It’s a shame that the situation with King Crimson is this vicious, but the blame is entirely them, their violence, deceit and unscrupulous criminality, not my failure to read the source of what was happening to me correctly as a child, being their vicious, foreign, murdering hand, brilliant with skill, heaped with American quislings riding high. Pittsburgh, their chosen dungeon hideout, gloats of how many times I was the model sucker, but there’s the question, to what degree and intensity was I suckered, after all it led to me falling for the idea that I was to blame for Lennon. It was in that defeated condition that Ming Na Wen’s Disney scalpels claimed to impinge the story they wanted fluted on my mind, inciting, they say, through the reed of my imaginary mimic the fluting of Firefly Song, in all its tragedy and defeat, and the laming of the screwed in Ode to a Poetry Loser. They are selling that it wasn’t all set up, even though they pulled it off with everything in the Beatles’ Department Store without so much as a second glance at the script.
Grounds for hope are the easiest thing in the world for organized Americans to falsify. They’ve done it since their first puff of the peace pipe at the site of the wampum belt. Pittsburgh and Seattle are not at odds about me. They are playing a pernicious game of good cop/bad cop. It was shrewd of my old supervisor to suggest I was insulting students. Lennon swiped the legacy of the United States of America like stealing candy from a baby. Nice of them to be so intolerant but their goal is to foreclose completely on freethinkers. The Left Bank of Paris and University of Washington fashion themselves as a liberal guild who have arrived at critique of an immense spectrum of practical and real sophistications, but you have to study and learn, fall in line as a student, and then you are saddled up with group liabilities so you have to mouth the usual lies. Knowing what really happened is dangerous to me because they are prone to going berserk.
Donald Trump and Jesse Jackson worked in close, personal confederacy together on the AIDS attack. They laughed, oh, you are so liberal, you little white sex golem, well-luh, here is what we will do, we will find someone who doesn’t empathize with you one bit and we’ll just let you go try to empathize with them n’yer way of it, queerbutt, myuh, nyuck. Then, to their scavengers of infinite race ideology they hissed, if n’you’ll let him live, we’ll give you the Basquiat stuff, myuh. But none of that is what Yoko Ono really wants.
Even a person who has not been viciously cursed with acid poured on their facial nerve, even a person who is not also deaf and living with a conglomeration of past terrible wrongs can find the daily grind agonizing at turns. The molester drools with virulence at the prey. Meanwhile the fossils of the plot by Axis America emerge like the shape of the Coronado Naval Barracks found by a kid using Google Earth.
Evasion of indictment by a disappearing act, made obvious by the company he keeps in his spiritual afterworld, allowed his disciples in crime to turn up the volume on their brays, offering no end of scams as though their sacred libel announced their regimen devoid of all proprietary license with total impunity to malpractice and deviously change the picture to suit their whim. They can’t even read the subtexts of their own pseudo-archaeology. They announce that Lennon’s will was written by Gail Burstyn and that Donald Trump is the march of Martin Luther King. Mountains of text testifying to their fraud is forgotten as water under the bridge and they call that monumental dishonesty by academic legitimacy. If they could kill a Molly in a namesake flare, they could kill a Chin for one having testified that brutal beatings accompanied their neurotoxin. Yet you won’t find a hag in Chinatown who loved him standing up for what is true, they are all Sabines, like the Kennedy women.
People sign away their history to sorcery. There was something disturbing and ill about Barbara Tuchman’s bizarre treatise on Irangate saying with the hush of a sybil, “my country right or wrong has a certain nobility of sentiment, but my President right or wrong signifies the breakdown of Constitutional Democracy.” The beard strokers were supposed to hmm test that one and go, right, Reagan was wrong, but the Republic Shall Not Fall. The hidden text and hidden agenda was that we were authorizing the murder of JFK in the AIDS attack, and every single motherfucker at the New York Times knew that. The Federal Bureau of Investigation will tell any lie for Obama, Trump and Reagan but you couldn’t squeeze an honest word about JFK from them on your knees. The landstake in this murderous cruelty is entirely pinned on Lennon’s escape and the guarantee they will never allow sense to be made.
For the NAACP, what wouldn’t they do? What low wouldn’t they sink to? Armed with such a mockery for cover? Suppose by some para-mystical gyration of some new generation’s Mao Mao mysterians it came to pass that an Irish waif was ALLOWED to declare from the office of a school that any Black could serve to punish another Black found to have an ancestor who supported Britain in the American Revolution because of the potato blight, and began headhunting students on campus who fit the description? Any free-wheeling justification would come into play and any attempt to question deemed an Insult! But the argument is a laugh because British rock stars already versed New Jersey that if they let queerbait get away it wouldn’t be fair to one of them. Knowledge is anything but power when you have fooled all of the people all of the time.
Pitt and UW have long claimed that there are no deep encryptions at work. Next they’ll be selling us that President Gruber really does wipe with sandpaper to prove how macho he is. What benefit of the doubt do they deserve about anything when they voided all normal rights to due process in such a hideous war game? The idea that jurisdiction is a matter of espionage trickery as a form of goonology in a cop-archism “state” or that actual evidence is always to be seen through bias lens, preference for celebrity in a Federal tug of war between maximum secrecy dacoits of new age super-spy powers of invasion is barnburner of a Hitlerian Table Talk beneficial to the Lennon ideology. But there were contraction-de-guerres like the name Wald/ron at the 1984 Medical Library of the FEMA already signified in the Texas Schoolbook by Little Nicola. There were initialisms deemed by bilingual persons. The scandal sheets came from people a little higher in the pecking order. It was a refractory assessment from oppo-world, all constructed to through Lennon’s escape clause in our faces, or at least in mine, since you got out of it by feeding me to the crocodile because it conformed to your agenda, and there’s no one to complain to because they have their bases covered with insider group liability. Conscience isn’t even a consideration.
That is of course why it was so easy for Nordenberg and Snyder to get Hermann Law to find medical malpractitioners to feed me a biohazard in another cycle of Ono. But that’s not what Yoko Ono really wants. There was a day when they spun repeat and hypnotic phrases through the barrista scene, asking rhetorically, “I’m sorry? I’m sorry?” They got me to go, spraying air from my anus in a med mal fiasco, to the Dakota with a story that appalled the door man, sorry, he wrote, that this would happen to you. She got the high apology she demanded, but she didn’t have the backbone to come out and hear it for herself, and as usual, that’s not what Ono really wants.
Israeli intelligence sources were all over me in queerbaitgate. They knew the real Jimmy. Some of them had hired my mother to scream me stupid at every move I made as a child, some of them just laughed at me constantly, some of them played Ringo puns like Carrie Gister my way, one of them lived on Clyde Street right in the center of the Procto-dile hop. In that place where Mel Gibson made sure I read Trinity with the terrible suffering of a lost woman like the howls of the sirens of the sea, in the shadow of Pittsburgh Catholic who whispered to the NAACP that they could wear their horns proudly in dibs for Ms. “Go/to” would neva ever have me, over the entrapment of Obama’s horse theft working for the Gutkind. They have hobnobbings galore between the Astons and Chos, seriously concerned about me, to defend a guild that said by hearing anything at all as a child hostage I was sharing brain cells with Lennon’s killers, who top sacredly was actually a Reagan man. Why not, was their favorite indexical phrase. The cold-blooded premeditation of the whole ruse, right down the name Sin D Rue D was as usual avoided and ignored. In cold blood, as usual, lie after lie, Gregory wrote of “constructing a persona.” It had a double meaning for the parochial snickerers, it also meant that queerbait was going to perform for them while hiding from them in broad daylight, for they knew the real queerbait.
Perhaps the Achilles heel of the parochial savage is mockery, I don’t know, but I do know they put a high premium on it. A person who went through hell for King Crimson being laughed at by his peers is definitely going to be sat in a puddle by Ringo Starr and told to sing at the point of a gun. He calls his act of revenge on an idea his own clowns authored consultations with the tribe, asking by name for each and every individual who made clear their confederacy and raping anyone who crosses the Union line to teach me sign language. The workable construct is plentified with the Saturnalia of lesser bands in primary alliance. Deadheads are easily wowed discovering themselves in Lennon’s mind games and they have no reason not to be loyal even after they find out it was trickery, but they won’t find out, the Kennedy sabines won’t tell.
How much would it cost to get King Crimson to leave someone who hates them alone? They said I was pushy? For asking for help and medical attention from people who were suggesting that I should be castrated and cast out for refusing to force myself on a naked virgin? Big Ben called down the Ideoman. Frank Zappa was in charge of the blackout announcing that grueling Papillon ordeals were the real kiddo’s path to Broadway, as the Saint of the Childhood AIDS victims, he offered Gummo. Sir Mr. Dish it out complained that my art was uppity. The ludicrous elements of the plan came down as though from the Brothers Grimm as a forcing house written by Jewish holocaust survivors in a shibboleth of stone, and a lot more important that fantasies by liberals about what might have happened under Arab Spring if King and Kennedy had lived full lives.
The Texas Schoolbook was their replacements offered by John Rawls the Walrus, OT for Old Testament and partnership of Obama Trump, the real JFK and King. While Lennon was evacuated the Galt’s Gulch of a Brando Easter Island, and George Lucas planted the Alucard Lucarelli in my house, whose mother was advised when they decided your mother should know, the critique and liability structure religiously and strategically replaced bulbar syndrome with the notion of eustress, the euphoria of being out of your mind with fear. You cannot break the registered dacoitery of the imperial conditions, they come down from Hollywood, like Oswald, saying if you want liberal communism, we’ll give you liberal communism, and offer you soul up for grabs to the Greens who killed your old man in the name of the greater good, at a university of fear and endless hate crime, denotative with mentally deranged slanders, demanding answer or anthrax will have you, have you and have you and have you.
The reason the Sabine women stayed loyal to the killers even after waking up is that they put politics as entertainment before the future of life on this planet. Anyone can see that Trump has made Global Warming into his failsafe false flag on AIDS. Not that it isn’t real, more just that like they waited until they could use it for their adventure. Megan Dietz was all excited about the protest film about AIDS because well the Beatles were looking. The spirit world is an occupied zone and that’s what Yoko Ono really wants. She writhes with being cheated of an American symbol crucified by AIDS on a Warhol NASA brainbeam, writhes.
All Black people see are race parables which they have confused with principles. They have allowed a Table Talk from Hitler’s minion King Edward to sell them American estate for the asking. They went right to work with LBJ and haven’t complained once about Gail Burstyn, although the idea of a white victim riding King’s coattails like Jesse Jackson galls them. Some of the curious things about evidence of prior involvement by Black people operating out of the Cathedral of Learning with bad blood and bad faith towards my name and potential are pretty real. If they could do it, spot the pigeon, Warhol could, too. They figured me for the type who might make good game, but they didn’t want me to hear, they didn’t want a songwriter who might rival them. The child of humanist was a metaphor for abortion so it couldn’t hear the silent scream. WA and MO are particles of Japanese, so let there be WAMO Radio in the cause. They have a spiritual mountain in Tacoma that points to Japan, let it stand as the symbol of the return of the King on the wings of the Hiroshima war crime by Truman, that Shemp, who considered the target of the Sacred Mountain, while Kurosawa’s wife made one of the last Japanese Axis films of the war, ending as she cried looking into a microscope.
They left me holding what they called a stolen receipt.
