In the 1980’s (when AIDS started) a ruthless British disciplinarian with musical gifts named Robert Fripp began ingratiating himself to military authorities with the sort of gifts (girls in cakes) you would expect from the guru of Swami Nostra running errands for Bowie and The Rolling Stones, their slippery tongues charming the streets of Detroit.   He also went on a tour of malls shopping for victims to example to his cult of pain psychology.   Posturing as a scrivener of checks and balances, he brought with him an arsenal of bank detectives with bludgeons determined to smoke out and destroy any leaks about shadowland.  In Pittsburgh, me and my girlfriend, like exquisite ukiyo-e that went up in smoke in a Hiroshima museum, were brutally raped and tortured by his Edukators.   In Seattle, his therapists ripper-murdered Shannon Harps to death.  Sharp as an angel at his harp, the coward Fripp gloated when his rioters cheered all of the above.  He announced this new normal as a new age of Weird America, the New Invisible Empire.   

     In the AIDS attack, the authors, led by Ringo Starr, the most cross-eyed double-crossing foaming beard in the history of bird deposit fascism, held the reins of jugular loyalty, a new Roman trust of laundered drug money from around the world, keen at their lisp of smear.

      It is futile to reason with Seattle queers.  They bray against stigma without a shred of comprehension concerning its opposite:  dignifying.  They pout of truth, lie after lie.  It’s sad because of how viperous their retaliation to scorn, the only honest emotion left after bitter disappointment in them.  Watching them pisschrist themselves in bad anarchy as a reaction formation to authoritarianism from the Camazotz of Trump is deadly to the record book.  They took themselves as a souvenir to hell right at the beck and call of their killers.  The instigation behind this cowardly attack has no remorse and although they are the target group, do not leave it to them to tell the tale, and do not leave it to the NAACP or Green Party to record the historic significance of Barack Obama.

      I don’t mean to ruin my work today, but I have a Penis snippet.  Underlying the dogma in the insane and trashy mind of Penis Gabriel is a semi-truth he furiously utters from the corner of the carpet he chews.  Absolutely driven to humiliate a Pittsburgh Public School child, he seeths that fear, all-knowing, is the mother of violence.  What a bumpersticker head, but revealing.  Fear of Crary led the Beatles to target and deafen me as a little boy.

      The CIA did not just push LSD on the counter-culture.  They came up with the label counter-culture for what they privately specimened in their antidisestablishmentarianism greedhouse effect.   They wrote their songs demanding drug slavery, as they held our sisters down in the barn as they cried out no, and if this were not true their child rustler attorney bonanza would not spark Mr. Dibarno as their lead man in the thrill kill.  The Confederacy slovens of the New Invisible Empire, licky chops, ordered well we’ll save that one there for the good kind of black.  It is of course incumbent upon me to demonstrate the proper civility as a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic.

       Now, I’m not making a speech here:  if you’re reading, you’re reading.  I want to explore this Pennsylvanian notion of schadenfreude (malicious gloating) at work in the laundered money shell game of financial aid for the war machine frat boys in office.  Dia’s old man, of Rydal, had an optic nerve tumor.  Karel was a quite a sweet fellow even after the lobotomy.  The man who came over and mocked him in his own kitchen as sounding like a Bolshevik, one of the barbarians from the Camazotz of Donald Trump, turned out to be his surgeon.   This follows black dog research from the refrigerators of Wattenmaker into the slimy pathway left by a mystery in the resume of Mt. Desert Island’s Caspar Weinberger, being why he studied mental retardation before entering War Secretary status for HitlerReagan.

      They brain-damaged me to train the parrot.  Outside the mansion where Elizabeth, flavored with the scent Gabriel, too, favors, p-coat sister of Rubin, the Neva star lookalike from the family synagogue of Gail Burstyn (Susan Klein) stood Ed Sauerwein hollering at us kids, “I’m Roy Rogers!” and the only person in the city willing to teach me sign language, after seizures and homelessness, was a Korean orphan brought into the matrix by the U.S. Military, living downwind, where she was raped in Operation:  Evangelia Karmas, from Leslie ole Katz, the pretext belli of WQED and Obama.  The New York Times enjoys the fifth dimension through Carnegie Mellon, eagerly turning Kennedy assassination scripture into their auto-kismet.

        My mother was very protective under her Union instructions:  watch very carefully and make sure that Jimmy doesn’t understand anything, holler him silly, because if he were to, Nancy, we would have to kill him.  I understand, she said shyly.  Strange ideas were taken for cool by Hendrix calling the Axis: bold as love, and Gil Scott Heron’s the revolution will not be televised, but recruiting muscle was going on in the celebrity superstate to bring the good kind into the umbrella of the New Invisible Empire.   Offered a piece of the action, they saluted the tricks of the trade.   By sneering don’t ask, don’t tell about the genocide, the New Confederates, racially inclusive, don’t hafta explain not arresting the script writers and keeping off record their persecution of a testifying witness.  The accusation of gibberish comes down from the Billy Graham alliance with London’s Royal Family on the tonsil of Youssou N’dour’s Senegalese yammer, affirming the script and lies of Gail Burstyn, his partner.  All of which is parsed from the record of the revolution by the New Invisible Empire that doesn’t need to explain itself, neither.

      Doing violence to thought processes is so loud and clear a part of their political dimension that they didn’t even mind leaving the facial nerve scars of brutal poison crime and child hostage on their disfigured dummy.   Mother called my grampa Mac from the same racial stock as Harry Truman and this gives keen insight into Eugenic Yojimbo, a crime of shadow boxing that the NAACP cover up with Neely Fuller’s doctrine of compensatory coding, hiding the Pussyball war game, an outrage of collusion between the good kind.   Robert Fripp is exactly the sort of person his partner John Stockwell complained of in George Schultz who bragged of taking action on the basis of suspicion alone without proof that would stand up in court.  Fripp preposterously accused a guitar student across the room of causing another student to drop his guitar by smirking.   This is the douchebaggery of the empath lout selling his mind boggling status as arch Tartuffe of victim compense through slaughterhouse medicine.

        The artist-ocrats of the New York Times know nothing of Japanese savagery as they announce Yoko Ono’s revenge against who Riback called the puppet of the fire.   Godfather, they claim, was only a movie.   Saul Astor was a police scientist who would scoff at the idea of non-violent civilization because he held forth that everything was a struggle of thieves to control what they have stolen.  This is pertinent to the story of Saul Brecher and Charles Aston in this dog-earred tale of Pittsburgh, because Aston took me to see Cabinet of Dr. Caliguri and Night of the Living Dead, only to have Caliguri replaced with a Charlie Chan, much as his teamer in smear Penny Crary told me that Antonio Santelli was none other than Jose Greco.  Meanwhile Abiri Ali put together the alibi for the former Cassius Clay, a celebrity superstate Caligula of the New Confederacy working with Fripp and Reagan on the plan, of course, that’s not being sufficiently servile as a paranoid schizophrenic to mention.

        Like the empaths selling mass murder as strategic psychology and a matter of twisted high fives between gurglers in the barbershop of hate criminals, those who adopted this sinister farce auctioned in on the Kennedy debate, dramatizing attempts to make Jim Garrison look sordid by planting homosexual deviants in public bathrooms he frequented with photographers outside.  Oliver Stone had no trouble dramatizing that shenanigan because he is expert as the salesman of the stigma and schadenfreude that dignifying would disallow.   Dibarno, Kirshner and Snyder did not have to recruit Penis Gabriel, he was no Johnny come lately.  His raz ma taz may come over as a lucid foreigner’s high minded parade of the hatter, but his explanation for the street war in his princely corn-pone of the song Epping Forest is right from the Texas Schoolbook, in phantasm translation, on exhibition for spoiled children who don’t know what they really wanted, just like his pen name:  Gail Burstyn.