The dark minions of acid rock satan music from foreign England who secretly announce their agency as a holy war mission of church police craft from London live in a dour fantasy world beyond all terrorism and psychosis. From Aleister Crowley and the death of JFK, to LSD and the Maharishi, the ingenues arrived at Gurdjieff kluk. Barking with soundtrack to drown out all check and balance, they monger atrocious smears in a campaign traumatic to our national legacy beyond measure. There is nothing honorable behind their brays. Nordenberg and McCartney blindside attack media who allow no refutation nor reconnaissance regarding their injury to our historic estate as a people, ferociously cutting me off from the pack as an example against the Bill of Rights, demand an unquestioning attitude towards the very mechanism their criminal regime used as a front behind which they authored the abomination of the AIDS attack, getting the victims to cheer the own killers by offering the magical name of someone Lennon for their soothsay.
The piranha jaws and the peckerstance of the leering lisper managed to wow the Agnew jowled as well as the sophomore faithfuls. I was put up to providing their starlet Medieval services that stopped with my tongue so the Magistrates of the Ark could laugh at my suffering from the internally impacted nerve agent damage from the over fridge of Wattenmaker. All told the script derided me as goyim, and removed the IRE from any word they could mis-spell, but no foreign English noted the bias as they tunneled for damage control at the paper shredder of their alliance with old Nixon cronies.
It’s not as if the recipe book didn’t howl with premeditation. The sociology came from human traffickers bragging of race murder; it violated the Public School program of forbidding corporal punishment much less mutilation at the hands of child raping pedophiles, but Warhol said there was money and so the NAACP clambered aboard the machine, catcalling of fish programs about abortion and one stroke dags that are proved by never having happened. That’s the iron claw of the cunning.
The enemy within was demarcated by nerve agent suffering in the name of Burstyn, associated with the Exorcist, but no one noticed. They fancied instead out to scrawl between the lines of their hate book about a neuro-hypnotized golem. Hiding this, the parochial savage spread the word during failure to warn that the golem wasn’t allowed to talk out of turn before proving themselves by seven labors to serve derision and by overload in the unlucky school forced to have me, and all this arrangement was already written by the Magic Wand of Kennedy’s assassins.
There are moments in a ruthless man’s life when the terrible poignancy and infinite meaning of life as it has to be breaks through the clouds like a magnificent sunbeam, and moreso has such glorious communicability that it becomes as like a sacred gibber among the children of the Yiddish divine. One was the mysterian hmm test of a German guard in a concentration camp told to be stingy with execution by order of the Fuhrer who had run out of church bells to melt, and a bullet was worth more than a Jew; another was John Stockwell being told in Africa by a mercenary that women didn’t want Harvard educated and dapper lovers they wanted vicious pigs like him and to his eternal amazement, he mused as like over Mz. Goto, the ogre was right. Attila sure impressed the Dallas Cowgirls with Charles Bronson.
The letters sniff of knowing our betters, and a zero sum game, saying thanks for opening my mind, not enough, said the ghost of English yet to come. Plying tokenism for the lucky Ark, Reaganisms intent in delaying until now the confrontation with military industrial processes dooming the earth for humanity’s voyage if we don’t conform and change before the flame itself emerges over Africa, the gibber-brilliants in Seattle coo with the mercenary brinkmanship of Sherman old Alexie, hating nothing like reminders of the old war turn of phrase: the turning point. It never came.
