No sooner is the truth recounted regarding John Lennon’s authorship of the letters found in the AIDS attack named Gail Burstyn (his little Nicola) then all the available scholarship and research covering the plan disappears as though a magical act as astounding as failure to arrest her has once again been performed. Lennon died, they weep with hidden smirks, I am told again and again and again, so that the Elders, great teachers, could induce a spacious vision of empathy among victims. Performance by the aggressors is to be applauded and all review disdained.
Yet in my hostage plight at the power of the film company flourishes by scenario and arrangement narrative contradicting the voodoo opulence of Obama’s spitball psychology against the designated white devil of the work. Like a clowniac in Ku Klux Klan plumage, Obama attends his own Bohemian Grove, where he is feathered in the secret warbonnet of a mighty African chieftain avenging the totemic against a pale white thing.
When I was in Philadelphia many years ago a black man who knew nothing about me positioned himself across the bus and stared at me until I was made uncomfortable at which he said, admittedly more sadly than menacingly, “you are everything I hate in the world.” Since this is possible, it commends itself to British strategy.
Further we now know that Pentagon Disney, who only reveal a fraction of their shocking abilities, is firmly in the hands of Paul McCartney’s Liars Club, Queen Elizabeth’s investments, Kennedy’s assassins, acid rock gaslighters, and sniveling gofers from the Gurdjieff cult noteworthy for expressions like, “In Search of the Miraculous.” In the hands of quisling directors like Oliver Stone and grand spectacle maniacs like Mel Gibson, you laugh off the certain proof that Lennon staged his own murder in an Agatha Christie seance about extermination under the nuclear shadow.
But why? The text of his last record confirms it and appears with a Burstyn double in signifier body language in a film from Ayn Rand whose fantasy was to spirit away the impressarios of the elite to secret enclaves of paradise, the wonders of Marlon Brando and Laurel Gulch. It was just logistically just a repeat of Adolf Hitler’s escape to Argentina, and the bond in fact is itemized in their play.
MK was used to describe a tagteam of attacked (K) a slave trafficker clocking the hostage of a child, the designated deaf white suck of terr;rapin’station, to dismemberment by Black mafia sadism setting up the final blow by (M) Midori Goto in vice pussyball eugenics, a frenzy of Allah.
Behind all the revealing lies, telltale pretzels, agent stalk bot generators, and truly deranged acts of infamy, another pepper on the brain scrawls the truth like the finger from the belly of the possessed: the depraved, intimate ravages visited on me in childhood bore the same fingerprints of character, hideousness and mean spirit that the vigilantes of the staged and bogus intercept did, enveloping me while I still believed them. Don’t make the same mistake. Our society is gullible enough as it is.