Team players, they call themselves. I once got a letter from the sex warlock in King Crimson Penis Sinfield who brayed of his largesse and insisted on identifying himself as Penis J. Sinfield. Having set forth, in the name of Ayn Rand, to avenge the illusion of Lennon’s disappearing act for the Green Party who murdered my father and Roberto Clemente, he had a deaf girl who is legally a child raped for teaching me sign language, signing off with the words, “I love you, man.” This penis called me, “a one man Northern Ireland,” for reporting brutal child hostage-taking and mutilation crime. It’s all part of Penis J. Trump’s Operation Chaos.
Although I hate when my brainstorming sessions heat up in exhaustion when I am too tired to reach a pen and the thoughts too elusive to remember, not getting published for Federal fear that my writing might be infectious, in the old school sense of the word reserved by Germans for Jews, my readers profit considerably from the efforts I make in such exigencies.
Today’s news described how vitamins went from a medical discovery to an over the counter marketing scam. America itself since JFK to Trump has undergone a similar metamorphosis to the condition we exist in today as Undeclared Fascism, the former, meaning “undeclared,” necessary to accomplish Black sales. Black people seldom openly cheer fascism, but veiled and inclusive, they are in the loop, in the know, and pretending they don’t understand. We have been made to feel comfortable with the pleasures that come with the profits from murder.
Ironically, one of the things the rabid has never made a secret about is that they are targeting America in the mind. They constructed a paralyzing oppodox by saying the value code of the moral elect underwrites the crimes at work. These moral elect act out our impulsiveness with cruelty for fun and then masquerade as our guardians. They created a legally sanctioned, politically binding criminal underworld and savagely imposed their narrative on a victim of it, fleshing out as detective research the criminal digging into the thought processes of their prey, for future sales, in cold blooded extermination entertainment, driven by banditry on high. The rabid, Penis Gabriel’s lyrics, are there, you can tear his head apart and see what a ferocious and sickening criminal he is, he’s gonna blow right down inside your soul and then when you try to blink away his deviant, subliminal uploads, implanted with nerve poison and brutality, he announces in a flash of intuition that you are everything his mob rules despise, and he signals his fanfare to cheer mindlessly, having been similarly wrecked and betrayed, but still offered the hope of puerile acceptance. Any deviation from his libelous voice-overs he sneers is a lie.
Klondike Gold Rush is where the Trumps made their fortune and began polluting our valued people with his disgusting framework for so-called social education. When Deanna Mancine enlisted me by knowledgeably being across the 12/13 year old demarcation line of legal specification worked out by Edgar Snyder’s gang and Tive, litanizing me with address concerning the procedural operations, (ah, ya hit me scammers) I recall wondering if something police detective were going through the hotwire syndicate but shook it off as too incredible, how could Pennsylvania government hope to make legally binding an underworld cult of crime in the United States of America? Now we know they even released AIDS. Somehow I still imagined us in a Kennedy world, rather than One Nation Under Nixon. It turns out that Jack Ruby and Donald J. Trump were in the same business: the business of the flesh, and panting for the same endgame: a showdown of mortification. They blew the mind of Kennedy out in his car, built themselves walled cities, and plan to dump the masses they misled onto the social system of America’s former thinking on the subject of human rights, unless of course you accept their cheap offer: human sacrifice and elimination in their cause. This sordid, vicious farce was all come tumbling down from the British Fascist Liverpool Brownshirts for all the world to see in Living Colours. Trump and London have long had international pirates of high society and biracial upwardly mobiles hostile for their designs.
Although they say it is schizophrenia, it isn’t; they have a brain-blare police contraption. Their voices never tire of waking me to the nauseating tune of what a tragedy I am. While obnoxious and very sad for me, I’d rather see the truth of the situation and be me than one of those horrors. Undeclared Fascism is torturing our society with ripper hatter mind games, meanwhile, the stupid Queers of Seattle plunk enthusiastically bowel poison, mouth poison, rape, ripper terror, anything they can think of into the savagely molested mind of a child mutilation souvenir, left by Unit 731 minus 2 in Revolution No. 9.
The Magical Sociopaths of Britain have done this in glee, thoroughly trashing Our Commonwealth and getting us to cheer. It’s interesting to see how large, how unlimited in scope the dreams of conquest were for the Beatles. It’s not really that big of a job to pull together an assessment of the medium they used in terms of Attila promotion, the cargo cult of sensurround imagery in billboard messages: Gaspar, for the Kasper situation where I was gassed for Neva Corp. by the Kasper initialled JK, a Japanese porno signifier, Handy Andy for Warhol’s liberated woman packing a dossier of child sex to humiliate Creary for Don Kno Hue, M. Stahl and Les Stahl for the Reifenstahl partnership of Midori Goto and Leslie Katz marking time.
They created for themselves by the False News Cyclotron out of Pentagon Disney the perfect position from which to operate: a squeeze play between the Ultraclass and the Lower Class manipulated by the same puppet master. They get around their terrible, scummy, slovenly, horror hate crimes by snapping into ideologized argument making someone they tortured argue for their life in the omojanary Forest of Fountainbleu run by Strawberry Fields in Miller’s Crossing. That film indexes cleverly into the crimes put up by Brando and DeNiro for Reagan and his coming clarion Donald Trump. They wanted someone who would genuinely scream for dear life, as they marked time to the passages of Gail Sheehy and Burstyn (she hates you). They laced it all into reality with acknowledgements to D.T. on King Crimson’s Starless and Bible Black, another loud and clear clue when they shot Dean Tierno as crime and punishment for Norma (a Marilyn nick), with a Spike Lee joint type of Italian, as loud and clear as Wattenmaker’s copy of the Observation record they published first in 1969, with its reference to Death Seed and secret circulation of Gail Burstyn.
So how did they get away with shooting our President so brazenly? Dealey Plaza was set up by the Mechanic, mocking chicken lick’n lappin’ ham, as a military rat trap, just like Mt. Desert Island, and if you think that’s a leap of faith connecting the two, maybe you just haven’t seen the 1964 LIFE edition of the Oswald Diaries with the scientists saying a sniff of garlic was the clue, and the look in they eyes of Suzy Creamcheese what’s got into you? It was significantly clocked to the day that Sen. Inouye hammered the gavel to prevent discussion of the US Constitution under National Security laws, well we have voted for Oz Walled. Zappa actually thanked Ralph Marzlak, his agent, before a large crowd for helping them pull it off. Mr. Gorbachev! Spring for a brick!
None of the name signifiers say more than No. More but DeMohrenschildt. Part of this situation is that Sociologists have an aptitude for tuning to ambiguities in conditions like those observed in American psychiatry. They can conceive of dirtying something real, real good to show we need detergent. A lot of this when it comes to me is a categorical imperative because they birthed me to a house of humanism for the show offering outsiders, charming foreign establishments owned by the South African Secret Service like Youssou N’dour, a chance to get in on judgement and pay dirt. They obviously are marking time for when to move on the kill they cultured and say is theirs. The moron’s child shant get far.
I don’t like the title of my piece because it goes to press almost like an invite for a bomb blast posing another venture from Ringo Starr, ignore me now, dogeyes. The method of settling scores by cultural signifiers was built right in to their disaster theory. Meanwhile, our so-called Democratic Party leaders ignored completely the manner in which slander about liberals came simultaneously with the hideous AIDS barrage, all clocked by New Age celebrities and New Age powers of machine to process the macabre, no one can tell me Penis Gabriel didn’t lay in wait with Last Temptation and Passion, they were just too perfect and just too cute. We know that for Jesse Jackson, Jimmy Creary’s Civil Rights were a quaint artifact to be ignored getting Obama ahead, a man who didn’t even use the Auto-Loan disaster to get us up to speed in the transformation to mass transit, his first act in office was to prove he was just a Bush minstrel show.
The fake murder of Lennon and the fake discovery of the papers through married up in-laws gave them a shockingly ideal position. Nobody even wanted to question it, they thought it was too hilarious, having me traumatized by state secrets, boiled in the head with a nerve agent, taunting me to cum on their hooker’s face in sarcasm when I found out she was playacting wanting to be my wife. There’s nothing you need to know, said Randy.
The pedo who wanted to photograph me back in the days of Bernie’s Funeral for a Friend, when Colucci owned Stylegate East and Elton put out Caribou, was named Randy, too. I told them no. I didn’t think they would take me prisoner for life. A man who bought the house my mother rented stared and stared at our silly tree, he said he was dying to cut off the one limb left. One day he showed up with a saw. In our basement Space Ape managed to wangle through Luke Alucard’s dude a first issue of Omni, every wants to be first, and he did the stained glass windows at the Blue Martyrs church. Nancy Moore hocked the Crary rings, one I made and one she bartered her soul to secure, straight to Storybook Forest with Nathan at the Ruskin.
They used Benjamin Spock to mock the murder of RFK, humming how illogical non-violence was in allowing abortion. They snap at me about tryna get ahead, while demanding allegiance to the program. There’s a logistical attitude barrier for how they let the whole thing pass and wrote their brilliant cover, having hollowed my gut, while offering divvies to the play things on campus who are utility functions but we care.
