Ovid is said to have written admirably about women, full of conflicted personality, but genuine in attempts to illustrate secrets of the heart. In addressing the presence at our school of sinister macho posing as vigilante chivalry, I propose to delve into an area that takes work even when hard work is a norm, well beyond that norm in severity and difficulty: address of why women would come to conclude that alliance with the AIDS attackers was in their interest and proceed accordingly. Not all of this can be attributed to the malice of villainy. Even this feature is obscured under contemporary loyalty. The attackers, being politicians, understood the cares of women, their hardships, the henpeckery of a kinship claque, and had worked the folk effectively many times before in ages past. They knew the banks, the chores and the churches. They had a firm hand over the gazettes. Their golem was the sweet cheat and their stage setting Death Valley.
I’ve many times told these women they shouldn’t do what they have done to me and they have snickered back what you gonna do about it queerbait? The point is there are laws against it, and invisibilizing me tends to add the drama and humiliation of real tears to my pen. You are gambling they will never be heard, that I will remain the alien.
The idea that rejection of one man signifies exorcism of the AIDS tragedy arrives as a point of defining conscientious objection as a categorical function of extreme Christianity. If you propose the attack isn’t Christian, you are captured in defining Christianity yourself by alternative service to the bully plan. Gestapo have your house. Awareness becomes more humiliating than denial, so there is a double lockdown. Everyone knows what humiliation is, right? Not everyone needs voices from Ultrahigh reminding them first thing in the morning like an experimental brain of corrections.
It’s fun to blame Seattle, they are so caustically full of it. One thing is seriously obvious, they are more interested in adversity than helping. This may be because they are the ones who attacked us. It is, after all, a model civics of the Ark, and Pittsburgh NAACP are militarily accomodated. The losers quorum were conspicuously easy to betray with a few rock figureheads and the banks of museum bondage sex. In a moral inversion, only pisschrist and dying can fulfill the vespers of holiness. Nobody wants that, so they hide in the laughter that nothing is real. Somehow, by making this conspicuous they camouflaged it as a response game. Law ducked out.
By implanting neurological suffering, invisible to the naked eye, The Parochial Goblin created a very different set of forces impinging on the persona’s experience, as Gregory Karl puts it in his tract. Another such under-goblin of the Grand Dragon Goblin, Lewis Lapham, masquerades as a liberal humanist, guarding our treasures of dissent, but is also an admirer of forces. A bitter climate-change denier, he likes to wink at the silly extremism of Greg Karl’s summoning of the souls for the end of mankind’s time on earth, what the Cold War machine poetized as world of ash for kingdom come. Even with discovery of the Texas Schoolbook, written as a stage play by Cecil B. DeMille and other Adolf Hitler cronies, like King Edward and Walt Disney, scripted for a manmade apocalypse and sacrificial white, all Lapham had to say was game on. My dislike for Rockefeller’s New York is well known, by I’m significantly outgunned by Yoko Ono’s machine of sadism. As the death toll mounted, their troops swelled, and everyday they wake up looking for something to do.
This is the hidden curse of Trump’s Evil Empire.
To compromise and appease the widow of Tokyo Ry, they humanized by mercifully bestowed the black spot as an empty set, with the de-escalation of 911, a grandiose bomb scare, and the blessing of a mouth poison. How’s that for good old fashioned American ingenuity, I mean the mean streak so admired of Brian Eno? How can you answer this when even the victims are asked to be ashamed?
The root question of UW’s challenge at TCC is who is being sincere in stating that they want the school safe for academics, the women who organized the challenge or the pale, white thing of a reject? To understand this you have to rewind the Warhol movement’s child molester tapes. Donald Ostro, who held me in terrifying captivity, to the tape making syndicate at Carnegie Mellon, caused the tape maker to exclaim, “Look at that!” when they used me in traumacose scenes from the Devil and Mrs. Goto. The Ostro-size was itemized with admiration while the pale, white thing was set to ostracize, a fact of remorseless lampoon towards our school built into the study’s indexicalities.
We find evidence for this ongoing contraptioneering, this laughing buddha. The alliance of cynicism about sex found their mystique in blaming Jimmy for John in more than one. Jimmy gets the blame that their husbands harbor the shadow of sorrow that they arrived as damaged goods even when Jimmy didn’t sleep with them, someone else did. Why? Because Jimmy is the devil who felt cheated of a virgin. He is to blame for their husband’s shadow of loss, as Karl puts it, “the initial encounter of the X-motive is tainted by the shadow of its adversary.”
The plan is clear that the sex function is only allowed with a marriage license. It is martial marital law from the never smiling but always smirking Hitler Nuns on Nancy Moore’s serendipitous wall. The Klavern has admitted the good kind of blacks. There is the Church of moral war and the Church of pornotopians. By the pyre they be judged. Shawn Brooks, working with Dan Lowe and Jay Inslee, gave Stuart Sheppard the brotherly adage to save the cherry for last, and the spoils for Chris Arnberg of Arnoldsburgh Carn-Edwardsville, where Hypatia offered the cover girl of a Feminist Magazine arranged by a friend of Dr. Eskridge who had access to my house when I was away, and who authored the Fraud A in Philosophy on my record. Edwardsville, Todd Kaufmann of the McVeigh eccentrics, called E-ville for Society of Military Engineers. And the Crown whispered, “Mary.”
Onan had an interesting neighbor, Ken, who played drums in a band I wrote for called Citizen’s Arrest who I took for Nazi Punks Fuck Off movement material. He had a vase in his living room. The long studied neuroplasm exerted on me in its presence. I recall Onan telling me when I broke a glass in pain from the taunting of his friends, “That glass was your friend.” They have a weird mysticism to the injury they impacted and no joke the bass player Jeremy Shellhase of Falk Medical Library lived very close in Coal Hollow area to Anthony Cervi who boiled up the plasm with a sarinesque agent he fed little Jimmy as alien soul food.
Anne Mitchell arrived like Elizabeth Taylor to the deaf community in Pittsburgh with the off-color gasp of a soul mate resembling the resemblance of the anima in T. Simon to the femalesque of Salmacis Lennon, playing Michael Jackson as her cover tune. This, lisped the Jewish psychiatrists in archetypology was the mere verification of Tammo DeJongh in the Room 40 of Tea Downing where none may tread on Crowley.
Health, Love and Happiness would be cheated of little Jimmy while he was asked to behold the good fight for a statute of recognition before a Judiciary guarded by the stabbers.
Climate change is a Cold War scorched earth policy from the Christian Right known as Casper planking the future is not for *sissies.
*pronounced “thissies”
