A front operation was put up despite the cold-blood and brazen nature of the pre-planned AIDS war game on Mt. Desert Island by police through the Drama Department at Carnegie Mellon which allowed the British to create a feud as though this was resolution to the crisis, and to masquerade behind this premise as an honest mistake. It is anything but easy to review the disgraceful slander whereby my entire life and work was taken from me. The British regard it as a famous humiliation. Eras of life went by me where I was helpless, battered and deaf, with not a friend or penny to my name. During this time the pounding myth of Leslie Katz was hammered into my facial nerve to deny me relief from medical brutality, while further punishments were visited on me. How is it even possible, over an innocent letter, that a Jewish girl who retained her virginity and was untouched or even threatened, who continued to visit the writer in friendly fashion long after the letter was forgotten, could have the writer castrated and his best friend and deaf advocate brutally raped and still be the one in police domination?
The British, led in this matter by Robert Fripp of King Crimson, whose acquaintance with me is a matter of historic scorn, have long claimed Leslie Katz won the war of fables ingeniously. What did Leslie Katz win? The right to make a pornographic art work out of her ex-boyfriend? The right to monger an ex-boyfriend's attempts to escape her into a horrifying ordeal of serial mutilation? People may wonder, given the facts, why I was so blind to the fact that she was setting me up for the hate object in a class jest? How could I not see from the violence towards me, the suspicious sadism, already in operation, that I was being used for an object of contempt? Did I really take love and a feeling of high purpose that seriously that I could think that poetry would see me through?
Then there were the blindside attacks. I was kidnapped and tortured as a child after such a brutal beating from the back. Another long denied was uploaded by the British for Leslie Katz claiming that I was to blame for the murder of John Lennon and cudda married Midori Goto in a Two Virgins Pussyball War Game to which she said, "Yes, Master," to Bill Clinton and rippered attackered into my private zone. The British have long claimed that Leslie Katz won in the AIDS attack because of the favor Robert Fripp held her in concerning the Two Virgins war game clocked to the AIDS attack in the name of John Lennon, whose death they claim real, his muse the voice of Allah towards AIDS victims, and his spirit on the side of Leslie Sanetta Katz. They tried to destroy the evidence of her being named in his script by Gail Carolyn Burstyn, a partner of Sean Strub who was outside the Dakota with Lennon's double and Mark Chapman the night they say he was killed. Strub and Burstyn were both known to Dolly Meieren, a champion of Leslie Katz, and Masaki Shiono, an agent for the Tojo Ronin who had me waylaid before Katz pulled her skirt up for a taste of the legendary coy.
In trust for the British, William Wattenmaker of Pitt's Neuro-behavioral Research poisoned me with a nerve agent leading to a crippled life of torment and anguishing agony. The British claimed that Mt. Desert Island was therapy and then semi-castrated the object of their intense fascination, leaving diminshed recourse to massage against their sadistic act of treachery and mutilation. Prison psychiatry and the Ultrahigh experiment in holographic voices serve the same despicable cause: to enforce their program and maintain their domination by slur. It is terror by method of superstition, grueling with the macabre register into fraud that was played universally as a test of loyalty to Paul McCartney. It is a reign of terror that fell over America as the disease of acid rock infected our college campuses like malaria. The horror of a witch doctor emerged at the mega-tonnage dials on the control consul and the United States Government has itself been reduced to the practice of witchcraft. Godfather of the Twilight Zone though Robert Fripp has been his scare isolation of me as prey still fails to explain what Leslie Katz won and what she did.
Robert Fripp himself is a deranged rabbit who peers out of his Wimborne mousehole occasionally to make epic squeaks and fancies himself urbane, transparent, accountable, in charge and in good relations to his peers. Yet there on the cover of one of his weird albums is a double of Gail Burstyn, who prior scripted Katz' war game and named her. Only Jimmy Creary is to blame - the rabid have spoken. The bigots of London in this mess are big, Ringo Starr big, big enough for Russia's Satan 2 bomb. They aren't going to obey the law and they aren't going to stop lying. Robbing me of wife, my art, my life and my education was the direction of their fixation when they hired Gail Burstyn. They seek and will allow Hitlerian obliteration of an innocent person pursuing their witchcraft. When they were approached with anything of value, they smashed it and sneered, "Who cares." The British dared to say, "Who cares?" All for one and all for nothing.
The obsession with robbing someone of their natural gifts and potential, the stark, raving mad determination to stomp out history and remove recognition of talent and terrible brutality, speaks to the racial aspect of the experiment. Observors intoned, "If you try to help Black people they will only turn on you," and "you think you're better than us." In declining to fulfill the South African Police plot to embarrass the African National Congress by poisoning Nelson Mandela's brain, they did one better, they gave Mandela his freedom and Obama his office in return for their signatory consent to do it to a white liberal who was on their side, and to do it in the name of Pink Floyd Pussyball. Leslie Katz was a pussy riot by man haters. Photos of Leni Reifenstahl, lead film-maker for Adolf Hitler, in with totemic African bushmen in the later days of her career show clearly that Black liberation wasn't being hindered by an absence of fascination in white women.
Answering the monolithic deceit where a mockery was made of my entire life is never pretty. There is literally nothing you can say to extract conscience from these imperial ripper hatters, toil though I have, in grinding misery, over paper and ink. So, if you can't dare to hate the British, discount them. Their meaningless is a doomsday signal. Their Hitlerian Shakespeares failed to warn as a cloaking device for mass murder over a status spoil, all licky chops with the insight that it isn't real and it isn't truth until it's a movie, demanding of everyone appeasement of slander, offering half-truth as compromise. How do you teach or convey the terrible disappointment in them?