Even when my intuition is flowcharting really well, and my notes are in order, it is extremely hard to keep up with the Oxford Intelligence System that Prince Charles has assembled claiming his insane actions hold water. No one else seems as tired of it as I am. There’s a Hollywood money pump underwriting the machine of the fraud. King Crimson hotwired into my brain as a child with a ripper hatter narrative to sell about me, and then targeted the impacted nerve damage to extrude experimental digest as a living theater of recreational sadism for Queer Seattle’s mind-shattering idea of entertainment. They created psychological theory about using my anger for an electric eel show of high voltage mayhem balancing the collective subconscious of the AIDS target lobby for market sociology, using me as a barometer of their fury, for which I was earmarked as a stand-in from the white Royal type I resembled as a child and outgrew. Just as white people are forever on the line in history for an era of slavery, it is my position that black society should never live down their blackout on the attack in partnership of spite and glee over adoption of a war plan that catered to their self-regard. It was a British sado-erotic dare that was performed with the closet enlistment of our universities, far from finished.
The Warhol Estate in Pittsburgh planted the letters, had people in my house, and confiscated them, pretending to get game they uploaded a large arsenal pre-assembled and lying in wait. They set me up through my love for King Crimson to play a parallel text of stealing the world from me by the viciousness of New York City towards me with the attack prostitute Rosa, hired to cover for Leslie Katz and mislead about Mt. Desert Island, canceling my testimony, stripping me of rights, destroying the evidence and calling me a liar that I am not. They hired Youssou N’dour to claim it was about black job advancement priority and sexual morality to run a brainwave yammer through a nerve injury they had implanted and knew all about, Eno and Wattenmaker being friends a long time ago. They set up a pussyball ethnic sociological exchange in a high death secret sporting event with the help of Midori Goto, assigned by Reagan to take the world from me in Hitlerian hate. The wreath at Bitberg-Belsen like the Star of David of the NEVA Corporation were a new alliance of greed and extermination being honored. Full knowing I had done nothing wrong, they invented a troop idea of hiding a Rapid Eye Movement memory of vaginal trespass catalyzed by a difficult woman who told me to stop because I wasn’t doing it right, and this wasn’t true at all, but they had a neuroplasm and the NAACP, praising themselves for their long-lived marriages, were gonna make and get some porno from it while theyze at it, they figured.
Anytime I complained, UW sent in the gang from Singapore with secret bacterials and snorted, it ain’t even yet on Aaron Dixon’s ledger. I have these dreams of being seduced by a woman I love and getting to bed and I wake up as I explain why I no longer get erections that way to those reminders of how cruel and humiliating Penis Gabriel is in his boredoms. They put us up to 911 as a Pearl Harbor finale, offering us a nuclear exchange if we didn’t bow to their foreign English demands for tea and forgiveness. This is what the British will do to a deaf American poet the minute a poem contains a word against fascism friendly at The Crown. They put it together with a QE man named Marcus (MARK US) burning girls gangrenous he said to bring them back to reality and wouldn’t let them escape the bondage injections of LSD that Pink Floyd calls rite of passage. Gail Burstyn and King Edward, nuf sed.
The damaged brain of the vivisection golem, defsukke, white termite, the queerbait, has been used by foreign English as theorem device for crowd manipulation. The doctrine they advance is a holy war play on the letters in Yoko Ono’s name that form the anthem of the Texas Schoolbook: Why, okay, oh! Oh, NO! With the Oh, no, being discovery of sin at the final accounting for which John Lennon’s span as King Druggy served with interest. The conquest of Jimmy Creary was like the taking of Pelham 123 and Jackie Onassis’ hand for the Bermuda Triangle. You’ve heard sad stories of people being attacked by crocodiles? What makes you think Crocodile Rock means anything different? Don’t you know what crocodile tears are? Carmen Colucci and Stylegate East were the outlets for the fashion of Elton's Caribou year. The year Ken Ferri put my glasses in peanut butter as I cried from confusion of a dangerous drug they battered me into letting them force feed me at a showing of starlet bar girls given Spanish Fly in a room with a pistol in a safe. Ringo Starr came out in favor of Gary Pitman.
All they had to do was spread the story that I wronged someone who seduced me in the no don’t way and then laugh it doesn’t matter, it’s the same thing as cudda saved John Lennon. If you don’t know their sociology program the art of hostage murder like the patch attack in Iowa won’t phase you.