Imagine a world where a black child, frightened out of their mind by torture at the hands of secret, unknown, KKK knightriders, wandering alone and confused on a back, country road is found and confronted, rather than rescued, by State Police shining extremely bright lights on her and the voices of the Officers is heard, “She must have done something terribly wrong.” So they set upon her in all due diligence.
Now imagine a world where this happens to a white liberal child tortured beyond all extreme horror and the NAACP say it is okay, even though the assassins were also the KKK. Why? Because that’s just how it is.
Cultural mayhem in America has a strange identifier in the idea that it comes as poetry in the legacy of black collusion in the most cowardly attack ever committed, named for the most cowardly man, John Lennon, promoting (and you must never dare say the truth about this apostle of enemy-ness against The First Amendment she claims as an exclusive dominion only for herself) his blood-sucking, crimson war bride, brought into prominence for a brutal and horrifying revenge attack by the Axis coalition on high, the unnameable one exulted as the seething insulter of our legacy and dignity, has risen on the putrid wings of the AIDS infamy to her vainglorious reign as Queen cadaver in the mortuary congress of the living dead found in the Romero script of Pitt, whose words she calls her treasure, her loyal orcs queuing, gnashing and bloodthirsty, poisoned all the more by the light of their idiotic confederacy with their own killers.
Before we discuss the odious military outcome of giving the AIDS attackers themselves all they wanted and what they wanted most: to take their own weapon and use it again in the name of the X-terminated, seething No Exit, as a sword of revenge for Hitler, in the name of his new Jews, panting to be taken by Donald Trump, King Traitor. The language of evil in this prose is theirs, as witness the High Priestess of Hate and Malediction, Diamonda Galas, with her swtichblade at the crossroads of the World Trade Buildings in N.Y. United We Stand, they gnashed in hideous delusion, raping and arsoning in the name of the Beatles. Unsatiated, they ghoulish congregate for more blood-drenched egomania, their tonic and addiction thanks to Adrian Belew and his illegal tapes for the Watergate sociologists, they called plumbers, his bird brain all men are friends but me backstab for the agency of mass murder.
To examine Trump takes little work, just turn to his Queen courier, Penis Gabriel, alive and well behind the doors of UW Medicine and confiscation, penny collection services, who medicine man’d Shannon Harps into a pretty little memorial park, all injun, a place to lay your quilt and cuzzle unto weezum that Holy Reagan didn’t know. Gabriel snickers that he proved the klan lesson that sex is greed. “Trust,” his filthy, bloated tongue elegantly vomits.
Suppose Andrea Swimmer, who made the carrot tape by extrusion tampering a vivisection victim of extremely sadistic trauma, working for advanced language manipulation vivisection high criminals at Carnegie Mellon and Warhol, while in the machine of the Neva Corporation whose murder papers the unnameable widow gloats over, fiendishly raking her claws, touting herself witch, mis-spell by police state mis-spell, had spread her lies and slanders about someone like Donald Trump or Bill Clinton, instead of a semi-comatonic Jimmy Creary, imagine the field day Bannon would have had at her expense, but ah, that is the whole point of the ledger.
Trump and Bannon reasoned through the liberal crybaby story with their list of historic grievance and laughed, let those who want this party, pay for this party, and singled me out. It was encrypted Don Ostro which is British spy parlance for Done Secret by King Crimson, his partners in atrocity and criminal sprees. These men of no guilt, compunction or shame attacked a deaf child blindside and lived to bray about it. They conjured the Alice in Wonderland of human rights from the 80’s Nobel Prize consortium around Havel’s friends in British publishing for the show on Mt. Desert Island, snickering, if he wants to live in Human Rights, let Creary accept the norm of tragedy in Burma as his payback. These crazies literally took a Distinguished Citizen of Poplar Bluff, a WW2 Naval Lieutenant, and a Governors School Poet and announced that because I believe I had earned a place in society that I should by law be subject to Native American genital mutilation.
They were just beginning, too. The British colonialists behind the AIDS attack, who had turned to their most delicious prey, re-conquest of the United States by glorifying the Kennedy Assassination for the rise of the unnameable widow, did not want music emanating from the educational vantage point my father held which Miles Kirshner meant by the too good principle. Since Ringo Starr is an exterminator periscoping me with the obsessive poison murder thrill kill fans he enveloped me by the perfidy of his evil must have a divine sanction and it does, the death of Lennon’s double anointed this deranged farce. MAK, Kirshner’s initials, was the brainstorm of papi-killing Mel Gibson in Westmoreland County, targeting for a nerve induced jealous seizure to all the more enjoy the spectacle of the Klan assassin slapping five with the NAACP in Pussyball over Midori Goto, while deaf Jeannie and I cried in humiliation at East/West Circuit Road of the Tribe.
Now they want the money. Ringo is overjoyed. He snuck up on me by laughing that it was an Amusement Park he put together, that he didn’t really mean it when they blew up the labs in glee for last licks, that didn’t really mean it when they United by 911, that they didn’t really mean it when they poisoned my mouth, myuh. The carnal rabbit of Oswald is out of the hat. They depredated through language with Neva robo-hypno prompts, chattering, I said quit before I blew him, hahaha, allowing neuro-linguistic probes of the plasm by Ultrahigh mission means, because klan rape lessons require NASA brainwave advances at the injection line.
Herbert Agar, one time editor of the Southern Review, was every bit as much my hero as he was John Kennedy’s, but there is some wonder in my mind why Kennedy’s admirers, who defend his estate as a billionaire, seethe with murder at the prospect of a deaf man being called a victim of insane crime mania? Agar united a theory of functioning socialism, Christianity and epic conservative-union common cause in the march of dignity between men. The killers scoped that, uploaded AIDS, killed him and said there ya go, get to work, you Marxoid man.