What Sort of Village Does It Take?

Dec. 4, 2017

Mac Crary


       Those impressed in Germany by the decree in war shortage that the bullet is worth more than the Jew are widespread type in America, often awed between the nature of reality and First Amendment.   Murder, in fact, is a popular Genesis stage production.   Nobody is torn by what it all means.   The replacements allowed by assassination have been too exquisite.   The people didn’t know what they really wanted before.   The Kennedy assassinations were a branch of manifest destiny.   This evolves into the doctrine of closest continuer offered up by Harvard Law Professor John Rawls, in his search for the walrus.   


     The authenticity of the hidden hands of the police state should not be confused with counterfeit simply because they are Confederate.   Their currency is an old bitcoin called might makes right.   Far from being merely MK-Ultra, the entire cast of the original Broadway Musical HAIR appeared to have known in advance about the AIDS attack.   That’s hard to short-change for authenticity.   There is, of course, another explanation, a little out of vogue for being kept off-record:  Justified Self-Deception.   


      The fact that Lennon patriots have claimed responsibility for the 911 demotion and anthrax is writ large in the stiletto pose struck by Dia Galas outside the Twin Towers.   Notably, her namesake Dia Douwes, who used the same refrains as Gail Burstyn when nattering with me, called me to announce Lennon’s stage exit when he put out Double Fantasy.   Doubles aren’t the language of dissent, but of treason.   His secretary Harcourt wrote to me in British announcement of the war game, “it must be the season of truculent machines,” which she tipped me to de-crypt as “the treason of succulent machines,” a Gabrielism about a parallelogram they were building as advocates for a child mutilationist that sex hungry women preferred.  A man they dubbed, “Caspar.”


         Queers in Seattle leered with gloat at the idea.   Omoja a situation in World War Two where the bomb was smuggled to the  Gestapo fiends and dropped on London, why, the critters were just playing, having fun, not that a great victory was handed to the aggressors but my why rather myuh an infinite perversity had been achieved, because people are weird, oh my, bygones.  The raptures of divine syphilitics had been fulfilled.   They are the victims, not of the aggressor lobby, but the notion of innocence that preys on their minds.   


        The  Zappas put together a casino wolfpack.   Paul McCartney is to blame for World War Three.  His pimps, like Spike ole Lee, who didn’t personally do a fig for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, think the money leeched from a deaf poet will save the world with an Oliver Stone film promoting Leslie Sanetta as an Honorary Black Panther; well, not really, but that’s what they say.   It’s the principle of the thing they yammer in Senegalese.   A trap was built and a child birthed into it for high manipulation from afar.  Oh, tragedy, myuh.  Unlike James Watts, Secretary of the Interior for Reagan, who liked to showcase his office cripple for public relations, the Beatles showcase theirs in order to normalize mutilation criminal offenses they call therapy.   We all knew it was a joke, they mutter now, we don’t know why we couldn’t stop ourselves.


       All of this speaks very badly of them, but they have other mind about it.  These trusted cousins who can do no wrong, laugh it up about the scuttling of JFK in a decoy police operation uploading a preferential set.   They are Mrs. Haversham, why they are, and scuttling the great expectations of our nation as wise owls, they set about like the great monarch and Asian King who takes a lovely from her Buddhist betrothed and helps her find her real womanhood as he weeps, oh poor queerbait.   An English isn’t second fiddle if the lead be dead.  No there is no double fantasy enough for the true King of Allah to play second fiddle.   Let’s not have these pretender.  Never crowd the one and only.


      The British are very picturesque people.   Taking a child and ripping its head open for the incredible two-headed transplant while barking who is the malefic ghost now dogeyes?  Brought together every brand of hoodlum out to achieve the ultimate grade of moral integration by sex tat.   Fraud impinged on the persona’s experience like the Outer Limits taking control of your television set.   The symphony of contempt was a divine prerogative.   Taking a somebody who was in hypnotic coma suggestion and defeating the subconscious into doubt about the contents of a captive imagination, the morphology of Mel Gibson went to work rendering the plastic amorphous to caustic commentary, extruded by their hold of sincerity.  I suggest you worry.  It’s a tactic of sale.  They weren’t fooled, that’s just their fallback position.


       The malicious plan of SONY, where Tive with his partner Sinfield liked Madame Sarah Bernhardt, for the swindles of latter day virgin swine, held me in bondage from my whole life forward to a Hitlerian gesture of criminality from the so-called Arts.  Illustrating what they claim is the abridgement of free speech by intentionally random misconstruction with deadly results, the PA Bar announces their proof that the pen should be used with twice the caution of the sword, yes, they murdered again announcing a past kill being avenged. Whose turn is next when it’s always British Labor?  How do we know it was a mercy killing?   You can be sure if it’s Amnesty International.