Being castrated is sad for me but arguably the more important issue is who would want to do that?   We get to who it was by how they went about it. First, American Queers are cold-blooded profiteers.   The simple truth was that I advocated for black Africans from a Medical Library in 1984 and tried to get help and warning, but the lisping back-blade was sharp and honed.   I donohue killed my father that summer, only that the die was cast. Several parallel threads converge on the scene of crime at large, from Pitt and VW (University of Washington) to Dealey Plaza by way of the Texas Schoolbook, a klondike gold rush all its own, but the criminals have a few vulnerabilities in how they operated, luring Kennedy into a whore house execution as a spectacle of Reagan’s lampoon, look at the peace-loving liberal, now what do you say, peace idiot?   From that point on targeting liberals has been a pogrom.

       Tactic happy, some of the murderers, high and inside, have given themselves away by dedication to the game they are playing.   Even the shallowest interpretation finds the theme recur, that the assailant is signified K and the User by C, and that the queerbait wet too many beds so was found out for a K who only by begging forgiveness can be reunited in brotherly love.  It comes from ideas like the stage-play Mann Ich Mann, man equals man, by Brecht from the coming of the King’s esquire, Adolf Hitler’s era.   King Edward noted that a man is still a man, and that you must not judge evil lest you be judged, such that the quimpering liberal would be a Nazi love slave under the correct pressure point.  This is why K is called lovingly Kasper, the Spirit, for the united forgiveness of Jesus, the Walrus, in fraternal estates between Lennon and Adolf and so on, the genius of a black man’s celebrated wings of insight, two wings united to fly, beating tutu tutu tutu against the dodo bird.   By this means, the black man cuzzles Ms. Goto, fond of showing off in purple her younger years. In putting together this potion and calling all men brothers they are jeering that all Americans are the Dulles Brothers.

      The scam that Trump and Peter Gabriel are running have put the entire society and all that we built in history, education and laws up for grab to the realm of hustlers.   When Trump says make America great again he means by the model of Duterte in the Philippines where sadistic, cruel, twisted, ever smiling cops get their way out of court at the hanging tree.   Be that as it may their lurid speculation, the strong force of the program, is vomit-bag ideology from terrible hate criminals in the Universities of Pittsburgh and Washington. For good example: what they pulled with Wattenmaker and Brooks.   They observed the weird deaf suck they nicknamed El Pupa, queerbait and so on, by what he dared tell, hiding trauma and fear of the assassins in a broken smile of semi-coma, the mark of police expert insight society, just watch how it works. Meanwhile, they knew among themselves full text and detail, having been the attackers and manipulators.  The hostage could never apprehend, or remember, much less divulge the rapist’s tugging at the papers subtly pirated into his drawer. This allowed them to note the representations of the confused mind of their prey, the white being used for vivisection and to promote malicious malpractice while laughing, but we thought you said! They backed this up with vomit-bag faculty nostrums.

       The rabid in Seattle Art Museum, collecting legalization of their terrorist crime, pretended not to understand the poem I wrote about a soldier laughing at a German firing squad, but the murderous police command understood perfectly.   They sneered, die trying, to do what? Protect the First Amendment? A worthy thing. By what right did they assassinate that freedom? Thos. Gordon used to hiss that a jackal, Gabriel’s favorite word for the brain damaged, mind shattered golem, screaming against love’s betrayal, smiles.   The sadistic police doctor understands the smile on the face of the savagely raped. Oh, and Gordon knew Swimmer, through Andelman and Alvar, neighbors of Brecher. Andelman, involved in a Wells Fargo takeover, told me his favorite book was The Count of Monte Cristo. Monte Cristo? Uh, oh, that’s a Klondike gold rush symbol.   He used to shout at the Latin Professor, “Phillips, if you say neuter one more time I’m going to punch you,” while rocking about, not specifically Leslie, his friend from childhood who he knew I was dating and meeting at the bus stop at MisterRogers’ church, telling me much later as a punch line they were long standing friends, “Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop, don’t, stop, ohh.” Fact. Greg Karl called such voice-overs, “Forces impinging on the persona’s experience,” a Penis Gabriel racket hiring out for Reagan’s child-mutilating police doctors.

      Intransigence affects market forces.   They hammer their line. The photo of a tricked mind in terrified homelessness, burned and destroyed, illustrates the shrewd expertise of the police doctor, a capacity to provoke a smirk at the German firing squad over free speech that illustrates the basis of Pittsburgh’s despicable bombast.   Linguistic associations, the mental equivalent of combat behaviors, of the sort they play Union Witch and Sybil with gains override super-wave from titanic gestures like the nucleus sweep of pure fluted power in Penis Crimson’s song Happy Family, as though unleashed from a witch mountain of angry elves, dynamite to the groove but in reflecting kosher, music mustn’t be recognized as license for a master strategist team to attack our morals, people, Constitution and national estate, conjuring themselves for warlocks, hissing abominable double meanings about The Eternal Flame.