One reason that people suspect the CIA is proactive and sees America as an arena of domestic conflict is that assassination arrives so openly here with a message. It is like, you might say if you are educated in the matter, a Peter Gabriel record lyric. There are all sorts of loopy encryptions signifying diabolical malice that gather around the bodies like drone flies and the mind is behaviorally trained to say, that doesn’t really mean anything. It falls into the stomach of conscience leaving a pit. If a child isn’t safe in America it probably means that it wasn’t a real American child. The CIA concept becomes like cow hooves the dog is allowed to bite to make sure no one in letters names any names. Etiquette, lisp the cannibals.
The rabid have been after me for a very long time. When held in custody of brutal pedophiles who left a myriad of permanent scars on my adolescent body that were laughed at by the provincial ethics of Pittsburgh to this day, they liked to play the music for me of a friend of Peter Gabriel called Van Der Graaf Generator. The British were creating a Frankenstein to mock. In very simple terms they were orchestrating a symphony movement towards the hour of today when they could charm us with tales of global warming and climate change as a necessary focus after their authorship of the AIDS attack symphony, replete with symbolic expositions written into the bedlam of so-called media with a hidden secret trial, rights voided. Nowadays they like to call it “university politics” with a snicker.
The challenge to the idea that John Lennon’s death was not an Ayn Rand fabrication by Pentagon Disney to allow the big sale will never make news. The scandal mongering by Peter Gabriel in contrast is all over publication history. After brutally torturing me the British began throwing a tomato at me in the form of the claim that I never clean about juvenile delinquency for whom they advocate in ripper hatter human trafficking. Gabriel is an extended part of the Royal Family. He married in, and claiming he isn’t their ticket to the movie is just an artful dodge. Like life for Anna Politkovskaya in Putin’s Russia was, the death threats from Warhol Museum come daily. They are using me for Pavlov cow hooves to grind the animosity they whipped up among their quality of life consortium in the AIDS victim plot. A dollar looks as good in their pocket they reckon as it would in mine.
As the murderers developed all this around me, they knew exactly where they planned to have it leading. They allowed it to dawn upon me that they plotted to terrorize me with what they call weaponized AIDS, and on the morning of 911 their agency cornered me in a social lounge to tell me I had been given the black spot of genetic annihilation, chemically castrating me and ripper murdering Shannon Harps as a ward against Molly, upon whom they encroached further by a namesake murder in Iowa. All is in good order, snivel the police in Gabriel’s honor guard. It is to be noted that I was castrated by the Broadway Cast of HAIR, the original one, who work with Gabriel’s malicious attorney Amanda Harcourt in the defense of the AIDS attackers. AIDS is Lennon’s weapon, they say, the will of his ghost, and the plan records are worth money. Failure to warn, their scorn for public safety, are private matters. Don’t go thinking you are better than us, queerbait, they gyrate in endless chicanery, overlooking my life history of trying to get warning to the at risk and ensnared. Negating the fact that just because my name was used, by them, doesn’t mean I gave it my imprimatur or it was something I would ever do. They consider it an exercise in existentialism. Feminist existentialism.
One of the early warnings was in 1983-84 at CMU when a French woman named Consuelo asked me to volunteer for a production doing sign language at the ROTC Shooting Gallery called Sore Throats. In the Summer of 1987 I found myself at Hypatia Feminist Philosophy Journal in Illinois with what turned out to be a friend of Dr. Eskridge, the black man with access to my room and drawers, something I never would have guessed at the time. I met Hypatia’s cover girl at a talk in D.C. of T. Simon Farasani, some time before the conflict with Tami Simon of Sounds True over my ex-girlfriend Leslie Sanetta became King Crimson’s big news. Tami, a lesbian de Jong, was the subject of my essay, The Metamorphosis to Androgyny, one day when she took me to Princeton Unitarian, gave me LSD and came to look mysteriously like John Lennon with her aquiline nose in the Princeton woods where a wondrous, ionic electricity flowed for a magical hour, tales from the enchanters.
It’s worth going into because of the cranks and mysterians of global Nazism in places like Claymont School for Continuous Education following Fripp, Pierre Elliott and Gurdjieff with friends like Colin Powell. Powell’s books in Portland may even be encrypted as it seems, a pun on Paul, and P.O.W.’s (Everybody Loves Lennon - ELL). AIDS was written as a prisoner’s dilemma to the new age of global warming concerns, which heated up right on schedule. To go into just a dose of the history of that one, which is serious enough, you might want to look at how the province of Pittsburgh sneered at me with evil everything I mentioned campus greenhouses, or asked after information concerning progress in controls over the three electrical grids of America. “Nobody takes you seriously,” Mike Exler (pronounced X-slur) would growl. Gregory Karl, one of his co-terminus mentalists wrote, “The persona is subjected to successive degradations of the X-motive and then subsumed into a larger structure dominated by its adversary.” The idea that they planned all this is heavy, revealed stages is manifest cause and part of their publishing history, but some of that publishing history is purposefully kept very obscure.
Take the book titled, The Publisher’s Project, issued by Reagan, and found in a Des Moines Iowa YMCA, the only thing he had to say about AIDS, and which is not available, may as well have never existed, providing a mesmer of Sean Strub with the aspect of Lennon, some Elizabeth Taylor non-sequiturs and a homily on traditional values. Coming out about his Publisher Project mission was very bold of him, although Lewis Lapham clearly knew all along what wuzzup. Much earlier they encrypted a book called, Passages, about the plot of life and how it unfolds, by Gail Sheehy, code mastered for Sheen, a warlock of the crime, and she hates you, SH-Y, about the SAMA, or super polite, topic of the conquest mission, Two Virgins Pussyball, whose Story of O was the subscript of Obama been laid radio. It led to a suffocation chamber in Section 8 where I was offered the role of cauterization by NEVA pornography by which they invented accomplice to their Kennedy shooting gallery pact with the Devil of Oz.
