This Address to a Convention of Heavy Metal bands from the nation of Greater Ireland is offered in contempt for British prog rock and their American allies. I don’t know my audience, but in a very real sense I am my audience. I’m familiar with the same tastes and own a rock band in the wine cellar of deaf despair called: American Pig; intended as a synthesis of Joe Cocker and Pink Floyd. Flower Punk I call it. “Punk” Floyd themselves are precocious little bedwetting blitzkriegers by comparison, the type who curtsy before Hitler and hand out bad acid to children while I have to clean it up with Serpico. I know the habit of mind ~ the advice to start off by insulting the audience and then move to win them over as they guffaw because to do anything else appears insinuating. Insults in such company are perceived as a ward against false flattery. You don’t know me either and you never will because you don’t know yourself, so how about if I tell you instead about queerbait?
Queerbait is understood as a thing to sacrifice because he was an Irish waif who didn’t fight back. This scares you, but he knew his mind had to survive somehow to bear witness to monsters. They knew it too, in the most depredating doggerel ever scrawled by the parochial sadist, Gregory Karl lisps in the British-aping manner of a Pittsburgh Catholic boys’ school darling about, “forces impinging on the persona’s experience.” They watched the survival tactics of a child forced to endure dishonor worse than death. Queerbait came to the attention of King Crimson by notes calling himself a “ghost in from Treblinka.” Rather than acknowledge the evidence of extremely severe trauma, these deranged assassins depicted me as a pedophile, using sorcery and slander to distance my audience from themselves.
Queerbait was born James MacRyland Crary, son of Ryland Wesley Crary, grandson of old Ward Moore, a man so Irish he could wiggle his ears and it was really something. The full staff of the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch signed a drawing of him by their cartoonist when he retired. His wife’s family traveled by cover wagons in escaping the potato blight. My father’s family were at Plymouth Meeting, he was a Peace Corps leader, a Naval Veteran and Chair of Philosophy of Education at the University of Pittsburgh. This made me a ripe target for the British, themselves violently pedo, in seeking out a child to example to the local idea that gangs own the children in residence and can abuse one at will. The details of kidnapping and mutilation are borne as scares on my nervous system. I’m not hiding anything from you or your bitches. The British went after my voice, because they understood my potential, the emotional resonance of my passion, and wanted to wire it to backfire and humiliate anybody who admired me.
It is the role of women to explain their luck of survival as a tribute to their sensibilities. When a young Medieval woman watched invaders kill her father and brother, seizing her as a spoil of war, decades later, tucking in her children, she tells herself that she was a pride of a new generation. It is not the place of men to leer that children cheated of warning, a generation betrayed, individuals who trusted, dying in mortifying terror from a weapon of disease called AIDS that the victims deserved it. Yet Irish Heavy Metal Bands have served their womens’ rapists. Did Ringo Starr say to Bobby Sands, “Brother, we have lost enough!”? Of course not.
The comparison to women goes much, much deeper in the case of Irish Metal. The will to humiliate the Irish is so profound in England that a generation of rock stars were operating in Secret Service from London to orchestrate Irish Metal to join them in ridicule of the Slave Object. I was juicy. Like President Bush, Jr. I was a child of the USS San Jacinto. I could be used to example Civil Rights as a joke, with the toast of the Civil Rights Movement itself. Police took very personally that I reported insanely criminal acts of torture and injured me very badly. They semi-castrated one of you chemically. Then they taught me sign language to advance the dishonor by seeing me writhing in a college, making endless streams of A’s, winning the Honors Department’s Poetry Contest, as they leered of their successful and inhuman acts of horrifying tragedy and infamy. Blow by blow Khomeini’s women were on TV mass gatherings flailing their own skulls in shrieks of weeping. Effectively diverted by a British charade about someone John Lennon, Irish Metal bands compare distinctly to this breed in their deranged loyalty and admiration for King Crimson.
Cornell West called the book The New Jim Crow by Micky Alexander, “an instant classic.” The infamy of this black hypocrisy is a vile sin of omission, a SWAPO Zulu attack on the right of white liberals to live as they befriend and advance black peers. She glowers that the war on drugs was announced just before the crack epidemic, but she doesn’t mention AIDS, because she was in on it, by complicity of omission in pursuit of spoils. She doesn’t mention James Garfield either, because she is advancing the Ku Klux Klan vision that whites are genetically racist. Hand in glove with Peter Gabriel’s plan to unleash the petty little Isis warrior Youssou N’dour on what they sneered was a symbol chosen in compensatory coding, they attacked rather than advice a frightened public, which frankly explains being driven into Eastminster Church as a traumatized, battered child by Ronald Zsinski and a vicious black boy named James who decided he owned my name. It explains how I was selected by SWAPO Zulus in Britain’s invasion to be used as a Voodoo Doll War Toy, and the presence of humongous Black goons like Schugar Bear, Sherlock and Mike Seatte during my captivity. Although Peter Gabriel knows the ins and out of naming agents, he hired Evangelia Karmas, the avenging angel of karma to announce the bitter rape of my beautiful deaf advocate Chin I, he conveniently ignored (or authored) the meaning of his slur partner Matt Marcus in the road to their AIDS testing war game, worthy of Durrenmatt, on Mt. Desert Island.
You see, Queen Elizabeth isn’t just kinky, as shown by her partnership with Elton John, she abhors giving timely digest to the aw poors who got infected. They weren’t trying to warn the at risk, they were playing demon, devil and exorcist with the syphilitic sages in The Rolling Stones. In pretending to find the script they had written, while manuvoeuring American media into a new age of home invasion and denigration by intimate assault upon dissent, the Fripps of King Crimson allowed Ronald Reagan to sidestep discovery of the AIDS attack during Iran-Contra. If you think that Reagan being blood brother of John Lennon is a stretch, just convert it to tawdry old Ringo Starr and it gets past the hmm test. Top sacredly McOliver Quimson announced that Godlaw was a British landstake in pale, white, cringing Liberal America, the beast from Pitt, who cried upon being deafened, that’s just soooo unmanly.
The reason hatred for the United States is in vogue and called for is that the mainstream currents vilify Constitutional protections. This isn’t about our political system or Old Glory, it is about our Jews, our Army subculture, our freaks, our geeks and most especially our newspaper racketeers, our man in the street. It is about confusion sown by British capture of our publishing cycles, and the enticement of their homosexual looters at the New York Times. When Paul McCartney insinuated that empowering those shown to have written the script in their slasher sacrifice of claim by the murder in Seattle outside the clubhouse where I took asylum of Shannon Harps, a Sierra Club volunteer, was sound mind, I knew that subjugation by the AIDS attackers is enforced by the mania of The Beatles.
How embarrassing 1979 must have been for the rabid King Crimson that their earmarked golem, who they sniveled at as “a one man Northern Ireland” for pleading non-violence, had hitchhiked all the way from Pittsburgh to St. Louis just to hear one of them play. They repaid the gesture a thousandfold. As a non-violent man, I say with tragic sorrow, loss and great disappointment that an English is known, and that the only way to stop one of their awful quislings like Adrian Belew is to tackle him and kick him in the face until he agrees to stop.