' face turned whiter the usual. Such is who you are stuck with Cheese heads, as Newts and Bills and Favres for all their faults don't come along so often they can be so eagerly disposed of.

xi.See, I am no fan of Obama, as he now spins to the left as he hand jives to the right, and guess what, tear up your cheat sheets and crib notes we are calling another audible and in fact, there is nothing wrong with big money in politics at all, as soon as I can wet my brown nose into its currents. Still, I wouldn't make him fight Ronco even as a stooge and a set up, as again, have seen old yellowed books were men don't recall what the deal and the con is, and getting close to the purple want it more than they let on, though with Ronco that is hard to imagine. My mother, an astute Italian having seen Mussolini from the balcony at Regium, when he was there speaking and recalls how the great white Father in Washington at the time was assuring Italee of its reclaiming to glory, look it up in the Times, Roger, so, she, weary and knowing of this type, she saw Ronco pleading with the wall to become queen and said to his image, in Italian, "--Go home, before you wet yourself in public...", and then called him an Italian word for Pimp. He wants this all too bad to take a dive, as I warn again, and though I am no fan of Obama still, he did beat the Borgias to get here, I think he has done his duty with wayward Italian archetypes of seething power man lunatics. Newt as a lover of Rome, would lose as a man, as Bill did back there, as a Roman, while Romney would win like a woman. Sorry. Barrack had done his duty by fighting off Hillary after all, and all he got for it was this lousy Empire.

--And, that horrid little praetorian Jew fuck, our cable TV Petronius, within reason of course, shooting the wounded as his ilk has been taught to so do, lest not recall his Tony Bruno contemplates the bust of Emmett Smith American colored moments with Newt, Kids, he said it all, when he said and got his squeal like pigs, full throated, do they see me laughing, praetorian gales, huzzahs on command, that Newt will never be president. He, who has been pushily assaulting the golf clubs and links and Jockey clubs with his Paley bloodied siege engines, he would think of no worse diminishment as he has been pleading a life in the theater, dreaming of Lutheran booty. The Romantic, to say nothing of Sallust like anti heroes, is lost on him, why he appears on covers of books holding an eagle, like Superman himself, though a little more Jewish than either Jerry or Joe would have liked. And don't make the same mistake they did, pal. Sollust, eh...?, one could hear him say, yeah, huh, yeah, right, heh heh heh, Sooolust isn't he Christ's Praetorian secretary...?He and his minions are thankfully losing audience by the gust of self righteous wind to a show where people open up bowery lockers and scavenge for the broken dreams inside,-- now that's funny!--, so all he could think of now sorest thing to say about Newt, again missing the point. Caesar once said, "When deciding to go to war the first thing one must do is decide to go to war". There is a sanitized version said by Napoleon, student of the Julian, but not being a dull republican, like with Shakespeare, I like the line as said in the original Latin. So, Romney wants to be president so bad, Fuck your jew praetorian Savages and your collection of clerks Drudged Jews, make Romney Run for it. Go be a madman, go Ballistic in January, go, destroy Newt, bitch, Roman Up, so, Cicero and your clerks, destroy Newt, as he like Bill expects demands as much, bluffs are for Greeks and homos, and run for the job, for once, Run for your power, run for your sash, run for your vendetta,-- Run for your life.

2012-02-01T15:20:00.002-05:00

Addendum
REQUIEM FOR A HEAVYWEIGHT

I am now going back to Mister Stupendous, doing a page a day, as he faces another Oligarchical figure, just one not so... so,...yechhh, as I wish to think and ponder on the heroic in our Mob wives world, as all at once, the republic gives up her ghosts, like boy Tyberius,--in Caveat, the boys of empire kill him on the tarpean rock, and as to cleanse the hands of the oligarchy, the deed is done by an always helpful tribune of the plebs, who literally then was put to death, but in a star turn, a mother takes her child and throws him on the senatorial alter, demanding recompense they can not give, and curse the Roman street to exactly what happened.

See, I knew that the story of Catiline meant something, even when I was a boy and writing a first screenplay on an Olivetti typewriter, as he was a senator, as Tyberius the younger was a patrician too, but there are always so many Romneys and their hidden friends, so many Rich men, and Fox mistress newsboy blonds, who either drown in or avoid the spotlight, no...? And now I am scolded and told at times, and hear how sainted filmmaker Stushie Kubrick, perhaps someone of the estate has read Cornelius ditties against this slave, or heard of it, wanted no part of the hagiography of Spartacus, only addling at it as the Godfather seems now to have been done, to fulfill contractual needs, which, to be fair, is as close as Hollywood ever gets to art, anyway. Yuck, I am a bitch, as is Newt. These black folks liked the play, but it in a world of Spartacus, as now TV LAND HERO, cut too close to home.

And the Black Scholar looking for indigenous fairy tales, Etruscan never need apply, reading of Blond African Kemeter, shades of Yakoob, she then begged off, though she made sure she gave me, for what is was worth an attaboy, amid the days a now angry Giuliani, seething in a ruins of a pillar hallway Mutt cant conceive of, must have known couldn't last. And the month which was the festival to recall the noble dead begins with Creeses telling the truth by lying the most, Oh Machiavelli Laughs, as the befuddled man jerkily realizes what he has said as the tenth row is hard to see or defense from here...Personally I wouldn't be by rote trashing Newt as a mad man--like its a bad thing!--when I had my standard held by a diva millionaire who cant take a punch and who begs the walls to make him Dido's revenge. I return to the Libaria, and to MS, Roman Conan, hero of heroes. But, Before this is over Pining for the moon shall be quite the moment of decency as the spics who look like my uncle Chulutz on CNN and the over fed Woman hearted Praetorians who never stop talking but say little, can they, stop laughing, stopping short with moment of epic and sadness, Vergil at the Terrence play, like when the Mob Wives tear up amid the valentine to American minstrelsy, again.

So happy month of the Italic praying of Souls out of the purgatory which Tinya has cast so many, showing again, Italy does as it pleases, and no Semitic god goes untouched by the lovers of Hercules, sometimes them holding whips, just to make it even. I could use a few tracks of Bernstein's Copeland to help me bring MS in for a landing, but then, couldn't we all...? Newt deserves a quite night.

FRIENDS OF DISTINCTION.

2012-01-31T15:03:00.003-05:00

Sunday, January 29, 2012

On Light bulb Television, which I try to avoid though still must come back to, as am siren called back by having a crush on Rachel's neck, I saw Chris Mathews doing his squalid BS, this time, with the dread hosts of their morning show. Here now at Miami at a sea sport were Praetorians on holiday, as white boats slowly moved past in the almost Tuscan's like sunshine. And Chris, a Sejanus from way back was starting to feel a measure of empathy for Newt, a funny thing so many now start to feel as our vicious Mormon show boats like a Cowboy, strange when one isn't that good or losing at the time, but, still, he seemed to be sad as we all are that Newt is being destroyed for a living Pepsodent ad, which is floating in the wind.

Of course the woman of the two, which is hard to discern when Scarborough Unfair is the manzeer next to her, doesn't like Newt, having learned ethics at the Ebert Institution and so, she likens Mitt, as one would guess, and cant wait until Efferm Zimbalist Jr. becomes Praetor, and the whole thing can look like a Quinn Martin Production. If Rhonemy becomes Persian Queen, we shall easily be in Epilogue, because this republic will be over. It will be bought, not as Caesar bought from the poor, even, we have passed that with Olivia De Haviland as he jerkily pleads with the filth to be made queen, as Mitigate makes it a fox news approved point that the poor are getting way with far too much. As I was right again, Romney has indeed passed Olivia, towards now Tallulah, as we careen towards Nora Desmond, with Mitt finally losing his mind completely, I'd say mid September, doing sweet little buttercup Ala Adam West, and if it gets more camp than that, I Roman Tony, will take even an Italian cruise back to the alters, still as vengeful and dangerous as they ever was.

And Chris who actually has now a sense of believing his own shit, which can literally be death to a Sejanus who has started to believe in more than his knee breaker code, always the beginning of the end, and believes in the Res Publica, and not whatever filthy wanting man the Principate has cleaned and sent out, he castigated her as she sat there, why, who is that apparatchik behind those foster grants, giving out shtick, do we have anything else...?, flip flops and middlebrow intentions dangling from her pollock gaze. Even Chris came to Newts defense as how can a man so insufferable as Mitt be so allowed to swamp a state with cash, and nothing else, and destroy a man and his whole being with the heart of an assassin, never once stopping to making an argument or politics 101, explain why you should be president, besides the fact that you can buy time on Micheal Savage and thus stop his Jersey uncouthness for a week or so, and get the admiration which comes with an ad buy. Right on, Daffy!

And she was upset obviously at this, and did the patented stupid woman move, placing her bumpy nose, and overfed stare eyes, a beak once joyfully in the air, downwards, with pressed lips, as another woman showed herself as the Jesuits warned a mere cow who thinks with her lips, a pun I didn't get until years later, but can work both ways, as again those faggots were correct about everything. Someday even household Jews who laugh on cue will realize what happened here as Newt was made The American, as surly, steamed, sweaty silly Mutt is such a bad candidate, he made Newt into the sympathetic figure, and so maybe you'll resolve what he is and what he isn't, like say when he loses his own home state of Patriot land when we really focus on the fact he was anti Catholic hospitals at one time, what wasn't he at one time he isn't now...?, and he as candidate, as even Rush can see, will becomes the most quiet and dangling of creatures, like that puppet he is already said to be by those who soon enough shall say, But General Vespasian, I don't even read Greek!

2. I feel bad for Newt, that last Roman from our Golden age, as the barbarians are literally inside and outside the gate. A funny thing happens on the way to the Quorum, a line I used in Shvitzing in the Caldarium in 2008, but then what do I do about it, Sue...? As happens, the bain of all empires, and whose puns saw that coming in July...?, the street filth to whom conniving Caesars have given peanuts as largess and booty, while they have made themselves Midas, eventually, those Romans or niggers in our case, became detrimentally anti the imperials who own them, like say happens with Stealers often now. And once the filth is bought, oligarchs then try to buy up the next in class middle classes middle brow gate keepers, as once you start to Bribe, well, there is a Jesuit admonition about all of that...

So Newt's destruction by these gate keepers was so bad I actually saw Officer Krupkie, he always on the outlook for "the folks", who wields an umbrella like John Steed, Billow Oreilly in meeting of the minds with Imperial Hag Anne Coulter, he actually he had to stoop to fairness as she, mother of all dogs as she is, was too unseemly and too vicious and thus of course dumb as she painted away from the door as they do at Fox, and it seemed to actually bother him, as he like the Irish do, believes better of himself than he should.

Ten months of this.

Watching the scum bags and the paid, and their love has the stink of bribery as they never quite can get themselves to admire Romney, bribes again only can go so far, was sad as it meant that America really is careening into decline, with petty men dreaming of purple sashes as the Circus Maximus is on fire. God help us, even Palling can see through this con, as they vociferously try to send out Fox maggots like Steeley Dan Krauthammer and others to destroy Newt, for of all things, a Mormon so unlikable that his own unspoken of negatives, now ballooning in, so far, unneeded barrios, is at 49 percent, and should he be the nominee states like Colorado, Nevada and now even Ohio and Jersey, where the Catholics and Italians recall the distaste for Rudy doing drag now find this turnaround in admiration by those he paid, and lack of hearing the word Man tan to be almost innerving.

So, race to Bob Hopeless Romney you all. I do hope that the fact for Britt Hume, that Romney underlining his Mooney-- I too am a petulant master-- cultist qualities by advancing money in a bad economy to perverts who speak of flipping faggots with doctor Goldfoot bikini machines isn't too,...what was his word, Intolerant, as Rick Santorum is for him, although it will depend on what fax he is given from Uncle Rupert to read off of with his latest insight. I once had an infection in my Britt Hume and had to take ampicillin. So Why bother, Caesar 2 has crossed the river no one can find anymore, perhaps in the same way a previous Millionaire without charm did the Charles River, windsurfing, and Thurston Howell the third finally makes it back to old Rome, then to become Mister Magoo, who knows, either way both played by a delightful man named, of all things, Bacchus.

Run to the Caesar with magical underwear if not iccky thoughts, as he begs the wall to make him queen. Boy, I hope Newt, as A JESUIT NOW, LITERALLY HE AN INNOMINATO TOO GOOD FOR THE DAGO THUGS AROUND HIM, AS HE YEARNS FOR A ROSARY AMID THE CUT THROATS, leaves you with Romneyco sooner than not, as god knows Romney is so smooth and will wear well with the filth wont he...? Ten months of this. But know, our Newt's sweet Galileo minded intermezzos with the moon are gone, kids, Newt is the last decent guy in this, deterred as the Univac 5000 Mormondrone destroyed Rick Perry, Herman Cain and the others as he slogs towards glory. As Newt made him brilliantly double down on so many right wing stupid ideas, that he didn't even know at the time that the fat man put about twelve states in play with every Anderson Cooper admired theatrical play. Does America want a President for whom every day is the Tony Awards..as I said, see, I too am a master. Machiavelli, unlike Metternich, loved Galileo most of all.

It took until the great wit Jeff Greenfield forty eight hours later on Charlie Rose to realize again the metamorphosis man, more Kafka and a cockroach than Ovid and the leaves, that in tacking to the six toed Florida weirdos and red necks, the general election was Gone. It seems Romney is tap dancing as fast as he can for no disernable reason, much like Hillary, the die is cast. Before the rope a dope, Rocky Marciano could, it was said by Mailer, Take 20 blows to get in a hay maker, and no one even loosened the ropes for old Rock. Don't expect that film in B and W and madam butterfly sounds anytime soon, either, as Scorsese is our Virgil, but who is allergic to anything noble. Again, Roncos unfavorables are at 49 percent, but he is electable, says the station always having big titted weather girls to fall back on. Ah, there is Conniving, dear Mitty, and then there is Being Machiavellian, less ostentatious, more sotto voce, and far more vicious than even Bob Hopeless can think to be. Its the same thing Hillary didn't calculate for, as Mach said, only Cats are so venial as to play with their prey, as she calculated everything...How many black haired big tittied ethnic girls having affairs like Monica did you have in your own party dear, and how many closet queens are in the party of God...such piker's. So, Good luck unto you all, give me your hands if we be friends, as Bill Clinton shall restore amends.

3. I have had my full of stupid middlebrow women as was that hag, as have seen more than enough of them, and do recall they were all on Hillary side once weren't they though...? I have see those stymied scarf wearing matrionalia fat ankles over toilet watered Priestesses, long ago and enough of them, as I am sure there neural angels just adore Mob Wives and other like classics, showing their hearts of darkness when coffee clatch group think doesn't make them preen to like darkies and Jews. Newt is our Cato, strange little madman who actually dares speak of the unconstitutionality of overly pretty Caesars, and he made the mistake of getting in the way between a rich men Puppet turnover supreme, and the golden bough, but then, there is a reason Augustus loved boxing and hated Gladiators.

Five years ago I wrote a play called Caveat, farseeing where this was head from where all was, in which the rich were gobbling up the Republic, and I sent it into a black theatre troupe in Harlem in a mass email. They were quite nice, and liked the play, in which men in blackjack suits ala Orson Welles, played senators all wearing gold braids to show their distinction, and thought about it as a play to put on. Then, after a bit, went the other way, not meanly or anything, but like the black scholar woman thought the word Roman too blazoned for the nigger rabble, as I was told Statius was something too esoteric and lovely for the usual wops once, by an Italian American literary magazine, and thank Jove there's always room for the Staten Island hags who I am sure Mika, bleeech, Just aoderssssss. I am actually told these things. But then, this same troupe who turned down playing My Romans, instead put on a revival of Amos and Andy, shilling it on the dread Joey Pinto show. This realization made me laugh and shoed me how right I really am.

I am now going back to Mister Stupendous, doing a page a day, as he faces another Oligarchical figure, just one so so,...yechhh, as I wish to think and ponder on the heroic in our mob wives world, as all at once, the republic gives up her ghosts, like boy Tyberius, in that Scorsese, your alleyways be bob Virgil, Bellicheck and Romney all perching, like Cumea Vultures, all needing, wanting gasping and pleading with a Signora Fortuna who hates them so, reach for muddy hardhearted standards is too much for Roman Antony to take in right now.

IN ORBIT, AROUND THE FAIRER SUN...

2012-01-27T17:27:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I would even bother, but sports TV has become so beholden to crappy nba basketball, and in trying to tell us that four Lombard trophies of a cheater is equal to the great Chuck Noll, that I was tooling around looking for something to watch, while I ate a dinner of boiled pork fat and hard bread, which is better than it sounds and a true Italian delicacy as the poor of empires have always given the world, and saw again Howard the duck, Matthews quaking on television for his light bulb consortium politburo.

Ah, yes, the same pravda outfit what gave us Reagan all that while ago, who to be fair, once heard their host of death valley days as Squiggy called the future Caesar as late as 1979, trash the Tennessee Valley Authority, and within a week, having been told that GE made a million dollars a day in 1966 off the TVA, quickly reversed course and praised it the next week in his homily and thus showing those who mattered he had what is called the right stuff, the good jib, a clear focus and praetorian timber. I think of that when I see our dear Boo Boo Kitty Mother Maddow standing in paperboy chic and Jesuit eye wear staging before Hoover or is it Boulder Dam, speaking of the big idea that Ameria, the name of an Etruscan city once, hah!- is meant to do, as we bring good things to Lite, life, or at least the bottom line.

And I saw Daffy Mathews, actually he should be so witty as that, as he called Newt a clown, and was as are all elites, disturbed by the workings of a republic, as the Jesuits told me never trusty anyone who speaks well of a democracy as neither did the founders, as that is merely what they would love more than anything, to hurl free bread at the niggers and the filth, pennies on the dollars made, a cost of doing business indulgence, easily written off, like liberal TV, and the oligarchy, literally once called in an actual culture the Optimates, a word Reagan embodied, still, and here was this GE salesman. He, as bought and owned as an mri machine, coffee maker and or jet engine, sneering at the workings of a republic again, just as I was warned. But then what hasn't happened that I was warned of as a boy...?

AND OF COUSRE, despirite for a hump like Romney as almost prefect Marx brothers caliber foil, needed when the man of the people president was actually the one with congress full of nigger fag and union loving white folk the ones who didn't let the Bush tax cuts expire, the two political channels prove their worth as praetorians by wanting Romney as badly as he wants the nomination his own self. Passion is Catching--like a rash.

They all fear Newt suddenly, as Newt, almost joyful Franciscan now himself, would be an innominato far too decent, and honest in a Bill Clinton way, and no I'm not kidding, as a discounted voice in a parade set up between two nothings who think themselves saved at birth. And with nothing but mud and ridicule, as neither man dares tout anything close to an accomplishment, hiding the hearth care fiascos that we are assured by smiling David Brooks mean nothing, as he tells the angry people to take a chill pill and laugh it up, there is nothing but ridicule as both men prove they are more than willing to take notes from Racketeer, sorry Rockefeller-- center, I am ready for my close up Mister Imult, as its good to be Pharaoh, and even Mitt face positing himself as now suddenly mister anti immigration was a smart move, they tell me so, as ignoring the Spanish vote in Miami, we are made aware by the little men with knievs, is nothing to Mitt face, perpetually a wolf caught in a leg trap, what with him having ignored bigger caucuses than that in his won party, shit, niggers, the Spanish are no problemo. He's been ingoring the people for years, and it is his best asset.

And in this vein of bashing Newt with an unseemly and tin ear, a fish does rot from its head, display of old men of the imperial sea, from Dole to Mac Kane, geriatric and senatorial lions now in dotage who don't love Romney gods knows, bribes only go so far, but Hate Newt, it is sad and a spectacle to see. Dragging out Bob Dole as an old man, wait... to get the vote of who...the conservatives...what...? Yes Mister Mac Kane, and haven't you fallen far, that was a hell of a Senate once wandt it though...? Ah, but decline and fall just sneak up on you don't they though...? I think of Cicero again, lining up the bribe takers, as Antony dismissed the effete and faggot and meaningless senate, against mad Catiline, and how when I was told about their hero, the Jesuits warned me, twas a roman trick, calling men mad, used as late as Stalin, as to do this, big still with Jews, which Racism is leftist variation, these epithets whirled allow smarmy greasy performance midned poitico diva men to never have to actually amke that thing they so fear, an actual augment.

And Newt would demand that Every day Iz shufflin! Jimmy, the whiter Romney, into making an argument, no patsy he, and do you think befuddled and vicious and mad man Newt would allow the filth to which he plays as well as Catiline, to forget it was Darkie nigger commie pinko Obomo who was the one who didn't let the Bush Tax cuts expire and thus made sure GE and Romney's general coffers were filled as he now demands a smaller government...? Please...!, right there Newt must be stopped by the old man oligarchy at all costs. But...as Newt strains for a Roman fable now unmarketable to Bill through all but Proxy, recall that when he was desecrated, the people picked up the corpse man who was Sergio, prefect huh...? Catiline and carried him through the streets as hero, to the distaste of Wickepdeias yet undaunted. And when Cicero, house boy emeritus demands that young commander Antony clear the streets of the rabble, Antony, the romantic man for whom my mother named me, having read the great play in the original Italian, glared at him through what I see as gray Welsh wolf eyes and sneered back, Make your men do their own dirty work, old man, he sneered at the fat good life lover Apennines gumba jew. See, Antony hated Cicero, as so I still as Roman boy, though both were of the same party, something only seen recently at the msnbc Saturnalia party when Keith got a buzz on, and when Cicero said to try to box in Antony the soldier, that Cattline was a menace and a traitor Antony, getting a little girls love in Regium forty years before I, Antony, was born, he, the ultimate Roman soldier, and that is saying something, took Cicero by the throat and said, if he is a traitor give me 10,000 more old man. And Antony threw him aside. See, the Romans were stuck with Cicero, and someone should tell them at news corp, neither Obomo not Ropney is the end of history and when you have to make sure you support as man with the vicariousness of a Romney, they never want you to stop.

And, dutifully, Rachel, who I saw going through the channels, was in 2001 space suit, making fun of Newt's speaking of the moon, a perfect GE caliber fox news set up to the word Lunatic of course, as somehow this as seen as serious by the now suddenness all cheap and miserly democrats, as when he spoke of a smaller government, though it was an anathema to lesser than Ezra for a year when of course Caesar capitulated again, it was asininely seen as Brilliant, what isn't...? And she was making fun of his idea of moon colonies, as supinely such is no longer heroic but idiotic, why smiling David Brooks told me so, weeks ago on Charlie Rose, and it takes time to trickle down to the low end patrons of GE theatre, much like the commercials for GE capital and mri machines which seemingly buy up a good third of the time on Fox, just to show we aren't married to any of this shit. Suddenness, the new frontier has been recalled by the old bread and circus con, and when she said big ideas she didn't mean the colonies of the moon which have been written about in various favorable books of the Clinton Liberia for reals, like Ariosto and Galileo, both prominently displayed on a list of books which might as well been called heresy by hair flipper Mo, as calling Marcus Aurelius or any Roman a hero in MLK or Milk land is verboten.

Wait...again, weren't you, I thought, as the moon puns came fast and furious in kyron wit as scrolls, wait, werent you the big ider cunt, the cunt who stood in front of Hoover, Bolder, Bumsetad Dam and spoke of great big ideas, wasn't that you, dearie...?, wait, GE doesn't make rockets anymore, is that it...? I see by BIG IDEA you meant paying off the filth and the niggers and the shit so as they don't cut your throat or steal your stuff, don't touch Maddow's stuff, --ah...an Arms and the man for us all, a credo to live by.

Ah, but one is who they follow and follow who they is as Tranquillius said, in that Roman astuteness which cuts to the truth better than a thousand bibles, as later in the night, having 1, 2, 7, Moon Pies, as a midnight snack, AS Newt and Clinton and various Italians I am not above the indulgence seen as hateful by Tuureel as Gore Vidal damned the littlest hack eons back, and was watching television. It wasn't time for Its always sunny in Philadelphia yet, and I cant in good conscious catch Kevvvin Jaymmmes is a ups driver, fuck yew, ouhhhh, and saw Rachel was doing her usual Fag shtick, shadowing that imagery where some guy says he can cure gays, and proves it so by spooning with them on a sedan, and ---uh, look, its late I cant explain this shit. I sort of gave up when the Jones brought Romo back the first time. Still, Rachel now out of Keir Dulla wardrobe, looked into the camera with her doe eyed petulant lovable gaze as some faggot was talking about what I had known of for years but not to this degree. It seems the weatherman, weather vane, which is the always grasping always needful always wanton Romney, but stammering and halting Terrets syndrome Caesar who sweats and smiles and frowns as political Nora Desmond, Snidely Whiplash, Romney, was pro gays until he no longer had to be, and now, to prove his bone fidos--sorry, fides to those who he bribes, is paying money to that weirdo to make faggots into actual tax paying red blooded American citizenry, again as I Roman figure, the next step for this cabal of queers who allowed marriage and soldiering to define them as opposed to ceiling paintings, war crimes, and national myths. Virgil is laughing somewhere, Hun.

Well,well, how Obama for another man, as Praetorian for life, Gergan said is shameless in never taking blame for anything again, showing his presidential timber as even CNN now is on the Romney's Crazy train, huzzah for the man with the thousand yard stare, why he can see his deposits from here!, miss smiles on command suddenly as silent as the queer used a Tony Word, like capitulations, which I see has taken hold and has tainted the water tables even at GE, oh, HE CALLED ROMNEY CRAVEN. And miss Moon Pie, had nothing to say, no puns collected for this occasion at all, silence as a usual GE fall back position when the truth of things is unfortunately gotten to, like the moth and the flame far to close. But there is a moon however dim, yet gleaming none the less...

Suddenly, the fat man and his Galileo love of the moon, which the passages of that orb in Galileo's immaculate writings, according to Italia's poet lauriate Calvino place Galileo as far beyond mere scientist, and place him as second only to Dante and or Machiavelli as Italic letters geniuses, these pages of the moon, which Issac Newton sued as a holy writ, far beyond mere scientific jargon, those moon ideas, to somkehow who like Obama sees your humanity as fungable when in his way, why the moon man didn't seem so, what is the word...envious and mean and cold and calculating did they now, dearie...? Men have been in Empires which dreamed of advancement, and yes had bread and circus, back since Pliny,...See?...who thought one could reach the moon, the daughter of God, Diana, literally that is what the word means, kids, by utilizing the mountain Vesuvius, and then having survived the blast then use a bat winged metal box to fly the rest of the way, they as late as Cyrano, who also dreamed of a trip to the moon, thinking the universe was filled with air, not yet having had the new Jews tell them how cold Yaweh and his universe really was. And like Newt, he will be destroyed by having come to close the blast of Vesuvius, where Pliny died, in the famous eruption, hoping to get close enough to send his metal box into the stratosphere which literaly means as in Ovid, the tracks Apollo, remember that name before we all became Judea and only have money enough to kill Arabs and save banks...?, sues to race his fire horses around the earth. Suddenly Newt, despite admonition by blue Boy Cooper and his overfed legion of women and Sejanus Gergan, the only one noting the various lies that Plastic man was caught in, suddenly it didn't seem so venal and vengeful and vicious as Romany is an incarnate, as is his equal opposite Obnama, just of think we aren't ever sure either golden child is devoted to, or cares about or managed and believes in, beyond their own purple sash.

Well, The Romans I adore called Men like Romney a pillar fucker, in their brilliant way of cutting to the truth and I am hoping Jesuit Newton, another Newton as Galileo maddened as they always are, I hope he leaves you in the lurch with a sweaty venial vile tin man Lunatic crammed Ronco, who seems to always be begging the walls, or people they are so interchange to Trimialchio, of begging the walls, or pillars, to make him Taffy was a rich man, Taffy was connected,... is shameless but which Fox and GE theatre do deserve, in spades. Uh, see, I was wondering can we make the Obomo Ronco fight, as the Sabine did, a fight to the death, to save this republic, because something deep in me, seen in Ronco's mind it already such, is and don't bitch at me when the flying chariot of Phaeton boy nigger queen does somehow blow a gasket and come spinning into the sea like Superman View master, as I wouldn't put it past our brown eyed girl, like how the incarnate of capitalism isn't so proud of his money as not to hide it, but is a Minos, and they do what comes naturally.

In Roman and Etrsucans mythology, all mostly lost when various Obama and Romney in-laws burnt Rome to the ground in 400 BC, a holocaust never mentioned by doctor Micheal Savage, much in the ay the name MAN TAN no longer passes his bribed lips, there were beautiful women, like sirens, which like so much is an African myth as was Minos, as was Midas, these girls called the Mania. They were all naked, bountiful, white skinned and long black haired, based on the Sabine gals, and they lived on the moon, where they brought wayward seafarers and others who were shown that most Roman of lines, no not quid pro quo, as here don't you idiots ever expect anything in return, but the truth of things. Hateful towards them Uni, or Juno, who despised the moon goddess and feared the Turan Venus who she couldn't destroy who was once one of them, made a curse on anyone who came to the moon, as the stink of Human shit as far too close for her comfort, like Obama at the fag rally, and anyone who fell for a moon goddess, including demon Kemeter would be driven and or worse called mad, lest any other idiot believe what they had seen on the dark side of the moon. You wont get shit like this from Rachel Maddow. ANCIENT ROMANCE NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM! --But, still in his almost Roman Boyish Clintonian love of all things, of science and of idea and of thought, a fat boy pining for the moon seems rather more decent and honest than a man who would be such a lunatic, as to be pro gay weddings one day and the next actually fund centers where gays are scared straight as it were, issuing a lack of believing in any thing too closely that get in the way of some again dreadful father imagery which sounded better in Dante than it did in Hamlet. I think even Obama, as not a stupid man, just a coward, is closer to Newt than to Romney, and think that might be in Newts favor as both mommies boys, Obmoney, well, they dream of purple sashes, don't we all, but Mitt face needs it like a junkie, and is far too disastrous and venial a man to make into a Turnus that it is even worth cutting down.

I must pause as my heart is in that stone tomb of white paper and gold wire transfers and mud you have made for Newt, and must pause till it comes back to me, as it means literally America is for sale to the hapless, sad, and this epic Herbert Hoover thought we needed is dread Lucian, and It will be insufferable as he, Bob Hopeless Romney, can only highlight in afoul ways that both he and Obama, though he worse, are still barbarians, always looking and in Romney case bribing and seething for a moment of green laurel, a Roman laurel, a Roman crown, which was a championship which looked better on Bill Clinton, or on Chuck Noll, than on any seeking, needy, wanting, scheming Patriot.

THE THIRD SATIRE.

2012-01-23T15:09:00.002-05:00

January 20, 2012

Wait...now where was I...? Oh yes, the fall of the Republic...

AND NOW, that the Democrats are freed, as at least they think so,from Commentaries of a mad housewife white woman with Sullan qualities, they feel a shameless freedom to go ahead and call all those who dare say something against their fearless leader--Ha there's a laugh!--as being of course racial, as those paternal fucks have assured themselves they can not be. Sure Olbie wan and Dangerous Dan Patrick made wholesome fun at the expense of a black quarterback who was being beset in a pollock colony called Pittsburgh as late as the turn of the millennium, but again, masters and servants and all of that. And, too, like Caesar, AS LONG AS ONE HAILS WHATEVER PROGRAM THAT RACHEL MADDOW HAS ACCEPTED AND PROBABLY EXCEPTED HERSELF FROM, WHY YOUR HUMANITY IS ALMOST IN TACT. Its for such as this the Jesuits made sure I had a good drilling in Roman letters, among other things, which left less scars.

And now dutifully a lisping queen light bulb czar named Crissy Mathews with the sissy drool one would expect from a termite terrace inhabitant which don't get its own in jokes, he is willing to pounce on anything remotely racial as again the white girl and her bands of pocketed Negroes can now preened they didn't vote against Rastus in Philly, and if they did as a good Praetorian for life named David Gergan spoke, it couldn't have had anything to do with racism god knows, showing again, luckily, you haven't been in Pittsburgh in a long while, bub.

And Newt, who they fear as Roman Clinton imagery amid the Foxy dark ages, who they fear as did Queen Victoria fear Ovid and his original midsummer nights, or as they at Old New Philadelphia eons back afeard the name Caesar as the death of Republic, is now ascendant, out of the pity you thought you had cast him as a danger to the status quo. They have a good little nigger here who does as he is told, splits differences, is in over your head, never comes to the defense of anything, and its been a good year at Goldman Sachs so why ask why...? But, Newt as was Clinton, our two Roman boys, our boys of the res publica, is as I said, is like Puck amid the Salem witch trials, as was his friend and colleague and fellow Roman Ass Loving, woman addled, bitchy, drop dead cold water flat, iron clad, mortal lock, faggot gal crazy, Juvenal Bill at the stern foyer of the dread humorless Now Meeting.

Though I had to admit that GE theater is so awful now as the light bulb queen can state what having a president who is from R and D can mean to the bottom line, soon enough all who use Sylvania toaster ovens shall be named enemy of this state and incarcerated indefinitely. Caesar, as Newt would know, only emptied the jails as to refill them triple, but again, the roman blessings are so distasteful to the faggots who'd rather laugh and call people shit lest someone hurl that offal at them. Oh don't worry, Dan, they still have loads of quilts you can borrow when things get too Manzoni, bitch. And also, GE theater is now finding giggling brunettes who even I cant stand, so there you go.

Newt shows an almost Clintonian glee, and ability to not have to kiss the ass of bald beard Jews whose newsprint admiration comes with a price, least of all a Petronius like expose of a smiling little hebe who has been keeping less than Cope-ius notes, if not to save the republic, at least make a book out gossip, an Hungarian delight, of which he can, always with serenity and gumption collect royalties, as Anonymous is never the name on the check. But see, far above the head of a good hagiographer like Christy who is still making asides at the expense of infinitely more affable and less hackish Keith, whose carcass Chrissy can not assent above now, still having to throw it back to delightful giggling Rachel on elections night, which meant something when I was a boy, even if only to tire of them and watch The Great Race or For a few dollars more or Cooley High on VHF, is that indeed Newt is a remnant of the last great time in America, and is why Machiavellian, the people flock to him, as they did Clinton. Against Barbarian rage and all...

It was a time then from which he reemerges as ghost, a time before the legacies took hold, a time before a slimy tap dancing coon who always hand jives to the left and then sways to the right, and no number of pompous Newsweek flammen can get the bad state out of the idiots who either did or did not vote for the cold cool cucumber prince, who has never found an liberal ideal to hold as well as he has the bribe he gets from GE, and maybe, as Howard said to Craig Morton, never really will. I hope Niggard Caesar, Erkle the magnificent, is watching, as after a while the homilies and lecturers get on your nerves in ways the Satyricon doesn't. Machiavelli was right, no pompous bloated self righteous faggot Negro he when he said the worst thing the Aria Prince can do is lose the room.

You see, and I am dreadfully sorry about the bother and the crudeness, still, Newt represents the last Golden age, and like his frenimy, oh, Old Tony is exactly right in my auguring skills again, like Bill recalls the Roman sonnets with less distortion than the average White trash woman or red neck Christer. They, as was said, both Adoorrred Joooolian. As some two bit nothing idiot white woman was screeching about how to connect the urbane sophisticated Romans with their crucifixion of Sparticus , or course, like MLK she had never heard of Cattiline, and I thought, well what do you do when your Noblest Laureate releases the drones, hunnie...?

And see, that argument you nitwits were given as acceptable and send out various Hued Hueys to detest and examine, well, we aint all coons, pals, tell the various Keith's and the corn eating nigger scholars, see, human action has meaning, as Mach the knife said, and see that argument was the same argument verbatim that Bill, your once and future ex king and you cant get away from that, no matter how many GE employees of the month, made you throw at the wall. That argument of getting people off welfare to work as an argument Bill made, and you parroted, in a boom time, sorry Rachel, saying Hi Boss actually makes you who looks bad, but what would I, Jesuit Tony expect from a lesbian...its a long story of, No Offense, those old men who before our E- Sanctities days of effeminates like Dan Savage, the lovers of Virgil then, they rather hated women and though they didn't try to dissuade me from a love of various Beatrice's, that they instilled in me while Marty was building his MASH like Jersey sets, still, they told me in no uncertain terms woman are stupid and they make your knees weak. And for Gods sake listening to women, well, it isn't even worth the cheap laughs.

Bill is the ghost of old Caesar, hovering now in immaculately grifterism so above both Brutus and Cassias, and shall destroy both for fun and more so, for evening the universes. I think its note for nothing that our two Roman addled boys, Bill and Newt, Aldo and Guido, the men who ringleader ed the last imperial circus were in fact the two who seem most distasteful towards the idea of welfare. They know having read Dowdy hated Marcus Aurelius since boys, that welfare can alas bleed a country of more than just the niggers wanted gold and the white trash hoping to horde it away from barely acceptable Jews. As after a while, as Doctor Paul pretends to know, too many men die in the Alps whilst too many boys stay at home and eat and watch south park, or Plautus as sanitized of meaning for the Comedy channel, and after a while, as Caesar knew, he said, Cato thinks that I am going to steal the republic from the Romans, when in fact, he laughingly added, knowing his shtick well, I shall merely pay the idiots to sell it to me. Yes, mister Khrushchev, Marx was after all a Roman buff, as we all were before the niggers and the women took over, or at least were told they did by clever little light bulb queens.

Its not for nothing that our Roman addled boys, recalling a golden age which looks like Firenza, compared to this insufferable bribe takers slum now, aren't that fond of welfare. And in fact, after only a few days of Chrissy Mathews sloppy discourses, in fact, Skippy himself came out to say oh no, nigger's, the man who avoided the black caucus and all they stand for like a plague was not the food stamp president, no one wants of being Kaiser, --an Etruscan name in such perfect irony-- as to be soup ladle in chief, no one wishes to hold the Augustinian standard to hand out bread, as Augustus himself said, seeing boy men standing at the theater of Pompeii he rebuilt for the publicans, and then outlawed gladiatorial games there --only boxing matches and plays could be held on, and when the gladiatorial rebelled to it, he sent them all to Germany showing there is a difference between fake war and real war, showcasing he had a true wit. Dont expect that movie soon , as I can say, having stupidly written it to Jewish admiring of a sort which is real and doesn't include a cashier's check.

So, I am glad to see Our Newt assent to the point a house Greek fag like Stuffingenvelopes sees him as danger, as is his want when not writing memoirs while his Caesar is still upright and still in his term. By the way, does anyone recall when I was using Jewry Juvenal's ass kissing of Newt as an example of his want of loving anyone in power, can we recall those days...? Roman Satire...You wish. Satire, like Romans, don't take sides, if it does then its shtick and out of place and laughs like a woman into a sheet of paper that has been gone over by Legal. Satire is mean, not affable, as smiling cable televises queers dance around an already deconstructing empire. SEE, you can get all the smiling Charley Rose appearing apporatchiks you want on tawdry GE Indulgence television stations you want, to me, I don't ever count out the fat man with the copy of Marcus Aurelius in his pocket, and he is glad to see you, as History has proven as much.

As now, it seems Roman Addled Newt is drawing a line in the marble and not allowing the oligarchs to give the Republicans a champion as disadvantaging and demoralizing as the bribe taking nigger who they are stuck with, and I, despite Tamerin Hall poured well that dress, instead of henhouse GE theatre, went to the Romney wake called the little Foxes. We Roman beer drinkers have tired of saints, whether later day and moors. telling us all is well. As opposed smarmy ambitious mammies boys like Obomney, in Roman Living Newt, like with Bill, you have no idea what you are dealing with, yet again. The Republic strikes back!

2012-01-04T13:37:00.003-05:00

THERE IT IS….

1. Just to show the privacy less voyeur age of Face book continues, and although I’m glad to see that at least someone reads this shit of mine, how instructing that I came upon an email in sludge pile, from of all people, Penguin publications. They, who have been bringing you Roman tatters, ignoring Italian genius, and praising unread English pap for years.

Now, what could they want of me, I thought…?, having of course, dealt with them, and not in a good way, either. As I recall even pre Computers days, when you still, or at least I, got an occasional hand written note from editors, who thought RM was the most enjoyable excerpt they saw all year, they just would not touch it, --THAT’S ALL, NOTHING PERSONAL. This from they, back when who actually had to bother opening a Mead envelope and tearing out a library Xeroxed query, and those were days of literacy, before spam became something more than a strange cold war canned ham, and before Oprah completely made publishing subservient to the moving hems of white women. That which would, if anyone was paying attention, destroy even a pretence of literariness, as even the new Yorker would be swerved from Capote, and even pretences of literates, to become basically a woman’s magazine run by a ab fab English schoolgirl twit, aren’t they all, and occasionally baring out bitter viper uber Jews to trash cock tailed party hated presidents, eventually soft peddling things and umbrage when the word secret wars became verboten, when the nigger shuffled into the Roman Praetorium.

But it was in spam, as I said, this letter, or what passes for it in our ‘Always On’ time, a phase I stole from the great John Batchelor show, as I too use some of this monstrosity called techno, but cant go all the way with it, somewhat like how me and pretty Italian girls under the steps were in an earlier time in an earlier life. But, as I even told to blond Peggy in my twenties, Id love to sleep with you, Hun, but as an epileptic feared having some woman give birth to some thug like me, who was a shaking burden to her as I had became to my own Ma. What could they want, I thought…?

Perhaps some Editor saw my query, as was told back in 2002 that I think my resume or letter was kept on file, should they ever actually need a 1000 page book about 'Tustin' empire, although to be truthful and open, they were the ones who sneered at my work, as I get, not merely in the lack of care with such things as spelling and other uses of woman’s work, which I wont do until paid, it is a deep seeded notion of mine, but in the very temerity of my own in even having broached the subject then in the full flush, and I mean flush, of the Soprano nation. Well, as I saw coming, golden ages don’t last, kids, I said, purposefully issuing a epithet of a later read editor girl named De Guzman, but which I then used a lot as a way to be both affable and too to dampen the pompous, though didn’t read her long enough to know what she does. I still sometimes dream of De Guzman, oh nothing sexual or vulgar, though she is pretty. She is always a black stocking pan Asian brunette middle manger of some gatekeeper bridge and is always irrevocably unimpressed.

Alas, my dealings with Penguin, when I still got at least umbrage, making before all the editors lost their jobs, this was before Zoetrope, so I still had a hard candy shell of actually not caring, a best place I was, and cannot so return, as after all, I don’t know about YOU, but they wanted ME to be a Jesuit, which was better to me than all the fake woman’s studies Africa logy bullshit degrees handed out as to make sure now one notices the fact that the NCAA, when not now revealed as a sewer of faggots fingering boys, as one would expect who has read the Satyricon, but , the stories get worse, and strangely, and to their disgust, Joe Paterno, like Nigger Jim, ends up looking more noble than the non racists would have ever liked. It seems in Syracuse, which sued Joe as a Roman turtle to hide itself, now that the cat is out of the bag, it seems that Misses Larry Fine, the coach’s wife actually watched hubby diddeling a boy, and that’s hard core, I mean that’s beyond Apulio, or even Fellini, and I just heard a flash that Anderson Cooper just fainted with a raging hard on, and had to be brought to the hospital with a case of Priapitis.

2. I opened the email from Penguin. “Hey”, it said, to seem less ivory in its towers, --again, as it was at Zoetrope, “Hey” ever writ in electric English is always a dead giveaway—Did I know that before I PUBLISH WITH AMAZON’S SELF PUBLISHING PLATFORM, did I know that My book could be self published for as little as 99 dollars, [up to 599 dollars, probably the truth price…] and have the good housekeeping seal of approval, important since woman buy books like they buy toasters, or as Gore noted, hard candy boxes of literature, with bows and ribbons, of Penguin classics. Really and fer true…? How would I have thunk it! Now If I could write something like the Valley of the dolls, then I'd have something.

The email continued, that why waste my time with lesser known book publishers, or places, which are glorified book Shoppe’s who don’t really know publishing—ah yes, but they know how to move product in our circus world, Burgess. That’s Meredith, not Anthony, by the way. Why for a century note,--there, my inserted Roman streeted slang, something penguin at first go around didn’t like—I could get my opus—their word showing maybe they too don’t or do get their own jokes, I could get all of-- here incited in bold, and how did this happen, I have to ask…?, ROMAN MYTHOLOGY, [about four books ago, but I think the title I had sent them] into print by New years day. I am no so sure about that anymore, as this letter was postmarked November 16th. I felt a bit chilled at this bolt out of the saffron, after all, as I did when I was sent an ad for something called Erba, which is an Italian something, I think like Nutella or something having to do with cars, on face book, --This, all because a hidden or alluded to character in all of Ancient Romance is a Virgilian like poet named Erba, [still the common Italian word for grass], who kills himself when Aquila takes hold of Tuscany, a lovers spat worthy of Gore’s Ben Hur, but Erba sees blond Aquila as something of a monster, and so sets himself on fire, as Aquila, Quota remade, takes sixteen year old Cornelia as his brood mare lovely wife, and so the poet adoring the girl in the slightly perverted and sweet ways of the Italian who had made a African blond demon named Kemeter fall head over heels for that first Wendy eons back, named Turan, set himself afire. This, was something Roman priests with Cato did millennia before your precious Sholins. They, who at this time, were willingly and eagerly wolf manning it up and crossing whole swathes of humanity in what would be laughingly called China one day, showing that they, as opposed to Dashin, was going to not make the mistakes of watches on rivers that Rome would. But then, as a cartoonist, do I really think I have the erudition necessary for Penguin to publish my booklet about these people as they asked, ah but such were the halcyon days of editing and elitism, and when the bridges fall, they fall hard, this a microcosm literally of our fallen earth again….? Oh, Lawd, how things do change, no…?

But then, issuing an Italian aphorism, one can tell who an American communist is around here, as Machiavelli understood who is the Catholic true believer, they are the ones, like the NCAA, and never say Die Pollozzi, who likes money and boys, all the more. I recall being lectured by someone there that there was, of course, no such thing as Roman mythology, in as much as she and the White folks say so, though since then some have actually talked of how Aesop in fact was an African who brought stories about lions and such to the stony cliffs of Greece, etc, and after all there is nothing which Abraham, that Iraqi Romulus from right to left, didn't take out of gilgamesh, as how Ariosto and Italian newspapers were where a treasure trove for Willie. But I spoke back, no in fact, there were priests and such of Rome, who held the indigenous italic myths before the great Romans against her forbears did in their great stand, in 400 BC, when the Romans having not yet given their souls for circuses and welfare held back the Germans in a siege which lasted eleven months, and caused the Germans retreated for a first time in history, which literally put them, as they say, on the map. And they were called Flammen, the priests, who read those first gospels which a now devoted Paul scoured and plagiarized, I bitchily added--I was taught by faggots before they got the good housekeeping seal of sanctimony and were more melodramatic like Big Tony--as opposed to later Catholic priests... who merely were ....oh sometimes I think I am, talking to un witty plaster walls.

So, now, all was forgiven, if even recalled by the auto pens that rule our earth, I was asked before I make the mistake of going with another publisher, --too late my accounted has been so credited—think about going with a respected name, as now the gate keepers or on their own, as the middle has fallen of the Milvian, into the Tyber in whole and now, as usual its every man for himself. My my, why Bennett Cerf must be spinning in his Grave. Or is that still Art Rooney…? You mean, I can be Anne Radcliff too…? HEH. This made me laugh, as now the great publishing houses, used as they have been to allowed Women Jews and others to think themselves literate, to be basically buildings next to the salons where the daft and the droll and the pompous eat from gold plates of dried figs on their backs, has become closer to a propaganda mill, no worse, as Augustus was grand and great editor and Caesars books were only written by others to complete them in April as opposed to plagiarist Jimmie at the b ball game, --oh this made me laugh, to know their happy footed imprimatur was for sale, as was O’bama’s, as was everything, as I sort of see all those days, even Bill and Monica, as a golden age, coming to and end when a yenta like Pelosi grabbed for woozier highness, as her ilk does, over the carcass of Mosconi like Hillary, I knew she was finished before any of you, look it up on my blog, whoever is keeping tabs. An imprimatur for sale, but then hasn't our friend Augustus, and his show that has hovered over this set of essays as a ghost, greater and Caesar's, and a sad iconography to how republics die, hasn't he taught us all, as he taught his Jewish second in command Marcus, --they don't mention that in the liturgy of oppression do they...?, that after all, that's what imprimaturs are there for...?

In so much as I deleted the email in whole, purposefully, as recalled another auguring moment, when some editor sent me back a dismissive letter, asking again if I could “Prove” any of this, like I guess Tacitus did, when he merely savaged his enemies, still, I was told in no uncertain terms they had a good third of their business from the Romans and the Greeks I so “savaged” in my book. AND SUDDENLY THE ROMANS ARE, I FIRST NOTICED, ADMIRED BY THE BOOK CHATTERS, first of a string.

3. The Etruscans here in this losers booklet, as I was assessed it was, why, would I write a book about losers of history I was asked, showcasing the praetorian hearts afire in even Jewry publishing, as they were even an anathema in our continuing Victorian age, with a few always now monogamous queers added as to allow the Jews to feel less out of place. AND NOW, after all this, time and work, I can actually now buy a Penguin seal, at a sale of pretense, and to this literary indulgence I say Bah, Humbug.

Still, it was funny to know that someone had gotten wind of my letters to Andrea, who was nice enough and I felt that way after having dealt with some who thought they were paying for this, including the bitches and jackasses at Amazon, to whom my having said of my making of their lists of new novels, was merely a come on at a letter of intent day, as it were. This a perfect post to end this yearbook, if not this blog, I am unsure of that as yet, a perfect point to break away and enjoy Saturnalia as those Etruscans did millennia before the suddenly then vaunted and suddenly appreciated Romans.

I thought, as being published by the same people who publish and misunderstand Livy, and who for years only published the first four books of the Aeneid, leavening the saddest more glorious most important Turnus, or whom only publish half the Augustan history because they say so, and paying not for a book but for a letter carved into my forehead would be a sort of pretense which frankly, I mistily admit, I feel beneath me. As money and imprimaturs of prestige don’t mean at all much to me as they once did, the love of which caught me in a frieze, and made me atrophy. I don’t care about money anymore. I’m sorry, even writing these words has made me have a slight stroke. How about that! I went at the small thumb drive I save in a mead leather satchel binder, frayed as it is at the edges, and expunged from the collected files of rtf and works, The Book Of Etruscan wonders and the Sabine astrology, all of the story of Pope Marcus, for a second time, no less, as will return Gracie, the fulcrum of this series, to the side of Poet Laureate Victor Curricula, she as his girlish second, the daughter of Cornelia. Why did I do this...?, because after three years of this hillbilly empire, and this regime of dimwits and lies, the thought of a praetorian, even one trying to find Clinton redemption, --and do recall kids, for all the shit Roman threw at their one time partner of crime, Saul of Tarsus, after all, when push came to shove, when needing an exemplar of the ideal of Christianity, it wasn’t a Viking or a Jew or a pacifist that Paul used as an exemplar or even Avatar if you’d like, to explainer Christerism, but in fact, compared it to being a …Roman centurion, down to the full battle regalia, --and so though I was trying to do a three pronged attack of a recollection of a man, Aquila, as recalled by three men with different vantage points, still, the thought of a Praetorian Italian Becket, redeemed or not, makes me sick to my stomach.

4. After having destroyed the book, The Sabine Astrology, I was watching the great Charlie Rose show and one of his Shakespeare celebrations, and saw the old kinescope BBC type of ghostly mirage, of the grand and glorious Ian McKellen, playing the savage and venial Mac Beth, who as so much can be starred navigated back to a story in uncle Niccolo, of an Italian prince named Tyberius and his vengeful wife Susanna, --I am nothing if not capable of getting people to think back and say, yes, they do recall a faint recollection of that which I am talking about, as it is my gift. Also I recall as I said, faintly having seen this ghostly image before of the great Ian as a Scottish madman, as my pop, when I was a kid, made me watch things like the BBC Shakespeare stories, Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy, I Claudius , and Life of Leonardo with Ben Gazarra as host, lest I buy into the bullshit of Martin and become one of his alleyways dramitis personae.

And I am shocked that he, Will, didn't take the opportunity to give us another Italian witch, as Father Nicola was a hero to Shakespeare, whose misapplication Italic name hasn’t yet come up as being Willie’s Virgil, really look it up, but then what in Shakespeare can’t be connected back to that most Italian of lawyers. His name became a synonym for cleverness the moment he prodded for the re- initiation of Italy, his greatest sin, his cleverest salvo, like Virgil, after being lauded by sodomites in Naples playhouses as somehow unlike them Romans, still, wrote of Turnus, and said he didn't trust Greeks baring gifts, as all Italians if they do not want to die in tenements or worse, slumming in Orange co., must do as a holiest reprieve from admiration of the venial, and resorgimento , that would give that new nation the biggest navy in the world, thus why his name a diminution in English. There is a reason for overtrumping, as the Tuscans knew. He adored Machiavelli, which explains much.

I re saved TSA, as now I felt I had to. It did make the Amazon list of top 250 novels even in this empire of Mud, after all. As that same day, I retrieved it, I saw a bunch of American ubiquitous savages who gather like pigeons on Columbus day, but never cincho de mayo, injuns, feather boaed, liquored up, drunken mezzo American Irishman dancing in feathers for the started count down to the coming end of history, now like all they did and do now so very sacrosanct. No, no Rachel laughing at the rapture for those peaote sniffing up American Etrsucans. Yeah well, Crazy horse is after Turnus by an eon or two, and after all that end of history and wrong door has been spoken of before, at least by me, but then I get all the jokes, worse then a queer, in ways that Juvenal Jonnie is paid not to even bother…

I saw the image of the grand Ian, gray, pretty but serrated, pouty, snide, mean, craven, a ghost of Virgil, but queery….uh…anyway, I went at the new machine I got as a Saturnalia gift when hp when belly up, and I went through each disk I had, using a usb add on floppy disk reader as Jobs is dead but his speedy obsolesces is his greatest tribute, until I found a file called tsatxt. And I joyfully saved it.

Instead of allowing the words and days and tiredness and Becket curse though having survived his king, a wholly awful fate to have to be a praetorian to a pole and a rag and a dented helmet, that part called my nicest sonnet in the work even by sneering white women, -- of McKellen luting, girl crazed, Gracie adoring, yelling, screaming, angry, yes house wife killing-- and that didn't go over well when he took his Quota, the ancient word for Tuscan sword, makes sense doesn't it...?, and lopped off the head of a woman whose snide little boy was killing birds at the temple, snide Pope Marcus to disappear, I revivified him and his nation. As I have come to a real admiration to him as survivor and cant equate him to light bulb queens like Rachel, instead, I retrieved the book as best as it now is, from 3-09. This is all from before I even botched,-- I mean, any fixing of it, thus more pristine and my own, perhaps alas more bloated, at 774 pages’, than penguin would have so liked, and save it, thinking of Lovely Lesl—Gracie, vestal perfected, "lass un-parallel", Virgil's words for his own Camilla, Gracie, Tall and pale and strong and scribbling, a perfect Italianate secretary, thin and bitchy and kinky haired, she at the last pre Roman wall, which read in graffiti, the only Roman eloquence, as snidely as ever, KeMeter forever.

2011-12-19T15:34:00.004-05:00

TOY STORY 2.
LIVE FROM GOLGOTHA.

“I must go to Naples, where all the pretty girls are". This was a line said to me once by my Pittsburgh hating Brother. Then, I saw it was also a line uttered by an Etruscan Poet who wrote in Rome, named Ennius. One of the only reasons I did and finished Ancient Romance, was that I, thinking myself brilliant, made Turan,-Venus, a wayward nymph who then becomes a goddess. THEN IN READING BOCCACCIO, --I trod to recreate the book that a dower awful fag wop named Petrarch told him to burn as an affront against Christerism, Wops is what wops do--I FOUND THAT WAS LEXICONICALLY THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER, that my blood knowledge kept this from ancient days. What with my old man saying I was related to Agricola. Surrounded by imperial puppet show wops, he felt a need to say that to me. So, again, I hope I did not seem pushy or arrogant in my campaign here, as getting you all to read this had, for once in my always-fronting life, nothing to do with anything.

So, in having gotten a run around by more oligarchies churches whose un- caring has been ossified into liturgy guano eons ago, easily the Greek kind, see below, I decided to do what my first inclination was, and merely go to the Salvation Army. The day was cold and drizzle, sombre, not snowy enough for a Christmas scene, especially in literally bombed wreckage in our New Canterbury, where walls literally stay fallen and broken into shards and busted glass and brick until at least they are cleared out and then the one time city becomes spotted by strangely serene small pastures of green and wildflowers, held between chipping painted coca cola signs. I thought of some Nat Geo show in which the theorem was presented that the Romans deserved Caligula’s madness as no one stopped him. One Junius Brutus, as usual, too few, or too many depending on where again--you are standing. I walked to the old black church, literally and figuratively, the one on the corner of Fifth avenue, not far from where my pop’s candy store was, and now again is another of these patches of green grass between the dead and unlit jewellery store signs that have attached to the chipping walls.

I walked around, in my black sweat suit, wearing a thick Dallas cowboys assure sweatshirt of fleece, past the stately black outlines and black images of the large situated glass windows, which shine eerily and strangely prettify, a Jesus at Golgotha, the famed image of him praying for a reprieve from a father God who now suddenly I am alerted by Chrsisters on Radio that HE WAS EQUAL TO--really, I guess now that we have Rome we can placate the white folks. The black windows are strangely shining, anti shining, barely able to be made out, without the overt ostentatious effects that most stained glass has to my eye. I walked past some collected people I guess in need of help, most dressed in stiller garb, many have now given away, which they get at a discount, and too, saw an older drunkard man in perpetuate, half awake, half sober, wearing a white Seven on a black shirt, as around here, many stiller fans have backed away from, the quarterback who has made them make the Hobson choice of winner or being true to ones self. As, Job knew, one cannot do both. One cannot gain the world and keep his soul, as Job knew…or was that Caesar, I can’t recall. Many stiller fans , finally getting my respect , have washed their hands of the team of woman rapers and those who throw scotch glasses in women’s faces, and then wish to be admired for the vice of almost not losing to the chiefs, or beating the Browns by three points. There is epic and there is farce, a Roman demarcation that neither O’bama nor Rothlisburgher ever seems to really get. So, see, sue, no buddy done sold their soul to almost beat the Browns, or the Chiefs, except clever gumabs from the island wishing to ingratiate themselves to an audience, after a tape exists of Giannatti saying his most literate and bon vie Bon and sophist Pfffffft, when someone in new York asked if Rothlisbugher was as good as the then MVP of Roman games XLIII Eli. How about dem Giants…?

TURAN.

A larger woman asked me if I could be helped, and I said, I wanted to give some gifts to the chidden, especially the little mellotto kids around here that seemingly have nothing. I walked in and was shown to an office, this the first time I had ever been this side of this black church as to Sister Gertrude the nun who in ways destroyed my life, and for all her blue eyed ilk, the only true apartheid, at its heart is that shown here in America, is in these churches, where no amount of imperial fiat can stop the segregation of churches, something akin to how the Gotham Bus Company is run in Tel Aviv, where short dumpy Cyrano nosed men certain of their superiority to all other Arabs, Iran being of course Aryan, demanded they not even be forced to look at the unclean and un- superior Palestinians even if they themselves, these rabbis are so low on the totems that come with all Imperialisms, whether you like it or not. That in fact, after all, they are having to take the bucking Bus. Though now that I think of it, wouldn’t it be worse, this self righteousness to someone who had given their lives over to a god willing to play Land swindler, if after all of that superiority and fanned racial purity, pure you know, like a Pollock, when one after all, didn’t have enough money to by a Car. Can I use that Roman dismissing against the saints who were trapped with Mengele in Poland, or would that be a hate crime….? Yes, the Romans should have risen up in one, and dammed Caligula be thrown out, that is big talk coming from a nation who can’t seem to rid itself of mediocrities like Obomo and Romney. Get ready for the worst election ever to be shoved down your throats, kids! Why do they tempt me Lord…? Or as he said in vanity and pain, My Lord God, why do you forsake me…? That was said, after all, in 40 bc, by Julius Caesar, who damned the crypt of Alexander be opened and looking upon the thirty three year old unfinished skeleton said those words, but then if one really did take all Latin and Roman from your bible, Colson, you’d be left with a hallow Mithraism, and who can do business with that…? Promises, promises.

I brought the satchel I had carried in some of the comic books Toys, the small superman and batmen and copies of Captain Marvel. An attractive poorer black woman came to me in the dim hallways there, and asked if I could be helped. I am here to donate I SAID ALMOST PROUDLY. I have taken enough. I handed her the bag and she looked at it, quite pleased. Why, she said, these toys are actually new…here this year we have been taking what we can get. Ah the age of Obomo continues. It has been a dreadful year, she said, things are bad, she aid, but Of course, I thought one won’t hear that on NBC, as things are great and all can be communist when one doesn’t have to fill out a 1040 form, God bless America. These are lovely she said looking through the canvas bag, do not you have any children you know to give these to, she said, again, as is seen in Italay, where roman roads and now even buses are open to all the filth, showing a lovely grace that is seen in total opposite when Rush Limbaugh is sent to gnaw on Newt’s leg for his having motioned that Romney made his republican money the old fashioned way, he stole it. Ah but Newt and Bill are in League… why wont anyone in Hitchin’s left empire of mud believe me, and Rush, like many others will get theirs. Now, I could have made it a point to make sure that chill up my leg Chrissie would have a family member go to jail as he vainly bellows to make an argument for how noble he and by definition Obomo is deep down. Who else…? No, I answered her, thankfully I am childless. And I’m not forty anymore, I can’t anymore stand the sight of these comic toys. She blankly cooked at me. Okay, so if that is it, I just wanted to drop these off. She smiled at me, and took the bag and handed me a small flier of inch by inch, on which the three wise men were painted in a recollection of the 1940’s like missal art I recall as kid, WHEN I WAS TRYING to get kicked out of being an alter boy, they didn’t like my type anyway as I said, and stay home and watch Blondie, Underdog, Stan Savaran and the Penn state highlights, and eventually, either the nfl today with lovely Lee cat woman, or if the cowboys weren’t on, Rege Cordic Sunday million dollar movie. Merry Christmas, kind Sir…she said, and I placed my hand up, without turning around, as if to say twas nothing, as I walked out the unbolted door, into the icy winds to my driver, waiting back where he and his nigger hoodlum friends who accepted him for his own Italian olive skin, played basketball all the summer days of a golden age of space ships now gone.

I am glad to know deep down that this awful year, the toys were dusted off and given to kids, me thinking of the great Triumph the dogs exultation to the star wars geek. Direful year, the ending year, now that Praetor Obomo, he has capitulated on the Millionaires Tax, --oh Rachael dear was there any doubt ever, have you read the Parsalia, as I advised…? A year in which the unarmed man murder of Ben Lauding is the number one story--Tres Diocletian isn’t it…?, the carcass of Anatolius shown to the rabble whilst they are starving, but to the praetorians, showing their devotion in a saint Paul way, every little bit helps, or give till it hurts, or whatever. I do feel good, yes about myself, more than the white women would allow for a self published project, but you see, unlike your little nigger queen, and in fact like Roman Bill, I didn’t give up, and like the Jesus looking boy man in art school, a lovely boy, a fagots dream told me, in blue ink, Never Give in. Now, on my Tuscan Astrology, here in the moon days of Cellia, the month of saturnalia and the lovers, as Tarot sign, that while the rest of you have been stealing with both hands, I have been true to my saintliness and have been giving things away lest I wake up one day I find myself turning into Glenn Beck or Keith Olbemnech. Ah that is less midsummer night dream and more Kafka metamorphosis, is it not…? But this last Saturnalia capitulation as something, its taken days to unbind and ligature out, where the word Legal comes from, wasn’t it kids, how he is now a golden load to his enemies and since we got this much out of his ass, why not go for broke, showing again, either Boehner or you isn’t as smart or dumb as The Garafolo is so convinced. I am glad that here in town, some little brown-er kid, will open a gift at some Christmas party, a slight bit of tinsel in the muck, and get a toy of Superman or better, a book of Captain Marvel and see a bit of Romans satires, amid the projects, and will as I did find a blood love of the Hercules amid this rat nest Sicily, and the stupid nigger black panthers dumb enough to have voted O’bama in the first place.

I WAS STRANGELY GLAD TO KNOW THAT HUMAN CENTIPEDES WEREN’T SOMETHING WHICH CAME OUT OF THE UNIVERSAL MIND NAMED TREY PARKER, AND THAT HE IS JUST TUNING IN THE ZEITGEIST OF THE DYING EMPIRE. As I called it before and Empire of Mud. I sagely was delighted to hear the sadness in the only voice Ebert Ecco has left, in wallowing in his decrying of this filth, whereas me, I refused to read Twain in catholic school, and never opened Nabokov knowing what I was going to get. You cant un-ring a bell, even Paulus knew that. So, Happy Saturnalia to the dying god, his son and his lover supreme brunette Turan, so bothersome to the house Jews and the white gals, thinking they have made it as they never really do. As Rush and his oligarchies masters decree yet another rounding of an edge, as Dido, he was never told that most Roman of things, and after all who would have told him, an Imam…?, a father ghost like Dante and Virg--Im sorry the brilliance of Hamlet, a stolen relic, down to the cleared throat…?, who would have told him, or Ebert who holds back his Venus stars, whatever you do, do not tell him that is where such comes from for art and generals, all them who do not yet know this most Roman of ideals, that once you start capitulating, nigger, it can never stop.

2011-12-17T14:33:00.003-05:00

TOY STORY.

With my having tried to get something like a portfolio or résumé together, in the last four years or so, I have amassed a little satchel of comic books and toys given to me by friendly threadbare comic makers, who gave me little plastic superman’s in lue of, like, Payment.

So, this year, as again Obama falls for the chimes at midnight, and as we get a Larry Kudlow Christmas carol, one in which he and others wake up and realised Bacchus is pagan, and thus, the Jewish Gods have always been more devoted to the miracle of a cut in the prime rate more so than ever say, being zany and saying maybe one shouldn’t render unto Tyberius, and so, at dawns early light, Larry and the Moneyed interested awake and screech at the dirty and the desuetude to get a job, as they get a cut from Plutus. SEE, IN AR, Plutus was. Oh, skip it….

Then, with this bag of plastic junk I thought, my being a saint, that I would drop it off at some mission, and give a kid with nothing, a toy, a small superman, in lue of his having a alcoholic as a Father or worse some Marxists father who skips town, when his Jungle fevered wife gets knocked up, and thus giving us the smiling monstrosity we have now. He is, and this is amusing, falling for the trend line bs, and green shoots argument again, showing that after are Arabs will never run the earth really, and that he is fallen for this shit again, and I wonder what he or the magic pen that rules Ameria, don’t ask, the Hal 9000, is being demanded and asked for this time, before again, we are amid the vulgarities of the free market. Yes, it is a free market until Medici bought too much German armour and then its welfare for all of a certain means. A blessed Jewish Christmas, everyone.

I am a saint, not hard in the land of Olbermench, just once, miraculously, don’t shake your jowls and wonder what could be in Onabamlas mind as he turns on you yet again, this time, tap dancing away from contraception, which frankly I thought as the closest thing that Rachel Maddow had to the Eucharist. But then nice thing about Onama is that amid the ridicule of so many others, and the strange devotion he demands as all father less dick less wonders do, he never quiet seems to flip to your side. I feel bad that so afraid are they at the Little Foxes, that Romney will not be the wrestling opponent for our fixed champeen-ship, and know that this nigger is such a disaster and an incompetent that he has to both dishearten his own side and the opponents, for which brother Clinton has given us Gingrich-Puck. Even the other party, such a disdainful turn coat he is, has to be set up for him again, as Narcissus isn’t that quite good at anything, hence why he must read while Roman Bill made it up as he went along.

Still, I am a saint within reason, and was looking for a church around here looking for toys to give the kids, within walking distance, and the salvation army is across the river, St. peters is the mafia church I wouldn’t piss on if it were on fire, I hope these wops and their children are massacred as I hope for Scorsese and his, as once you declare you love murder, who are you to ask for pity and worse still, indulgence. Too Roman, indeed. And there is St. Mary’s, back up near the spires, and is such a schlep…I called the nearby walking distance Greek church, a gray fortress like cement mausoleum, which is urban mythically famously around here as Manderino, a local hood, and a friend of my old pop, the man who ran the local cement works, refused to allow the redundant old Greek cross be added to its façade. This is legend, though probably had less to do with Old man Sam’s love of the liturgy, than it had to do with the almost superstitious Sicilian hatred and fear of the double cross.

I called and said, excuse me is this the church of ‘Saint Myy Mahnnn Gerrrge….’ I said, a bit more playful than I should have. I said, I am a saint, St. Antony, and am looking to get a shit load of small comic book toys to kids for this holiday. A surely woman, I think it was a woman, them being Greeks I couldn’t easily tell, Romano-ism is catching and spreading, copper thieves abound. I said, I have toys I would like to give to some poor kids so they don’t have anything here in Obama’s America. My man Roman Bill proud fully knows, that even in an age of Welfare reform things were never so bad under pro council Newt that women killed their children like something out of Cornelius Tacitus’s pages, or Toni Morrison, if you are illiterate.

She was upset. This is a church, not a department store , she said. Wait I SAID. NO FOOL, I PICKED UP ON THE FACT SHE WAS UPSET. Maybe it washer calling me Bub. Wait, I said, don’t you have toy drives and the like for kids and folks who have nothing at this Roman—my emphasis, time of year. She tsked. This, she said, is a Greek Orthodox Church, we do not have festivals of commerce like the Romans churches do. Ah yes, the Greeks again, the Arabs who think they are white. Look Hunnie, I said, I’m just looking for a Santa Claus program who gives toys to kids with nothing, I’m not calling here asking for a pamphlet or looking to convert. Personally, I can’t stand it when Arabs, Lutherans, and now Greeks orthodox and Mormons act like somehow as opposed to niggers, wops Jews and the rest of the filth that they are incapable of corruption. Usually they are the worst. On a Christer Channel I saw Colson, one time praetorian, yak of the Protestant worth ethic. Nigger, Puhleeze.

We, she said with the sort of self righteousness Greeks have baked into them, like say Syphilis and a love of popos, Don’t have a Christmas celebration of toys, we recall what the spirit of Christmas is. Don’t say Saturnalia, I thought, I still have to get these toys outta here. But then I had had enough. The fall of Rome fabled before my eyes, perverts closet weirdoes, criminals with tears like Colson, demanding women be put in medieval burkas, burning roman low cut dresses, and who after all, Achmed, who do you think wants that, deep down, most of all…? Uh, Fuck off, I told her, this pompous Greek nag, and she told me with that horrid sing songy I am so smarter and better than you crap, We keep the Christ in Christmas.

Look, said I, was just in the Christmas spirit, and thought of how a little toy could make a kid feel less disgraced in this land of Oligarchs and their bought and pied for Nigger, is all, I felt in the giving spirit, You cunt. That’s enough, I thought, as Bo Jangles begs the van wyck Medici to let some money out of the cashes lest he go back to being a nothing, as he tap dances for nickels and laurels, I guess You keep the Christ in Christmas by making sure you adhere to that JULIAN calendar, huh, dearie…See, January 7 in the golden age, the was the end of the first week of the year and thus the feast of Janus…but knowing stuff like this has gotten me to where I am today. When I was a boy the wise guys and the mobsters and the old men would collect toys for kids, and this old Greek queer transvestite was acting like it was some sort of failing on my part, as who speaks of spirituality so much expect the miserably cheap. Don’t Forget there but for the grace of God goes I wasn’t something nailed to some German door, though both men after all, spoke in Thoughtful elegies of Latin.

http://www.amazon.com/ANCIENT-ROMANCE-Anthony-Acri/dp/1614348693

2011-12-13T11:38:00.004-05:00

THE SILVER AGE.

I have a small red folder keeper, in tatters, in which I have saved twenty pictures done in arts school 93-95, including pictures remarked well of by a woman at Disney. I cant draw like these anymore, I just cant, having done that worst of all things, I actually listened to the goons. I recall once in arts school there was a snerd, who my buddy still from there calls "he who shant be named", or by his letter, a real goofball asshole, cruder sketcher of raccoons, snide shit head, he lorded over all with his greasy charms. And once, after shaking his head in disgust when Galatia called my work “Lovely”, I recall making a point when he asked what I thought I was doing, as if I was getting away with something, as if an Italian can get away with art in Copollas tenements, not even he can do that. Usually I try to be affable and not be so Gore Vidal as I would like, not wanting to start trouble, chair hurling not withstanding, and I said to a icy silence in the room, You know, I don’t care what it is, as long as it isn’t like You. This asshole, he shook his head with that smile of the come upped, and didn’t much speak to me again, which I was fine with.

And, just to show anyone out there questioning my brilliance in comparing and uniting the smiling smirking fucks known as Barrack the magician and Romo The Homo, I thought I’d show, that a statistic going about today is that Romo has lost three games in ten weeks having a lead of ten or more points with four minuets left to Go. Before this reign of error, in the pervious 51 years, it happened …twice. Never under Landry, once under Jimmie Johnson in the beginning stages. You see, never listen to the caterwauling humps like Tony Bruno and Chrissie Mathews, they are barbarous, and they wish to repeal the golden age with Nothing. Both have quoted St. Nick Machiavelli without having to bothered to read him, but then are true Americans.

I recall a time of Emmitt Smith, Art School time, before women killed their families because they couldn’t get food stamps, which didn’t happen in the America of councils, Gingrich-Clinton, the shadow ticket you so fear, but that is alas another story, found in Roman Lives, as thus, beyond you. A black scholar woman I dealt with liked my tales of Kemeter and Tuscan myths as I knew that a woman named Cornelia once killed her children in a well, hearing Caesar was crossing the river. No, not a slave, not a nigger woman, not a ho dee doin black mammy in some Tony Morrison eubonics book, adored by Vikings who hate Calvino till she got upiitay.

Newt is a caricature from the SATYRICON, AMID THE GRAPES OF WRATH. His image recalls the go-go times of a gone Roman hero. YES SEE, THE FIRST GIVEN IN BEING MACHIAVELLIAN-- IS BEING COMPETENT. Oh, what we wouldn’t give for a nigger who read Marcus Aurelius now, huh, kids…? Wait…Glenn Beck is, after comparing Erkle to Augustus Caesar –you wish!—is thinking of going to Ron Paul, our Cato in Utica, …? But The Republic…!, what of the Republic! Ah, Romance is one thing, but business is business. I knew of Cornelia, and this impressed the black scholar, who hated Toni Morrison, and how I knew who had done this act, of child murder, and that she was a great niece of Scipio, the savior of Italee from Hannibal. I knew in this story, that when it turns bad, it turns real bad, like a fish from the top down, no matter how many golden doors you think you have slipped into, these various Barrys, do, before always bowing out. Ask Jerry. Its a hail storm on a Texas highway. America’s team…?, you got that right.

2011-12-11T13:19:00.009-05:00

AN EXCERPT OF ANCIENT ROMANCE.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE IT GIRL

...She rose from the water of the public bathes, --the Neapolitan candy lovers are humane and open in ways, which the Greco and the Romans are beyond finding scandalous, as unlike us who bruise when the Greek fagots dare call us sissies or weakling as they suck enchanters cocks with glee, the Neapolitans, an enclave of the original Italians , the Aquileia in truth, the eagle people who came to these shores to find respite from Umbrian mommas boys with fascistic dreams and desires , they are italic and Italian to the extremist parts, and therefore, unlike us,--they could care less. I would say grammatically correct that they couldn’t care less, but then again, that would deflate the utter attempt at explaining Naples in these wayward pages at all. They truly couldn’t give a shit, as that is a famous story told here about these parts about a waiter getting his revenge from which that line does filter down to us, and wont go graphically into that here right now. Truly, they are an open-air opera house, each and every man a king and woman a princess in ways that would make the Romans, and has, made them blanch.

I adore these true Italians, these people within the high noon of the mezzogiorno, a sun worshiping people, and yet, a strange devotion holds them true, they are thieves, yes, but they do not love war as do their northern Italian cousins with whom they supposedly share a Trojan birth, The Romans, as it is said that a Bruttiniad is older then even the snowman’s Aeneid by 1000 years.

5. As the Neapolitans take much pleasure in the knowing that Aeneas’s brother Brutus, that he supposedly said Fuck you to dower gloomy Gus Aneo, and said Ciao, a local affectation for bye bye used to as a nice F off, but here what isn’t…?, and that Brutus brother of Aeneas, it is said here, he came back to Carthage and took Anna, the sister offen doomed dower social Dido, and whisked her off to the bay here, where these two, of course dark and thus beautiful cheaters, made sure to found the city of Brittan-on the sea, now Naples, after the Trojan conflagration. Who knows, but to be honest, this seems to be the sort of thing outside of Greek histories, there fore, which may be true. The Greeks, as do the Jews to a lesser extent, seem to de-humanize all of history, of all but the most noble idealizations, as if marble friezes come to life, except when someone must be disfigured as evil, a favourite word to them, so then they are given no so much a highlight of humanity in their dark and dower paladins, the sort of household diminishment men named Historicus, and no I am not kidding, thrive on and make into a lesser art form which keeps them in a middling level of middlebrow loves, wines, and so dance on command in the plaster homes of the patria hood, but, most officially allows the hacks into the various salons for which they live to be admitted, and preened in which they are not Sicilian at all. Bleccch.

6. I saw her and watched as she gracefully and fabulously and cursively came up out of the Symposium’s reflecting pool. My Gracious! I thought. What a woman, Great Janus in heaven! as Cannoilinus would say, as he though a state enemy and radical of the first ode-re thought curse words benieth him, as opposed to murder, grave robbing, vestal seducing and other imperial crimes. And, seeing her now unaware of my attentions and views in my hall as I write this all down now on scraps of paper boys sell me for a penny a page, and I must admit thsi sort of dame, god lords, they grow on trees down here. But she is their queen actress, that is true, as there is talk by a writer a delightful fellow I have known named Ennius, who being a b-play, or short play-ette or skit, writer goes where the business is, and now lives in Rome, I hear, making what is called Cambrian Comedies from the Tuscan innovation of the farce from down there. He made a point among his swans, named for delightful Turana, that the Amazons were a tribe coming to Naples long ago, and made the woman here of a heartiest variety.

It would too explain why it often seems the women sometimes they seem Nine hands tall and the men often barley five, as why they seem a nation of daughters of Siren Camilla, while the men often seem pipsqueaks of a balding Semitic sort, of course not when elephantine and humongous, often seen as oxen, thick necked leg breakers, you know, whichever side of the diminishment coin is flipped into the air by the counterfeiter Greek who stands on the unemployed street.

She arose to my and the Syrian Pirate’s delight, and our blanched faces, up out of the pool as a sort of woman men who can draw well are paid by various high and low end men to paint frescoes of, sometime as Turan for a church, sometimes as a smiling, naked girls to be a fresco on the side of a barber poled hair cutting chop as is seen in the cities around Naples. She was a divine creation come to life as we stood there amid the midsummer’s brush, no pun intoned as we could see now as she naked and without a whit of either shame or come hither propensity.

She, now, after the Turan water birth of this gorgeous creature, took off all of her clothing there, the others dumbfounded by her, as too, some woman were in awe of this living citation, as the shorts wearing boys were caught in mid play as if a frozen lightning bolt had, as happens to us all, zapped them into a silent realization of where as boys they w're heading, as even the fagots of the symposium down the hill seemed in stark adoration of this goddess. I THOUGHT of Dear Patricia, she a robust actress dancer woman who had done the same to us boys when were schooled punks, and amid the golden age of then seemed would last forever, before the mad death of professor Canniolinus. We didn’t know it then, but the age of lovely women and mad rebels is one to cherish, before the over fed women folk and the male sisters doth make secret war for the oligarchs, but preening their own form of radicalisms and vulgarity, while of course being on the stipend of the never full gluttons of the rich. All empires do not die in bankruptcy, I told a friend of mine in the House, Callus, he a thin reedy man always playing historian, do not they all, as he intoned often. They die in Thievery, dear sir, I told him. And he tonight came back to me as perhaps Aquila’s sentencing of madness to me was apt after all, and or am growing into it, as saw him before me as if as real as a snow storm, in the dark escapes of the night, he thought a minute, and then jittery as he was, nodded and then said, it was the same thing.

Beware the instigation of radicals, they are all to a man, owned by the consortiums, and little brothers and sisters to the thieves of power and place, I say. Do, mark it down, I have seen it at use, as it is always amusing when those who cry for freedom,as they do, often stop and despise the crowd, never to be made again, or at least until the maggots of the status quo are swapped from office. A same man who railed against Aquila now on each New Years Eve I am told, brings out a bloody standard and silver helmet to decry Tuscan falls and wish Aquila was back. How could this be, I asked, and was told, under Aquila, who paid him to be a champion of the rabble that he could control, he, Erratus, not kidding, had a better life as a state owned radical. Now, in fact, with the fascist gone, he had to actually get a job clearing out gutters, and the world lost its political sensibilities as the leaves stuck in his graying hair.

7. I am told that actresses, as she is I have come to know, come often to public places in Naples, where they collect like stray dogs, or better, bread addled swifts, always looking to make an impression among those here who are playwrights and poets, looking if not for speaking parts in plays which the queer indulgence of men and boys as African queens, looking for a writer needful of a woman and thus a muse to help him in his life long struggled to preened he isn’t a plagiarist, after all.

The Greek way of going to a play fettering nothing but men, is not only sneered at by Italian audiences, who unlike them are woman mad, the Helena warring queers calling us vulgar for it, it is actually verboten, made illegal, as that Greek affectation of gay love amid the sonnets in actually illegal here in Naples. It is one of the few things that is. If that was her game, as it might have been, as I am told such a game is here, she did her actresses duty well, and I could see the standstill even the Greek queers had come to seeing this voluptuous maiden, as deep down, just from their pompous statuary, they adore the human form, whichever sex, in as excellent a production as hers, which explains why after all, they makes wells of aborted babies, some of them strangled or no bigger crime or disfigurement than having red hair, not blue eyes, or in fag land , just having been born a girl. This too explains why Greeks of means and who aren’t in love with sea men taste come to Italay, as Romulus’s, a native had, looking for a gal amid the pirates, looking as they do for a soft shoulder amid the arabesque looking, smiling, dastardly, men.

8. Portia, as I learned her name was, businesslike and without a single sly smile or affected grin, dutifully shimmied into her dress, a dress which seemed a purposeful dissipation of colour roses made smoke, red the colour of the vestments of Turan, fittingly so, and even a sacrilege parody of a vestal virgins dress, as is yellow and white and sheer and made in thin layers, as one would see at the church. But, too, as we stood there amid the now almost magically and fable like chimp mucks and ferrets who walked in legion along the Italian roads gathering ‘round us too as if the critters had some sense that a goddess had approached, she redressed under a giant portico on which Hercules it summed had been placed up, looking aye from her, and the only fellow who was.

Under her cloak of sheer maidens silk, a Vesta, as the word for an Italian dress still is, she also wore a yellow what is called by Neapolitan actresses Slip, an undergarment unknown to the more modest demanding puritans of Rome, but then, when you have that many faggots in one manned encampment, I supposed the women would go about naked as jaybirds as they say without anything really raising but the umbrage which all faggots of a virile sort have towards women, evasively the giggling sorts who placate the staid women with giggles and dance.

9. She had packed herself well, this one, in one fell swoop showing her blood knowledge as I would learn an actress, and even from this far, she had not revealed anything more naked than her side of her body, which, perhaps he knew as an actress, a creature in both form and title as unknown of in the Greek world where naked men with dinks hanging out dare play things called Medea and Lysystrata, though perhaps the woman of Greece have pricks too, who is to say, as perhaps they are a drag empire after all.

Perhaps she knew such a show was even more inviting and mouth gaping and silence inducing than were she to have run around naked, exposing herself like a Macedonian who’re. She had what is called since Mosea himself, and by Jews who run the various comedy farce shows in Italy with a measure of aplomb, It. She had as the Jews in playacting and farce throwing say, She had It. She was an “ it girl”, through and true, the it girl sort who even the Germans, after raping them, feel a strange measure of pity for them, if not love as the whimper nakedly on the floor. She was, again, as they call them as Jewish men since Saturn’s rule, to scour the beaches and the pharmacies for that Italian girl who can make fannies appear in the opera house seats, wither they can act or not, who as again we are not fag Greeks, is immutable, as long as they hav-- It. And she, diary, she was, I say here, had-- It. In spades as we say, meaning from a hand in a card game in which four Spade 2’s adds up to the magical number 8 as if infinity upright in our numbers and too is the letter F and P. She had the upper cards as we say. Good Gods in Haven, was all the Syrian pirate Gallo, could say as the very trees started to move with a rustle of wind, which could only it seemed , come from this grown blessedness and the wings of the angels which had to inevitably surround her, all that way down the hill.

10. I surreptitiously spoke to the Syrian pirate. We must follow this creature, I said, as if intoning something, which was as if a holy apparition to the pilgrims to woman we both as Italians and even he as a Phoenician, at heart, were. I adhere, the memorized man, a bearded, bronze skinned, man said, jigging with a strange catch as catch can armour one would see on a army escapee from a pow camp of a soldier of fortune. We walked along a good pace behind her, up on the hills, as she saintedly rose and effortlessly walked up the mountain road, magically, like the queen of all mistresses, walking up over the roads, which now we saw held a sign of the local Greek governance. Means, they were in Greek, with Oscan put up or scrawled atop, showing Naples is , as the Roman say, ungovernable. Easily conquerable, but alas ungovernable, as the joker to all decks of imperialism is, and the Jews and Arabs do not know this, now that you have it, what will you do with it, ?--this the bane of all empires, at their heart.

She passed effortlessly on a pitch road, which on an arrow said Regium 35o mll., using the Tuscan Miles system the Romans have kept since in taking Italy they already had a roads system like none in the old world. And thus pointed on an offshoot of the road that she now took. Will I be so bold as to follow her to Regium, I thought…?The Arab Pirate was silent, with me. He was seemingly willing to follow her off the edges of the earth, into the dragons lairs which encircle the earth, as he would, it seemed, follow her to the alders of creation of so need be, as this was that sort of a once in a life time girl.

Being a Ranger before a politico, I still had the engrained precepts of trailing someone, equerry, as I had trained on less beauteous things than this ‘the her‘, just seen, back in the swamps of Cisalpine. I followed her back to the bad neighbourhood as the Tuscan matrons dutifully do speak of, where they get their maids, and those whose raise their bully children, and where their husbands get there mistresses, ought it is always so, so reputable they all are now, to a row of flop houses as it is called, where she lives as she plies her trade as actress. She is being protected, I am told by one there, by a local Boss, a criminal with delusions of lord hood. I paid for a room near hers. It was a few coins I was down to, but felt the ring of Turan’s stolen bells, and had to follow her, not out of sex, I am too old and befuddled for that, but felt a sling of Opps in me, to follow this immaculate ass to a world outside of staid and crumbling mouldering Tuscany. She was Italia herself, Talia on the cobblestones, come to lead me I vainly thought. As she didn’t even look back, such was my unrequited Love, or at least hopefulness of redemption.

11. I hadn’t followed her out of a need for sex, or out of anything so venial. I had followed here this far, as she was the exact duplicate of Turan, the goddess of the Mallard of Italee, almost perfectly, so. I followed here to this “rougher neighbourhood“, where just the talk of the name of her patron was enough to make sailors amid ruffians look away, as Aviddicus said, no one is as mad as they pretend to be, as the mad do not pretend to be. It sounds better, as does so much, in the original Oscan, which is as we speak, being recalled by the logistics called Latin. That night, she starred in a play on the theatre district in Naples, which frankly the whole city is a theatre district in Naples, as here, and here I am still writing this down on a small oak table in a clean but lonely cell, men and woman and rich and poor who all sit together purposefully in something called general seating, no apartheid as in Greek playhouses for them. The lovely nymphet of the moon come to life here in the year of Laurentium 1140, played Virgillia, the wife of the vulgar personhood heating Roman generalissimo, Coriolanus. The staid Romans would be horrified but this as the famous play by Neavicus, he even the Greeks describe as, now that all the Saturnine is thanks to them in tatters, the italic genius.

There is a world out there, as the snow man packed in his Romans hero’s, such as such a thing can be, mouth, as he attempted his strange assault upon his own people, seeing them as filth, and unworthy of even bread. As which he, it is aid, hogged and sold at a high mark up, that core of all patriotism, the profit. I followed her , as good a thing to do as anything in my trip through Italee, as saw she played the role of the wife, abused by both mother and son, that most Roman of dynamics, despite their adulation of the father image.

The famous here Neapolitan Clown, Buffunus, played the general fascist’s well, and for laughs, as what else can a roman after all be played for, as they are the most butch of sissies, a heinous combo, and thus parody rich of veins. Buffoon, an italic word itself now, what his name means in common Italian, is here an older fat man bald and punchy, yet still as some italics do, had a strange lightness of being on his girth, he moved with the care of a dancer, with shoes as in the Neapolitan way, adorned with bells and metal tips to make a tapping sound with each step. He was here in Roman get up, they adore blood so much it seems the whole city is a form of red, and wore what is called a spittoon on his head cockeyed-ly, and she followed his lead with a actresses perfect timing, as he blundered his way about scheming and steaming and in a general drunkenness. The Italian know in that most Italic of art forms, Greek theatre is but sermonises, truth as blanched as fish in boiling water, and they know, as even the Romans have caught on, there is no truth in anything but Farce. As all else, masoned as word epigram by an Italian general said of war calculations as the Chinese, our ancient fathers, are so prompt with, is mere mythology. Farce, and Italic Saturnine poetry, it is rough and gruff, but lovely and gracious at times and in parts too, and thus closer to truth than the sonnets of aren’t we all just so grand and how much more grander I am even than others of my own tribe, which one gets from the Jews, Syros and Greeks. Buffo, here, the essence of the Cambrian play, the fool in power, the soldier even the war mad Romans rename as Miles Gloriousus as at least getting their own jokes, He played the Roman for all it as worth, clutching bags of wheat, a great bit was his thinking like a human abacus, and then, an older matron actor named Victoria, an aged ingenue, playing Vertimilla, the mother, took out her aged breasts and caused Coriolanus to suckle them as he screeched, --Mama mommy, I am a Roman now! The gales of laughter came, and strangely only the Greeks were perturbed by this, as they had a now strange admiration for the spawn of their Turkish vestries, the boys whose the wooden Horse not the wolf were sired.

Coriolanus, the comedy, as it Was called, came to an end, the curtain, the italic innovation to Drama, came down and of course, after Buffo, as they call him here, the biggest ovations was for dame Portia as the sad wife of this Roman clown, who, like all Roman women, have it worse than any Italian women in the peninsula, which perhaps dooms the Romers to grandeur, as we are not so ...fatherland about things. Now, as roses and daffodils, sometimes fittingly, and ribbons holding bags of coins, her tips, as it were, were sold by thinking Naples boys, to be hurled, with thorns holding addresses and marriage proposals to her, as she curtsied , with an pain giving to the men type of peek a boo chasteness, which drives men here mad, as she gathered up the hurled accoutrements for lue of payment, as the Jews who ran this opera house knew actresses here were dimes a dozen, literally, and others would do the part for free just to get a husband or a lover, and I knew then applause thundering in the twelve row audience, and cat calls and whistles and Encores rained down on the Roman circus, that I would indeed follow her to the world I still believed was out there.

2011-12-06T10:42:00.005-05:00

COMING ALONG…

As I set this all up to finally quit being a coward, and merely stand there with a mano scripto in hand, reading aloud, like the mad man on the Roman street Doge Coppolla and his polish starlets compared me to, I had to say I think It was seeing Ursula K Le Quinn and Sarah Ruden, a couple of gals, actually doing battle with the monolith of the Aeneid that was an effect on me. Out of AR, having had 600 pages of stuff from which to choose, and taking only the original libretto of the pre Roman bible and adding a slight story of the narrator, I took out The Aeneo, Gracie’s womanly take on the Virgilian epic. Rather nice, was written in mixture of Sabine and Valley girl, concerned her girlish love of Turnus, her detest of Snow White –Virgil words-- for Helen,--all as if one of the saturnalia verses that he had wished to save. I do hope my Italian folktales from then and now have at least taught all you something about crocodile Liberals and woman’s tears, you red skins, niggers, fagots and the rest of the filth.

And I thought, if these girls can do this, what in hell am I, a masculine creature of a masculine God, doing…? Playing with ones dick all day can’t be a vocation, no matter how hard I tried. But, I had noticed a sneering, white trash, distain for Virgil, even Dante, in our globe theatre here, of Iron Poor men and house hold Jews with their distained for the word Empire, I noted a real aspect of “who did I think I was “ to anything I wrote in to these now unraveling nook pimps. In looking for the Garry Wills review to find the book, and who wrote it, he secure enough in his liberalism to like John Wayne and Virgil, without heaving to spout his mesmerized dogma at us, including the racket—scues me --Bracket shows of march madness, and found of course some white trash woman I think wrote a book about Genocide, and somehow connected it back to Virgil, if not the Romans. here birthed, of course, at of course, showing she admirers niggers as almost Human, Carthage. But not at Veii, gods knows, or with the Samnites, who might have been the first true genetic cleansing in history, unless some counted the Canaanites, which do they ever…? See, as Italians killing each other is not only requested, but also ordered up at casa D’Scosese, like a good plate of marinara.

The scene which caused the black scholar woman to like my work wasn’t so much Kemeter and Turan, though she as a black woman liked the ear I had shown of the brunette as goddess which after all, the always penny wise Walt demanded, after seeing the first prints of Snow White, that there would be plenty of time for blond whores later, this HAD to make money, you see, ...but that I spoke of the killing of the Samentine by Sulla’s race , when their hearts were actually torn out buy suspicious soldiers, not so much to gain the iron rich blood, but sure that they couldn’t as then ghosts reputing the earth, come to haunt the Romans millennia before crazy horse. Really, the book where the dearth of Turnus is not foreplay massacre, to the marriage bed, and what about Canaan, after all, I would have to ask the white woman who in her diatribe of genocide shows the sympathy and empathy for statistics, all we are allowed anymore, anywhow....? It is amusing when it doesn't count. Oh, in daily show land no one recalls Cumae here. Yes well, Hun, it doesn’t surprise me that the ballad of Turnus wasn’t anti war enough for you is it ever, Virgil wasn’t the first or only wop who wasn’t Enough of enough for this Viking reciting blank verse crowd.

And, in finding the essay from the affable Garry Wills, who don’t, like so many in that wing of American property party, bloviate so endlessly like a Spanish priest a particularly heinous sort to the Irish, Italian, and polish Jesuits, as alas, I recall as a boy when Spain as still closer to England and white redemption than even Italy was so, ….I found that the Vergil essay was unlike the giveaway stuff, under a pay wall lock and key, lest anyone think Virgil and Rome for that matter don’t hold the same magical elixir and aroma, the secrete word, as they did for old Willie. In the essay available, which I print out for bored relatives, I find that a book about the western cannon, dead giveaway right there, was written by joyous middlebrows who thought Homer superior to Virgil, a wrestling match Virgil didn’t even want to be in as it was Apollonius and the saturnine who were his guides, not dared Homer, all as his Characters don’t have an internal Life. Ouch! Wow, I cannot stand homer and that mad me feel bad for that Turkish fag. Yow! As to show why this is that Homer, shallow intellect he is, makes no distinction between Penelope and Helen, whore of troy, and this in woman’s land, is good. But Virgil as I SAID, a true Italian, as even Mantua is closer to Africa than it is to Edinburg, calls Helen Snow White and heifer in his hated codex, showing again, they don’t make fags like they sued to, even from when I was just a lad.

And, I must say, having a fraud like O’bama thrust at you, clearing your mommies boys out, with spics and women and gook and black mayors to open the path to the nest of spiders—I’m sorry, his latest’s begging of suspicious Jews for Money, coming the same day of mass arrests, shows me perhaps you didn’t read Virgil as Closely as I had. In reading up on Sarah Ruden’s Aeneid, which my feminism take of Virgil precedes not that any of that matters some smiling self important English lit fag smirks that Rome would be the die from which would be cast, --my own lovely puns here- a myriad of dictatorships. Well, not so adherent to old Rome, as they were suspicious enough of kings to ay nothing of messiahs, to make sure that the dictator was never perpetual, and lasted only a year, an interregnum of which Numa was the most famous thinking of eventual revenge for his mother from Inauguration day onwards until the knife in the ark. Hmnnn sounds familiar no…? Anyway, this English lit fag makes a point of this, but in fact, the most famous of later wanna be Romans, on this lists starting with Byzantium to Tehran, Hitler’s, was not so admired of Rome as is me, Bill C. , Henry James and Gore. No, Hitler like a good Aryan, couldn’t bring up Rome, as it was a power word filled with danger, as is the word Newt now the white house astutely realises, and in fact Rome has its discordant monuments, but one of its most famous monsters, Caesar, again, the name of a royal Family in Sabine lands, sorry, but so, as an epileptic , he would have been drowned like a cat as little boy, as he would have been seen as that most heinous of things to the dried and sun drenched dates the Greek legacy tried to be, --he was weak. And, therefore, no society of fagots can ever take anything as weak as they fear they might be. When I was a boy, I knew of nuns, cloistered, medieval, and fervent and smart who would have called Rachel Maddox and her incessant laughter as being merely silly. This showing those Greeks you love had a serrated agenda, just like your pompous over fed and sly faggots now do.

Never forget, like Machiavelli , also at first adored by foreigners, Virgil was adored by the Greeks and the symposium at Naples, as again hatred of Virgil, like that of Catholics, and Dan Quayle shows there is a reason that MSNBC seems more often than not to do the grunt work Karl Rove merely points the way to. That Greek elitism love of Virgil as best of Romans, Ended when he spoke of "Greeks bearing gifts", as not every Italian is like Scorsese and wants or needs hagiography from Ecco like fallen critics. In fact, if anything, the dismissal of him by Gene Siskle, calling his act a 'mob shtick' and calling his Wharton crap master piece theater bullshit more probably rings in his hairy ears. And too, the trashing of Virgil Began from Augustus back at the reading when Virgil by accident said the name Antony when he meant Turnus, and Romans knowing this even mister do not call me King Augustus could burn it as he really wished to. But to be fair, at least Augustus stopped Brutus from becoming king, more than I can say for the Democratic Party. They now, who, in destroy mode, hope to be able to hurl fagots out, but as Chrissie tells us on Charlie Rose, even the test pattern Birney couldn’t be bothered to show up an actually praise the carcass of a hated Caesar, again showing the different between Romans and Jews, and it’s a mother thing again. And, atop everything else, I found in my spam folder an ad for an austere unnoticed Coppolla movie named for a candy bar, while Scorsese doubles down with a trip to the moon hagiography, as showing Ariosto, also drawn by Dore, left be. I thought, as Rodger again shows, as Gore said, that he bought shares in Scorsese Inc. years ago and now like GE with O’bama must lay it on thick, I thought of telling his polish starlets to again please remove my name from their meagre lists compiled by writing contests and others things, but instead, found myself letting it go.

2011-12-01T10:36:00.005-05:00

THREE.

I. With the needed assistance of Todd at Book Locker. COM, I gave in a simple thumbnail of what I wanted, and received back a lovely cover, which echoes perfectly the innate story. Down to the strange and sad typesetting being called ‘Senator’ no less. I still receive in the mail crumpled letters returned from various places where I have sent the query concerning AR, sometimes even TROMS, and find lately, as something is being made, and being actually done, I have tired of this whole rigmarole with veracious people, and throw their return letters now, unopened, into the trash.

I don’t care any more, and have grown weary of asking people to watch me dance, as fat girls do with their stoic mean daddies when they aren’t in hidden rooms alone with them and then, suddenly, the gloves, and all else comes off. I have been thinking of various girls I have met, like Deanna the Italian chick in 1990s rehab hoedown, she with a lovely pixie face and the big bosoms, and how even if I wasn’t incited by these gals, when in fact I was, how I would make their fathers encoyah, as Ma says, meaning making them steam, as I would before a father who made a point of didlling poppy’s lovely little girls in schooldays, and then coming in charged minutes to visit their busty daughters in the palaces they had packed them, now that they were more than barely legal. I WOULD nuzzle and flirt and paw and basically be Cattulus at the beach with Cynthia, and watch the old men sweat and angrily act like they were perverted jealous. These girls would purposively, like Deanna did, flirt and smile and peck at me, then at about 400 pounds as I was for twelve years, and the father would notice, along with the blond bobbed mother who either had no ideas of these midnight forays into a girls room by hubby, or more luckily mind wiped herself of any knowledge thereof, as a good American mother, which our fags are soon to follow off the suburban cliff. And poppy, always a bit on the iron poor side, would see me, a big. bollixing, behemoth wop, not only be seen as a rival for sissy’s needed charms tits and love, oh how the perverted fathers do so need love, whereas I am gagging on love, but they’d see a catholic and an Italian no less seeming to scale their wasps nests into Sub Urba land. As if.

But now that AR is made and at least a tunable thing, --again am tired of living my life in a perpetual pitch-- I find myself thinking of even previous to those days in the rehab, where I was sent by Jewish neurologists who didn’t know what to do with me and my epilepsy, and have been feeling real undercurrent of Christmas 1980, the last Christmas of my youth, weeks before a new found disease of epilepsy would in fact disable made me, and left me floored fore a long time. As the age of Saturnalia approaches, I find during the coming festive days, I take whatever change I get at various stores, ones and silver dimes, and drop them into the buckets that are manned there to collect change for the poor. These is much like Obamalala’s Saturnalia tradition except change the word change with billions and change the word Poor with white masters like Imult, as it seems each Saturnalia, he makes sure to do something to make his white rich masters think he isn’t a total disappointment, like commie pop did, and they are alas the only ones who matter. I feel, therefore, a real need to as father Guido Sarducci would say, Pay for my sins, and think this bread to the greyhound is a Virgilian way of saying how much I am in for that most Roman of things, which was grafted upon Christ as much as was later Arianism, which later, like so much Brother Luther tried to take back, thinking somehow it was bad for business, the idea of Jesus as Good son of God. And that is the most Roman thing of all, Redemption. Things would be tough enough in Rome for the boy of the prodigal son, and so the idea of Jesus doing his fathers bidding, that the son is ever equal to the father is a romance’s worse heresy, as Jews might be Jews because they mother was Jewish, but Romans sire Romans because their fathers are Romans, thus allowing for the needed rapes when Romulus saw like the raiders, he had a preponderance of pirates and men and not enough Raiderettes with black hair, giggling on the sidelines, as the Raiderettes, I believe, predate the Dallas cowboy cheerleaders after all, and are often exotically prettier. And the fact that the Roman is a Roman because his father was a Roman says much about the difference between Romans and Jews, to this day. It was what dastardly folks like I and Bill Clinton and others think they are perpetually looking for, while saintly bribe givers like Omaambaluche, where they think they do not need it, like niggers do, thinking the whipping of their forbearers has given them nobility in their bloodstream, like American Indians or bald eagles.

Although storm clouds I see have gathered on this day of a three digit and more drop to the Dow, our only Jewish sacrament, and as this happens, no less than the leftist con man, alderman for life, Chrissie Mathews, his own self, perhaps hoping to broaden the base to which he can sell his latest hagiography of venial Kennedy, which frankly I thought was over when Schlesinger died, but alas as Drunken Teddy whose own fiscal shenanigans with Obama are coming to light, showing I was in fact too Roman and decent to think that it was a familial pride which wouldn’t allow teddy to again placate the Clintonii, not after Prince Valiant Junior himself was sent as a last bimbo eruption into the Atlantis drink and all. Like something out of I Claudius, the murders and destruction of the various Julia’s as to allow a mad woman Livia to ascend to the open seat had taken its toll, as again, she hath failed, is waiting to be hurled into a river, and a gloomy Tyberius rails and SEETHES and coldly eyes his way along the imperial steps, and we are left with someone so vicious but so very stupid, he has to open the fiscal doors to the bankers who, having read the story myself know where this is leading, even if ERKLE DOESN’T. The seat she connived and cut away for, its is still alas open as ever, empty and all that is there is an empty bag, propped there, waiting to be filled with another round of wedding envelopes from GE.

But, it seems that our adding machine with a barely tangible human pulse, Obamala the magnificent, can and will make deals with anyone, as it is as close as he can come to godliness, and what else is an empty sack for but to fill up with bribes and checks, as to show a good time was had by all at this mob wedding after all.

But, in the getting of the first earliest written parts of this Tuscan bible done, I am feeling real recollection of that last Christmas had so long ago, which heralded the coming giving up by me at that time. It had not yet dawned on me how deep into the water I had plunged, to make a Teddy National Lampoon joke, and getting to the shore backwards, I decided not to chance the cold waters again. I fell out, tuned out, dropped out in many ways, and could scent as much this Christmas when as gifts I received a silver pen some wop stole from me, sometimes I wonder why I have ever been as dutiful to the Patria, as I have been dismissing most the wops around here I have known as shit. Also, I got a copy of Music for Chameleons, as last eruption of the gifts of Truman Capote and I think he had them, which would be seen soon enough die and be pickled in a bottle of sour mash. Too I received as a gift a paperback which affected me, called Three by Gore Vidal, a collection, dare I say a compendium, though white women don’t know what that is, like transubstantiation and liberalism, and a collection of his un- Capotean work. There was a time fagots were actually human beings, could hate each other with a passion, and didn’t have to always be smiling affable singing waiters, all giggling and smiling and trashing and dress critics on starlets, always looking up always asking their cowboy rustler Rachel Maddow where to stand and in which line.

Whereas one was a bouquet, fragrant, almost perfumed, with a hint of raspberry, no Gore, he went old school, was a Jesuit in all ways that mattered, in the Petronius, Juvenal, way, Virgil with a E way, as he didn’t seem to always be wanting to be beloved as his rival and brother in fag letters Truman always seemed to want to be. In fact, it seemed as I read that book over Christmas, including the brilliant Moment of green Laurel, which as a line has entered at least my vocabulary, which as much as anything became a standard for my sort of Roman, and again, dare I say Curt writing, as no less than Sallust said good writing must be, lest it fall into mere pornography, mythology and war bulletins. And in using the word Curt, I recall being excoriated over it, which a white man this time with a woman’s heart, aren’t they all now…?, until in a game I no longer feel the need to play, took out the Sallust card, which as usual for me, as many a people who hate both Virgil and Wendy Fiore for crimes against Aryan self assuredness, and other expellers of Italian genius and beauty, wish to have the last word, hoping like the queerest to shut you up, hopefully.

But, as I say having read Three at an impressionable age, I knew wanting to be photographed by Richard Avadon is nothing compared to trashing everyone in the pages of what would become a collection called ‘United states’, and win a national book award. In not giving a damn, no unravelling at cocktail partiers for Gore, our latter day anti saint, our Petronius ended up with the award that wheezing, something is in my eyyyyyyeeee, Trrrrumnan longed for, perhaps again showing it is beneath a Roman to couch anything, and it is important to say what one means, and not just when as a free agent you hope a now less trashed and now needed Republicans, we call them consumers in the empire, dears, or a few buyers your silly book. The Romans had Tacitus, and Sallust, he again of the curt writing, write their histories, and we get what…Glenn Beck?, Billbo Reilly’s Gore Vidal’s Lincoln…? WE GET WHAT, now…?, Women with buffaunts and scarves telling us who stinks today…is it yet Newt…? Well, honey, I said Newt was in this for the long hall as after all I could tell he was Bill Clintons Papal, Pay pal…?, Nuncio, the two perpetual boys of empire out to crush the Carthaginian inserter. You won’t get shit like this from sweaty sportscasters on cable, kids.

In reading this book over new years 1981, and then the reading of Creation on my fifteenth birthday, which had come out later that same year, I found the calling I felt I had been missing as even then didn’t want to make silly little string men comic books, Mister Stupendous was then fresh and vital as a Roman Conan to me, as was Miss Mary Amazon a wicked Wanda version of an over cleansed Wonder girl. I recall seated there, making notes about a book I wished to do, to swerve as they say, from the ancient Italians to the dagos of now, an American Decameron I wished to call it then, and had heard story of a local mob killer, tres Capote, who had raped a girl and how had to deal with a Gumba who knew he had done it, who was her watcher champion, beloved her, and was now after him.

A continuation of the children of the characters of Tarantella, now a second generation in America, a fictional city on the Allegheny called New Canterbury,” with eerily blue green steeples in an abandoned church cutting up from the browner earth, and into the browner air…”, and called the book A Diamond for a Lost Love. THEY WISHED TO CALL IT Diamonds for cadavers, you know real wop. And, I would find it was accepted by a book of the month club signatory until I was asked if I could make the inspector Ennius Beggillimini, a new found police captain hero of mine, created in the dull afternoons of public school where the dinginess seeped into a book called, no fooling, an heir to Wambaugh, I was asked as was in Tarantella, to make Ennius something other than Italian. Although, he was a continuation of the choto, as my farther told me, was the deputy of my Ma’ s grandfather the carbinari, a sly clever thoughtful man I renamed Inspector Avilla, who had eventually been exiled from Italay itself by il duce, showing that the Italian family , like its American counterpart wasn’t so destroyed by mere benign contempt but by imperial fiat, as it always is.

So, I recall a feel of those last days of my youth before I was thrown into a kind of suspended animation, and I recall the days when the city here isn’t a complete ghost town, before we became an empire of ghettos, and how back then, book stores where my pop would buy me a lovely expensive what was once called “Typing paper” for a dollar a ream, had carried books sold in decorative boxes, all by a similar author. This is before Harry Potter’s wizard addled woman made marketing the only art form publishing could have anymore. I recall those dark days of frigid ivory black nights when the world was still before the waves which completely devastated, as it would be by American doges all on sale to highest bidders, before we doth all became niggers after all, and I recall suddenly the boxes of books in paperback. Too, I recall, the well made lovely calendars of the coming year the immeasurably devastating and now forgotten 1981, Lord of the rings was big then in the Baski version before it was taken so seriously by barefoot countessa aborigines that it was to laugh. Also, the darker Empire strikes back was out and I recall looking through the lovely images of cloud city as was envisioned by the first generation of sweatshop dweebs at Sundanc—skywalk—blade runnn- oh, lawd, whatever it is, Ranch. I am the Day-sleeper if I must have a medieval like Roman nomenclature.

The year which would begin with the promise of my having been published, at 15, under the imagery and with the coming Angelique of Patricia Farinelli, still an exemplary Beatrice like no others, as the days of beauty as happens in empire, have been supplanted by men in too much make up, kissing horses. She, like the poem, was grace incarnate—and how!--who stood at the doorway of Hell, and showed me in, as at least, as in that book, a respite, if not a perfect juxtaposition to the ugliness within which none of the cgi artists, some who even liked my work, would ever really understand. She was heralding angelic figure, and how in a matter of days, I would truly be shattered, and give up and give in.

II.

Now, I am glad to see the media, as would not shock someone who has actually read Cornelius Tacitus, is spreading its buckshot’s of truth artlessly, without so much as a single squint of focus, it exploded out like truth as arterial blood spurt, with Andy poo as our Chuck Connors, rifleman supreme, ohh Gllllory be! Praise Stan and pass the dum dums! He and they are indiscriminately, with no less a fabulous hunter, of which the night is a lovely one, Anderson, The autumn wind is a raider Cooper, our stunning silver Fox, our shining and bedazzled Torquimata, has taken it upon himself to like a medieval count catalog the cretins of the petty beneath his gloriousness sheen of gay hair into which a sailor has cum. As there are hippies being flogged, he follows sin as crime, in these streets, and yet no one seems to ever blame this coon for anything. Cooper goes off and plays jurist, a more serous, more feminine, version of the screeching Grace, he now going after the sins he sees as having been committed at Penn State; it is of national import as the battlements and the ramparts blaze. Oh, sometimes I think, how lucky we are for having a goddess of Anderson’s stripe to make sure our Scales of cabled justice are on the level and no fooling as he shines a light of his own grey perfection at the screen, and allows darkness to race away from him, and the gleam in his eyes.

And too, like the smirker at NBC, its nice for someone who grew up with Charles Collingswood, Mike Wallace, Morley Safter, Kuralt on the road, Dan Rather, Harry Reasoner, and the pontifical certitude of Eric Severide, to say nothing of the polish brilliance of Ted Knight, that we have a crew of news givers now how are closer in their timing to Morey Amsterdam, always ready with a quip and a joke, and a roll of the eyes, to make that point mere copy cannot. It is good to know that there is a praetorian element in television now, E.G. and the Defenders, remade with the horridly vulgar Belushi and some house Jew, since we do live in the age of Aquarius, and Perry Mason and Della be dammed, as Hamilton Burger is now Invictus. And, after all, when a prosecutor, now Gods man on earth strangely enough, actually makes up a thing called a grand jury, who the hell are you to say anything about it, join hands with Anderson, Gloria Vanderbilt Junior and say Hurrah!

That piece of paper that Mike and Gloria were always telling us was meaningless—the marriage license, a Roman affectation by the way, was to be the “bill of sale” for stolen Sabine Girls as being now the property of Rumulu’s men in good standing and thus now Roman property lest any Sabine man –pffftttt—come looking for their wives, now owned like cattle, buy Roman filth with delusions of grandeur. Ha, bet you didn’t know that, Dan Savage, you fagot! It now as a receipt of slavery, ahaha!-- has enjoyed its holy writ qualities again, as it has been made a accouterment of fags, and thus, seemingly, unquestionable, it is sacrosanct and holy again at which, after all, is just a round about way of getting back to where we were at the first place, just with more white men getting what they wanted , showing why there is a marble vainglorious statue of MLK, while Sacco isn’t much spoken of anymore. God only knows what Prurient puritan interests holds Andy poos blue shined gaze, half dragnet, half Petronius, as he fiddled with a growth spurt under the desk, thinking, always thinking, of what is meant to be, of belly rubs in the boys room, an ode to Jimmie Trimble, for Coopie is a fag who you could bring your sister to meet, or its is brother…?, or both, as what is truth?, pass the condoms lest we break out in a rash, praise the lord, pass the drones on the left hand side, and always be certain that faggots now, if not always, how they love a good parade. Three, it seems, has had its lasting effects on me, I do decliarrrrre, and made me, as they say at Salon, Cynical. Qui Bono.

And too, it was nice to know that bald head Bear fans niggers and slightly more then slightly disquieting beady eyed Jews can decide for us what is truth and what is mere balderdash on the four lettered oracle, where closeted fags while away the day. As after all, not to be a bitch but alas, I do know what Gymnasium means in Latin, and its should be apparent when one thinks of it—just think of the word Gyno, as its feminine distribution, and you have hit the mark! And here, some bloated negro drones on and on, thinking his job as would befit one who was allowed into the kind of gatekeeper house niggardly positions I have always avoided, as a fag taught inner voice told me not to sell my only soul for such meagerness, that he thinks that some caddy of the now deviated and destroyed Spartacus--, I’m sorry, Tiger tiger burning down, must be, as he would so praetorian say, be strafed and ridiculed, its is his only wit if not virtue, as it was nice to know that Ridicule, what else, was seen as his mission statement as a man who was sentenced to work for newspapers. That ridicule was seen as his own personal virtue, well, it carried Bill Clinton a long way, did not it. But what I thought, being taught by Jesuits as I was, does this mean to say that, or presuppose, that you as the newspaper Wincell ite, comic, demeanor with portfolio, leg breaker somehow is above reproaches and thus unable to be so ridiculed, oh nigger please…!, don’t make the same mistake Sejanus did.

As in a Vidalia mood, I thought I’d say here, you know mister I AM A RIDICULING CAMERA IS QUITE, OF COURSE , NOT SO Roman like and devoted to his ideals and dirges of what is truth and what is not. As our bloating Nigerian carcass, he likes trashing the Cowboys when they lose, fine, fair enough, as unlike Stiller fans and Woman, niggers and democrats I, like Bill Clinton, can take a punch, literally, as when Jimmie Lombardi as a boy, socked me in the stomach, his best, softest, feature, and not only did I not go down as George Pecorino did, I didn’t flinch. This schooled the Sicilians that as I, the Roman, at least catching up to my pop, had emerged, and suddenly from fifth grade onwards I had no problem with him or his gumba minions at all, in fact he thought me quite the wit, came to me when he made a joke he thought was funny to get a kind of approval, which being buddies with effeminate Albrecht did not so give, as he had heard the Jesuits thinking me quite literate. This was despite many attempts to prove conclusively I was too stupid to understand the mass well enough to serve there without, whoppsy!—fucking it up by playing with my Christmas bells at the wrong time. But, here, this bald head bloated nigger chump, house nigger emeriti’s, as living vd army reel, THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU, makes such point of being such the lover of these Steelers, and their myopic Coping mechanism ethic of all men for themselves, you aren’t trying if you aren’t cheating, and he seems to love the gang who couldn’t shoot straight, being one of the few to constantly, outside of Pittsburgh, have nothing close to even a sense of decent compassion for the Seahawks, in seeing no troubles in making a team do twice the work as the other team, and allowing an insignia to do the heavy lifting. But, in his hatred of the ante- Steelers, the, of course, Cowboys, who the iagos of stiller land seethe at for their niggardly famously Othello touching of various white women the Pollock’s can not easily come by in this ugly parcel here, he likes trashing them, and too the Chargers, since, we must trash anyone drafted higher the lunkhead Roethlisberger, i.e., evasively tubby but stronger armed Rivers, you know, which now includes a strange dislike of the plucky Tebow, Christer -winner, whose numbers alas aren’t that different from vain and spermicidal smelling Little Ben. He, this coon for hire, makes such the point that the stealers are so manly, as close as a nigger can come to it, as seemingly trashing men as a Nero’s implicative to the strange seething and almost spit indicating love of seeing a man's bell rung, never seems to bother our house coon, who might as well, though morbidly obese, he'd be in white tie and tails and shuffling down Dee imperial steps like his niggard fan who stooped the business of government to do another of his patented shout outs, as it seems if it weren’t for epsn, our nigger here would have nothing to do, not with the golden doors opened, and Tyberius having told his backers to help themselves.

Still, such a act of bilious masculinity to such a niggardly decree, where he has no compunction about stealers breaking knees and slapping heads, unless of course showing a closest thing to compassion for a sissy in Pittsburgh named Sid who took a year from less conducive blows than a NFL men ever must get over in two weeks, noted not for nothing by the now disliked Wop who helped welcome the long island pilgrims to stellersland, the actually historically accurate Eddie from Bloomfield. It is unsettling to see this smiling negro ho dee do, when I do watch, and that is rare and rarer as house nigger emotes with a Jew icon from a Nazi textbook isn’t as appealing as Bristol thinks it is, and it is funny to see beady eyed Jews call others dopes after he was the one who couldn’t hold on to MNF, showing Jews aren’t what they sued to be, and some people you like to hate, like the Cowboys, and Cosell, and some aren’t worth the trouble, like the Stealers and Kornheiser, King of Whines.

But, what this bloated nigger don’t understand that I, also taught by possibly a better caliber of Jesuits, than those faggots who might have taken it easier with niggardly he, is that such Pomposity of manliness, well, it comes with a dark side, in that Gentile Ben had a history of spitting at waitresses, and of course likes taking women as half dead creatures like in those dirty on line heroine comic books of wonder woman rapes I have seen and been compared to, YOU WISH! And lets recall, kids, that the team with the black coach, meaning nothing, as he, a defensive coach, was told the old white man Lebeau would stay, and if he wanted to undercut Grimm, that was fine, but they’d still be playing the zone blitz, not that this year it has helped, with a dalliance with the cover 2, being the only thing which seemingly fucked up cheating Belicheck. Mister mind’s radio receiver didn’t see that one coming. And recall, Prime, that our Negro Lombardi here kept the fat white leather face like Rapist, zippy the pin-armed, and got rid of the good wide out, more liked on the team, for tweeting his love of an occasional blunt. And in fact, up and down that rostrum of such manly men, well, again, nigger, there are names of men who take their being too often mixed with Ray Ray too far, and in fact, it has its post Cope catalogue of ships, brimming with men who stomp beyond the mere good natured North Dallas Forty’s of Dan Jenkins wool collecting seventies fouling and Ed Macbain cops like antics, and in fact, has bloated niggers up and down, the names who like to trash women, hitting them in the face with bourbon glasses, nice and hefty those are, and in fact, the Romans knew, masculinity as a pretense doesn’t go as far as it does as an ethic, and sometimes, as Romulus knew, you are merely left with preening men, who went push comes to shove, they back down, about out and throw in the terrible--est towel, if not getting a reaction by issuing the previously hated Ray Rays OWN JEWISH GONNIFF LAWYERS. There is a fatiguing quality to evil, I think, and say the Cowboys and the Chargers are many things that the dull stealers are not, inclining and not only, Not Rapists. That sort of sin is unnoticed by our arbiter of what is good and cant, and again, and other Machiavellian lines about sanctimony come to mind, but think I have spent too much time on this fraud and his ilk already. Of course, Ben, as he spirals out of control still, living a home life out of Connie and Carlo, though always recalls the lists of excuses that Mark Madden had schooled him in making, like in how somehow the Lineman caused an interception twenty yards down the field, at least he has never bothered this house coon by you know issuing the decreed as verboten N word. Richard Seymour not withstanding , though how instructing no one came to everybody’s all American when that raider of all people, hurled this cunt to the bad home turf. As Gore Vidal said, it don’t shock him that Ernest Hemingway didn’t get his own jokes.

III

On Thanksgiving, it was shown on Nikki Finke that Hugo, the latest Scorsese attempt to dance in electric blue gabardine, in front of a Gigi pastel Vicente Minnelli stage, came in at 8th place. How sad, in that I would think Fra Angelico, the monk who found painting more godlike than Brother Luther and his money minded nailing, could have pulled it off, as we spasm towards Technicolor, as I, Etruscan auger, predicted.

If I have been more Garrulous than even is apt to me, I beg pardon, with a Mel Blank politic. But I have heard my tale of stories of Italians who have paid, as to allow SCORSESE TO MAKE them an acceptable negro-hood, and have heard of people whose lives were crushed when that bilge water Sopranos came on then air, even losing their jobs for no better reason than the smiling Methodists have wanted to keep Penn state out of a bowl, why even Nigger Mickey be dun gain dat one sur, or casting Mrs. Paterno, out of a swimming pool in Penn state, --tres AIDS 1986 eh Rachel, dear…?, again showing that undercurrent of mud to the American Tyber at which we collect and are colleted -- as again, all the truly decedent look for some one to smear as un-puritan. Again, using the words of the black Paterno, John Thompson, the most exertion that Anderson Cooper ever did was ‘leap to a conclusion’, in that we now know the transaction of Joe Paterno with his house to his wife was alas as the man who was frightened more than anything by Bear Bryant speaking From beyond the grave, as was trying to get his affairs in order, as, not everything is thought in 72 inch pica, Andy poo. But then, this is Graceland, after all, and silence may be its nosiest sin. And now that I think of it, exertion and Anderson Cooper, well, golly-- the mind reels, as his memoirs could be that Salo that Calvino said Manzoni was too allergic to evil to have, like Anne Radcliff, eagerly produced. But whichever, if it is a masterpiece of unnamed tyrants, or a lifetime of victories, in Madden land, no Italian can get out of this Reich unscathed. Such is a piling on of filth the Jesuits warned me of in that earlier Christmas of 1974, when I was told to read The annals of imperial Rome as an antidote to them wanting me to play Santa Claus, which I packed in the original MS, as Orson like Androclese was told by Disney- then Fixar- to play Santa, as his universal mind was bubbling with Pompey and Paolo and Francesca, the plays Shakespeare never got to, at which I bristled at playing, and Jimmie Lombardi took hold of and grasped like all about Eve.

So this is why I at the cusp of the millennium sat and conceived of Ancient Romance, as in the tale of Kemeter I found a precut Italianate bauble, a perfected Neapolitan anglis to dust off and repaint and hang as a Saturnalia festival ornament, while the faggots now tell us the meaning of Christmas, or is it Quaanza, whichever, as this nigger Dido will take whichever he can get, as they are expected to. In Kemeter, I found in amassing bits and copies of this tale in the Tuscany way of thought, in that creation and man were excreted by Satan, if not Loki, which after all makes sense the Jews and god help us the Arabs couldn’t ever figure out. The Italians, with a Pluck that no Jew has ever had, to say nothing of the drunkards Apache, who act as if they were in fact the first civilians targeted in warfare, -fuck you Cumae!-, they took the devil brought to them by Turks, and how interesting Tin was the name of the father god and Kemeter was the name of a back benching demon, they then in managing the farcing, had shades of Children of Ham, as what else do Arabs do but tell us constantly that they are, at least, paper bag white. And the Italian having had Tinia foisted upon them soon enough stopped pirouetting away from that Semitic monstrosity, and started a cult, as they do as none others, to Kemeter. He now was the devil with a heart of Gold, as he could be turned from his evil ways by the love he felt for Wendy like Turan, as the early Italians saw Mars/ Larsan, as a perfect soldier, a Bradimenete who was alas too ram rod straight to mess with any one woman, beguiling corkscrew haired brunettes not withstanding. But as any good saint from the land of Nicollo he was no stooge, and lord Kemeter could now raised the dead if need be, in a scene st. Paul would see recounted as the ultimate love, the praetorian at heart, him, knowing a myth of a rapture is worth a thousand pages of Dogmatic middle ages prayer books or a thousand nailed doors. I found in the Tuscans and the Samnites the Neapolitans, all those Italian races the dower Romans and Sicilians have big footed out of the way in Jew land Hollywood, a group of people, like their progeny unspoken of kept in FDR camps later. I found a race never concertedly called Indigenous, or fawned over, with their every corn cob voodoo doll called art or genius, as every be bop dance hall nigger is now Verdi, and in them found that sort of redemption now causing Bill Clinton To hector Nigger Iago off the imperial stage.

And, it is funny that a story which began with the supreme tyrant Aquila and his reign of terror over Italay, I weighed to show a Caesar who lost, but then, Barrack, don’t they all…?, was at 1000 pages of Jesuit scholarship, masquerading as fairy tales, as an complete vice versa of say Harry the Potted, and yet, it as in doing a Saturnalia diary post, called ‘the tenth night’, in which the pope, Marcus, and his lovely spent biographer vestal Gracie, had dinner with the already made important Social scion named Cornelia. Based on the then noticed as still lovely exotic matron Raquel Welch, she gave a Saturnalia dinner for her political heir and partner Claudianus, the man who kills off Aquila and hurls him off the edge of history, no I’m not giving any thing away here, I am not from the Agatha Christie school of writings. Claudianus as -- i.e. Bill Clinton, as he has always stuck me as someone who would have gone more after Raquel, easily in her Hollywood and Vine, Latin quarter, Brown derby, cigarette girl, seem up the back of the leg, days than he would have gone nearer anyone. In this scene, Cornelia, the lovely older woman, admits that she is in fact the older version of a young sixteen-year-old girl taken as imperial largess booty prized by the always-grasping Aquila, Quota.

This based on truth, in that, in fact, coming home from Gaul, triumphantly, for now, one must always add that stipulation, dears, it seems Caesar, in garments all red, threw a shindig for all his backers, in which, at the end, the doors were padlocked, and the senators had their wives and daughters were conscripted into his Arab like Harem, showing I guess we are lucky all that Barrack can do is merely sign off on tax breaks and all that stuff you railed against when it was being done by Bush. Then, all shifted, I felt the earth under my feet cave in, a precursor to the house my father built having been imploded in a first sign of the coming Obama frost of foreclosures and happy days for GE, and I found Suddenly, Cornelia, mother of lovely Gracie, became the center of the book, and mostly forwent the rote kind of Shakespeare like tragedy of Kaiser and Ligra, and followed that backwards to the insane asylum where her father had been packed. I kept the parts of the whole fairy story tale, those which I had kept, and went to follow Cornelius, the senator whose old world was destroyed by brave and son of fate burning Aquila, backwards. I saw it as my duty. I am sure this is a sort of by accidental lucky strike I wont be getting again.

True to my patria, completely I found as if Apulian and others, I was issuing the dismissed by the Greeks mere fairy tale, an Italian innovation, to say something that bought and paid for gate keepers tried to think didn’t even exist, much less needed a telling. I was a bitch here, as America started to crumble, and went past the Romans, to the Etruscans, the losers of history, who strangely knew somehow that things don’t happen for a reason as Cicero said, dismissively, that they knew the reason was why they happened at all, all auguring could be was therefore looking backwards, like the Augustus’s, their word for high priest, standing on towers reading the persiad meteor showers in the month they called, uh, August, for that reason.

In Kemeter and Turan, I found another Italian love story, the sorts of which even Shakespeare couldn’t destroy, the kind those women who watch lifetime hate. As I think I was kicked into overdrive when dealing with some woman in late 2009, who despised of course Turan, Italian Venus, though Venus is an Italic goddess too, just not what you’d think, she was a goddess of wheat, and disliked the word I sued, being “brunette”. AS IN THE FAGGOT DOGMA, which is cath as cath can, and with an assist by the light bulb queens, she alerted me as if low-level church lady, the word is ‘Brown haired PERSON’. No, dear, Turan is a woman, and she has Black hair, whither you like it or not, Hunnie. And I was off. Its On!..., as Prime would say. The closeted everything’s, Capote’s lovely turn of a drunken phrase for the horrid Hemingway, do look for others to castigate so, was on Roman meanest streets eons ago, which is why Virgil said one must be more circumspect with whom they make a champion of, than of whom they place a laurel on the head, but then, such is why when Angela asked me if I had a dedication to give to this book—ANCIENT ROMANCE: THE CATOLOUGE OF ITALIC GODS, SO, ,-- LOOK FOR IT SOON AT AMAZON DOT COM!, I HAD TO say and Send in on email to her, as she seemed to allow my peccadilloes and my quaint notions be a substitute for charm, or at least for formatting, “For Ma and Pop”, as no matter my collected angers and vicissitudes at them, and the Jesuits, they all tried so hard to keep me from those mean streets and chicken coops and mistral shows, didn’t they…? But then, Keith, I am preaching to the choir on that one. They, barbarians without nat geo quotes, and righteous Jews with stones held aloft for the next fallen gal to do away with, whose own sins The Christ found cagier to recall, if not jot down, than Tiberius’s, they, in those gutters and slums and fields of play and hbo original series and all the rest of the rot, they look out constantly for those and them to castigate and demean, as lest Dick Martin’s fickle finger of imperialism come diddle them and open up the water closets where they hide, like those little people, all hidden more than ever so, in the dark.

A Note. The Paraphrase of Virgil's was one must be more careful in choosing their Champions over their pariahs, the crown of thorns, like the incarnate son of God, a Roman affectation, like the first initial, Rodger, going back to the first House of Cato. For some Freudian reason I saw and thought "crown of thorns" and yet wrote or typed Laurel, showing I guess where my own head was at, if not St. Paul s was.

2011-11-16T16:08:00.007-05:00

THIS DAY IN EMPIRE.

It was not for nothing that I saw the day that Zuccotti park was closed down—and how perfect that this spasm of rabble should collect in what sounds like an Italian park amid the Jewish turnstiles, --that a horrid overwrought woman dj who plays awful adult contemporary on wuss rock radio here in Pittsburgh would start her incessant all night Christmas carol shindig bullshit dirge hullabaloo. How prefect that as I saw the sportscaster play Marc Antony, as riot cops of all things—I told you Osama was just the beginning for smiling Jack,-- came to gather up the mommas boys who lefts a mountain filth behind, for someone else to clean up—hence why we pretend illegal aliens are almost human—still, in my Sony walkman I use to avoid another of dead Jobs Rube Goldberg, Milt Gross, Little nemo walking beds, contraptions, I heard “winter wonderland”. Hell, as I have said, there are only 30 days to Saturnalia, again depending which day one means.

I felt bad, that having been allowed to sign off on this protest by her Cardinal Richelieu Imult, or did he just initial it…?, that Rachel had to go back to Mario Savio of all people, as frankly the dagos knew and understood this attest of act whereas the filth like Jews and Irish think now no longer compared to dogs by all but Arabs, they actually think they have something to partake of in our sputtering republic. I thought it was a shame that this devolved as it did, into drum circles and hippies, and lice and mommies boys on the make always for worse blondish hags than wops, truck drivers and Jews, into panic on needle park—that was where we sued to sleep, our empire, in the middle of our street,--I felt bad that this as usual became more American than Irish thugs like Officer Krupkie and the wall banger even imagined. But then, again, I was taught by Machiavellian fags in black, who now thankfully died off, though I heard the accord their ghosts again, when Garagos amid the hanging judges of Jews and nigger prosecutors on televising, made even Andy Cooper think twice, brining up the name Mc martin on day 9 of the Trial of Joe Patronio.

And I felt bad that this whole thing did devalue, as all things American must, into mere ponchos, niggers, filth, bloated nigger queens with bullhorns bought by GE largess, and of course, Michael Moore of everything, the human Bratwurst, who now can spot a wise career move in a thousand paces. Sad that again the filth showed up, or worse than that the secondary patrician’s grandsons of Klansman as the fathers warned me, and thought of how when I was fifteen I wrote a first screenplay called simply “Cattline”, an answer to the woe awful bullshit Spartacus, and there is scene in that play where the body of Cataline after having been trashed by the army, now a mere police force of these senators, like Cicero or bank drafting Pollozzi, is held up by the whole who have gathered, seeing their champion destroyed, and he a hero in things written by Ibsen, Carilingio, Lorenzo d Medici, Politizano, Sallust, and Salari—puts Amadeus in proper focus no…?, he is given a triumph in death by the people who carry his carcass away, as Antony says if he was a traitor, Rome could use a thousand more.

Again, why I adore the Romans is this thing has to be shut down lest Saturnalia not be jingling for dire Obambo, Erkle the Magnificent. See, in Rome, Saturnalia, it never pretended that it didn’t come out of a box.

2011-11-14T15:24:00.006-05:00

IN A BADDEST ROMANCE.

I saw that a station was showing whole swathes of Harry potter on the weekend, and so saw parts of Harry Potter and the rectory of secrets, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Spunk, and Harry Potter and the order of the Phallus, and such like classics. I had seen these parts before, as leave it to an English hack to take magic and make it as drearily dull as all those English boarding school supposed comedies I and we all have avoided so often when they have been pushed by less successful hacks and things named Amis. If only I could have been so conniving,!, you know is a refrain that whent up all over that happy little island, when JRR Raring used plagiarism, and more importantly a lack of all imagination, to find castles in the Peat.

What made me feel strange about actually watching this on and off, was how truly faggy this whole things seemed, as a sissy with a wand, as I told them at strangely admiring of this trash, Zoatreope, is still but a sissy, and after all, for all that pretend of artfulness, well, that is mere affectation what with all the Hollywood gonnifs desire for a hit in their middling times, what with, as I always suspected, nobody would amit to liking green lantern, at least not in public. Money is after all Money, though were I an Italian worth even a grain of salt, I would be ver kelpmt that this she hag of magic wands could so easily and willingly and openly steal from the Romans and the Tuscans who color and inform witchcraft slightly to a less degree than they do Christerism--the fourth Eclogue was written in 19 BC, sorry Brother Luther,--she without having to have fucked around with mean streets wops and gumbas all the live long days before being allowed that Latin as a honor, or at least as a hooey, as they had to. Coppolla, perhaps reading my emails has become as close to an Fatigued Innominato as one can be allowed in our dower days of a less dignified Jewish circus owner as was seen in the Roman east end, seems more unwilling to eat or ladle out the poison anymore, though Scorsese, literally Scotsman, which says loads, knows he must pay the troll toll and do boardwalks Palatines, to allow him to make the Victorian aged Christmas truffles in the closest thing to Technicolor that he can get.

What saddened me was that everything here was as usual Anglican plagiarism, and as the bloated Harold bloom would say, not even done with a tenet of the care taken by the Machiavellian adoring Shakespeare had, which in a pinch can be conflagrated into mere genius. But the Italians, like Tennessee Williams as eulogized by Gore Vidal, had something more rare and bountiful than mere genius, as Our Arisoto of the French quarter had, has something beyond mere dull genius as that can so easily be misconstrued into a lapel pin of the order of the middlebrows as held and worn as if a broach by middle spread, middle years, middle marching, middle classed, middle everything middle women like the dread Maureen Dowd. In a interview I caught by accident with the delightful and urbane Steven Greenblatt, Ironically, he of the book on Lucretius, which somehow Anglican newspapers and their dower Jewry rival of group think in America found a true discordant aspect to the finding of a Roman epic being the tipping point of an Italian renascence, which even previous less big mouthed and less leftists thinkers said was a result of Italianate genius, the man was asked to do a true intellectual's autopsy on the awful bleating of Big Mo. She, with Cliff Notes recalled, desperate to continue the dissimulation of souls, which has brought her fun and profit since her own witch trial of Monica, tried to compare Cheney to Iago. You wish.

But the Jewish Scholar was at first smirking and then, his horror was revealed, as he noted, this tortured analogy only works if you think that Vicey Chaney was out for the unmitigated destruction of George W Bush, which she couldn’t have meant, as one thinks she hasn’t read enough Machiavelli , F Shakespeare, to realize that, or even think it. The movie bits I saw this weekend, of Harry Poopie and this awful Boys life of magic, --beyond the mere taking of that which is magic and making it into what you can do with your English class—it took all, with constantly moving stairwells, to moving frescoes, to men becoming birds, to wands, to even the Taesus ideal of a boy wizard tossed to the earth from Orcus, from Tuscan minded romantic genius from Ariosto, Tasso, even Calvino, all of whom never get the respect of fools like middlebrow American dimwits who think, they have to at least pretend to have read it and of course recite it wrongly, like fat talking women started this by thankfully deconstructing the dared Homer.[Again, I juts place here it is sad to see a panoply of great English actors, from Maggie Smith to Ralph Finnes, to the lovely once crush worthy Helena Bonham Carter--she, of course, made up to witchy- poo brunette excelsis, be strapped in this faintly weirdo film, which must be on Jerry Sandsusky' s netfilx Que. As, again, I am if nothing true to my lies, and did impress various HR clerks at various art sweatshops, like Disney and the like, as I would have allowed Ralph Finnes to have been freed of the cgi grease paint, and would have thought, showing him as human being instead of a living lizard, which might have shown a depth they virtuously avoid, using industrial strength magic, paint and highlights which come in janitor in a drum like plastic bio hazard vats, which makes all the supposed magic small like Listerine.]

But I thought of when I first started sending this book being made now, AR, when it as first titled a swictherooed RA, The Roman Astrology’s, and how some women, who else....?, would have told me, Why Anthony, You don’t have a book here, its like a heresies of books all in one cover. The word Compendium was used in my still saved original query, as was Decameron, as was Poly-novel, like the great Manzoni, so it is nice to see that you women are always paying attention. No, trying to out Greek the Greeks, to say nothing of the Jews who have become so suspicious of occupy wall street they have taken to a plan B of Jewish cemeteries, as deep own what is a Jew but a Arab clever and seething all the time, and hoping for that most vicious of things, the pity of their hated heated masters. I say Roman Up, as I have tried. And I felt bad then, as I had perhaps cleverly tried to bet her to the punch and admit what this was, a book to, as Catulllus said, be a true criticism of an afoul book called Mythology by Edith Hamilton, if not a prescience to the evil and horrendous books of faith by a old queer named Campbell, and started off devoted to the telling. And I thought, what this horrid woman who made this Taesus for fools, what she didn’t have here was what I HAD UNEARTHED IN BITS AND PIECES AND MADE WHOLE AGAIN, in her awful sod world, where darkness reigns supreme, so much so, that light and dark take on a dread meaning they can not in a sun drenched place like Italay, where the play is the thing, as Seneca said, is that I in my greatest schoolboy creation, the love affair still undone, of Rutillian heroes, Turana and Kemeter, who was the first African devil, and yet to show Italian genius in full flower, in a serve unseen in anything so Dull as Obama sucking wall streets dick and now suddenly the leased imperial stooge to place heads on pikes as a tribute to himself while the people starve, Lord Kemeter is after all, Blond.

My family, knowing of this book being made now, who has seen me play at being quizzical Antony, all my life, who have seen me now for thirty years distance myself from everything from a free Georgetown education to a job as a editor at a middling house in new York, --that recruiting of me as an editor came a shock—still, they had a festive dinner for me. Linguini and truest Italian meat balls, small and in the sauce, not that shit eaten by people who are in or watched Scorsese movies, as the Italians, whose cuisine you Jewish matrons demean do not eat half the shit that they sell here at various Mario’s. Then we all had a small birthday cake on which as written Congratulations, Antony, and the name less a Roman affectation than it was a six dollar cake and thus didn’t leave a lot of room for excelsior’s. Why did they do this…?, as after all, this isn’t the acceptance by others which all wops deep down, an Jews worse seem to live for, yearn for, at all. And in fact, there is the precise meaning behind the strange pride my family now has in me, as I about eighteen months ago, when was dismissed for AR by some woman who had in fact been looking for a new hoary plotter, and thus was shocked when the heroine, in my story, was brunette, usually found only in harlequin Romances not wanting to forgo a good audience, and that the anti hero, demon supreme as Blond.

I knew as she practically told me, just as at zoetrope such a thing is foremost in their minds, as it never is far from wops and yids and niggers minds, and the Introspected passages of then Pope Marcus and bitchy but lovely and love inducing Gracie, not in this part called the Catalogue of Italic Gods, were irritants to this fat over fed white women, as it had broken the fourth wall. She added, what I wanted, you see, she said, with Twinkie crumbs on her keyboard, was a true Romance, she said. Really, like 300…?, I said back sarcastically, as it is my great fault, sarcasm, a roman art. Yes! She exclaimed in email, though had just heard what a genius Willie was for having had his personae speak to the audience, for a first time, though to be fair Harold Bloom had never heard of Plautus. And if he had, like Bach talking lines from Vivaldi, it would have been different, just because. “Its different for me” is our Passovante creed, although funny even a house nigger like Obama thought E pluribus Unum was our national motto, as even he couldn’t have coincided of a nation which as has a national motto something younger than television. They made a appoint of reaffirming this national motto, in god we tryst, to the dismay of fat over fed Jewish gonniff who spoke angrily about actually having to vote for anything, but then of course voted for it realizing it is their God, with a Thor more or less this way or that, a rounding error, and they voted for it, but weren’t happy about being part of it, God knows.

So we had a little dinner here for me, and I took the opportunity to go to giant eagle and buy the Linguini and Ricotta, and saw a lithe, tall lovely brunette with kinky hair, strangely enough, thinking at first my eyes were playing with me, but saw a lovely young woman standing there at the doors collecting money in a jug. I walked up to her, flush with that strange pride, the opposite of a pay check to a nigger on GE theater, and started to talk. Hello, my name is Anthony, blab blab balb --she was pretty, and her eyes sparkled with a navy blue and her long face has thicker than normal pink lips. She stood against the sandstone pillars on which paper posters decried nine inch pizzas for sale—bleeech they stink—and she told me they were collecting money for the cop shot dead in the town here, as we devolve into anarchy, though Prince Gallioto has again showed his Cesarean dismay at the filth by calling us Lazy. I gave her two dollars, my change, and a slip of paper I wrote my name and email on. I think you are cute, I said and she smiled. Dude, a short blond, aren’t they always, next to her said, what are you 50…Angelina is 26. I found myself suddenly playing the part of Jules as I said, by reflex though haven’t seen pulp fiction in years, I don’t recall asking you shit, bitch. This somehow made the blond back down, and did, by my own internal genius made ate brunette prettier girl smile and her eyes gleam. Call Me, I said, more above board and open and less fearful than I have ever been. Then again just as we started to talk, my older brother tough guy badass perpetually on some schedule, despite it being Sunday, beeped the Ford Horn three quick times and shouted, Come on! God damnit.

After dinner, watching Mooch and Deon, and seeing the Cowboys have one Jones now too many, I asked my Ma why they did this for me, why this dinner on a nondescript Sunday in November, why was this…? Because I had seen something through, finally, on my own terms, she said, as ironically for literally the THOUSANDTH time in history the Tyberian crowds expel a God man state buffoon, a good word to hear at a Roman fall, and god knows Roman falls are more import and sadder and more comical than an Arab spring, showing the Prince should be required reading, instead of just listening to your own digestive tracks as a muse. Bunga boy is after all one of the Lombard league, which we prodded until Clinton left them and the hemp leaved flag of white sputtering as a rag in the Tyberion wind, and so, as suddenly Scorsese had found the trick of having to keep the slug lined critic’s name real small in type for his own Christmas Victorian pageant, I have done something more the mere acceptance of a book by a woman editor wishing to find that which she is looking for the begine with.

2011-11-10T16:15:00.005-05:00

THE TIDE OF MEN’S LIVES.

I thought it was funny watching the witch doctors of the media actually pretend that women and women’s issues matter to them when they went after Herb Cain with their go to idea that all niggers are white woman crazed animals, which only the good democrats can control. It’s a public service they do, not dissimilar to how the Sicilians have been seen by the Milanese and used by them for a few millennia, as after all, even liberal atheist Passolini against abortion, that most scared of things to RACHEL M., as he knew that it was used as a weapon against his lower countrymen, first by the invading Greeks then by half breed Milanese, but Italian liberalism actually means something, as the Jesuits taught me, placing the word American if front of anything, immediately makes the next word Moot, not to be Jesuit pre law about things. But then after all, there are only 34 shopping days until Saturnalia, or as the dykes call it Solstice, --no that would be the feast of Sol Invictus, --oh, again depending on what days the ides do fall.

I watched how Herb Cain was destroyed so eagerly, as again, as I have said, it doesn’t take my Romantic genius to know that the Triumvirate of lower classes, Harry the Hat and Madam Lugisoi and the hidden almost transparent mighty clouds of smoke that is the missing Leyhey, and too, the Chris Matthews declaimed test pattern Indian who is Burney Sanders, none shall allow the niggers to escape their political gulag. They wont be making the mistakes they made with the Italians again. The niggers shant follow the Irish, Poles, Germans, Jews and slightly less so Italians in to the Levittown of Reagan Democratic precincts, where the rich are only liberals, like Milanese, as to make sure that abortion on demand is accessible, or at least excusable enough, as to make sure, as the nuns warned me, they can always get abortion for their daughters who were knocked up by the niggers allowed into the lower end public schools from which the medio casuem could not escape. Not that I care, as I say to Herb Cain as I say to JoePa, brother, you made your own bed the moment you played to these white monsters, as Machiavelli, from whom I get all my spirituality said, If a man becomes powerful by being your champion, when will you ever not be weak. It’s the sort of things we don’t hear discussed between the gales of laughter on current, which frankly was a better channel when Ellen Fox was on, and the satire was more above board and at least labeled as such. It was though a nice bit of panache on Rham's part, or whoever did this latest sex romp you call liberal policy, in making sure all the woman collected here from the cattle call chorus lien try outs, that all are blond and not a single Monica with Jews dark hair is in the mix. This was a lovely turn of the screw, as one it fit the Mandingo quality that our Company is always looking for, and too, it didn’t bring up imagery of pervious brunettes dutifully destroyed by the shameless Sejanuses, who never have the decency or temerity to be tragic, but just keep bleating all the live long day. A lovely touch, which makes me think ham handed clever bitch Erkle and his veto holding fat Jews had nothing to do with it. I did like seeing how somehow Rachel did cleans her own soul by saying yes , Obmalala did want to raise taxes on the rich, but had that vetoed by the jewiest , fattest big lippiest gonnif of them all, Larry Dean Wormer, and who knew that a first black president gave a veto imperial seal to a clerking Jew, but as Cato said of Caesar, if anyone could, it would be….

So, I watched a good show done in the old Gore Vidal style of The best man called 'Boss', starring a frightfully miscast Frazier Crane as the boss, when I would have , casting it if I did, be looking for someone with more Lou Grant like heft and not sue the effete guy whose brother was queer Niles, but that is just me. But, going about the dial there I saw an ex white trash Democrat, aren’t they all, Saratap named Ted Baxter, or some such thing, another nigger loving democrat albino, who such things work out, who lauded the Ohio thugs for coming out and repealing the union busting law, taking aways collective bargaining, which we never seem to notice that O’bama, comfortable shoeless Joe, doesn’t have to worry about. I am hoping for the coming Imperial bankruptcy.

Anyway, …, on Greta then, she informed him that by a similar number, the union thugs and white trash Pollok’s who they had corralled and assembled with this particular tuba in the night had , for the thousandth time in history, gone too far in their largess, and by the same Plurality had voted against Obama care, showing again, isn’t there a line that goes All Republics are doomed as eventually the filth realizes that they can use the vote to constantly demand the largess of the state all go to them…? Its not the poor the Klan meeting at MSNBC speak of –they don’t buy toaster ovens much less missile silos, bitch! I think that is Cornelius Tacitus. Or maybe Eugene V. Debs. This white trash clerk was stumped there, well-ing and butting and humina humina humina all over himself as the colleted apes of the international brotherhood of American pipe fitters and the rest of the filth that actually shows up to give election night a lovely lets make a deal quality on Shitzies show, had gone true to the decline and fall form, and of course, all white union thugs are against all freebees not going to them, it is the bane of the liberal house, going back to the tribunes of the plebes, and last night, I shot a leopard in my pajamas…etc. The white fool was choked by this turn of events, this turd in the confetti, as this showed so much of a dark cloud to this silver lining that the communists and union activists of Jack Welsh tower could barely speak of it, but the white thug governor did make a point that unlike the republican draft of the vox populi, at least they had the presence of mind to make it non binding, like their college of cardinals nominations, showing again, lest not go nuts with any of this.

It was sad to see the usual suspects, the good whiteys use Herb Cain as a way to blow off the collected steam, at which a good house nigger like Scorsese has made a middling career. They of course, the story of thieves, didn’t relly ‘mean’ it, etc., and so, we now return you to the blond women whose sexual harassment is made true if only because its in their interests to pretend like they care, which is actually adhere for the elites than one would think.

If I were Herb, I would say find a woman whose lips I bit off and then I shall deal with it, but alas, I would be would be far too fun for this crowd of white trash scumbags, I instead would be something out of Anthony Burgess Meets CC Beck, and thus maybe someone would even watch Keith Olberman, but , we are left with merely seeing Rachel Maddox get teary eyed and Miste at the idea that when push came to shove, the fertilized egg was not see as somehow anything special. She is , as we say, A humanist. But American, and so, you know what that means. Of course, not to get Jesuit here, but the egg is in fact alive, fertilized or not, as life is, to use the Latin nigger Jimmie hates to hear, a conidia, as Passolini knew, but then, that is far too spiritual, lesbian religion, an idea for people who preach socialism, amid the toaster ovens, and niggers who march on command, who attack on command, as after all, not to be a bitch but the idea that an egg somehow becomes alive at some critical moment having been what…?, dead or clay or stone before, is far too close to the catholic ideal of transubstantiation, than I am sure she would like, or even consider.

So, for the innumerable time in history, the mob didn’t easily go in the usual hidden vig, the unspoken gambit, the choreography for which its banner and bunting salesman had thought, not surprising to me, but then I heard the anger of local union thugs Polloks, who when the heath care bill squeezed itself out of the assembly of queens weren’t that happy with it. As, such is what comers when the deification of the “Working man” goes at odds with the welfare Roman filth, always diametrically opposed, as this is what happens when your union activist thick knuckled Pollok union brethren, strike orientated rabble rousers are beaming out of a tower, where the frescoes all deify the goddess of industry, and the clouds are not so much genius, but come from lionized, overly Romanticized, smokestacks, where the pollution is all saffron billows, where the goddesses all have soot in their upswept hair. They finally have figured out how to give us a form of liberalism romp in the house of Belushi, where one knows their place , if one doesn’t want to be Cunk, and event thing needs up with a smiling lesbian and her hot toddies, as the Columbia of the day, and everything turns out all right.

2. I did all I had to do to get Ancient Romance made, and found, not being the sharpest shiv in the prison that though I thought I had budgeted for margins, used a on line spec, and what I thought was a 301 page novel, adding not a single word in their template comes out to 407 pages. Fine, I thought, I am in this far, and thought a hundred pages of margins is a lot of white paper, but then I am paying for it, and the Patron is always right. I gave my Ma her usual weekday Spartan dinner, tonight of Sardines, onion pieces, black olives, hard bread and vinegar. I asked her why she eats like this, really this sint any abuse on my part, but she proud fully told me with a kind of true devotion that she is not some overfed American, who eats all day, and nothing else. I gave her her diner and sat with her, and going through the channels looking for anything other than puppet shows, cartoon frolics, suffering soap operas and such like fair, I saw they were playing a filmed version of my Ma’s favorite book Les Miserables. She told me she loved that book, having been told to read it in the original Hugo by the nuns, as like how my pop read Aquinas in the original Latin. It is folklore like this which makes me cringe when a happy illiterate like Scorsese does his gumba act, as these peoples pagan libraries were burnt down before many of the good Germans had an alphabet and so …It makes me sick to even see him. I sat with her and watched the film.

The great Geoffrey Rush perfectly played the police captain supreme, Javere, in this story, though Ma called him The Innominato, by mistake, from the far superior book which doesn’t have enough winter garden like pathos to be a good rival to the Book Of Mormons, as a musical, but, Not in America Ma, I told her. No Innominatos here, old lady. And then, I saw something glorious, that as I am struggling with MS Word to put this in a semblance of the format they want, I saw that after a first Christmas themed commercial selling deodorizing spray to make your Saturnalia rooms sprite and smell like humans are not there, I saw a commercial for a movie coming out by the dreaded Scorsese , --In 3-D. The great Mafia Livy, the poet laureate, whose laurels are made of twenty dollar bills dipped in blood, emeritus of drainpipes and alleys ways, the Sicilian Virgil himself, why, he has been receded to making a film in what Ellen Fox called that thing from the fifties, when Current still had an audience. He, though having put on the dago shmear lately with films he suddenly loves, like Calabia by the mad man battleship Guido known as D’annunzio, from which Superman may or may not have come, has been reduced in our end of the Paterno age of yeccch to film gimmicky. How great is that, as I, have saved my balloons enough to after twenty five years of getting the first of 7 or more contracts walking way from most, I have made my book of the complete King Italius first published when I was 15 in a Jesuit magazine all that while back. I recall in 1980 having to beat Scorsese to Germanicus, as I had written the Roman Diaries as a script first, it was ABC film writing, isn’t it all, but had as the Franciscan jurists told me, heart and mind, and even an earlier Rachel, who thought I was a worse than usual booby allied italic male was moved to admire my story of the bloody plow, Julia who reappears as an older goddess princess now, and the devastation of the Samnites lands for which no two bit filmmakers have still made a single film as they bury their spreadsheets at wounded knee. I realised as my Ma watched this thing, as Javere goes into the Seine, that I had beaten Scorsese straight up, I had gotten to the Romans, the Etruscans, the Samnites, the italics, Turan, Kemeter before him, and the closet he got was Jewry Christ and a Pilate made out of old glitter and hair gel. I realised I, Roman Antony, had beaten him, as strangely did Valjean beat the brilliantly not played as a lunatic but underplayed Javere.

I felt a certain poise now, as despite it being an age of Yeccch, it seems like the golden age to me again as Saturnalia approaches. I am out in the world, no longer chained by various images and thoughts, worse than those the Jesuits did actually diddle, whereas with me, well, they ruined me worse just by making me , like Bill, those magnificent perverts made me read the Satyricon, at ten. Oh look, Bill is apologizing for abasing them, having made sure he defamed and dismissed Prince Galiotto and the triumvirate –IN PRINT. Gosh, Im sorry bout dat, hukc huk huk…could he even suppress a smile, I wonder. The Tuba plays in the night. And I also thought Id say as we are in the hurls of the partnership of our labours, as men who waved unreal police reports about Kordell, then suddenly became Jewry lawyers when their qb was caught in the roofie ghb smelling toilet have now become moralists again as they demanded the head of Joe Patreno…now, after this spasm do you return to the lionization of the rapist at qb next week, because as my Jesuits taught me, I would have avoided Georgetown as a convent of faggots in the apron of aids, to say nothing of vacant, vapid meaningless Duquesne, I wonder, now when does Low Ball nigger Tomlin lose his job since we are all our brothers keeper now, when does this nigger fraud lose his job, since as I can prove in scurrilous emails to fatso sportscasters if not like the hearing of union dismay at Erkle care extemporaneously as the gonnifs say, that in fact, we were out here hearing about Rottensburgher dragging girls into stairwells and the Rooney’s having to pay off as early as 2006. Ah, but to be Machiavellian about it again--, it is my greatest fault—when an ethic is situational, it is no longer an ethic, any more, Rachel, dear.

When I was a boy, the fags in black, the Franciscans, made me read a book called the Pharsalia, a piece of italic genius we must ignore, lest we note how much less of a genius Shakespeare is, and how the word Plagiarist comes to mind. In that book I recall, as does Roman Bill, that Cassius realizes too late his side is, alas, as the queer Greek with the smiles would say, Stuck with Brutus. Yes, see after destroying one after the next, Cassius realizes who he is forever stick with, a Brutus, the name is synonymous with the act, and no body deserves that. Did Shakespeare recall that there was cashes of coins with Brutus’ face engraved upon them, he was so worked over, and about, instead of paying attention to onrushing Antony…? Sounds familiar, when the narcissus shows up. And one has to be debased after the next, but for how, after all as Cassius finds out, not the worst of the two in the end, when Caesar recoils and reappears, as it seems those historic figures, i.e. mommies boys as Passolini called them all, damningly so, ends up losing to a fat drunkard roman named Anthony who liked girls with big popos and an eighteen year old fair skinned boy named Octavian, proving again, you better go after Perry and the nigger pizza man and all the rest, Burney too, I saw the albino on Charley Rose, sadly enough, as you now in your womanish hearts hear the ecco, that in fact, A Brutus can lose to anyone. And Id thought I'd say that as all these people seem to be destroyed by the nigger praetor who now feels Bill’s cold blue roman wolf eye as a weapon targeted at his portrayal spinning and siding, through the Roman confetti, that it seems that your hero O’bama allowed various Jewish in laws to make more money in the last three years than they did under Bush and Clinton the last fifteen. And too, Hadrian’s pipeline shall be going up, just after the next transfiguration. How could I not want to see dower glum nigger Aeneas go through that wrong door, right onto a banana peel...? Tell that to men dancing in V for vendetta masks, as all the world is stage, or a circus. Tell that bit unnoticed in the faulderal, as somehow Joe is out, but the man whose supposedly saw the crimes is on the sidelines, I’m ready for my close up!, screams the finally up from slavery Defensive coach Bradly, applause, applause, applause!--, happy motoring, and equalizations and malice towards all!, so tell this to those who are barefoot in the park. Tell them that, Rachel, from the industrial frescoes at art deco, Radio city, Belushi less towers, wont you dear…?

2011-11-06T14:02:00.007-05:00

2011-11-01T10:29:00.004-04:00

ACRI ON VIRTUE.

Around 2003 or so, or now that I think of it earlier than that, on the radio here in Pittsburgh was a old drunken sort named Bill Bennett, blathering with his shtick about virtuosity and such, on the public access NPR channel, or something that might as well been that. To show how bored I was before Coppolla doth made a Roman out of me, I listened to this drivel, and saw the American incanted ethic of “when found wanting, double down and go harder and faster“, a Uncle Milty ethic, which found its absolute nadir in Triumphal Nigger Jim, who carries his own bunting with him now, as he avoids the praetorium that Roman Bill didn’t leave, even and especially when wanting to feel brunettes up.

So, I was listening to this prattling stooge, who does the whole cheap, gruff but loveable shtick, not that I am above that, or pre se above anything, but still, I try to not put it on so much as so many do, like it was I cant believe its not Virtuousness crock spread, oozed in my various nooks and crannies. And, I heard him going on and on with his bible stories, which the Jesuits had deconstructed for me as a boy, and his love of explaining to us what the Greek word for sodomy was, etc. And he said that the word Virtue came from the bible, showing again, in dark ages on in the Regan frost, as in droll Mad Magazine even those who wore mortarboards knew shit about anything. This was before we found out he likes to go for Seven the hard way, do not they all, and it’s a shmere of honorific which makes the hidden sin all the more sweet and succulent, as any Jesuit might say, at least out loud, as opposed to most.

The word Virtue, which festooned his book like the previous mentioned margarine, actually isn’t Jewish or Greek, the only ethics the white trash can seemingly pretend to abide, but in fact, comes from the Word Vur, the Etruscan word for ‘Man‘, as I found in gathering the bits and shards of Etruscan thought and history fore what was then just called The Book of Etruscan wonders. To show virtue even today, means to literally, like Puzo intoned, ‘Act like a man‘, which is why when one doesn’t act like a man, and puts on the shtickle of self righteousness, there is a real affectation and stink of pork fat niggardly bullshit effeminacy, see Obummer, above--Possibly now in a new light, as I explained why it the more he facades, in his sand dances, and acts the boxer image alas like Rudy, the lower his polls struck down, as no one quite buys this latest Lie.

So, being a bitch, I called in the AM station he was on, and asked him did he think the word Virtue came from the bible, as in fact, Virtu, was a word in a three word pledge taken by Romans from the Etruscan league, and made to recite by Roman centurions, in Virtu, Gravitas, and Dignitias, none of ethos words meaning what white women and albinos at GE theatre think they mean at all. Oh yes, he said, yes but, he said, almost like a Jew joke, in like, Yes, he lied,-- and all of that, and to be cunt, I asked him if there were any Romans in his book, and he deferred actually saying something Jews not so pompous had tole me starting then, that in fact, ‘the audience is all, as Plautus would say, and after all, the white trash cheaters weren’t the right audience to bring up the more meaningful aspects of Roman Duty. That, his word, swerving from Virtue immediately, as I suppose a good barista, republicans and democrats share this malady, would do. Was he like Augustus, our latter day signet saint, our patron of the dead decline, Augustus and Virgil rolled into one, issuing Good Aeneas as a totem for the nation that just then was starting to go off the rails, as Roman Bill had figured when he tried, like Cato, to make the good for nothing Coconuts all get jobs, which seemed harsh, but after all, business is business, and those were go- go times, were they not…? Wouldn’t it be funny if the man who gave us welfare reform and do not ask, do not tell, showing a real Roman strictness behind his love of buxom pizza delivery gals, wouldn’t it be funny if that man was the first to win two elections as democratic president after FDR, and the man who wiped his accomplishments clean and bleeds money and purell is somehow …not…?

Oh no…!, the singer of Virtue said, almost horrified, this was nothing to be compared to Virgil, showing our white women and their love of Nabokov has had its toll taken, as if I had just compared him to a maker of limericks there before the Jewish matron who, in the Tony Bruno mentality, showed a due deference all Jews are meant to have when a white master of either party enters the room. I call that pulling a Stewart--or a disco Stu. That, he said, seemed far too--stoic, if I recall his misused word, such a name as Aeneas was far too hard core, far too Roman, who by then had been disported to either being Easter time Nazis and an amorphous recollection of what Italians were before they all became wheezing babbler blond cunt loving balding almost Arabs who lived in lead pipe drainage ditches. But why would that BE, I asked, in that, you, he, is the one slathering yourself with talk of virtuousness and such, or, to be more Florentine than Roman has the right thing become synonymous with shooting the wounded, as niggers do,--note that no garbage pail nigger kid throws anything through blackrocks windows in Spike’s death throws anti Jew warrant of Network difficulties, as opposed to demanding pictures of Scott Joplin on a wall that niggers didn’t own, --or up in niggardly class, is it merely meaning saying the right things when your palm in greased, as nigger Obambie shows so well can be done, as he takes every side of every issue.

I asked him, wait a second, Virgil in his grim and gray and sad brilliance, showed the punch lining of a unfunny joke, he showed the joke book itself which would later be found across the moon by Dante and his behoving Tennessee. Why would Virgil’s sad, Greek hated, epic so get such a reaction from this mean little figure the night before just hid at the dice tables, who like his equal opposite Mikey Moore, thinks one can be both self righteous, insufferable, virtuous, to sue their word, --and morbidly obese…? This is the creation I was wanting to get. I wanted to , recalling my Jesuit training, to get the man to put the noose around his own neck--, if I may use that analogy, if the word and image of Nooses hasn’t yet become a trademarked image owned by operation Push. After all, no white sixties gmen have been placed on trail in double jeopardy because of the conspiracy to hang Vanzetti or put Salvetti, an innocent man, into jail while the FBI allowed wop criminals free reign, but then, do not expect that film starring Johnnie Depp, or the dago horde or made by Scorsese anytime soon. And do not expect Roman Diaries either.

Are you saying then Bill, I asked, that being virtuous doesn’t have a darkest side to quote the dread Lucas, dear…? Are you saying that this is perpetual sunny, perpetually meaningless con job Christerism, old fool…? That Book, the Aeneid, is important because it shows not everything is Jewry Greek bullshit, fatso, sometimes you must stay devoted to something, even though you lose all, but know that going in, kids, that it would easier to do nothing, or anything else, but after all, you, is the second person pronoun Machiavellian, which even the scat man tap dancing bo jangles had to tap dance away from. You, the prince, the whole the everything, this everyman, God of the seal, YOU want the epithets added to your name, you wish to be the deer slayer, you wish to lead men, no one asked you, you are chasing your devotions, you are chancing fates, following skirt like Bill Clinton, My Man, with a quick glimpse of Wendy Fiore, you are chasing fate, old man, you have mounted your steed, you asked to be captain, you wish to be the boy of esteem, and you think you can what now…Talk…? Bullshit your way about…? That’s too O’bama for the room, as we see now. Though the incessant mouth that roared cant quite seem to find any words of consolation to Occupy Wall street, as again the words of Pope Pius the third ring true. Which you might have just lost, and no amount of GE accountants can make you not seem fraudulent again. Left handed salutes are worthless, if not literately Sinister at heart, like upside down standards. Rome to him, like those who prattle about their own affections of barbarism made decent, saw the word Rome as an anathema, when in fact, as it was for the Jesuits and any Italian worth his salt, Is an honorific with a serrated edge, and in fact, is a warning.

2. And now, going trough the channels waiting for Batman, and IASIPhilly, as a late night snack of sorts, I see where something I said seemingly has made a flicker in Bill Bennett’s one arm bandit gleaning eyes, as suddenly the other Roman Boot has dropped, and in fact, his latest codex and collection is after all, --on manliness, and the art of Virtue, as in being a man.

Of course I could be a bitch and say what does this graphite smeller pencil --ateer know of being a man after all, and again, I am sure his book is American sanitized and Roman Free, as he better than most knows the audience he is going for, as to be fair he is slightly less egregious than the colleted fox news Jews who seem to either be playing it straight, or are alas not in on their own jokes. To me the only thing worse than a chicken hawk is a Hollywood liberal quoting Marx from her caddy on route to the late show, but then I am Roman about such things, after all. He now goes on Hannity, as gone now are yenta Pittsburghers who rail against Rachel dearest for having stolen her “act“, yes she has said as much, again showing the truth of things that this was in fact a Jewish act, showing Uncle Milty, Thou hast conquered vaudevillian, !--and says with a straight face through the chins of excess and imperialism, that you know, Virtue is a word meaning Manliness, which the wall banger knows will anger his usual bribed opponents, lest anyone ever see through this farce of shit.

I had to ask that day William Bennett if he knew what virtue, the enchanting word itself, meant, and now, in the state of constant tap dancing of all our imperial stooges, he seems to have looked it up, or maybe not, as he follows the word back to its etymological roots, as seemingly has gotten another book out of the definition.

I have just used an on line service to PDF the first part of AR, soon to be sent out and perhaps made an eBook if i can afford the add on. I had to finish this, as I shall Mister Stupendous monetarily, as a show of my own devotions, --as did I ever say how it was that an editor wanted the fairy tale parts of AR in 2004, but not the surrounding story, and asked me if I made up the parts about the Sabine’s and the Samnites, the Indians of Italy, --well yes, I did, but being an accomplished liar I merely took what I had heard else whether and recalled it here. It is fiction, but irrefutably true, yet. And the Romans really did leave piles of Samnites bones in the wind and as pyramids, as a warning to the italics then, until they saw the Italic Tribes as Nat Geo dismissed them all, --instructing words-- make these things into a kind of strange monument, which is why even an incompetent and a silly little man like Obama and his death squads wish to slip their victims quietly into the sea, ala the Vikings of Mother's preened fore bearers. I had to be devoted to this whole masculine ideal, in ways the smiling lesbians and the Jews would never understand, as they forgot all about this sensibility I inflame in myself with that first regular consortium check, which comes from house everything-ism.

You see, it bothers me that some comic hack shit hole, from that Dirk the queer was exiled, who said I was a “blogger” with derision, as every house nigger needs a porch upon which he is allowed to monkey, no…?, and so enraptured with the ideal of a gatekeeper he would troll under any bridge. They said I was anti commix, again using the diminution of the shallow, and I thought, nigger do not hurl that monkey ape crazy banana shit at me. I hate your comic, bro, to be Sondheim about it, I hate your silly ugly, everyone looks like a geek with iron poor blood, thin lined, unsubstantial comic, fuck head, and do not tar me with your middlebrow shit, you goons.

I am many things, but a comic queer I am not, as would never think so much of my self to secretly tape a man for making a living and embarrass him in asking he draw more like the venial King Con, Jack Kirby. I wouldn’t ask that of anyone. I have loved comics since a kid, and found Captain Marvel, Pogo, Popeye and other things they seem not to count. When I was a boy the great Yvonne Craig, cutie pie supreme, when Brunettes still mattered, was in an ad council spot about Fair wages, which Somehow, the rite to infanticide even got to, but then I read Livy and am never surprised, as the lawyer king would say. NOW, in their glory days of noble times, Batgirl was turned into a rape victim and a paraplegic, lest leg kicks in Emma Peel spandex bother the Todd’s. Wasn’t it the dread Warren Ellis, or one of his of course Goth brunettes--Beatrice’s are inconceivable in our neigh--, who asked me when I brought up Alexander Calder, emitted a loveliest middlebrow, “Who…?” In addition, is my blog less Bewildering --a good lesbian word--now the Hillary the Worm is not president,-- at least, not yet…? Although to be fair, even beyond these scolding’s of some, and I did mentioning in passing a English magazine had liked the anti Bush, anti everything feelings of In One Magic Word, as did some comic editors who didn’t want to use it anyway, but who were driven to like the sentiment, --story of my life--,but, do recall that Captain Marvel made this rag’s 100 best comics of the millennium and Superman and batman and Spiderman did not, so that is something after all. So now, with my using Spunky bitchy Corsetto as a guide, a real book is made, more Cosmicomics than Persepolis. And the Book is 291 pages, though, like all I have done for a good while, at page one it is far too long for some.

2011-10-23T13:41:00.005-04:00

THE NIGHT MAN COMET.

I have signed a contract with Angela, and a book publishing house, she, the first who got one back to me, as have decided to go forth with this at Roman cavalry speeds. I am on my black winged horse of Tuscan Pegasus, while and as Obama and the sun chariot plummets to the ground, and am going straight ahead. I must get something done, I feel now, as ironically, MTV is mortified at the sudden distaste America is taking to its imperial Sicilian clowns, as my father warned me the white trash are quite two faced at heart, and they can become very self righteous and moralistic at the drop of a hat, or a dow for that matter.

And now the wop clones are no longer funny to the white gals as the street fill up with pickpockets, leftist devotionals, the hail Mary said in the original Yiddish, and of course Defecation. We get our back into our limits. As, about six weeks ago, with a case of Achita, I was up and dyspeptic at one am, and though do not often catch WGN from Chicago, saw the show called Its always funny in Philadelphia, and a master work called The night man cometh. I was cracking up at one am, in the dark, and my Ma who sleeps down stairs, as a flight of steps is too much for her sadly in her old lady's American exile, heard this and started to watch with me. She likes the verve of these young men, especially Mac. And she likes De Vito, who she sees as a stereotype gone mad. And I figured then I would, as they did, be pushy and uppity enough to get out there and merely make my own mark on this wall. Thusly, went into overdrive to get it done, and have signed the contract, at the end of this year's long and winding road of ups and downs.

I have done it, and have stayed true to the beliefs of my fore paters and the Jesuits, and have escaped being an imperial clown. I am not Scorsese, not with the Roman script collecting dust in the drawer, as Jewish new York Npr gumba-jew liberals sneer at his affectations of history of china and film noir. My Kemeter, as opposed to his Germanicus, is entering stage left, laughing, into the apostolic light, and not hidden in a secondary tomb of Hollywood paperclips. I have been true to my creed, at last. And if perhaps you were all schooled when Hillary took a strange glee at the death of Quaddafi --he again proving do not do any business with uncle Sambo as pop warned me, as Assad is seemingly given indulgence, Islam style,…Well, if that shocked you that she quoted Julius Caesar and festooned a compliant death holiday triumphal Obama with a vini vidi vici moment, her teeth shining and eyes gleaming, as a love of death is all Caesar has left to run on, well, as Rome again pulsed into ragged men screaming against the prince and the street across from the amphitheater, is again filled with howls and shrieks and angry men chanting poetics and old helmets, as the Tubas plays, well, that then, pals, shows you really haven’t been paying attention to me. I have turned down enough. I feel I just do something, as recalled once to my horror that not only did I not show my immigrant parents my placement in a Jesuit scholastic magazine, I barely told them till later.

As tomorrow, I will shave and get cleaned up and go to the local bank to wire transfer the funds from a bank account the way they wish it done, and since it is a special occasion, may even wear underwear. I figured I have spent 377 dollars at least in the last six weeks just on bad commix, cheap art supplies, busty porno, and vulgarization of ethnic foods we then use to secondarily tar the people from whom the American gonniffs took it. I saw going through the channels, as cant take Rachel anymore as attack dog for a consortium that preaches liberalism as its collected Jews work over time to avoid every tax known to man--why else would they, …?, and saw some crap show about Rome. Again, it was all brooding music and Rome was called a spider in the middle of a web, et cetera as they must lest anyone hang the almost end of civilization around Obama’s scrawny neck like another plate of distinction. And as a Jesuit told me, to be fair, if it wanst for the catholic Italians, devoted more to Virgil than to any born again Jews, the lamplight would have flickered out, and we would have returned to being Neanderthals, and this whole muddy earth would be Atlantis, whether Bill Maher with the washboard face likes it or not. This will be as opposed to the coming Caliphate wished for by the house lesbians at GE, WHEN AGAIN SICILIAN QUEER POETS will be cut stem to stern, and hurled into rivers, which is why even the vulgar dancing Arabs do not much mention a distaste of Dante, at least in mixed company.

I do resent that my standoffish acts did allow others to get to make a black winged Pegasus without any of the meaning I had behind it, as do find it funny that suddenly classical gods and fairy tales are everywhere, but like Grimm's, who at least admitted it,the Jews and their love of nondescript Aryans chicks shall get it all wrong. In this first part of AR, the devil is blond and the goddess of love brunette, which would have more imminent meaning than any whole American nigger would know. And it didn't take forty eight hours for our MOMMA ROMA TO QUOTE UNCLE JULIUS, to now demanding an official inquisition into the death of Momar, so someone do tell our Moslem the meaning of the word 'Caveat' wont you...? Well, now you over eaters are finding out how fun it is when a republic dies, eh…? And, as clockwork Apricot, the italic clowns are losing their ability to make the white trash laugh, as again, another Tuscan Proverb left in the rubble comes to mind, that in fact, a Roman Pacifist is a general who takes prisoners. That’s General electric to you, bitches. Chimes at midnight.

2011-10-19T13:23:00.008-04:00

Reaching par for the course again, I was alerted that my manuscript Ancient Romance was rejected by a “vanity publisher", of all things, showing I must have really said something worthwhile. Especially in looking over the fact that there is their share of gumba mafia low level, drain pipe empire alley way street lives gumba bullshit, and I have crashed a new high in my imperial American life. I was told that the editorial staff considered the sell-able aspects of this book limited,--again this is a vanity publisher, which shows the magic intent in Roman Tony--they do not like novels per se, and 377 dollars certainly isn’t enough money to them, after all, to break with Scorsese tradition, or to speak of a stylized city for whom the standing of anyone and saying I am Spartacus wouldn’t have gotten them dick, and thus never had black balled Hollywood Jews write of them.

As these earlier fourth century BC Romans hadn’t yet become so impressed upon by their legalisms and their own Jewry attributes, which the Italians have always had in spades, possibly from Arabs and Jews having mixed and married the aquiline italics a millennium before the Greeks stopped being snake charmers and preened their invention of civilization already having been done by the forgotten circumnavigating Phoenicians.

I then went back to some collected emails left from dealing with nice women who are at other self publishers, which I called out to do some comparison shopping, and asked them if they would still be open to ACTUALLY TAKING MY MONEY AND PUBLISHING A BOOK AS THEY SAY THAT THEY DO, FOR A NOVEL WHICH HAS NOT ONE SWEAR WORD, NOR VIOLENCE, --and quicker than you can say Barrack O’bama is doomed, well, many got back to me and of course for a higher quote, would be willing to be my best friend once the check cleared. Officiously, this put a kink in my Ceeduual, as it took a while to get the four hundred Shekels, now I have to find a bag of sugar to add to the brick of cheddar. This isn’t the first time I was dismissed as ‘Wordy‘, as it isn’t the first time an almost Medieval aspect of ink as a commodity was cashiered at me, though looking things up, at 315 pages and only 80,000 words it is less wordy and dense than is the Under the Tuscan Sun shit, to say nothing of a monstrosity called Eat Pray Love, and in fact, with all I have together, Tcoigods, Ancient Romance, TSASTROL, TBOTWS, and the Book of Italia, its all at 213,732 words, 555 pages., all of which is amusingly one word and one page too much saved and redone of the only noble savages that white trash cunts and sum bags like fagots like Kingsly Amis do not bleed for, as in this are immensely like Bismarck, famed German socialist who found the Etruscans too unlike the Prussians minded Romans who to Germans eye always look better when compared to other Middle earthed almost Jewish souls. But, I have reached out again and have looked up a myriad of presses willing to publish anything in our ugly days of cable Juvenals as after all, as I said to Coppolla I know why the Romans invented graffiti, after all. Unlike Caesar and his last week beloved minions, I do not, when the galloping reaches a nadir of 38 percent, --and who said that was coming before the ides of OCTOBER, KIDS?, start leaning for the exits and the trap doors.

I have felt as was had again, as was told I could resubmit should I go over it again and edit it down, as was told for all my pretences of being a preening wop, why, again, I spell Italee wrong, showing Chaucer is not as devoted to by his own race as he was interestingly by the now dead Jesuits, and again they love to sneer at me, as the lunkheads did in seventh grade when I pretended I was too dumb to understand how to serve mass hoping I could get out of it and go home and with Stan Savaran and the Penn State and NFL films, show and Blondie and Dagwood theatre and Looney tunes on a Sunday and not have to stand there under porcelain massacred men as various faggot boys skipped to my loo and drunk priests up far too early for their dispositions had to do rites of Dionysus done to even then half full monastery garages. See…? I cant help myself.

And counting it up as I have, do find it is nothing compared to the leggorea of shit like Twilight and or the dread Harry Potter, but if at first I was just Italian soothsayer warning where this was headed, now I am being warned about seemingly taking too much glee in the American autumn. Eventually I ruined enough masses that Father Ginnochius relented, wouldn’t let me out of this, but freed me from horrid things like weddings and funerals of wop mafia thugs, and when I had to serve that horrid mass was left alone on the side, where at least I could sleep.

And the same day I now have to rearm and go back as singly I find time wasters lounge on every street in almost a Mexicali way, the suddenly resurgent Raiders needed to sign a body, anybody, as they lost their quarterback, and so signed a central casting bloke named Palmer. He, whose life and career was changed irrevocably when a rent a thug for the pain in the ass Pittsburgh Stiller’s made a point to roll up his leg in a glory days assault towards a super bowl which no one may speak of anymore, and which the head linesman and referee admitted five years later was something of a con. And being smarmy and clever in the true sense, a local wop on loan from Fan radio in new York, where insufferability is a virtue, hearing the words Bengal, Raiders, and seeing a over dramatic way to ingratiate himself to a crowd who has become more blasé with each game Rothlishbooger barely wins, made a point of haranguing this whole deal, done for utilitarian reasons. And with the Torch song trilogy act and verve always under the surface in all sports talk of this sort, and smearing Carson Palmer as the sort of man this tougher guy wouldn’t have on his team, you know, as opposed to Gentile Ben, who merely has multiple rape allegations each season, spits at waitresses and the food servers, flips off Bob Pompiani on camera, and of course, dragged women into toilets, where he can simulate necrophilia--this guy is top notch, --juts ask Mark Madden, who also vouches for him.

But, funnily, at seven o clock when I was listening, he got more than a few calls in a kind of rolling thunder coming to the side of a Bengal, no less, and comparing him favourable to Roethlisberger, who with each fumble --and they are legion--brings up the same Augustine line which Barrack O’bama, his equal in narcissism, doth bring up--that You, Cicero, backed the wrong horse. And at ten when I wet to listen to some disco music, heard this wop from long island, still screeching at people, over dramatically cutting them off, calling them ‘lunatics’ for saying still that Ben actually wasn’t that good, The Bennies use the same playbook as the Bammies, They are sacrosanct-You are wrong. But, he was certainly not good enough to throw away thirty years of collected bullshit for, as if Bennie has become “fearless leader” and can not be spoken harshly of, with a chorus of always “at least they won“, becoming a anthem akin to Arms and the Man, but then, Guido, he was never liked here, and all these poor mans Jim Rome’s-- edags ! --they should have done some reconnaissance.

Well, I have to now get my hands on a slab of ribs, some ringlets from the Roman Godess of hearth, Moneta--dockets, cash, balloons, hogs, chick peas, wah wahs, mambo, starch, Platt, do rei mee, --and am thinking about going back into the Gigolo game…I might have to accrue some balloons, go back to be a gentlewoman’s boon companion, you know, I might have to find various women of a certain age, of a certain weight, who are willing to play for gentleman companion ship --through the nose. By the pund, and I mean pound ladies. I have a recipe box with various women’s names and numbers that I have colleted being at places like the Saving Nun and the post office and gay cruises,--I AM ABOVE NOTHING!-- lonely loveable older women who need and want and have checking accounts….I have my box to return to--it like Glenn Garry glen Ross, I call them my leads…As what made me sad is seeing that hump Coppolla who now like your average wop, is in a thicket of regret and self recrimination, and says things he will make a film with a flip phone as to…what?… get noticed…? One shouldn’t be a student at 65 pal, I do not care what the white women tell you, by then you shouldn’t be so needy, pal, and the line, of course was mine, which has more heft coming from Roman Anthony than from the man, who as much as anyone crated the day of the blockbuster, though a Jew of course gets the, to my thinking, blame more than credit. There is a true Romanticism in my , at 46, being true to my words and sending out despised novellas as I do, all written in ways more Polizano and Calvino then ever like Gigi Marquez. And at night, suddenly I see Dick Van Dyke, Adam West and Danny De Vito have returned as if the angels in Saturnalia, warning me not to give in. A perfect backdrop, missing only Captain Miller, for me to bring Mister Stupendous Home, as I find again I do not want to finish anything, for reasons I am still unaware. As Galatia would say, Take that! Again I take these as badges of honour, as frankly have been gagging on admiration now since 1977, and the Jesuits then. And like Coppolla, merely wish, as opposed to the admiration of the venial, instead say something which I either believe in, or better still, dont make sick looking back on it.

2011-10-13T15:05:00.005-04:00

THE IDES OF OCTOBER.

1. But, it seems, it shant take a whole ten years since I found a strange distaste and decisiveness from the Coppolla Crowd to prove again, I was in the right and in fact, am the mad man on the steps watching the bloated roman parade go by and asking, who is this fool who thinks he is Caesar…?, an affectation I pretended to the Fred Fuches crowd to their snarling dictates, has been proven true as not, for the thousandth time in history. It turns out that indeed this was Praetorium full of trap doors, shoots and ladders, which no house hagiographer like Doris Kerns Goodwin could have ever pointed out, and again the senate who heard Tarzan’s boy say he is running against “Congress“, of which he party holds the higher house, was said once too many times for the liking of men who wore purple sashes when this nigger from the block, was still trying to commit real estate fraud and flip houses.

So, I saw a similar strain of thought, in two straight days, I SAW the whole of what they believe, what they are, what is expected, just by looking around for something to watch on a cowboy less Sunday, and was quite hearted by the Raiders showing a pluck and a verve and a requiem sweetens to old man Al, the great football mind, who partially with Lombardy, invented pro football, Mister Davis. I felt bad when I heard Al was dead, and in fact he wasn’t that old, but I actually tearred up a bit, when seeing the black head coach, so overwhelmed with emotion, as the great Raiders pulled it out last second, as they might have lost to a team created out of whole cloth for no apparent reason, and though the hinterlands are chewed up with fake team’s still one out of every seven dollars the nfl makes comes from the Dallas Cowboys, anyway. I felt bad recalling that when Al as voted into the hall of fame, a local house Jew, of the sort I hate, no Alan Brady he, a pompous and yet clownish little Al Capp cartoon come to life, Myron Cope went on the air, I recall this, and was gleeful in saying how he didn’t Vote for him, for him, as Al Davis, he said then was “a wise guy“, and acted like a goom--bah, a sin here in Pollock hills.

I felt bad as Al was dutifully damned by the media complex, though his raiders have been shown more often in prime time than any other team, including the cowboys, so they were not, like Keith Olberehncmen, married to anything they said believed in, after all. And I thought of how he was the first nfl executive to hire blacks, minorities, offered Vince Lombardi a coaching seat in the afl when he couldn’t get a meeting in the old NFL, had a first black head coach, a first Latino, brought women is as something other than nuns and secretaries as seen in Woryhelssnbergher land, and again created pro football, stealing the nation for the baseball who was king when he showed up. And I thought of how now this pristine foolishness this quota system the niggers aren’t smart enough to see through, of asking blacks if they like to submit résumés is laughingly called --a Rooney Rule. This from a family who sat back and watched the Pollock mezzanine pour beer on Kordells’s s head, boo him off the filed, as they did to Jefferson Street Joe, to the horror of sophisticate Chuck Noll, and snowshoed, it is called a Rooney rule, --as the kids at Wall street shall find out, there is nothing so American as the divas of Usurpation and under miners, it is our greatest imperial commodity as the Jesuits taught me, selling out is its own rearward. Hmm, whom shall O’bama tap dance towards, the rabble, or his bag men…you make the call.

And looking around on television, after catching the great Dick Van Dyke as if seeing a great book of middle verse I hadn’t seen in years, in two straight days I saw Italian Americans as shown by the great and holy and righteous media as they are meant to, and must admit I do not care much anymore, as any anger the Coppola cages have engendered in me didn’t last as long as say to make me a romantic disfigure my own self. I dream of becoming a Catiline, however I don’t have the feet for it.

2. On south park, as yes, Juvenal in constriction paper, and its always sunny in Philadelphia , the usual dago images were shown with almost boring glee, with a lovely turn of the knife when it is discovered that in fact the red haired yenta mother of the awful and almost insufferable Kyle is said to be from, horrors, New Jersey. And I thought., it is obviously that Italian people work for these shows, how can such things be said so eagerly and openly by a media which slathers on its sanctimony as nigger jimmy does the hand sanitizer when the faggots appear …? I still think I could not do it. But you know what was even funnier than any of that, that across the golem river, in the emerald city, it turns out the house hold Jews of the metropolis in Little Jerusalem, wall street, took from the raiding of the Fisca by Tyberius, hell Matt Stone is onto something, not thirty cents on the dollar, or 40, or even a half a buck, but got from their bald headed raider 100 cents on the dollar for these swindles, most probably illegal, --now that’s funny. Like Bill Clinton, I read Machiavelli for fun, and Juvenal for profit.

3. So, I am on my reclamation campaign and thus, have taken the play called Saturnalia, and replaced it back on a place called trigger street, as this was about the time, that so fat and happy and with dago morons placating their needs for minstrels shows so willingly, I found that the thing should have been re-posted in this wall of books. Just on general principal. As after all I have finished my book of the Etruscans, the only noble savages you do not bleed for, the only indigenous people the white shickas and the fat yentas do not make common cause for as they bundle rich fags cash to O’bama the way Minerva spun silk into gold, a myth which became chemistry as the dark ages made people look for anything classical, even lies, as they seemed realer than anything any Martin Luther had ever said. This was the play about a local man named Jonnie Gammage, who was murdered in a traffic stop by the cops who do the dirty work for Czar Rooney, while good old nigger boys like monsignor Pig meat Shapton didn’t know nuffin about dat sur, and went chasing after stories about niggers sodomised with plungers hoping to get his cut after he sued for peace. No body was ever fired for making asides about Kordell on epsn, but then, he was a little too much like a victim to allow the bald head niggre and the smarmy Jew to keep laughing. Always, kids, -- keep laughing!

Do recall as now Peanut eaters like Kodrell West are suddenly everywhere, as they need to be as a kind of academic Indulgence, lest anyone notice that the ncaa uses its share of slave labour, they have to play off the occasional nigger who you know cant run and is Erkle like, --they will be our Florentine thinkers, as again Passolini was right and Jews snicker at Sicilians sent in by the doge to disperse the Bloomberg hated crowd, do recall my as yet unmade play, wont you…? Do recall Jonnie Gammage, who amusingly didn’t make it into August Wilson’s Pittsburgh fences as a kind of exemplar of imperial victim hood, do recall Saturnalia nights poo pooed by, of all things, a LA theatre trope who at first didn’t want to pay the royalty fees for The oldest established floating crap game in new York as sung by the ring a ding dine angels, but then when I happened to have a satirical redux of this done by myself, as a parody of the great Abe Burrows, it turned out again, as Cicero said, and he would know, the first casualty of censorship is anger at the powerful, and masters and servants, and all of that.

Therefore, do recall my lovely little play, as eventually they owned up and told me Race was something they lied to avoid, the fact that a black quarterback was trashed with fake police reports by a piggish espn clod named Mark Madden was too “provincial” a thing, and who wants to be sewed by the stillers anyway, and we are alas, as Gore said, an empire without Satire and all we have are faggots soldiers, who cant take being booed, much less spit at anymore as even a liberal now is expected to wave the flag, while doing battle with waxy yellow build up. And, still, Virgil is the only fag allowed to be sneered at by barbaric morons. Remember, dikes, no body lost their jobs at espn for making Charles Nelson Reilly like asides about Kordell, and no nigger hod dee doed into Pittsburgh when a man was beaten to death with maglites on a polish hill street, as Cardinal Rooney made sure the naggers got the trinkets and the nickles for which they live.

So, I compiled that all, and recalled Saturnalia there, as who the hell are you house Jews and white trash to tell me anything, Sweethearts…? I am the mad man in withered leaves piss tainted toga on the Roman street. I guess when aids having struck as it did and taking away as many Jesuits as it did, Tray Parker is now the closest thing we are allowed to wit. As Today I ask, recall the Etruscans, who didn’t live in sticks and deer skin houses, but built towers that the Romans couldn’t even try to emulate, so much so, that to this day we still speak of ivory towers livers as a pejorative, showing there is always a way to smear anybody. And I bet you do not know why we speak of yellow streaks down one’s back, I would guess.

2011-10-05T15:02:00.007-04:00

Dear Mary--,

I would like to avail myself and my work of your company and would like to have you as publishers of my book. I am sending you the manuscript of the book, Ancient Romance: The catalog of Italic Gods, an historical novel. In this book a beaten weathered sad old Tuscan Senator recalls as he narrates a faded, scratched up old manuscript of Tuscan fairy tales, his life, his recollections, and his career as an Italian doge, and also the fall of a last Italic Tuscan King who failed against the Romans. I do very much want this book to be noticed and made, as an antidote to the myriad of Italian diminutions and minstrel shows seen all over.

Thank you.

Anthony Acri.

Now, as of 3 October, I have sent Ancient Romance to the printers who will be my best friend and publish this book for 400 American kopecks. That is a lot of cheddar in one envelope, and I found myself cringing having to get it all together to make a cashiers check to make out. And yet, found myself more devoted to this than any cie la vie catch as catch can, half ass attitude, I did for any word conglomerate showing I am a better person at heart than the pacifists praetorian Sejanuses, who what work for drone companies, like GE. But, when I was recently poo pooed by no less than the editors at Berkley, --such phoneys--I then knew I had to at least make my mark on a roman wall, as better men then I did, basically telling Caesars without iron poor blood, as opposed to the ninny we have now , to fuck off, as is recalled by C.T. I found myself willing and wishing to collect money to get this done since May, and even used spell check this time, as found in ways this was irrevocably mine, and not somehow hack work.

I made a Italian sign of horns to ward away the evil eye of smiling President Romo, when I saw this Erkle call America soft and weak, --as whenever is the filth ever as good as their Caesar…?, as our badass, sweet sweet back, cold stone, dropsy, dead solid prefect, lead pipe cinch, iron clad bullshit artistry faggot nigger shoots American citizens in the face with smiling lesbians doing a cheer worthy of a neo con, showing again Ovid is right and there is no winning ever, asshole. I am now going to un-like, oh such an imperial high school has Zoidburgh wrought-- and unlike all those phoney television performers, as occupy wall street will get instructing wont it, when all The commie symps actually are paid by GE and have Goldman stock wont it, though...?

As Pope Pius the 3rd said, coming back to Rome and seeing the people, there hungry, wanted no part of him and his silk slippers and ponytail girls, when the people of Rome protested, and started to the revolt against the papacy, when a Italian hero undecorated upon by Stanley Kubrick hagiography, said they were going to occupy Rome’s Vatican hill to keep them out, Pius said, famously, Tell the rabble-- its already ours. He eventually executed a third of Rome, men women and children as heretics, in a land swindle even Mussolini was appalled at. I thought of that when some vulturous Jew was godlessly praying, cantering nimrods repeat every word he said, and thought again, this all sounds better again, in the original Latin.

With this done, I am becoming also frighteningly not only unawares but uncaring of a whole host of various internal frightening qualities that I have been at the mercy of since 1977. I am continuing the assault on the barbarians who even Michel Savage sees collecting at the various gates, me with Roman Marius Aplomb. Once, in Roman lives, a chieftain of the Gauls damned that land in cisalpine Italy be seeded to them ,as the Tuscans had done, as welfare makes you sue for peace, --soft as Hercules president bullshit queen dido would say as he glares at the waking foetuses in his way TA GALWEEE! That the Romans would actually do as the Tuscans had done, well it boggles the mind, and Marius, the Clinton of the bronze age, the man with bare feet, two names and a bushel full of Roman arrogance said, that would be fine by him, as there was whole plots of land in Italay he would make sure would be the Gauls forever. It took this Visigoth a few moments to figure out what he meant, and then, as they turned and tried to retreat he burned them all alive. After a while a capitulator gets on your nerves. I did as a flourish, a grace note at which Scorsese is incompetent, and at which I am a true Ball-er, as Audrey told me, I downloaded a free mp3 of Night swimming, and hope at least I have made the Jesuits proud of me , as they never did like my lazy streak, nor for that matter the fact that deep down, I wanted to be liked more than even an Italian should.

I liked my use of “faded, scratched up manuscript” which was what Manzoni called his masterpiece, as again, we do not need Rodger Ebert to like us. It isn’t what it was to begin with, Not with Turan mostly gone, still, but It is better than most of the shit out there, easily the gumba shit and the Spartacus crap. That little felippio in the letter was just for them. And now that I have discovered Wendy Fiore as a guide to recapture Turan, Tuscan goddess of Love, I’m sure I can attempt the least part of Turan’s loveliness. You Jews, white trash, and various niggard O’bama in-laws got what you wanted… Rome fell, indeed, --kiss goodbye the water softeners. Under the Apostolic Tuscan sun.

2011-10-01T10:36:00.005-04:00

True story.

In 2004, I had a first draft of a thousand page novel about the Etruscan, a first great society on Italian soil, which found, as they always do, Welfare and democracy don’t work well together, and never does, but raiding the national bank is worse, no matter what the Jews think. I sent it in, and got a mess of ambivalence from spamming big fat ugly white woman yenta Jew bitches, who didn’t like my use of certain terms, like Diva, Opera, cartoon, Welfare, consortium, bribery, senate, liberal, chiaroscuro, Sottovoce, and others, sure that before the Greeks, everyone, especially you colureds, were somehow lion cloth wearing nobles savages of the sort America had come to know and love in various Indian and cowboy fare, the history channel and an occasional Tarzan movie.

She sneered at me as she felt allowed to, good liberal she was, that I sued words like steam engine, dome of the Rock, Hadj, welfare cheats, military advisers, The Fog of war, domino theory, preventive war--in 2001, take that Bill Kristol!, rapprochement, --I think I blogged about that one at the time, as if your later Metterniches explained or knew anything the Romans didn't, --puhlesse!, as she liked thinking the Italian were savages before the Romans and probably after them slightly less so, and allowing for the occasional cable television show about gladiators, possibly the least interesting aspect of Rome, and after all they, unlike at the U were at last Paid. Openly.

Mostly she was ver Klempt, if I am using the Latin correctly, and its all Latin, that I used the erroneous, to her words, 'Pasta machine'. She was sneering even in all blue, all lower case email letters--a dead giveaway--that thought I preened that I had some erudition, --how did I miss Marco Polo and the famous story of his bringing noodles from Cathay, and all. Well, I asked in email back, did she miss that in fact, in 2000, in just trying to build a Euro mandated subway from Rome to Umbria, that was found a treasure trove of Tuscan graves, which sort of kick started me into this. Did she know that in one of those Etruscan graves was in fact found a sliver metal pasta machine, as is seen in Italian homes, and various Mario Battali cooking shows, perfectly formed as it is to this day…? My tone back was seen as anti Semitic, which is why since then I have tried to be about as circumspect as Himmler when it comes to racial matters. Since this discovery, Spaghetti as a diminution at all has gone unmentioned, lest anyone know that the original Italians came from Mongolia and northern China, as Scorsese was a dutiful little House nigger and made his termite terrace, on command, an opportunity turned down by even Coppola in poverty, showing someone at zoetrope read my emails after all.

She was snippy back, of course, as I got the scent in the wind that somehow I as an Italian in America, was “preening” something, as opposed to say featured player rent-a wops like Joe Peshi, who are somehow iron clad, and thankfully allowed to say nigger at least then without it even being a slur. I think I started to become more like Paul Mooney that day, and decided since I wasn’t covered by political correctness, white mans civility, using the basic traits of Italian banking and Semitic religions, I wasn’t paying anything into this. But, I did see where this was headed, even then I spoke of the often raising of the Fica, their central bank by the venial overlords, and I cant wait till O’bama the magnificent realises that his sun chariot came crashing to the ground near an off ramp to the jersey shore. Its never primavera in Palestine, kids, and its always autumn in New York. The Moma tried sending swat teams of Jews to get the golden Etruscan ruins, but alas, the Vatican sent in its Jesuit hazmat units in first. The Etruscan ruins are under lock and Conclave.

So, as I have finished Ancient Romance, in its first best, and older part, I took the chapters of Sabine astrology and saved them in a file called SA on a thumb drive , but also, kept the pieces left of the later finished book sent to Amazon. I was going to throw out the rest away, but found a real customizable admiration for praetorian Pope Marcus, soldier cum pontiff, a Dago Beckett, as still in the state of disorder he is, it is in is a better more fully formed Italian human character than ever seen to jump off the mildest brow of Coppola or Scorsese. AND unlike them and like Dante, the admiration of barbaric toga wears like Chrissie Hitchens is almost an anathema to me. I and my works do not want your admiration, save it for Petrarch until you realise too late, that he coined the term Dark AGES, as its those smiling availed I love English literature types eventually who fill up with bile and break apart, as my Ma would say. And as I continue my assaults on Parnassus, the floating rock in the sky as Ariosto mentioned it, as am so willing to utilize the low brows against the middle, I do find it funny that Signora Fortuna does take her rubes as she so pleases,...What with Ben Rothlibugher at this writing, after the stiller fans have thrown away thirty years of sanctimony for him, is at 10 turnovers and one touchdown. Wow. The Red Socks, the poor mans Yankees, lost a game seemingly too overwrought to have come from the pen of the un-Natural, Malamud. Obama is at 38 percent and has cut back at the eyes of the people not good enough for his blazing brightness and glory, are they ever not too soft and squishy for the hanging messiahs, Cassius...?, as he has become all alkaline and pissy as Mussolini seething from the ropes, and best of all, our venal, whooping coughed audience Juvenal, Jonnie Libovitz, the satirist is losing audience to Storage wars and American pickers. How wonderful a time is this, after all…? Night-swimming, deserves a quiet night....

2011-09-21T14:06:00.010-04:00

WAR IS FABULOUS!
or,

THE ACHILLIAD RAH RAH FAG BEACH PARTY DANCE MARATHON A GO GO SHINDIG SPARTAN ROCK AND ROLL JAMBOREE SPECTACLE RACE MUSIC HOEDOWN.

I have completed Ancient Romance, the Catalogue of Italic Gods, a little more than ten years after I started it, which for me, who has been working on a detective novel and a superhero created in 1980 and 1978 respectively, is a bit rushed.

In September 1979, during an interminable English class, I wrote to NBC with a idea for a pilot called Friends From School, about four high school buddies, three goofballs and a pretty Jewish brunette, no fooling,to get in all the Yiddish we could, who couldn’t let their high school lives go past them, couldn’t break past it, a series comedy in the then MASH style. They sent me a two page letter about how to go about legally getting something to NBC offices, which was better than anything sent to me as of late. The later NBC show,which seemed like it though, was offered to a now aging cougar dance partner of Springsteen named Cortney Cox, lovely then, who dutifully stepped aside for a human growth named Jennifer Annoying, whose lose of ingenue status will make her go ape crazy banana shit Shelley Long on us all, soon enough. And this, without even a meeting of Jews with q ratings in hand. I know that what you like in your brunettes, however, in finishing this book, and publishing it myself, prove I just cant quite do as you have trained the darkies so to do.

Still, I felt a need to complete this, at least this earliest part, as was meant to show a historical figure, an actual composite of a Tuscan ruler I renamed as Aquila, but from his praetorian, a historian, and an enemy, and placed the three side by side. But now , I find after days and days of dealing with the Rachel’s and the fox news and the GE theatres of the world, I have taken out the original parts of Sabine astrology to save, and shall say good bye to the Becket like pope, Marcus and so, revert it back to the fairy tale writer, Victor Curricula, which it started with, as like Machiavelli said, the political is, when all is said and done, quite boring, only the aplomb of Roman Bill seem at all even human as this Negro tap dances for fun and profit. So, too, I called the bluff, that thing Bill said that Romans and he do not do if they are honest and decent, and wrote my Tuscan book, as then heard some asshole on the radio screeching about ‘a funny thing happened on the way to the forum‘, as how could someone make a musical about the Romans, as this would be would like making a musical about the Nazis. Well, who could argue with that….?

I did recall this asshole and emailed him and asked if he saw the Producers. He, when I first got this machine , then emails me a long winded diatribe, about how evil the producers are, and blah blah blah, listen pal, I was making a satirical aside, look, -- I do not really care. That has been the bane of my existence. I am the Juvenal that faggot Jew queers pretends to be, and they get mad at me, and they think I care, I am rooting for chaos, as nihilist was a insult only In English. But I did wrote my book where somehow, the Romans were the enemies, the villains long before the Jews and the Germans and the rest who just love actuating the part of perpetual victims, and it was actually shocking how I got you to stand up for Rome, as funny, I, Calabrian as Victor the fairy tale writer, couldn’t quite bring myself to do that anymore either, as I have been fatigued by the hailstorms, no where to run, and all that.

But, I was very glad to hear my own words come back to me, that it seemed by ear that my indigenous Italian folktale was read by a great sports show caller here named Ed From Bloomfield, who called the dreaded Fan radio here in Pittsburgh, and spoke of Calabrian 'Romulous and Romulous' to quote CRISSY HITCHENS, that it was the brother who was named Romulus , and the usurper brother survivor took the name, capitulation and all, and this made me feel good, as my man Ed doesn’t call these wops from the island anymore, as he calls them all 'game show hosts'. Hhehehehehehhhhh…

Turan. from a picture of Wendy Fiore.

But, I did see something heinous last night, in going through the channels, as its appeared they were having fag parties about the repeal of do not ask do not tell, --especially who voted for it or singed it to law, please, and I found this repulsive. I realise we are in the age of decline and fall, and there is nothing funnier, but I just wondered, how many of these smiling faggots will be tap dancing to camp Le Juno after this is over, how many fagots will Roman up and be left to die on and burnt pyres, while ied’s explode on their faces, as opposed to dicks on fire island… I wonder how many will sashay to the front, after this grand old time. Once I was asked at a Christmas party if I was having ball, and said, I’m having a gay old time, and they made me dress for gym at the Arco station! I wonder how many maggots will be barbequing to the front, or are they far too White--what Gay means--for such as that. Unlike Rome, Sparta has no literature no propagandas at all, as there, well, such things were just exacted. And, in this horrid spectacle, there was Mama Lugosi, grinning from ear to ear, though I believe back in the house days she with Clinton voted for this, ah, must be growth of the RFK time, or complicated as it is when it turns our Jackie O saw Martin Luther Queen as a deceitful creature, as did, frankly, Marcus Garvey, the only black activist who doesn’t make me think of step-in Fecit. Then we hate Proto Roman anything. It made me recall the nun who told me, wherever there is death, there the yentas are--she was Polish --as they love death, as they are meant to do.

So, as felt prodded to do when saw Marcus Aurelius and Virgil ere a closest thing to gospel to Bill Clinton, this horrid nigger becoming the star child, pushed me to complete this first act of AR, at least that much a an answer to him, and his equally egregious enemies, or at least those who pretend they are his enemies while he capitulates like the good little boy he dreams of being., I have broken down and taken some advise though, and went at In This Golden Age, my collection of satire, in a more Juvenal, less ass kissing Jew boy long island John Stewart nee Johann Libovitz way, and took out much of what I had written about O’bama and Rothelsibegeher, as it a too Capote and womanish for my GV sensibilities. You have no Juvenals , much less Virgil’s. Just faggots who sue Google as a sissified weapon as they then bleed for closet pansies who kill themselves over the same thing, which of course cant be done to them, not the passavante, God knows, ever.

Ah, but the likening of Dante and his delineation of Sicilian elites rings truer now than ever. And how about my man Tony Romo in our Rothelebergehr age, with the fan radios becoming wastelands and only the mean crank yanking calls coming through--do pray you do not get calls about Harold Carmichael guys…How about my man Romo the homo showing up, as Woody would say, the better part of genius, and for that matter winning, who knew…? There is decency in taking a stand, after all, and after a while dying that 800th time cannot be worse than just standing up. As too, I felt a need to complete this, as is continuation of King Italus, the story mentioned in the previous post, of the Saturnalia party, as that was published by impressed Jesuits when I was fifteen, and yet, I cant remember if I had nor not even told much less showed it to my father, or if he even knew about it. Again, I called your bluff and found you all damningly pro Roman, as you did not know who the Etruscans were, much less the Sabine’s, and you all liked it that way, fine.

2011-09-17T18:37:00.003-04:00

KARTINA RICHARDSON LIKES THIS.

But, I do not mean to be a prick, but this Solaris deal, seemingly born fully formed ala Menvra was, complete with Hillary pols suddenly and almost as if they had these things archived for future use giving advise, and or Compassion, and egging on, depending on where you are standing, always, made me laugh. Solariums, Solarium, Solaris whatever, there is CATH, the Dago sun god, which I said to some consternation, is why we call it Catholic, hmnnn…who has been calling nigger Jimmy a new Phaethon all along…? …why, that was auger Tony, that was me! I compared him to the boy who was in over his head, as the sun chariot flew hither and yon, and horses made of fire few into the south pole, and now…witness, the sun shall will out, as it eats him whole, and didn’t even burp out a minivan. I was comparing him to Phaethon from Metamorphoses, for those at MSNBC, Metamorphoses is a Roman bible written by Ovid. For Rachel, Ovid is a Roman poet of the first century…etc. And in AR, despised by so many fat white women, there is a story of Cath, the Italian take on Phaethon, where instead of a tragic goats song as all Greek is, when not about anal sex or war, or both, the Italians had Cath the boy, supplant his father and become the sun god, as ironically at what I am at now, a few pages from completing this hated, anathema, missal of a book. And the last few days, some of the brightest spots in your cave in of last year, not witches at all, but saints like The Coon and Manchin, are making a big deal out of this Negros trying, rather tin ear-dly, to save himself. So I was speaking of the sun godling falling from the sky before any of you, auger I am again, --not to mention the bundling!

So, I , it appears have angered the gods of Face book, and do not any longer get email alerts that anyone has reached out to me in any manners. I shoo am surry Massa Zoidbergh sur. Yech. And thus, I am not alerted when befriended now, as amazingly sometimes even I am, sometimes by hot Neapolitan nymphet’s, wow, and am not told I am in anyway spoken to there, as it took me five days to realise a buddy of mine had invited me somewhere, which of course, I wouldn’t set foot in shudders--Maryland, but still, It would have been nice to have know this, while I ignore that dump, at least to say thanks to them, or respond back to Cyn, or such, as I have a feeling she and other people there already see me as self centred and aloof as I already am.

But, In that vein, a lovely brunette --actually really a word Word may not let you utter--named Kartina Richardson, gave me “a Like” for a bit of AR posted here, was it the rapture…? I do not recall, and I was like the little twit in the brilliant South park satire of Facebook, and achingly sadly, it made my day. And, I am finished with AR so far, printed it in nine point, single spaced type, as it is only 48 pages thus, and am sending it to be copy written in the library of congress, so again I am never as verbose, sadly, as I think I am. But it seems we are in a revenge worthy time, as I saw coming, and tomorrow, the referee who blew all those calls against Seattle, in super bowl XL, and the incubus which gave us the virus known as Worthlessbureger-- patent pending--and hasn’t he paid you back well--is doing the Stealers- Seahawks game, as such a flourish, is bouquet of garlic from Gödel to a team who he wishes he never bothered to pay off. A fat man hagiographer named Gene Collier too old and too fat now for the blasé laconic Charles Portis act he played out before, called the bad calls 'a fable' on the Pompeiani show, but again, Rotheiebshgher they say wants him fired over some slight, perhaps bringing up the five turnovers, caused by one man last week as Ray Ray licked his chops like Wendy just showed up--as he did get Joey Porter banished from the kingdom.

As, like I say Signora Fortuna is a bitch, and too late with the Rothelisburgers and the Obamas do you unromantic mined realise, Oh so this is the way this stays, huh…? So, to the Rachels and the Rogers and the Kartina’s, and the John Batchelors, I didn’t mean to be pushy by sending out excerpts of this book to you, and if they were long winded and verbose, I did, unlike some mentioned here, the best that I could, and didn’t mean to bore you, as a Manzoni would say, on purpose. Scorsese-land is falling apart, the lead paint and the whirlybirds and the rocket ship cars are chipping and smoking, and the seedy carnival is populated by drunkards and perverts, like the sun, Circus will out too.

2011-09-10T15:56:00.006-04:00

IN THE APARTMENT.

I have spent the summer reconstituting, reconfiguring, and reediting a book I had finished on the first made famous September 11th, a book called Ancient Romance. In the Italianate style, stolen so eagerly by Gaga Marquez and others, I have taken several novellas or romances, and tied them together through the suing of a wrap around narrative, ala Giovanni Boccaccio, a prologue and epilogues like story, to keep it moored. I find that it is in better shape than I would have guessed, it having been professionally reedited down before again I backed out of an agreement I found,-- fishy.

And of course, not being Jewish, this wasn’t an antennae that I have, that jiggles and opts about money, as that is the last of my concerns, as some have said of Bill Clinton, which of course is a lie for us both. Still, money, it amazingly, is not as important to me as some strange devotion to creed, meaning I am atomically disqualified to be a democratic praetor, as if one takes away Bribery from O’bama, he is an even bigger and emptier bag. I think its is funny that our petulant little Abner Doubledeal is demanding that a house, a parliament, no less, due their imperial, unconstitutional duty, as Caesar always does, its him or nothing, you know, we alas are stuck with him--AVENGE ME TURNUS! DIDO YELLS, --Now then, WITH ACQUIESCE , they must show Roman duty, and pass something, cause he says so.

I always get a sense in the wind that too many wops and Jews and house ethnics, have gone before me, as the Jesuits have been replaced by human offal like Dan Savage, who of all people to do it to, doesn’t see that making with word Santorum an explicative is something they would frown on, not because they like Felix over here so much, but that, with this nigger we have now, Latin, as in stimulus, and republic, gods know, all has taken it on the chin enough. Go devalue and smear the name O’bama, dear heart, although do not get too close to him in person, our nigger vizier has a life times supply of purell open and at the ready, should he have to bring out the chorus line of fagots as a slight of hand next time he doesn’t veto the re-upping, we are all re something-ing, of the Bush tax cuts again, --as if! I get the feeling they never have enough Jon Stewart's giggling, and me growling is a Roman anathema, down to my name.

So, I backed out again from that, and in rereading and editing it down and making the outer shell of the book, Ala the Decameron, or the collections which the Grimm’s stole all out of, which shows what a civilised people can do with a black death, as opposed to Rent. I found it was rather sweet and have shelved much of the later things I thought were needed to full out the book, as it is a wrong note, as I wrote this before dealing with too many white woman, too many faggots, too many house Jews, Zoetrope, wops, and was before I had allowed their poison to enter me, as I stupidly did. I was closer to the readings of Calvino and other Italian geniuses then, 2001, and had a lyrical ends to my work, which I have allowed to fall apart and be recapped by a kind a petty witticism. But, still, It was Jane whaterhername, Di Nero’s keeper of Tribeca pigeons, not a Scorsese woman as I thought, who told me Italians ‘do not fall in love‘, nor was my diolouge vulgar enough to make them think it was said by Italians, as Ariosto is dead. And dutifully, beady eyed Krugman, screening the swan song of this Song Of Bernadette presidency, suddenly called Giuliani, a fake hero, as what else in Lands End could he be...? Where was Krugman that fateful day, though, with the Jews who were taping the horror and told jersey cops, its alright--We're from the Mossad, Dancing Arabs, or was he still at the Enron lobby, showing again he aint married to any of it, pal...? And nigger Jimmy...God in Ovo, so, where was her on that day, ...? In the imperial cellars, as the Assembly of Kings hunkered down as Guiliani, soot breather did not...? Perchance, on prayer rugs in stolen houses...At least Giuliani stood in the soot, ala Cammilus , this nigger cant even stand on Principal. and I think I let too much of that suborned shit get too near to where I eat.

In making AR again, I find it is sweet and kind, and mean, this is Roman Antony after all, in its parts, witty without smirks, as I have had enough of smirks, and have just finished the part called “Gods of The Arena” no fooling, as this was about the birth of who becomes Mars, by Menvra the italic goddess and her pet, a flying pig, …and I found it is rather endearing, cute and playful without being precious or Warren Ellis hard boiled horse shit tough guy, man menopausal crud. It was lovely as was me at my most Calvino and Italianate like, which of all people a Jewish editor told me, they would get mad for my even trying. Something about me, perhaps my love of Romans and therefore commensurate distaste for Jew Baby Jesus, makes Jews feel they can tell me a truth they keep from the in laws. As a Jewish man named Jack Rosen laughed when interested in RM, I said perhaps if it does well, a script I had written about Roman Catiline could be next made. He knew the name and laughed. Oh…yours serious!, he said, incredulously.

So, why I bother to even say this, is, that the Jesuits were right, and this is a mud pit preening its imperial largess, they were right and this is a awful little Reich who pretends it is Florence, or Troy, and I am sad to say I let those house yids and wops get under my skin, as it starts to wear off now. But, there is a part missing of this missal , it is now 340 pages with some revising, but was 665. A good whole novel in the book, when it was lonesome dove sized, dare I even bother…?, was a story called Turan, of which only the prelude survives , in which as did happen, a Tuscan mish mosh, lovely, a god based on Thor, heh, falls in love with Turan, the Italian Venus, before the snider Greeks took a blond Goddess of wheat, Venus, as in Vine-us, to be the god of sex, as one thing for Dan Savage, unlike Rachel, you know he has a thing for blonds, as they all have since Michelangelo. That missive is gone, and cant I feel be replaced because I cant write like that anymore, as have allowed Copolla and the mean streetwalkers to make me bitchy, something even the Assisi brethren ever bothered to do. As the Romans got even, unlike Jews, and let Venus become the goddess of Love, but kept Turan, and her dark hair and her scales, yes, scales, and made her Signora Fortuna, as they did with Janus, and eventually, should there be a caliphate ever, be prepared, Imams, for Mohammed to be suddenly Herculean and painted on walls, whither you like it or not.

And with that myth Gone, because a Jewish editor tole me as much , he liked it very much, as did a black woman scholar, and too I got a ‘like’ from a pretty pan Asian--[brunette]--gal who writes sonnets to films for Ebert, I feel bad as he told me, antennas up, as if his more attuned than even mine, there was no way in a world which had made a hit out of dreck called Beowulf, at that time, that this was going to be allowed. So, do not bother me with regalia’s about fallen towers or arches of Severus, with porcine niggers in Irroman frieze, when like with Twain, they do not even bother to get the credos and the quotes right, and please, I have had enough of Darius the boy queen and the hostage siege, as I have had enough, and feel again, though preen myself a Machiavellian, I feel, as so should any democrat honest enough to quit smiling like a Greek queer who spells a Roman name with a evil and defaceable K, look it up, I have alas made the wrong move.

2. Like O’bama who was beat by nfl coverage on the nfl network, so all that Jesuit shit didn’t serve me in any utilitarian way, but then, it weren’t supposed to. So, Bread and circuses for all…!, as I never saw them as a pejorative, so, lets play draughts…!, indeed, and lets watch Prime Time and Mooch, as Olbermech is starting to give me gas. There fore, tired of the Life Of Sejanus, I was pleased to see TCM smartly made it a month of great stars when we had them, and so watched this month, Orson Welles in Touch of Evil, Two for the Seesaw, --who ever wrote this didn’t read Plautus, as this time, who wouldn’t want masculine Mitchem and cutie pie Shirley to be together, believe me yearning and that shit, unless is done in a Dante, stinks, Sunset Blvd, a personal dream of mine, The best man, again, Seven days in May, The Leopard, and too, the wonderful Orson as Harry Lime, anther masterpiece missed by team O’bama, which Bill has committed to memory. And, I saw a film I had never seen before called the Apartment had just started.

Well, I have never been a big fan of Billy Wilder, but again here he showed what an empire is with satire, as I have tried to show before, that we are an empire without satire, and if possible too many praetorian at the ready. I saw this grand film, starring the great Jack Lemmon, before a strange, Always Jewish hated and reviled Tran- sexuality femmy-ism over took the idea of the star, and we have now one agin girlie man after the next, all of whom ,it is said, hate Leo Di Caprio, who, though actually blond, still in being Italian, was assuredly left out of tethered wasp recantations of OCEANS white eleven.

But mostly, it was the pretty and smart and short haired Shirley MacLaine which keeps automatically turning to McClain, …who stole this film, showing a kind of good girl prettiness, now gone, rallied now by dower movies where aging blonds commiserate about how awful they were entreated by Brunettes, in high school no less, showing once you go yeshiva you cant go back. Our Cable Juvinal’s are far to willing to pretend to love any one and anything not the goys they distrust, or Italians who puppet shows and mistresses isn’t personal, just business, and anyone, missing the point of satire completely. Thus, making it back into ridicule, its ugly cousin who eats too many carbs. And so were fucked in a Sicilian manner, where again, all the elites are basically long island preening shmoes, as Zoidberg’s near and wide try desperately to return to being God favourites, which the Aryans, if not their in laws, shall not allow. She was cute, as that is worth much more than mere beauty, which frankly to me as a word, has always been code for the love that dare not show its prick in public, easily at Oscar time. She was adorable in a word the barbarians and their cup holder jews misapply and misuse, lovely and delightful, smart though,too, not so Judy holiday it made you barf. She was cute, a bit horsey, as they made fun of her in Wilder's script, but that was the way men liked women before we all became gay and made anorexia a fag ethic, as Babe Payly is dead too. And wisely, Billy knew that even straight laced Captain Marvel would give up the suburban lie of the American dream, for a broad like that one. She worked a slip as good as a Gina, showing again, our age of Jews and fags who perpetually live in and for a money shot, thus allowing mice like Sister Lopez to eek up out of the storm drains. Now that’s Juvenal!

So, I am on page 290 of 333, and preparing for a saturnalia ball, but am keeping in when as a boy, the senator in Laurentium watched as a Tuscan dictator named Mossatus was hung by his feet naked as revenge, so do not cry, or glare, Dido, all they can do to you is the ultimate humiliation, and pretend they never liked or backed you, for you, which it doesn’t take a Machiavelli to know that Jewey Jonny never did, as its called a fall back position, dear hearts. I thought, do I take this gallows recollection out…? For who, Graceland…? Again, it is my sweetest kindest and yet most realistic work, as frankly, thanks to Coppolla and your wop Guardia, I cant draw or do anything like I used to, but made a Thor, unlike Kenneth Brannagh, which was actually watch able. Turan, she the italic goddess a Shirley or a Claudia could have well played, who begins life as a doe, then a scrubber girl, then a goddess, as Italian perfect the fairy tale as they did the polemic. And so, the Book of Turan is gone, in this book which seemed to me to be more True Grit than Edith Hamilton sissy garbage, though I still have the had written notes, it is gone, and I can’t hold anything against Jewish Jack because I cant figure out cut and paste well to this day. SEE, IF I HAD A SHOW, one of things I would have a running gag, though you wouldn’t get it, would be Fridays with Livy.

2011-07-19T17:12:00.006-04:00

A MOMENT OF GREEN LAUREL

Again, I don’t mean to go Jesuit pre law here, but I have felt bad seeing Casey Anthony be demonized by that Sulla in a freight wig, Nancy Graceless. Listen honey, far be it from me to cast aspersions on a universal mind who studied law under Carl Banks, but, see, you start fucking with the jury system, and then, you’re really in for it, because trials by people like you, cunt, is what fucked Rome up. As, next thing you know, people you don’t hate, start getting away with murder, literally, as why is Casey Anthony a Tarpea now, how about that woman who drives her crack head husband to a Dwayne Reed , speaking of sin city, where he blew away 7 people, looking for Oxy Contin, what was that, cute cause it was like Breaking Bad…? She knew he was going to go Peckinpah, by the way, accruing to cbs news. Why didn’t that resister with Batwoman...? And the little Jewish kid, slaughtered in way they don’t let veal in our sanctimonious hell hole, what didn’t that affect our queen of Justice...? Is that a cry for justice, or just an applause sign…?

It can’t be our right wing hag has made Cay- lee, be the stand in for all those other foetuses, what with gay marriage having gone so well, lets see what else we can put through, like tax cuts, when all the sanctimonious are left handed. It makes me sick, but then I recall the grand tempo of Kunsler and Studs, and was told as a boy, to never forget this is the land of Sacco and Vanzetti, whose words thankfully, unlike Martin Luther Queens, to quote jfk, haven’t yet needed to be so sanitized as they could come of Rush Limbaugh‘s blow hole.

It all has me ver klmept, ver shvitzed and bollixed. If I was feeling honourable, I’d be using Latin like you do, but instead its seems a Yiddish sort of time. Be careful, I warn, as Italian soothsayer, I can sense the not so much the screens of evil, as the evil of fatigue. As when The Dreaded Garafolo makes a point that only Fags are anti fag, it is alas a old time gambit that MACHIAVELLI HIMSELF felt beneath him, it is after all, a way to underscore the inherent despicable qualities of those people ‘over there‘, where’re dimwit Garafolo knew it or not. Those fags you see cant be trusted, --though I preen how much I love them--still, as they try to play both sides against the middle something the Bill Mayer crowd would never do--just do not call me a democrat,-- ‘cause I’m not. The idea that only fags are anti fag, is after all a way to get them coming and going, whether this idiot KNOWS it or not. This was sued by Savonarola, he without imaginations, against Sicilians and Jews by a family that Niccolo thought of as garbage, the Medici. But, speaking of double dealers, and we are filthy now with them, do Keep an eye on Daeeeerrrr Nancy though, Sulla , like Brutus, they always fuck things up, and we always find the most noble everyone’s are always on the pad, all along. I just bet this hag has foetuses in bell jars under her porch at Yapthewnta co. I say, enough with masks, Roman up, take a punch, don’t Scorsese out and have Juvinal’s flotsam give you back handed compliments. On CBS radio news fifty percent would rather see president Nixon now, as trusted him more now that the fools of empire we have now. See, Sanctimony is tiring. Roman Bill was a pig, but at least he won his stand offs, which is more than I can say for our negro Homicide bomber in chief.

And I hard that that other hag who made Harry Potter, oy, wants to be seen as a ‘English Virgil‘, his euphemisms all over that dreck. Poor mans suffered enough. Honey, do leave poor Publius alone, Hun, and go count your money. Its how you keep score. And the closest thing you have a laurel*. But, too, was thinking, though I was demerit-ed by some trash for not understanding film by hating Martin Scorsese, --he must be loved you see, at least by me, no Italian , Roger, May Raise Kane, you know, …again, Too Jesuit…? Still, I recall how , as with JRR RAWRINGS, it is never enough , as she is suddenly is Virgil now, which, when Johnny is Juvenal, how low can we sink….? But as I recall, he, Martin, campaigned for the Medallica d Oro, the golden medal in Rome, he dreamed of this, did he, of with that Irish sour mash fraudulent idiot De Nero, of going to Rome, and being lauded, by Berlisconi, it didn’t matter he is something of a fascist, not when a Triumph is involved,…He wished to be crowned as a Roman by Silvio BERLUSCONI, WEATHER GIRL DIDDLER EMERITUS, OF ALL PEOPLE, AND YET, HE DREAMED OF BEING AND CLOMPING DOWN THE STREET OF VENUS, AS SUR MARTINO, IN THAT CITY WHERE THE KNIGHT WAS CREATED. He dreamed of it, he yearned for it, and alas, poleneta fearing Silvio took back his invitation as I recall, at last to Martin, as in Rome, Sicilians are a bigger anathema than they are here. All the trash in the world aren’t worth one triumphal Roman day, I recalled, as a billion dollar puppet show that hag feels is commiserate with a the Aeneid, which even the bbc calls the greatest book of the cannon of the west, as people on Charley Rose try to convince you that , again Harry Potter is better than it looks. And like all things English, not played up as it is for Virgil and or Alex Hailey , but an undercurrent none the less, there is whispers of plagiarism as there must be for a land whose works were all burned by Vikings, and unlike Italians, didn’t merely rewrite it all as best they could. They dream still, as I thought, of a moment of green laurel, and yet, are no closer it than I am with my Etruscan cribbed cartoons, and in fact, David Denby not withstanding, are perhaps farther away from it than even Roman Antony is, right now.

A Note; Should anyone not believe me, that Virgil and Romanticism was forefront of JRR Rawrings mind in completion of this epic, a codex, a catalog of Roman names seem to appear in a dramatis personae as shown by, of course, admiring Roger Ebert. In names once NEW, "Bellatrix Lestrange, Rubeus Hagrid, Professor Aldus Dumbledore, Ollivander, Lucius Malfoy, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin and even Prof. Minerva McGonagall, who is called upon to summon her powers and shield Hogwarts School from the powers of Voldemort." The heroes all named more for metamorphosis than Beowulf, and the villains name only ringing with French, which at least isn't Anne Radcliffe, so I give her that. But again, my dislike of this is Roman retreaded too, in that, really, A boy must hold off the evil incarnate, named Sirius in Virgil and Ovid, I ecall as that was which I stole in 1977 to make the deamon Sinis, enemy of Mister Stupendous, a man who just seems a boy. Really, I think, where are the men at...? Maybe this is what has Harold Bloom so ver klempt, where indeed are the men at...? Dont give me the golden child Tesas--that name showing she wasn't the first to find a wealth of stuff in the Tuscan countrysides like did st. Paul, as I must say, again, where are the men at...? Bill and CC's dream of boy Ascension is prepackaged by boy staying boy, in real time. Also, In seeing Ralph Fiennes playing the innominato here, before slathered with the cgi, he looked actually more real and more stunning and more vital than the orcus he was made to become, but then, what do I know, all my castles are made of paper and exists on Ariosto's floating rocks. As Once the nice man editor of Harry Potter, they are always looking for the next something from Big Tony, and are always disappointed, once took a look at my work, and was impressed, though told me it wasnt for Pishers, the birth of Turan from the Adriatic took care of that, and too, Ke-Meter was especially hard to peg. Things must be in fantasy, he advised me, must be written in black and white, he kindly said, and in kemeter, well, ...was he a demon, a witchcraft-er, a god, a Lucifer, and why did he fall in love with Turan brunette goddess of Love. Ah, the kingdom of Naples strikes back!, I said back, not to be mean. And in another bolt of fantasia, it seems CNN is --oppsy, whats with the whoops!, reporting that Casey Anthony IN FACT NEVER GOOGLED FOR CHLOROFORM from her or any computer, this fevered idiocy coming from perpetually on the rag Nancy Grace, showing ,as i have surmised, we have fallen from the days of barristers becoming poets like Publius Maro, to say nothing of Yvonne Craig.

NEXT: THE RAPTURE.

2011-06-26T12:47:00.007-04:00

ON SATIRE II

THIS MARRIAGE SHALL NOT BE PERFORMA.

So, late at night, and listening to CBS radio, I hard the groan worthy Mario Cuomo Junior, who has his father’s cadence down, as if a cross between Cassius and Rich little, as after all, as I was warned by a fag Jesuit, America is but the tragedy of Julius Caesar as done by a the cast of Hee Haw. It’s a good parlour game, try it, with Junior Samples as simpleton Brutus, Lisa the lovely brunette as Pilate's wife, Roy Clarke as tired bureaucratic Pilate, ect tec…It fun to do this and cast various classics with our American down home morons. But, again, there was the Cuomo experience, as if the mnemonic plastic robot who shall never be in the Disney field hall of Praetors, but lucky you, you have slipped right into the arms of plastic O’bama, sho nuff. He was talking a victory lap, was Junior, our new baseball and national pastime, as how he managed to get the most blue state in the republic to slide in gay marriage with a 33-30 Vote. It is hard ruling as a democrat what with half your caucus being unavailable to you, having to vote like your enemies, but then, like Satan, democrats are always looking for as many souls, if not corpses as they can get.

But just getting over the minimum, that is what the democrats pray for, so as at least southern districts and such can vote against it and still get what they say that they want. This is what the universal mind of Robin Williams coyly calls as Balance. I am am the the king king of the the hill hill. But to be fair, despite what the lefties says of gay marriage, I am sure like so much they couldn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it, but alas are always perpetually fighting the same war over and over again, and since this is how they made it to the vineyards over the dead bodes of niggers, cie le vie as the Germans say, and remember , liberalism is best something seethed at the lovely people in the dark, like something out of sunset blvd.

I lied in bed, I feel sicker than I am, fore reasons I cant get really behind, as I am, as I have always been healthy as a ox, I listened to how Mario Junior who really has his fathers gift of clipped rolling cadence sentences without a shtickle of poetry or grace, as it didn’t do pop any good after all, so in love with himself with his act of hitching now the faggots, from whom all civilizations have prospered expect the Byzantine and the Germans, and thus have none. And I found myself feeling bad, as I did when all those Jesuits were dying of aids and no one cared, as after all, unlike sportscasters and presidents, I wasn’t so courageous or shameless to go to Georgetown and get my degree in Jesuits craftiness, what with my hearing of Jesuits fagots dying of virulent pneumonia like something out of the margins of brilliant Boccacchio. I felt bad hearing we shall now be drowning in wifeliness, we shall be besotted with a legion of decency as much by house everything’s as anything. As something tells me, if not laughing boy Jon, that the closets shall be darker and worse, worse yet now, or am I being too Italian for the room…? Something tells me a virulence shall take hold, a pact time for Bill Maher to do his one of the poor mans Colbertian spoofs, least of all of himself, as we giggle and snort, and rattle and drone, into insignificance. We'll meet at the greyhound station, Fulvius, and look over the new arrivals for fresh meat. Credo. Word.

I felt bad, as I seem to always feel now, as the fagots of some Barney Miller precinct caught in time, trapped in amber but without the humanity of a Marty the local queer, these perssonaggio’s are far too un-resplendent and far too humane to be acceptable now, as we in the words of a leftist icon, define decadency downwards, as anytime now, all smile fat moon pie smiles, and we hurl rice at the bride and bride or the groom and groom. But which one is the bride and which one is the groom after all…? And not only that, which one is the groom and which one is the horse…?Aha, I did read Petronius cover to scandalous cover, and the good fagots of archdeaconry call such as that and Adam West’s Humane batman, who didn’t break a sweat, much less break his fascist fists, are called as Camp now. How decent we all are, and pass the Crisco, then the ammo, as this nigger ho deed dos into the sunset, as we all say Jewey Jonnies amazingly perfect pitched credo above all, as I warned, in new Judea, “we aint married to it“, what ever it is.

I saw him sadly while I was eating Sunday dinner call Chris Wallace an ‘Activist;’ as if he was a member in good standing of the Birchers, a Jewish dream come true, now, if he can just find a blond mistress with fat ankle’s, then grandpa Sholmo’s fleeing the Czar shall not have been in vain! Don’t wurry, comedy central, ehehehehe, you wont cach me like Olbermech giving a dime ta nubuddy! Another Sandler from the school of Alan Brady, I didn't get no help frum Nobudy, so let em all go ta hell except cave sevendeetree! LET EM ALL GO TA HELL, the new battle hymn of the republic, Fuck yous all, I'm the Agrippa now, go to hell yuz all, fuck you and suck my cut dick, no really, somebody suck my dick, damnnit....!Hazaah and Mozeltov...! Thank you Juvenal, you cheap fuck.

Again as the less than divine but more the scurrilous Signor Machiavelli would have said, An operator shows he is operating the most when he takes his hands up off of the machine and mills he uses by trying to use the machine levers with his feet, or, that the liar tells the truth when he thinks he is lying the most. If you blurt out Slut while either nodding or shaking your head, can other things be too far behind.

I do recall after all his pleading with the audience, who would actually buy his pompous little screeds about flag waving, in which he stains on the cover holding an eagle, less Ubermench than he appears Max Neumann and a living dichotomy, that as he was smashing O’bama for he quickly and devotedly had allowed Hillary to sulkily hurl herself on his show to help her win a primary in June, and thus strengthen her hand to ransom the convention, and thus demanded heath care as a booby trap she used to get even ...etc, he showed the truth again by looking up with Louis Nye facia melting into strange Jewish vitriol and said, Yous knoe yous can laugh at Hymnn, huh…?

With him, I sense the same thing as I do with equally adored by white trash Scorsese, as I find of wikipeadia, both he and Jonnie are given glowingly adoring pages, where the suspicions hurled at everyone from Statius to Eco, to Machiavelli, to the Etruscans, to the city of Naples, all that white detracting, a form of the guilt they show niggers, is never there with them, not with the Sopranos, who seem to not bother them as much as say Ariosto's cantos of the moon does. Me, who was often called a dimwit and incompetent by those who had self writing word processors, and then, a poet and brilliant at these open forum Internet things, thinks, ah, my own credo, Its isn’t worth the bother to be admired. I think the Jesuits in a way had it right, better to be killed off by them than to be sanitized and made ludicrous by them, as better to die on a unseen, unspoken, of quilt, than ever be made a fucking housewife, arguing for the sanctity of the American home, like some fifties white woman. Our faggots dream of domestic tranquility and being war machines , as in fact,the empire does strike back, again.

I feel bad that we shall now be surrounded by the bitch fight at the OK corral, as the simpering femmies the Jesuits despised shall, behind veils, if not Chinese fans, seethe and spittle and grin and bear it all, and not shall a line of poetry come from a Neapolitan loving, dark skinned, fag ala Virgil, who you all hate anyway, as our fags are good and wholesome and decent and boring and dull and imperial and silly and smarmy and chicken wings for everyone, the malt liquor provided by Madam Palazzo, and Van dear, dont tell you cop hating niggers to ever bother her on Columbus day ever again, if you know what’s good for you.

The world is amusingly vicious now, as it became, ironically enough, under Constantine, when the selfish creed of Christianity took sway. No Jew will dare say it, as sorry, Christianity is selfish, Salvation is by definition all men for themselves. As the Virgilian ethic, though you hate it, is actually one of collectivism, I shall go forwards for my Race, my people, my tribe, my whole, I SHALL DO THE BIDDING OF FATE, I shall leave the pretty queen to her arsenic, as I am impelled compelled to do what is good fort the greater Good. I am nothing, the City is all, why that’s is so un-bigoted, no wonder the English despise him so. Ah, and that why Marx loved the Romans, after all, and you , Machiavellian second person never saying your sorry about anything. Of course not, but isn’t it funny that you are probably Christian simply because a man named Caesar said to be, again un-remarked upon. Me and Bill, though, We’ll stick with Marcus Aurelius, his stoic hero, as this un-Roman coon now aint never done shit because Fate compelled him to do anything, as he has fallen upwards all his life, which is why we say the Peter principal and not the Aeneas principal. Personally I have always ascribed to the Victoria Principal, but alas, and alak, the sanitation the Nancy Grace hags did in Hollywood , the destruction of brunettes like Demi and Megan has left them now with a withering box office, as after all, the blonds, again, couldn’t keep their ends up in the bargain. Uh…Christerism, has given us nothing but the selfish creeds of Rushing towards distraction, always with the end game gambit of a death bed mea culpa getting one into the golden streets that a less than Ovid a creepy radio host sees as his white mans burden, heaven so sanitized and clean that like Hollywood or the democratic party it doesn’t quite seem worth the bother. The age of self righteous mixed with bribes has poisoned America, Obamaism as sewage in the drinking water table, and though I’m sure he in a second term, is a laugh riot waiting to happen, if I was democrat in a operation of power, meaning in these shadows, hopefully there is someone other than this goon, these niggers, women, fagots and house coons, somewhere hopefully a Clintonian mind is at work, as I say throw the kid out, as the least thing I think the democrats should allow is a nigger queen of their party to preside over the empire going bust. It wouldn’t auger well.

So, I see this new found pompous menace in an amazing visual of television, how the Casey Anthony trial is used by low rent cable television thugs as merest programming. I am sorry, but I think when you start putting up peoples lives and fates to a call in number plebiscite you have opened a war box with knives as handles, far too hard to close, as the Etruscans said. I THINK perhaps, it may be time to back way from this madness, as giving the fates of men up to the crowd might just be how Pilate lost his groove after all, and never got it back. As I saw a horrid exemplar of this filthy way of thinking a burned out nothing named David Carr, a Clinton era stooge, who was on another stooge’s show, so brain damaged, it seemed, so stiffened and old hippie, and dried out, so eaten out alive by whatever combo of cannabis and Sodomy his little silly heart could take, as of course he, hopefully, socked it away good, and he sat there in a narcoleptic haze, barley recalling the ad libs he had typed and filed away before. Ah, our Aeneas shows himself, as the only fate these sorts do believe in is of course the klieg light, no matter how low level, or how pay for View, it does draw them like a siren who's lips can never be touched lest the little Greek burn up in whole. Perhaps the walk through hell could be done by the industrial light and magic creeps who gave us earlier that night a Clash of the Titans, where again in the throws of this strangely Jewish nightmare we spin within, somehow only the dark haired Aussies may be shown as Roman and or Greek, and despite all the camera tricks, wasn’t as decent and as honest and as fun as the stop motion of Ray Harryhousen’s clay motion--Harry Hamlin looked positively alive!-- for a generation before. This stiff as a board apparatchik, fining a soft spot to land at the Times though maybe not, said with a strange scene that he’ll win, almost like a mantra, but was it a warning…? As sorry again, the Machiavellian in me thinks that eventually you have to carefully support them that you are so gleefully destroying all comers for, and don’t, Keith, make snide little asides about any Arafat qualities of our two faced queen, as it makes you look like your are, one, truing to foist someone upon the people, and two, that you ether except you own hatred of him as not racist, or worse, you aren’t in on the councils when they open the prayer envelops with the cash in it, as has been codified in Italian weddings since the Tuscan dancing man masterpiece. He shall win again, I have heard two bought and paid for middle brow apparatchiks say, and both times I wondered, is that a warning...?

But then, I saw where some white trash nudnick decried the brilliant Italo Calvino for having the
"Science" in his masterpiece wrong, as since Al Gore we have all become a nation of Galileo’s, but then again, unlike him, we aren’t married to it, ask Jon boy, and can change the name of global warming if the airport closes because of too much snow-- in a snap! Something called Cosmicomics had the science wrong, this little faggot amazonian warrior creep queer simp liked thinking that Italo Calvino had the science wrong in a book where the sonnets of Ariosto for the snowy moon were his inspiration. You know, as opposed to Stan Lee, our Dante. Why, this poetry isn’t enough like a owners manual of a Hoover dust buster for me, and our Amazonian rubes to even care. There is not only a reason the dimwits who Obama shall pay the price for having made his praetorian guard, there is also a kind of honour in the diminution of so much I adore by the fools and the filth, as Dante said of Vain Florence, exile from yous all is perhaps my greatest honour. No, giant granite statures you put up at the city gates a hundred years later don’t count. There is a real dignity in being detested by Wikipedia, or being the only pretty girl at tits sites, with real tits like Wendy, who compels the masturbators at pin up sites to distain her whole, yet be praising Czechoslovakian tubby behemoths, who have a Mark Madden sexuality. Why, those score cunts are willing to be fucked with garden hoses while eating napoleons, who does this wopette think the fuck she is, with her Vargas pin up shit...? Sites of vulgarity, with alleged women, Whose figures look like Ruben’s night terrors with faces filled with acne, and overused bodies filed with cellulite, and yet Wendy bothers them ever so much. There is, I have thought all along, a real dignity to their displeasure, I am sure they don’t think so, but it is in fact, quite humanizing, as no one is pushing any Cowboy to make himself available to Stan Savran for snide cuts, or making party boys who troll the college bars be married off so the local Pollock’s can feel a cover of legitimacy to the self righteous preening of the local bigots. Marriage as weapon. So, is it a piece of paper anymore Norman, or not…? Like an AIDS test…?

So get ready for the faggots circus to sashay down fifth avenue, making sure that we equate fagots with simpering smiling silliness, that thing that Cornelius warned us was the end of the Romans , but look on the bright side, they had another four hundred years before all hell broke loose. So, think a good thought, maybe this will be glacial, and even then,…So, giggle and hum, rattle and moan, and say I do, as when the Republic --I cant do it it--I’m kidding , when this cesspool can make even its queers be suburban and so middlebrow, dare I say Bourgeoisie, well, the masters have won something only a Jesuit could see coming, and it was shown that some fat Lutheran woman pastor , wow, two time loser there, came barreling into the breech, and spoke of how, no matter what even the Cuomo-Domo out in as restrictions, well, hell, she’ll be granting excitations, don’t call them Indulgences, to any pervert who wants an ultimate dye job and who wishes to be as medio casum as he wants to be. No, No Aeneid's, or Burrs, shall break the fabulousness of these times, Watch each night, almost like a Jesuit, Andria poo Cooper, fabulous by birthright, conceived at La Cote Basque wile Truuuu-man was not so drunk he didn’t hear every word, the watcher as CNN sweetheart calls one woman after the next ridiculous, cause he says so, ah, but the cracks just get worse, and even Caesar thought in the end, hehe, homosexuality was something that most of his enemies were, and said so, as he had slave boys brought into the praetoraiums which looked like TENTS, THIS FAR AWAY. Women shall be the end of you, he rightly told Antony, so nothing but Caesarean Fabulousness for and of thugs of a dying empire, and string em up and let Hermaphroditus settle it all.

Now we may not have a Virgil on the deck, in the Navy, where you can really put your mind at ease, in the navy, come on now fallout make a slide, in the Navy, in the navy, …No Pastoral poems, no Insipid poetics of the fall of empires, but oh goodie, look a Glee Marathon as muzak for the faggot receptions, through the bouquets, and pop open a purell, everyone! It is actually important who is bride and who is groom actually, kids, as did you know that a man carries his wife over the threshold because, again like the senate starting with an invocation, and the ACLU DOESN’T SAY SHIT ABOUT IT, that’s what the Romans you hate did, no matter what else. The Romans carried their wives in doors at Rome as hostages, the rice being the only weapon other girls had when Vestillia, and her sisters hid in the Sabine granaries, but , who cares about any of that…and they continued the practice to recall their ancient virtues that President Desi is perpetually throwing in our faces. Ah, but as Cato said of Caesar, he means REALLY ANCIENT VIRTUES. So, a toast of roman beer to too big to fail; and too decent to speak a discouraging word, as something tells me the fagots wont be so Henny Youngman about their wives, as all to them is after all a grudge, and as our David Carr looks straight ahead, lest something be gaining on him. So, in every marriage, someone has to be Roman and someone has to be Sabine girl, Tarzan and Jane, whatever, its baked into the American Pie. Like how Italay --Chaucer spelling you nit-picky English major fuks--gives up her noble dead, as how all over Italay we have found many skeletons of lovers embarking on the road to their end, as Roman magistrates demanded they be buried alive, in a practice not unknown as late as Manzoni’s epic, and after all, I do think there is not only decency to the white folks dismissing you, but with much in the hidden Roman Italian world, there is decency in them not even knowing who you are, as it makes the evil eye something less to worry about. Some parts of America have actually been verboten to excavation, though thankfully not Italy, as after all, who gives a shit about the fucking noble savages anyway. We wish to fall as the Romans did, not crazy horse, and even tcm still gives the Searchers 4 stars, so fuck off, Sitting Bull.

As Ma again, bless her, put it all in perspective seeing the smiling faggots latrines dwelling Lutheran fags so happy, she did tell me of how many Italian girls were brought to freedoms land were sent back as the marriages performed it Italay didn’t count here. That was one of those pesky paragraphs in Tarantella that I was asked to excise as early as 1984, ironically enough. Sadly, despite all, that experience may be the only thing I have ever learned from, as I myself fight that war over and over, as a Jewish man told me, not meanly, to go along with things, and quit being so devoted to things no body cared about. Ah, but I’m not the one doing my Mob shtick and as the dear Gene Siskle called it, to sell candy bars. So, I do hope AIDS does flair up again, as that will put you all in a bind, as what that would do to Omaba care,-- can you dig it!, but then, when are the shameless ever in anything but the drivers seat. Perhaps as the Italians did with the black daeth, that art might come of your horrible flowers blooming again, though to be honest all the first go around with aids gave us was Rent. Ask the Romans.

As a few years ago, I had a dream about Galatia, in which we had been just married and I took her to a flee bag motel, the kind seen in Mickey Spillane, carrying her lithe body over, as I was dressed seemingly for the 1876 Presidential inauguration, top hat and all. She was laid on the bed, in shimmering white, and looked around, And then she took a shiv and cut my nuts off in Peckinpah glee. I hate it when things get Freudian, as my dream about her are never just simply wet as they are for WENDY, a compliment to her, and hadn’t bothered Galatia again.

2011-06-03T11:35:00.006-04:00

51. QUEEN OF THE BEA'S

1. I have perhaps, a chance at a crack in the door of the Library of Alexandria, and that's no compliment from me, of book pimps in new York. But, I have been alerted, it must be blessedly short. I have nothing in my Oeuvre which is that, except that on a disk I have found were I hoarded pictures of the dearest bombshell playmate of my youth, Patty Farinelli, Roman goddess supreme, I have a few chapters of a book in the AR series called The catalog of Italic gods. It is a completion of an unfinished book by Boccaccio of all men, showing I was once fearless. Do I take this chapter, about how Augustus, remade as Tuscan Aquila, took farm girls and had senators teach them Latin and baring and al , like a Roman imperial version of My Fair Lady, and a senator named of Crito, of course, falls for the farm girl, Cornelia, a wrong thing to do and paid dearly for it as one would guess...Do I clean this up and send this...? I am unsure.

2. God knows, I don't say this only because I was befriended by him, and then made a point of defreinding me, as after all, my father and the Jesuits made me hep to the company men that most Italians dreamed of being, but I must say that Lantern head Tarantino is getting on my nerves.

Less a life of Brutus, his is a life of Fulvius, the roman plant in the Roman senate and helped Caesar by preening to be on Pompey's side, and hectoring him with what was constitutionally was allowed, as Fulvius was a stickler for the legalistic, especially with Caesar, his puppeteer, in the alps did as he pleased without compunction. Eventually, when crowned and made sort of king in Rome, the first thing Caesar did was to take Fulvius and all those such men and had them decapitated and killed when they thought they would be given Praetorian positions . Why you may ask, well fevered Julius had the best excuse, in that Antony, he said to the asker, I love treason but I hate a traitor.

Also, even Caesar never thought that Pompey would be killed, as he was a good Roman of the sort Caesar did admire, though the father of modern welfare states he, like so many in Washington now use its merely as a edge and deep down hate the rabble and the thieves and the niggers and the filth, as who doesn't put on Cesarean roles and speak of Republicanism in this sewer now, and who doesn't show up on Columbus day and veterans day, what Jew ever skips an Italian American parade to go to some ad hoc muttering of all the dark filth who march for Abu Gemeal or what bleeding heart skips Columbus, no matter what is said of the Italian Mohammed, insted to be seen with niggers without jobs demanding payment lest they... what...?,… what will the niggers ever do, what...?, what shall the babes under the bronze teats of the she wolf ever do...? Clinton, our Roman boy, knew that Tyberian heritage of welfare well, and almost begged them to bitch when he in the grand tempo, gave us welfare reform in a boom time, he almost goaded them into,... Something… anything, but alas, he knew as did his uncle Julian, that the filth will do nothing until they are told, which is why to them on the left, the Caesarean left, look it up kids, welfare is the cost of doing business, and shall be there until the price is too excessive, or some Constantine turns us all into Arabs or at least Islamic goats and tells us of restoration as the faggots are killed off with a Castro like glee. Caesar had Pompey in mind as a sort of prime minister while Julius was forever rewriting history as some sort of state god, diddling his various colored girlfriends. This is the end I see for Tarantino when the hidden Caesars of now, despite the personae of O'bama, the Caesars of now are not so garish as was he, and I can see our new Fulvius, also a lover of blood sport and game shows, and the vulgar, disappearing in the same way.

But, I have noticed that our Quentin, as they are taught to do I guess in film school, and one must be resigned to do such brilliance as the hangover, keeps treading the same land until it becomes less of a garden and more of strip mine. He is now in throws of making a spaghetti western, as like his previous generation of film geek's, is, for all his pretense, an adherent of genre like no other. And I thought, seeing some post of his strange Homer Simpson like scrawl, I love B movies as much as anyone, was writing them diligently and getting some notice when he was still rewinding Terms of endearment as it had been impolitely returned to the video shoppe, without the graciousness of rewind in that increasingly more decent time, but...even I, I thought, how many Macon County Lines and Mario Bava rips offs can one make...? As a boy, I saw great B movies and B as in Max Bear films and Sun productions and Italian Hercules movies with my Ma at the old Dattolla theater, before it became a skin flix house, and old pervert Dattolla was trolling the St. Peters and ridge avenue junior high chink linked fence for pretty comely underage Italian girls to give out fliers and sell rasinettes at the trench coated in bright June nights patrons. I mean, I love Roger Corman and killing pussycats as much as anyone, but I always saw my B movie work as a evasion, a fun time, a joke, hopefully to get my realer more decent work, my more important work done about various Etruscan Gods, Roman senates, Black querterbacks being savaged by pollock mobs, and other thousand page epics. Etruscan gods....? What was I thinking...?

Perhaps Roman addled me was wrong, and in fact, I am too much like Plautus after a life time of pratfalls dain to write a history of Rome that the Augustusi of now should hate for their presumptions, and damned as burned. If I could get them made at all. As Quinton, he might be like one of those violence loving Praetorians, called Prii--tarians by some know nothing on John Batchelor, at least Newt can pronounce a Latin word even using it as a pejorative, who will gleefully massacre and laugh what Caesar comes what may. Or worse for all of us,like Paul and Scorsese , later in life, a fatigue with blood and evil, he might turn religious on as all as a sad measure of self contempt and Jewry banality shows up, and write some book of Romans, which would serve me right, in its being a level of Roman Valentine, which I, even I, Roman Antonine couldn't do with a straight face.

3. Also in looking for these previously mentioned things I have done, I found a diskette of brother word processing files, illegible, but within which this garbled garbage shone a small bag of gold, a little drawing of a file cabinet called PATTY. In this, I saw a myriad of rare and cherished pictures of the great playmate, she is in fact voted a top twenty playmate in some anniversary issue. Which in this blonde’s utopia, wow that is praise from this old man’s passé hutch of garages of lost boys, for Patricia Farinelli. I have not been able to find many of these pictures, having stupidly called her the fittingly Fairinelli, which I believe, like Rimini was the name of medieval Italians monsters and saints, which ever.

She glistened her in old Kodachrome, again, of a kind of film, which new photographs is, a mere pale reflection of, as those earlier blacks and bleus of the end of the Technicolor age, are forever gone in our pixilated world. An earlier Mother of later House of Fiore’s, or flowers, this goddess as to quote a lovely film criticism darkie gal I have looked up on the internet after having seen her on Ebert at the movies, a lovely gal herself, the way men and big Tony like me, the kind that closet fagots hate, she, this Patty, these collected French postcards of a more decent whimsical age, she was a goddess not of sexuality, but of femininity itself, as Italian girls like her have done, if not for truckers and simps and thin necked geeks, for the occasional Roman minded genius like Cattilus and other poets.

She was woman as embodied here, a living Pygmalion, here in colours unheeded and unused now, of black hair untouched up by shit browns, the whole fucking world is touched up with dried sienna, with no blue black Lois lane, pretty Italian girls sheen to be seen here anymore. She was voluptuous in a way I am certain now some asshole from the sopranos, some Russian orthodox demeaning his grandfathers lucky name, would call fat, but was a figure of not quite Ruben’s, but easily Post Raphaelite, the sort of renaissance that the English Catholics hate, lest they bee seen as too Irish. She had let us say, the kind of pudginess that nuns like seeing in the hallways in the old days, a fleshy loveliness.

This is the sort of girl that can not be shown anymore, as the fagots and the Jews, for various reckonings, give us one blond she wolf of the SS after another, aha, but also , ironically, as there are no Patty Farinelli anymore, neither are there any Ursula’s neither, and for similar reasons, which I am sure this lovely woman mixed raced movie gal doesn’t even know to think on or of, and I delight in how she seems to hate blonds as much as I do, although I am certain she comes at it more honestly than I.As my farther told me as a boy, Blonds, whooers I think he added, they have antennae a Tuscan word for a magic wand, out for a big dumb dago like me, as he knew, as did the Brothers and the priests, of my fondness for a lovely girl, which, to be fair, no priest ever tried to disabuse me of, or make me queer, as to them, thankfully it was only a fetish and meant nothing. This is before Jon Boy Stewart cried at and for, always in camera range, various fag wedding brunches to show he had a good heart, you goy assholes, but get him alone sometimes and he'll tell yas abbot what he really thinks of the shvataes and the fagella, hoo boy, shu shu, gahead gahead, have a lovely piece of cake, he says to me, but all along I can tell he’s looking to see what if I don’t take too much the cheap rat bassted…ehehehe.

I re saw these pictures, wow, the Jacuzzi pictures which I realize now why Roman men were so longing for Turan’s image amid the Invading greekified blonds, they still seem to post on various websites where she is second only to more dreadfully modern blond whores like the awful bloated fat chick who weighed as much s Monica, but it never matters with blonds and nigger imperialists, the truly unsexy, Siskle hated, Barbed wire bouncing lad beer girl. I see now they still post images of this lovely Kodachrome of this girl and of Karen Price an equally voluptuous Italian chick who was playmate all those years ago when I first was in the hospital with Epilepsy and my father came ashen was called and stood by me crying like a baby, and sadly, I felt I had, being a vulgar fuck, broken the stoic man, and made him somehow demeaned himself in a away he romantically didn’t ever want or think he should, so again to any house niggers or women out there who think you know the meaning of the power word , as opposed the Yiddish you belch for laughs, Romantic, maybe you have the English meaning down pat, from your kindly overseers, but always you know, again, nothing.

I saw resplendent, resurrected, Patty, this womanly creature of beyond sexy, but this truly goddess of Love, and was amazed again at how thirty year old pictures seem , like roman verses I sometimes find, more modern than our mad men conniving society of the harsh blond women spoken of in the ends of Gibbons DAFOTREMPIRE, THE THICK NECKED THICK HANDED HELGA’S, who as Belisarius, last greeted as victor general of Rome, had a rag tag armada of Romans marched through Paris as muddy victors, slapped their infernal sissy boy men across the face at this last imperial gasp, and thus were born the French. I saw Patti in a disk unseen and kept by my brother for safe keeping were some rtf files like Pygmalia, a Hollywood fantasy based on Patty written in the nineties, and like so much from then available for my newest curriculum vitae, and the Unmakers of Rome, and Bruno Vulcan, a cute PI satire, and Imprimatur and me and Bill Clinton in a new Rome, and and The Roman bible still were floatingly kept, and I was shocked at how divinely and amazingly pretty she was again. Not just beautiful in our over processed velvetta cheese way of the age of Kleenex or worse now, as her face was a little off kilter, as an Italian, her features a hodgepodge of various invaders, arabesque almost eyes, with blue Viking eyes showing through, black hair but straight as a witch, but this was no witch or better, was as in the old Roman sense of the word of women kept in the caesarean camp as Tuscan girls who knew the secrets of the earth in ways that the invader Roman couldn’t, a criminals gangsters paradise of conniving act that the Indians don’t play as well, but then, how could they, dispute the fact that they wore the same eagle fathers as the indigenous Italians, the Aquino, the eagle people, a sad group who lost fair Italy, when Roman expansion was blessed by Jewish and Greek moneymen hoping to break Tuscan power. She was here on the screen a sad recollection of all that I once was and wished to become and how I let it all slip away in a strange vendetta hoping to eventually get my father to cry and my mother to stop.

She was gorgeous, pale in ways, white skinned, red lipped, a nigger's dream girl, as they aren’t made in that way any more, a piece of Roman art amid the plastic and the pixles. It recalled in me a story I had packed in Ancient Romance, the heir to and not necessarily better than TUOROME, in how a senator was vexed by how the dower faggot Greeks, their imperialism eligibly is unspoken of, the indigenous of Italy land as unheralded as noble saves, as frankly thankfully , the Italians bless them have never been either, or said as a strange bloodless wave of civilization, worthy of Moslems. In fact, as both Greek and Arab, unlike Romans, neither dared push the Germans back out of wanted Italay for a day much less a thousand years.

The Greeks took the goddess of love now actually being spoken of again, Turan, held as a Saturnine goddess as late as by Constantine who was of her cult, and beat that with a stick, and made her realigned as blond, speaking of Arabs who love painting marble vag, and the Romans, not as big a bunch of muscular no knowing lunkheads as the Greeks and Jews would have wanted, but in fact, Turkish at their roots. They therefore took Turan, and changed her to Venus, a truly blond fat goddess of the Samnnities of Italay, merely blond for she was the goddess of vineyards and of wheat. And the cult of Turan survived, thankfully Dan Brown has never heard of this to demean it by the cockeyed retelling, all the way into the middle ages, when popes with their own witches to read the portents, as I said, Mohammed, Jesus, Mithras, Zoroaster, no spectre nudnick of the raza of chiselers of gods shall ever in Italee replace the image of Sinora Fortuna, bitchy, lovely vendetta minded brunette, who busty, low slung collared smiling kinky haired Turan became, white skin, blue eyes, big tits and straight black hair, like a Beatrice. And here were pictures from my late boyhood, the end of it and the beginning of a long cold late imperial winter, in which I was spared the true indignities hurled at the priests, who like Constantine adored brunette Turan more than any clam shell bouffant Betty remade a thousand times from Venus to Norma Jean, and never done, again ironically, as well as she was made in the blond goddess of Claudia Cardinale, I was returned then for a moment to days of stolen playboys out of which I made my paper dolls, and modeled my crayola goddesses.

That was in the throws of my seizure like sympathy pains for the priests allowed to die, by over fed white women who now wish to catch a vulgar bouquet at a silly slimy gay marriage, as were all Constantine now, as this was before all the priests lied dying, long before speaking like a republican was after all for patriotic Keith and the rest of the insult hustlers, was a perfected credo, long before the end of this republic, as wars without antagonists go on endlessly, lest the bankers lose a dime unbundled to them by their tap dancing nigger lunatic best boy dap con artists street hood, long before that, I saw in Patricia Farinelli, everything it meant to be seen as sexy, lovely, and pretty.

She was , despite or maybe because I was sixteen and still a modicum of old Jesuit romanticism in our awful Tolkien world where harsh fat women decry Romanticism was something to be avoided amid the perpetual Bund rally’s, soon enough to become my ultimate imagery of womanhood. I am sure this was something of an apostasy here in the Reich, where middlingenss much less beauty is something available to all women out of a bottle.

She was the modella, like how my mother bought third read vogue magazines from soldiers and American Italian brokers as a little girl to ape out the newest fashions and make them out of bags for girls still wanting pretty dresses in the open cittas of post war Italay, Patty was a paper model of all my later comic book superwomen and Brooklyn amazons and the imagery of the girl in all my plays. She became the imagery of Turan, and Ms. Mary Amazon and Gina in RM, and pin up after pin up, even when i could find no pictures of her to recalled the ones lost. And I recalled her serenely as awful minstrel shows, done by Jewish cabals with one house dago put in front as Audrey warned me later, as a useful house wop who had no problems with the overbearing pushy dampening and damning. But of course eventually, even Gandolfini would have a problem, as they always do, its only those smuttiest Semites, the clowns of God, who have come to Italay, always, do they ever miss it…?, to see their vulgar desert gods be turned to Hercules, who have no compunction about their particular need to get ahead, guilt really is, despite the Melvin Kaminsisky jokes, as Italian as Tuscan Pasta machines before the time of Rome. I recalled her all those diminutions by vulgar little men who would lode their careers when they would Bronx cheer the collected clerk Jews of Hollywood, as again, the other Italian genius was correct again when he spoke of decreeing too far. I recalled her when one porcine Jewish girl after another, or some bloated yenta in too tight clothing from those shows pretend to be exotic and lovely.

She is like Wendy is now, a living rebuttal to their silly allowed minstrel shows so unspoken of an so giggled at by the genitives women who do droll suburban political commentaries with all the cleverness of how they pick certain illegal’s with nice chests to be their pool boys while “my husssss-band Chaaarrrrlsssss is way on another trip…” possibly, witch serves them right, back to the Principia, going to various Naples to find a Patty low woods deer of their own, lest they drown amid the scarves and the chit chat and the wide eyed vacant looks and the cunt's what smell of lemon pledge. The pin up as Beatrice. Despite May First being the day both Hitler and Osama were finally taught the Benito credo that in fact America is the land of a million faces, all white and pale, and they will arrogantly and two faced destroy the monsters they hatched, and who were fine enough when selling them, as they always do, armaments, against some long lost status quo long forgotten, I instead recall the Roman holiday of May Day, as taken by Roman loving Marx, there’s your problem right there, as the day when Dante met Beatrice, and I’d advise that. As yesterday, here, down the block, some American nigger shot another fool five times, causing the police to swarm, and these reals niggers, Hollywood darky spear holders took a stolen car and of course, went flying into the side of some left behind local cement crumbling wall, showcasing why after all, Scorsese is sacrosanct and irreproachable, though he too seems to be like a bat flying towards the violet eyed goddess of the Tuscan moon. Hmnn, I wonder where he got that idea...of wishing to escape the gumbas for Ariosto's bickering two. Well, I made sure the film pirates knew of that posting of Anthony and Cleopata, H and all, to the nervous doge. For the thousandth time in history a wop con man, a company stooge, a puppet show owner stands and is in awe of the pretty Brunette who looks like Tuscan Turan, and again, though I have been told how wrong I is, and how offensive I truly am, still, again, as the economy too, not only the imperial armadas, becomes, uh, Spartan, pass the hard tack and the mush and the vinegar, Cato, as somehow in dipping dum dum bullets in Crisco shows a meanness commensurate with a land burning Boccacchio only a few decades ago, so--hehehehehehehehe... I Am unbowed, and correct again, and find that on various threatening film sites, cocksuckers! Patty Forever.

2011-05-28T13:29:00.004-04:00

THE ARISTOCRATS.

That Fat Pumpkin head bitch editor, she was the one who sneered at my work, as I might have mentioned, was recalling to me The King Of queens, Oy Veii Gavalt...! , in how Carrie, is that the hippy dago chick, was forced to read a thousand page book or some such fat goon comedy shtick, oh how we wops and coloreds and QUEENSBURO TUNNEL SORT HATE TO HAVE TO READ, when I mentioned my Work, Ancient Romance. Egad, --did I just have some porcine woman compare my work to...to...to the King of fucking queens....? Yow, that smarts!

She revealed to me in an email that in this bilge called the king of queens, Carrie, the wife and cute dago girl, though not being blond the household Jews of CBS didn't think she was too good for this bag of shit the dared Kevin James, the bloated goy version of putter wielding no body ever helped me, let em all go to hell except cave seventy tree creepy Jew by the numbers awful Adam Sandlar. Oy and double Oy. And I was told, my face fallen and frowned in the light of yahoo mail, that this pretty girl with the bag of donuts hubby, Fred Flintstone without the warmth, was forced to read, actually read, as in this Bronx tale nightmare, like the sopranos, all civility is something best done for and by faggots, with the left overs sold in Ziplocs by the Jews to the women with delusion of being able to read. The wife had to read a book, a horrid redevelopment this close to the Van Wick, and this editor before seeing my Tuscan properties, compared herself to this chubby little suburban goddess, and this woman having been an editor,... well that shows you why it is a Dan Brown world huh...?

It is nice to know that the libraria has such dutiful priestesses as you, honey I emailed back, again, like Father Gore, showing I may be as mean as I really am, and not speaking in full Linked in Parlance until of course, they cut the check. But, I am the Roman, did I say that before ...? So for six weeks or so, dutifully, like my sister, though somehow from the same literature addled mother, she actually enjoys this shit and reads things like alphabet minded murder mysteries and has since I was a boy reading Julian, I too watched The King of queens every night, Oy, to see this diminishment in whole. As I was made angry, in that, I have been dismissed out of hand by some, in what appears to be as close to compassion as one can get there in the new eternal city, and my back went up as this fat bloater bitch played elite with me, as fuck head, unlike this show she brought up, bitch, you aint gotsa read anything, go re up your netflix account dearie, as a kid told me in 1980, in the days I spent in Catholic high school, that eventually television was going to be little more than a kitchen appliance, like a juicer.

Funnily, in this show, the hippy Dago chick was ver klempt, aren't they all, about her tub of shit hubby, that in the real world Wilma here, even she as a brunette, would never be with Fred, and she was made to read some Russian novel to get ahead in her law firm. Frankly, I liked Darin and Samantha better. But I was shocked how, ironically, the rest of this show mirrored a play I wrote in 1999 called "Guido the Magnificent", where a gumba on a TV show awoke as a Dantean genius, shades of "Charley" and saw exactly what he was doing there and why. You'll never see that on that show, honey, though you'll have plenty of time to catch TV, wont all us Roman rabble-Complainers as Czarina of the Bay lets bars in Pollozzo land are not so sanctimonious and let you smoke as long as Madam Nancy can wet her beak, and I mean beak...As here in America our Innominatos never have a conversion scene, as that love of vulgarity is the closest thing to devotion they have.

So, with a strange dogged devotion, I WATCHED THIS SLOP, each and every night, doubly vexed as had to see their constant TBS inserts and pushing of the even more dread Conan O'Brien show, which they are pumping inherently as he goes down for at least a second time, and one more shall be the charm. One can only hope. I watched this suburban Plautus night after night, this bloated piggish American, to quote the venial Keith, a perfect Miles Gloriousus for our age, this ups salesman, a latest Gleason, so without the charms and or talent and or frankly pathos, which made him a brilliant image of America beyond the spic and span floors that the Jews of then dreamed of getting into, if only Payly could somehow break through that membrane of bloody sheets keeping him back, as any one who would fuck a Happy strega when Babe was at home, well, that is what Grammy Hall called a real Jew. I watched every night until in fact, I saw on May 20th, this spoken of show where she had to get her husband to actually read to her, as our illiterates don't have the sweetness of that Manzonian cult of illiteracy of before.

I did find a moment of what Alan a PhD who loved Machiavelli , as who doesnt but women and connivers,...?, who called such instances of realization as his mentor hero Italian did, frozen moments of recordia. As, though doing the thing I call "pulling a Falco", as saw Edie in an episode of Homicide life on the street before she was struck dumb with her nasal Myrna Turner dagohood, so if you Jews don't know, its all an act, peppered with Yiddish in a way not as self aware as is mine, as again as I told a Jewish producer who asked me, "Tony, you seem so on the ball, what's with the all the anti Jew crap, you're better than that". Uh, No I'm not, I said, back, half satirically, as an Italian in this Empire of White castles and the house ethnics who traverse there as if a temple, I aint better than no body. He did like my phrase though that in America, when it is in Latin it is re-accepted Glory and honor, and when something is spoken of as Yiddish, it is merely a sound effect. In a moment of revenge for me, when the Leah or even the- Gad!-ostentatious Nanny's use Oy as a credo, its to defame both the woman and the word. If Catherine Hieigle was ever to use the epithet Oy, it would make her beloved Jews and fags think twice about her.

It made me queasy watching this, and the show shifted to the next to do, as somehow these CBS ethnics who end up with prettier girls do nothing but cause scenes for them, as for Mad Anthony here, me myself, I make my own scenes on my own, and act like I'm partially decent when with people and or pretty girls,but that would explain all the lectures I do get. The next madcap hilarity was about this bag of slat Pork the husband actually eying her, his wife, afraid his pretty wife put on a few pounds,...wow. There is after all a discerned quality between Glass houses and glass Cathedrals. I did feel bad in watching the last one I recall watched before having done my mission I became tired and certainly this crap wasn't going to keep my attention. I felt bad as one could sense, she is not that good an actress, but a decent comedienne, it sensed to truly hurt Leah on some level to play fat girl to this bloated bag of salami starring here, a sort my pop called my queer cousin Gino, who he hated, not so much as his being gay but his being to my pop, as a mouth breathing idiot, and called a Choto. Which is why when pompous patricians speak of their children having gone to Chote, I hear a voice of my father calling my cogine an idiot for having busted another garden hose.

And at least I am being now advised that in fact, if I can cut down AR or BBATMCOPS or RM, OR TRMS, or anything I have even more, that wouldn't be a bad idea , I am told by friendly Jews who have always played the role of talking crows in Calvino, often telling me the skinny on the society they truly deep down hate. As I am told increasingly, its a bad time out there, farce is different from epic, just as Machiavelli said, but in this country, its merely because now, they are actually being stingy with the ink, as like the dark ages I was given a warning before of what we were getting into, as the Borgia and their Jewish in laws were raiding the Ficsca, again, from the Tuscan goddess of prosperity, It is all inescapable, and where we get the word Fiscal, they are weighing the Ink, no long distractions of Ariosto or Galileo on the immaculate Moon, now.

I Don't much watch King of queens anymore at seven, unless my sister is home, as I couldn't much take after they had a show where every time the poor not cute enough for Jews Leah was trying to befriend anyone, her bloated cunt and human bag of Snyder of Berlin kettle chips made sure to act like the buffoon he figured Americans dreamed said he as supposed to be. As after all, that wouldn't get out among her coworkers that she was married to pot of mold like him, would it. And yet somehow I have been called a misogynist, as after all, I don't like Blonds.

By the end of the week, a week in which this fat swine and his pretty wife sneered at the idea of having to anything more intellectually strenuous than watching a rapist let his karioki team down in the clutch awhile eating various food products of a yellow orange coloring, On WCBS radio I heard that the metropolitan opera is going to be boarded up. The closest thing we have to opera now is pinched faced fascists hags like Nancy Graceless hounding some girl woman who committed her anti- matronalia, [that is Roman mothers day, lest you think you white trash came up widdit...] sin of perhaps maybe killing her daughter, as Old Nan is our moral compass, and in her world, women who look like Leah Rinini, named for an Italian aristocrats family who played fast and loose with the marriage vows, as in our better world of now, who needs clowns who cry when we can have buzzards who quack about the rule of law, like so much, thought of biblical but actually Roman.

Who needs the bloated flaming colored set designs of a new Amsterdam Las Scalla when we have our Nancy, fascists goddess, telling us , reassure us , that this woman shall be hounded when in fact the woman who packed her children in a microwave, look it up on Drudge archives, or the woman who drowned her children like a suburban Medea shall not, as in our graceless land, this happy island, brunettes kill their children and blonds are lost off the coast of Barbados, innocent as lambs, with too much eyeliner, until and after their bloated bodies come washing up on some niggard shore. Lest we forget. I saw too, Keith Olbermench say proudly, that he is no liberal, a wise career move when O'bama, and look that up on drudge too, is your Tyberius, he is an American. This gave me achita. Liberals are self named by old Cato, hah! again the institute like so much has misread the Latin, if they read any of it at all, for Libertina, the WWI like wall poster goddess of freed Tuscan slaves. America comes from the name of a pickle salesman from Verona. The liar does tell the truth...

A huzzah goes up from the big fans who hide their true latent and virulent homosexuality with giants and jets throw rugs. Oh, Come on. So, the fifty years of various Fred Flintstone's without thawed warmth have lead us to this cultural wasteland Newt Minnow would find repellent. The great talk show host in Pittsburgh Perry Marshall once said that he rarely wants to go to the opera or the symphony, but it was nice to know it was there, But then the Jews, Italians, and fags are always where the Aryans get their civilization since the Medes, with the niggers supplying the dance party music, and calling it genius. ...but there are now in our better time, people who can actually pull off the idea of rolling their vacant eyes at a Yo Yo ma Concert of Bach cello suites, and pass the fried mars bars.....Welcome, to the Renaissance.

2011-04-03T14:13:00.003-04:00

OF BARBARIAN LANTERNS.

..and, it turns out freedoms of speech in the America of Sacco and Vanzetti doesn't accrue to the holiness and the sanctimony of the Divine-- Or else-- Koran. Some one in the linage of barbarians who burned down Virgil and all that came before the previous God, Jesus, actually burned a Koran, which is now de facto sacred, especially to those who are getting bribes. To put this in perspective so many libraries of the Romans were burned in the unspoken of holocaust of the fall of civilization, that they had lost the recipe for cement, in Italy of all places...!, and Europe was set as a stage for a millenium of buildings that melted in the rain, like German devotion, a perfect Celtic empire if I might say so.

You mean that in freedoms land, something is accentuated sacred..? That, in the land of Mapplethorpe, a virgin Mary in horse shit, Christ in piss, and whose broad stripes and bright stars, that in this mudtown calling itself new Rome, or worse white trash saying we are not an Empire, tell it to Nagasaki, white man, THAT the liberal swine , along with their conservative Masters have actually did find something sacred...? Is the war journal called the Koran now suddenly given a free pass through the toll both on that Jersey barrier the fat women used to love to commit to, and nail their fundraising letters to, called the separation of church and state, which old red headed stranger Tom actually got from the writings of Roman addled , Apollo loving, uncle Constantine hating, Julian the apostate, ...didn't know about that one did you, kids...? Whenever I see fat yentas like Baher, passable Jews, take a pride in having been warehoused at Wendell wilkie high, it makes me wince, but then again, some editor at Hardcourt Brace Press I think, was personally insulted that I said I had written a book called TRMS, a Catholic memoir played not for laughs. How dare I ...here, why, we are all laughing through the fall.

So, now the Koran is sacred, in a land, that when my father got here, there were placards telling Italians and Germans and Spanish and French readers to 'speak American', which assured him to go immediately into a bookstore and use some of his money to buy an illustrated edition if the Inferno, which unlike the Koran, the white women and faggots of the Internet can say should be banned, or at least, as one faggot put it, that somehow Petrarch, can you image, should be the national writer of Italy...? I shall alert the Vatican, where Dan brown says they hide all those secrets, now that he cant so openly liable the Jews anymore. Really, not withstanding Scorsese or the sopranos or Coppola, I never feel so bad for the old true patria, the original father land, Germany is a mere pale imitation, as when I see forrest gump, as directed by opie, those true Americans, racing about the ruins of Italy, trying to splice together disparate and sometime at odds Italian genius to makes some point about some ancient alleged-ness, which no one had ever heard of before the signet paper backs of 1973.

You notice, I once told art bell in an earliest chat, no one ever wonders if little green men had built the perfectly 360 degree rotunda, good word, of the pantheon, as unlike the sad and silly darkies of pyramids, actual the first pyramids of earth are in Sardinia , according carbon dating, like DNA, dismissed when its says what you don't like, and then soon came Dan brown. I, again, spoke too soon.

And now, out comes Bo Jangles hisslef. He the godling starter of the third war in the middle east which pig man Gates assured us was the convulsion of a mad man, and probably is. He had to ho dee do out, tap dancing all deee while dere, and of course, had to take both side of this issue. It was wrong to burn the Koran...what were his thoughts on Piss Christ, I wonder, if that can be looked up, probably the same as how once he was more than willing to join the union thugs of which he doesn't speak anymore, much less even cross the picket line like a lesbian. They have fat white union thug cooties, and he only has enough prell left to brave the occasional faggots. Yes, the prell was open and visible when he met, at arms length, with the queers.

But, he had to be condemningly of both sides, the last thing this nigger wants to do is, you know, constrict any probable venues for bribes, and our national scold, had to come down against everyone not as immaculate as he. See, if people can just scream their way out of the constitution of America, though this nigger thinks he is president of the world, Caesar of the west, twelfth imam, Bounerotti's Christ and Aeneas the magnificent all rolled into one, I know that's all a bit paltry for unblinking cocksuker humps like Larry, it becomes worthless. I, if I were Praetor, the title that Washington wanted, but was unallowed by the senate, as praetors could commit war--HA!- , wouldn't so be agilely Giuliani here, who was called a rube when it was his icon being smashed, as I would say too bad, this is the America, as pop would say, which makes up for Sacco and Kitty Genovese with Cake Boss, and only a few Russel Bakers dare notice the libel inst as bloody when hurled at the race of Galatia and Galileo, as it is when hurled at the race of Leviticus and of Shylock, whose story was taken out of Boccacchio and made vulgar and worse, ...as I think, what else, what other speech, dear Praetor, would you and bishop imult like to sanctify and make unassailable, here in the land of the dried and fruitless Amazon...?

I would make a point that these devoted Arabs, is there anything more worthless, perhaps a compassionate Jew, like Larry Kudlow, or a Roman pacifist like Barry, are the rubes who have eagerly burned the tales of Scheherazade to ashen, stupidly, which is why white folks love the Koran, and its strange un-ancientness, allows white folk to overlook the fact that Assyria did everything the Greeks took credit for. Like with the jews and the fags, you think I am anti something and then WHAM!,-- right in the kisser...This serve is a trick taught to me by black robed faggots, which, no offense, but not having let the faggots live as long as you have is what keeps you in squaller and in stupidity as you are, as for better or worse, Caesar or Virgil, its the fags, and not women, from which a civilization comes, and on this, I and Arabs could make a ecumenical common cause, as all men of all hues could.

The idea of a nation that dropped the atomic bomb, broke Sacco and Vanzetti's necks, and salted the ground at wounded knee now is daring to call something as sacred, abet because of bribes from rich Arabs, after all, no Francesco Baroni is the now strangely silent Osama-poo, now actually finding a book it shan't burn, that is asbestos to the barbarian lanterns still available under the fake roman silk and laurels of mangled mint they now wear. The very idea than in a few short years, hags can go from cursing the art hating Giuliani, to now telling the world that the Koran is embedded as sacrosanct, well, the admiration of lesbians, to paraphrase Dante, should be avoided. AS it comes with too many trap doors.

And of course, showing all politics is crap, what with a shock poll showing more people than ever think that Caesar is a Muslim, --way to go Praetorian guard...! , well, he cant tap dance too closely to those screaming mimies either, lest he look too closely aliened to a religion which after all, is really starting to get on people's , increasingly hungry peoples, jobless peoples, scared peoples, nerves so much, even their partner -amenity Jews are now starting to be hated by recalculation and from brush back, more than ever. So a true anti Semitism is which serves them both right, as it would make Roman Tony laugh should somehow they both destroy themselves as the other is only persona really they are allowed to destroy.

Again, as in all roads leading to truth, in a wonderful passage in Titus Livy , a Paduan Jew who again, like dark Terrace, wrote in Rome, and not in their jails, there was a God and a movement in Rome, predating Christ and Mohammad and the rest of that ilk, named Saepius. As dutiful and as effective as ever, when the child molesting priests of Saepius --ehehehehehehe--were caught starting to kill the Roman children that have and had been taken hold of for their loveliness by the various priests, the senate, when it was still something, before the effeminacy takes over, and we are recanting the cantos of Turnus with bitchy dissing about gowns of starlets, as like Jews they dream of clubbiness and inclusion as I somehow never have, sprang into action, and crushed the cult of Saepius.

This was shown by Machiavelli, who adored republican minded Livy, as like your foreign policy, Andrea, or a Plautus monolouge, it is all 'complicated', as a primer on how a State must destroy a virus of the enemy within. Bored women , as usual, had brought in the far off bullshit of a Semitic religion, the way that fat over fed white women bow at Chinese restaurants before they stuff their American pie holes, but alas, as all religions of that Semitic valley think, the children are open season upon, as there is always a Rome the jews and Arabs wish to fall, burn, and recap with their own dower dense imperias of burned Canaanites, which is why there is a Jesus in the first place , and why he said, The Romans aren't my enemy. I mean, instead of railing against Caphius and the church fathers, Fort Antonia was right there, and unsoiled by mister I am a sword, Jew bastard. Wham!

The Romans went at the cult, and against scamming and crying and effeminate and filthy and Semitic and smiling and laughing priests of Saepius and crushed them into dust. So, how, you might ask, as I recall the book, they eventually used the poor of Rome to get rid of them, who resented them, as the Negroes now do those Arabs and spics, who get a cleansing they have never gotten from the music industry.

So, as Machiavellian I say, watch yourselves, Greek and Jew, always recall Marcus Agrippa, know your place, I warn to easily the high, as cardinal imult now has to go to Japan to view the damage, and take in to account the liabilities. So, perchance the salad days of propaganda agitprop TV may be a golden age passing, as cartoon colorama might be cheaper programming, and they say, didn't we suffer enough at GE, what with having to have Eddie Schultz into the executive washroom or the cafeteria...? Take Human bites, you bleeding heart union thug pig! Who the fuck let Bluto in here....? Hell, I recall as a little boy, my immigrant mother making tea in a white kettle that sang like little birds, and a GE clock radio that fell to bits. See, as even divas know or should know, when to leave the stage, as consistency breeds a kind of contempt, as there are more people in this country who had to somehow take the idea of the virgin Mary spackled in shit because it made the two years of college of cardinals like Maher and The Garafolo feel superior, than care about your Koran, which now even its title, supinely, must be written in perfect Arabic, this as opposed to niggers misspelling the name Dante.

You recall him, Danny Boy, the first Italian, a man who packed Mohammed in hell, along with the seated pope at the time, boniface the 8th, --heavens to Betsy-- to the dismay of over eating white folks on Amazon,--he, who had taken Mohammed and cut him from stem to stern, as he ran upon the floor of hell, as what this middlebrow doesn't know is that was what the Arabs were doing in Sicily, the land that after all, Dante admitted he took his style, the Sicilian school, which we don't mention much lest Scorsese not have a career, as opposed to the pompous fools in Milan, to him, who were speaking dreaded French, to the men who were homosexual. Ah, but those thieves, of a better sort, would get even, and there is no real Islam in Sicily despite them having come there, showing not all lands are like darfur, where the genocides never forced the hand of Dame Lowball Barry to pretend to care, or was it sued by a conniving Hillary.

Ah, but unlike the takers of Carthaginian monies, beaten to dearth on the floor of the senate, I don't have to pretend the Koran is sacred to me, I am not important enough to bribe. In a land where cartoon bullshit like the Simpsons can make a point to trash Brother Francis, and by the pompous pushy blond haired know it all of the cartoon, what, did brother sun and sister moon disturb your bullshit eco ethics, Harry...? I will be literally damned were I to suddenly pretend a womanish overfed belief of sacredness to this Arab Commentaries called a bible, no literally, by Tuscan Fortuna, a god which the nigger queen knows not of, and to whom blue eyes and black hair, all we know of Beatrice as he wouldn't ever describe her, beat that with a fucking stick, Willie, Bill is a righteous dude.

As like in Dante, it would be my, as it may be yours, great refusal, a moment of smiling Episcopalians, a blot on my soul, as was taught such by Jesuits to whom, even that smirking Maher noted, have precious little to do with the gospels of anyone except Virgil. Is he next to burn , like the Arabian knights, and are the Sicilians like the Palestinians, are they far too poor to pay off the gonniff priests of today...? I have seen though, with my Machiavellian faggot trained eye, in art in politics one must gauge the perspective, which is why a marvelite lauded me for my backgrounds even though i don't, like Michelangelo , do any. I find it telling that mister I shall conquer the world, priest Osama has bothered us for fifteen years, and yet, is quieted now as the world rumbles and kings are lost in a game of droughts, in six weeks, ...oh, again, lady luck, like with we Italian, is the only god worth having, he better watch it, he might not get his retainer from the CIA, this Osama loser. What she does, Machiavelli her pontiff taught, is in the blink of an eye, signora fortuna shall make you Irrelevant. Shit, recall when Bill Clinton strangely keep demanding his relevance, even if it meant making fat lesbians at the NOW , now disbanded for all intents and purposes, stone his girlfriends...? Like how, at first it amazed some Jew creep on John Bachelor was shocked and surprised they didn't ask his pushy permission to why asininely fatso Bi Bi is coming to the defense of Assad, but what the hell, Dreary Metternich was your poet, and dairy queen for the mezzanine. It appears again, the Hannibal finds that the six thousand roman they defiantly covert and need and want, are always, immutably, on the other side. Yes, Scipio fought back Hannibal's million man army with six thousand Romans, when they were still Romans, again 'member that the next time some drunken Indian tells you their land was stolen.

Or wait..., Virgil is Italian, from Mantua, where hell awaits, no matter who is any official god, and was a dark as a ripe barry, so, will he be protected too, because Shumer has to go eat melanzana on the ides of October....? Oh, ...its has been tried, Abdul. Poor Arabs, don't make the same mistake your piratical countryman Scorsese made, as one day you are everything, and the next day, the Jewish clerks despaired to be white on some middle staff, shall call you Kitsch, and you are then done. See, I told you Julian was a great book.

2010-12-25T14:54:00.004-05:00

THE DAY OF THE RESURRECTED SUN.

I have completed as much as I can get, Big Bertha, Pow Girl, The centrifuge and the hippograph, The Return of Mister Stupendous, Saturnalia, am almost done with Mister Stupendous, and placed Ancient Romance into a semblance of befittingly various shards and excerpts of ruins of things, which I guess makes it seem like the poly novel fake memoir that bothered some white bitch. Still to be made are tarantella, King Italius, Rag, and Imperiumata, and some others. Yes, perhaps in a world where marvel does Iliad, which both assuredly deserve, I can remake King Italius.

A happy feast of Sol Invictus or the indomitable sun to you all but Arabs communists and puritans, with a lovely exemption to the Jews, who have always been willing to , despite the pretense, enjoy a roman feast, as they've always known Roman feasts are better than Germanic fasts. The rest of them are all who have the nerve to thing that the truth is ever reveled and harden been apparent all along.

A cup of Roman beer to all, especially to the dear Dirk Deppy, who finds now the essence of all I write, there once in a essay of captain marvel which he took pains and the extra effort to amend, discount and demean, as that again, as the Jesuits would have warned this queer, no one really is in the position they think they are and only a slight motion of two degrees is the difference between the high tower and the plunge below. I should stick with blogging he said, as if his pompous magazine was some sort of middle brow monument to the fact that white trash, an sadly even faggots now, can make even Comics, like Willie with the beloved Romans of Henry , dull as dishwater. I was merely looking for a quick few liens of some kind of resume before meeting with a lovely woman producer, as was fearful she would think I was as lazy all this time as I was. This admission seemed to bother them worse, which , frankly, anyone who is going out of there way to make sure you know they are more thoughtful than captain marvel proves , well, they aren't. Perhaps now, he will be doing the blogging, after all.

As I said, just to be a bitch, a lovely essay I wrote about dear Corsetto's genius and her Faberge egg of a strip, though starting to smell rancid with bitchy vinegar, GWS was called one of the best thing a magazine had read all year, but alas , they don't do Comics. NEITHER DO THEY SELL THEM, I WAS ALERTED AT BARNES AND NOBEL, AMUSINGLY, AS THAT IS WHERE I RECOGNIZED A COPY OF THE DOWER mush, SORRY, HUSH FOR A PREVIOUS CHRISTMAS PRESENT SO LONG AGO. But, they are, I was alerted, always looking for pompous types to sell diatribes and fashion magazines to the Liberals who nurse croissants all day. A happy Saturnalia indeed, a swig from Father Christmas, I mean Bacchus jollied head, but not too much, as that would be too imperial, after all. As perhaps this will make Dirk happy to know that should he able to buy a racehorse before the end of the year he might get a tax credit for this band of merry communists who have taken over the republic. Ouch. I have received a copy of the Essential Nova, and the Cowboys are on tonight, a happy Saturnalia indeed....!

2010-12-19T10:22:00.003-05:00

A CHRISTMAS CORAL.

I saw the gorgeous dream girl Wendy Fiore, a lovely Italian girl response to all the girls in the sopranos being mad, fat, or blandly noxious, as she is lovely, and I saw that she was involved in some on line beauty pageant in some low rent two bot porno site, surrounded as she was by bleached whale fat chicks and I think that sight, after aiming sure to vote for her, as if that would, help as she is precisely the type the girl the closeted pooffies hate, as bothered me more than any thing I had ever seen on Scorsese.

I then saw where the old white men of the senate were so grandstanding and self pompous, all a little house of Barney's, as they have now basically Shanghaied those faggots, the kind allowed now, who in military duty and marriage are basically the men of the fifties. And now, as poverty grows in freedoms land now avante!, onto unisex bathrooms, and of course, a better tax deal for the rich than even Bush gave, but then Bush was a patrician and not a fronting nigger. I felt bad , thinking of the Jesuits and Liberache who the white woman let die when I was an adolescent and how their virulent strains of legionnaires disease, remember that kids...? made me avoid Georgetown, no fooling. I found myself feeling bad, I did, at this, that deep set eyes and gook daffodils who screech like homer similes on Rachel have seemingly won, or been allowed to win for greater hidden forcers, like abortionists, and that still, as Herbert Hoover said, this is a land without a national poem. All our fags is killers, like Sparta, which didn't have a national poem either, until frank miller, which says loads.

BEST OF THE 2000'S

Really, I don't get certain types, who purposefully ax for information, and or work of yours, and worse than those who seem to be attacked and insulted in the very reading the work, after I had explicitly said look at my blog for essays to explain my shtick and or act, or even my true beliefs, is the idea that after they solicit work, then they disappear and never write back, even with a no, or not for us. In my yahoo mail, not often looked at more than cone a week or so anymore, I found a returned essay to show my idea of a book from Saturnalia to Saturnalia, and I saw this sent back. Not even so much as a no thank you,or anything, it just was them sending this aback after god knows how long as I don't recall these people or this agency or even sending this.

PAVEMENT CRACKS.
Saturnalia, 2009.

How strange, in that I was feeling a sense of recriminations and the like at about nine o'clock, when dear Rachel, the little birdie, seemingly found no room in her Homeric odes to example why or how, again, it didn't take her beloved Democrats twelve hours to go from Harry the Hermaphrodite from squealing about how he was going to take the senate through Saturnalia sirgilla and new years if he must, FOR HIS SUDDENLY BELOVED AND NEEDED HEATH CARE BILL, OR AS I CALL IT HILLARY'S REVENGE, to within a blink of an eye, me too- ing again, as he has been trained, and pulled the hated bill off the table. Oh hod good by now the Democrats are at spreading revolt, yelling like Jews, then of course at the last minute, retreating, as cheerfully as a coward can be, as after all, to quote Jack Benny, that's how they got the job. I became tired of all of that, and yet, it seems nothing is ever, as usual, on.

I thought of how it was in fact a Jewish producer who told me not to deal with Coppola, as he said, that the gangsters poet laureate, with laurels made of garlic and ious, would either one, steal it, or more likely, spit on it. And in a strange way he did both, as funnily after forty years of his most Americana of graffito, and his actual love of the genre more than anything, as if fact he stole and took credited for every movie making innovations actually invented by the great Jerry Lewis, he both censored my work and too, a little bit later made a movie about being an Italian American. To show the power of Signora Fortuna, though that was a movie which imploded worse than he slopped about the Nazis. This experience bothers me more than most, as I felt angered at how the fuck was this crowd of wine bottlers to suddenly act so uppity , and at a site where there was little more a sewage line of Godfather crap, to say nothing of every other script being about a killer fag. One is always little more than that which they follow.

But, in the night, a strange dream came to me, in that I was there in a dream scape of a broken almost war torn, if not ruined and abandoned Pittsburgh area, with pavement cracks everywhere, and old time tin signs of beer gardens and hat shops and cold war relics in total disrepair. In a touch of Sergio Leone, there stood Coppola, bloated as a Jabba, or better a Will Sasso like parody of a Coppola, with some Lucas thrown in, complete with Pat Cadell beard, and gut sticking out from Don Ho shirt, wearing sea shells, shekels, around him like some sort of barbaric Pacific rim , ie not China, King. He stood there baking out orders, surrounded by strangely ugly blond women with large noses who were seemingly mermaids, and slithering around him , as men in fedoras and black coats marched around like amonitons , and GE Murphy windows were scant and bare and had strangely vulgar Xmas decorations barely lit and broken too. The sky was a strange ugly yellow, like a dawn filed with pollution, apropos on this dream world, Pittsburgh still had industry.

Then, I took out a gleaming Biretta fifty millimeter cannon like in the great TV show almost purposefully avoided by the illiterates of television at the time, the great Homicide, life on the streets, which was as realistic as gritty Kojack was, and I blew Coppola away. The infernal chattier creatuers, more Thomas Nast than Dante Aligheri , befitting him, scattered like bats. Then , again, strangely, I looked and saw a sight more befitting Gustavo Dore, in that I no fooling, saw a naked Ben Rothlisburgher, of all people, fat and bloated, beaten and bruised, in a Kodrell shirt numbed ragged and torn, and he looked up appreciatively and said far fucking out. He was infernal in that he was a creature of penitence, and chained up and carrying a large stone, alas Sisyphus, or better still, Homer Simpson in the stone cutters episode. He was marked and torn at and filled with cuts and he saluted me, which made me wince, as I am something of a saint, at least compared to him, as i am affable and dont pretend to love Pittsburgh as I perpetually spit downwards like a democrat. [A Note: did I here, in December 2009, foretell of and foresee the sad cleansing of Ben Roethlisbuger now done to the point, hither Rooney's reeducation of him, and the good buoying he must do now which has actually soundly made me start to feel sorry for the bloated bruised fuck. As this was unitized by old cardinal Rooney's as a sword over Ben's head, and now people are noticing that the swash buckler he was in the man no more, and in fact, preplanned in trying to make Ben a step ford quarterback, he did not have the commiserate talent really to fall back on, and now, having been publicly infantilized, publicly disgraced as a kind of demerit, a warning in fact, as in my eye as being a Jesuit pre law, a man either takes his punishment or isn't punished, ah, but the vulgar Irish Roony's, the sort the Italian and even other Irish priests hated, Kinsmen and closet Englishmen they called them, they used this black mark as a lump of coal, considering the time, all the better to then bop him with over and over and over again. He is their puppet, demeaned of him to make nice with the mob whose hands are filed with nigger blood, and who start to bring their Best Man road company isolation to this team now , as they, as they always do, grumble. and so now he is forced to sign autographs, has taken more out of him than the always calculating and conniving Rooooneys had thought.The annals of history are filed with morganatic men, named who are less than stellar men, bit true genius doesn't need a bit of that Picasso like preening. Maybe Ben always was more Picasso than he was naturalistic genius Raphael. which severs you all right. ]

Into the coven of destruction, where I felt a strange ennui that I had finally given in and become the killer he damned of me, or so I thought, I think I, as a saint, did give this bloated mobster more credit than he deserves, as I call that Rush Disease, as Rush in a red communists country, would be the praetorian he must be within reasons as he and his ilk like as Cicero said, the good life, more than they like, say, beliefs or duty. Into the scene, shades of angels in America, came the angelic creature, Galatia, but with a strange giant black Tony home perm, and she came swooping down and in to this. Beat it, she sneered snapping her long over washed french manicured fingers. Get lost before the cops come, as she , Italianate angel of the sorts made in Francis' sweet Perceppios, which are hated by the Lutherans parented communists for a reason beyond even that of the Jews, complete she was with purple sash and yellow bow in that mass if Daphne like hair, and again with bigger tits than I recalled, she looked every bit the like of angel that would be sent by Jovial gods to tear things up more than the dead eyed blond cunt angels sold in five and tens when I was a boy.

I was stunned, frozen, as the crises of bloody Coppola, and why Coppola...?I wondered, even halfasleep, why not hated Scorsese, after all, who I thought I hated worse...?, came crashing to the ground, where a explosion of blood came gushing out, but a blood which as thin, more pink than red, maroon its seemed was beyond him, as he split open, --really Tarantino is piker compared to Mad Anthony, as I despite sharing a pretense of verbosity with him can be quite Cold, he split open, like a water balloon more than a carcass, and to show I had a good heart, as he lied there, him, split open like a bag of shit hurled from a hotel window as from a cold war shriner who's looking for Chicago fun, I took the Biretta and blew his brains out, in a scene which would have repelled Transaction addled Quentin. But then, it is my conception that the phony baloneys only ,as they do with communism and policies and spirituality and everything else, merely play at all this preening bullshit of there's. With a foot of my own worthy of Neal Adams, sharp Thom MacCann like brown shoe --another flourish of the golden age?--I kicked at the bloated sea lion of San Raphael Calif. there, again, felicitated a gush of this blood water, [note--Its been a long time since Jesuit school, but isnt there something in Christerism that deals with blood like water, and what does that mean...?] for whet ever that deep seed meaning as in my noggin, I am unsure. It was, I noted more like Kool aid, making him the bloated smiling anthropological Pitcher as much as anything. The Neapolitan angel glowing and fluttering in the street wind hit me in the shoulder with a balled fist telling me to back away. Did this mean I hated Coppola even more than I did the dead eyed imperfect Scorsese in that Coppola did a much more egregious thing is his creation of the operatic mobster...they have been romanticizes criminals since Billy The Kid, but something Coppola did was different and now it seems they wont forgive him for it...somehow he is being deserted as my father warned me the house wop, of not nigger always must be, ...and now even Roger Ebert makes mention of named like Dante and Ovid as if magic incantations as even the depraved JK Rawring has her little queer wizard issuing Latin, instead of the more apperpo Greek, as a way to humiliate the stupid wops who, nigger like they are, thought that they were in acting the fools so well being admired , as if, by the white trash families into which they wished to marry.

A wave of Galatia's long lean lithe angelic royal blue silk draped arm caused a white VW bug to appear on a hill made of a brick road. I walked up towards t, got in and drove away, but in real life cannot drive. I wonder if somewhere in Dream land, as a kind of brusque, bloated and vulgar Little Nemo, if I can find a copy of a book I wish to read now by a Roman writer, called the Astronomica, which like Virgil was for many years, I can not seem to find in whole, or hell, even not in Latin. Like I said, if I would have know the world was going to end up in the headings of these creeps, a triumvirate who cant see a mine field their hated and hateful victim Hillary has set up for them, well, in 1980, I would have learned the fucking Latin, as the operetta reciters, and Virgil love ring old fags dreamed of me, as a signaler of a civilized man. And my pop wanted me . hating the Sicilians trash who had then, when i was a boy seemingly became the kind of twin towers of Italian brilliance that only the vulgar America would have invented, wanted learned of me too.