The photographic archive at the end of this text, which came from librarians of microfilm at Carnegie Mellon who deleted the most deranged example from historic recall, a slime covered finger with a caption, “you gonna eat that?” is a photographic archive presented here that demonstrates the Grand Jury grounds for concluding that the ongoing student murders in our nation’s schools and explosions of strange and strategic grand violence, are an organized Police Riot by the Trump Mafia.
What the Pitman/Quarrymen did to me as a hostage child was told to me like a parable of those punishing the aristocracy of talent for the satanic mills of old industrial England. They held me in bondage calling me a “rich motherfucker” and forced inhalants and extreme hallucinogens laced with nerve agents, and then slandered me to make me a living slave, which was endorsed by Black speculators in the NAACP. Since Trump would be amused and three of my first tormentors were named Donald, we have reason to already understand that when he teamed up with Diamonda Galas on record in 1987 he may have not just been Johnny come lately. Further, while he scoffed at the principle of truth missionary work in the name of conscientiousness, sneering that belief in something like Allah (or the right not to) would necessitate an invitation to be murdered by choice in sacrificial exampling, his partner, sniveling sexualist Pener J. Sinfield, forcefully advocated for Muslim consciousness through his partner while snickering with bad blood among the Trump queers that dey is heathens. This was a multi-pronged approach to assassination mythology mongering and monstrous brutality of an ongoing rage.
Of course they simpered that they are cauterizing their frustratio in the name of King Crimson’s infinite brand of loud and blaring soothsay, only Jimmy Creary was forbidden to lisp affected rubbish to the effect that he never hurt poor Leslie ole Katz, simply cried out in pain. This allowed Queerbait to be made a human bomb, triggering their entertainment guerrilla warfare. The pigs, or whatever Lennon called the Police, would far, far rather grouse that there is nothing at all suspicious about Dia Galas with her back blade before the Twin Towers than admit that neither I nor Jeannie had the slightest thing to hide about the murder of their pornography psychedelic messiah.
Saying I am to blame for the murder of John Lennon is 2X more deranged than the idea he faked his own death and both concepts come from his own sick head, but it gave Donald Penis Donald largesse full bray in covering for the AIDS attack by ongoing Queer rapine with Toyah Wilcox in histrionic backup, lie after cowardly lie.
The research headquarters, Jaime Carbonell’s office at CMU, is telltale. They are natural language labs with Andrea Swimmer. All growing up I was inundated with the cleft slurs of Braunstein and his partner Ostro about women, cackling at them as hoes, or slurring my own sister as a shiska, while on the streets the hunkies bellowed about the girl next door they “busted open,” while Yoko Ono, never will-less towards the chattle, announced the requirement: “Open Your Box.” I refrained, so I was cut down. In this madhouse, the rabid made tapes, having taught the queerbait it’s jake to tell on live wire, to extrude the soundtrack from the impacted neuroplasm. How English. “Play like,” they told Andrea, who had extremely literally chased me up a tree (in front of violent witnesses the rabid would never dream to second guess) trying to escape her demand to sluice me with vaginal fluids, demanding that Reagan be compensed with full tale of cum-bespattered little JimmEye, weeping in pain from the sting after waking up, “plastered”. (We already know what the violent witnesses call the victim of a woman who taunts and taunts a traumatized child into taking refuge into a tree, and they stand by that judgment, they do). They don’t hafta kill more children to prove they mean it, and will never stop, but they will. That’s why Penis Gabriel is called the “Overkill man.” The telltale research lab has more, too. They had Brian “I’ll file that” Milnes of Leslie old Katz’ Dungeons and Dragons mission. According to the script Chapman killed Lennon to protect Katz from me, but Fripp says he’d rather be Chapman’s partner than admit what really happened or explain the picture of the scriptwriter on his record. Peter Max showed up outside Braunstein’s. That’s a hot ticket to Obama’s dinner campaigns.
The final act is to fob it off on me in the name of King Crimson’s child-raping egologic and claim it never took place. Ain’t that fly for separate realities? Gruber, hitjobs, inc. They were schlick.
King Crimson allows with a pout that it was script fulfillment for the ecstasy of their huns, and that innocence raped means exactly that, and why not, laughs Lewis Lapham, pointing out that many a juvenile delinquent come scromiting like the cover of Kourt of the Krimson King, who whilstwhile trampling upon the flower of little Jimmy to plant the Black Lives Matters ever-Green Party. Swimmer and the black leer debauched even Kelly Elementary for the thrill of the big kill. LSD put queerbait in the driver’s seat while he was Omaja’ning that if he tried to help Black people they wouldn’t rear in fury that he was tryna upstage them they. We know dat jake he tell, they snickered, why not muh man!. Africa offered a multicultural backstab to teach by, and just as Aung San Suu Kyi now sings her British publication English Nobel tune that the Rohingya ain’t matter cuz she isn’t a human rights hippy, but a maverick real politician, so it goes that Mandela was advocating as an Elder Wize bird for duh Black estate of Dyslexter King, now see, and Tupac is the martyr here, not none of this freak sadness for the lives lost to public information not being put out in time on account of the Durkheim dogma that the whole of the hidden entertainment mind is greater than the sum of the at risk, so you better Gen. Alice Walker kissy duh black blood for’n n’you start think’n n’you has a right to get away from the virus. Pitman says you didn’t bleed from your kidneys so you hafta, and don’t tell Al Gore, or you may yet.
You is either Honor Society or dis-honor and the only way to redeem is die, see. Like Naomi in Burstyn’s Exorcist they are anomie, they attest to a deep mind game for the enemy within the Caspar plasm claiming that there is nothing wrong with hotwiring through me the white suck hapless, nah not reverse racism, it’s barbecue, see, using Frankenmaker incredible two mind in-jest and then extrude cuz Pink Floyd will let fly on cue to titillate which was nuh really planned, man, it was Chapman-Fripp for Lesl’ole Katz, man, that’s justice, justice.
How it became the big Ayn Rand spoof it did would take more than legal scholars to dis-entangle and I certainly am not one of those, but I did see some of the planning division in operation and know it’s context. Esther Waldron at Falk Medical Library’s Retrospective Conversion project liked the line in a Pink Panther film: “not any more” when the woman who owned the piano he had smashed shrieked, “that’s a priceless Steinway!” She also sided with Teamsters or whatever who hounded Michael Jackson out of town over sales stand rights at Three Rivers. The Sex Pistols had problems getting a gig in Homewood and Detroit challenged the right of the Rolling Stones to play at the Superbowl. Obviously when characters in the pockets of grabbing rights, whether right or wrong, start up riding on the coattails of a pseudo-principle, big mighty hunger, play legit, churning out their version of “prove you love me” on a dead man’s treasure chest, the idea that someone is being viciously victimized has to be decapitated or risk upsetting the gravy train. My mother apparently donated me as a child to this union shenanigan. The syphilitics of pseudo-logical arguments made pronunciation of Lennon’s spirit as the remorseless and sinister spirit of violent crime against the innocent and helpless.
You would expect this from Trump, Ono and Gabriel if you knew about them. They got the sociocratic speculators, men like Aaron Dixon and Scott Riback, all stoked up with sex fever over my fiance, making it Hip Hop in the men’s room, while leeching the impacted neuroplasm, laughing out loud and vigorously at horrible acts of torture and cruelty, from the desk of Amnesty International by the way. They did this by propounding a mighty tale of juvenile wimpiness and lying to his mother, deleting every relevant passage (such as the horrible suffering I went through dreaming of pouring out my mother’s liquor cabinet to get her attention and love, knowing I would only be beaten). The convenience of lies is entirely their game, by the way, but the difference is they are an aristocracy of media, so their storyline comes with the ultimate bogosity of mytho-monopoly.
What they’ve already done shows they are Nazis.