They say I loved too much, but I loved gently.
There are good reasons I did not believe that Mr. Fripp and petergabriel would do what they have done with impunity in shocking brutality beyond police and Reagan, much less torment me in the heart through a home invasion of Rosine Monteleone, although perhaps this is not the place to rehearse the reasons. Their perspective on the Burstyn letters are said secretly to gravely overshadow my human drama, much as the despicable Ringo consecrated the Kelly School incident forgery in foaming beard portfolio with the assassins as a wedge to transfer blame.
Look briefly at how sure they are in their complicated gobblery. People who are jealous are no fun. It is impious to the spiritual legacy of John Lennon, Beatlesquish par excellence fiefdom, under occupational warlord Penis Ono. That’s flat. They had them queuing up from the feminist sisterhood, all the sagelings and hierophants, I wanna testify about queerball. “No Drama,” was added to apartment listings. To say one word, One Word! To the contrary was to be decreed infidel by notorious syphilitic AIDS Mao Youssou N’dragon.
The joke’s on me and Shannon Harps. Sacrosanct is the most potent Machiavellian snake oil of Bosk. The illusion that anything that is was meant to be contrasts down from Prince Charles’ the snifter nazgul’s machine of Godlaw and his partnership in epidemic with Gregory Karl and John Schulman to deride the fringe argument that healing is surrender to a fait accompli.
Riddle me this they proclaim in triumph of Gail Burstyn, whose victory screed rubbed out many famous liberals in the name of Reagan didn’t know, so there, whilst her brethren of the Crimson hive fanged unglorious in the sci-mal of malice.
WARNING DELAYED IS WARNING DENIED.
What was there so about the East/West Circuit Road Mystery that cancelled out on the public’s right to elementary issues of safety and protection? Ego politics of the hypocritical. Our society has come to live in a fear of narrative. It is no exaggeration to say that the beatles are the mothership of the AIDS attack. You will notice that the truth about what befell me never worked to protect me from their myriad and devastating, unprovoked abuses. Their grueling deception was wired so that any expose of their slanders and felony hate crimes was countered by ignition, through power media of issues categorized alphanumerically to erase dissent built on interrogation by torture of a neuroplasm they hypnotized in an attempt to create neuroplastic pseudo-reality, engulfing me in seizures, working me 24/7 in homelessness without the slightest compensation, played against ferocious malpractice dirties.
In their cold-blood they crowed that I was not the Jimmy they knew. What Jimmy was that? The Jimmy in shock beyond the vomit of holocaust tears? Who could be driven insane with neurobedience to brutal vultures? Who would smile on cue, like a puppet if they said they wouldn’t hit him? Being beaten mercilessly the English sub-louts jeered was learned self-loathing. It’s so serious that foreign England and the Pittsburgh Police newspaper juveniles have to keep making it worse, non-negotiable, for HitlerReagan, holding out the mailed fist of delusion for Truth and Reconciliation, the truth they leer is their Hollywood forgery, impacted by neuroplastic, hostage, deranged false witness, and sordid, nightmares of identity crime. No one has ever seen a vile act this torrential and lifelong in history. To browbeat this carcinogenic mindset, they evoke Indian treaties, slavery and Manson hoping to normalize child mutilation atrocity as they poo-poo.
Only Pittsburgh wouldn’t cry, Pittsburgh, that is and the Germanic sloven Ringo.
Ringo has taken his place with Somoza while syphilitically crowning himself a Crimson King. A wheedle, he derfs ho the British snickering spies of a ravenous gargoyle. Our societies grasp is so limited that Berlin Alexanderplatz, one of the only books with a shred of character, is not even in print or available.
The very demeaning civics of Seattle, heaped with the gobblers of wobbly wish fulfillment, the self-abusers strut, the Queer professionals in hospitals who castrated me in mirth, were an extension of Prince Charles’ partnership with a Billy Club that ravaged a deaf child and then drooled his carnivorous leer upon the screens of cyber invasion. His pignazi Amanda Harcourt, of verminous Ayn Rand cult fame, authored a brutal obscenity to shatter the record books. This pilfering psychopath loutishly hooked her teeth into the art of sophistry so quaint and yet familiar to those rended by the obscure and amok falseface of penergabriel, the gobbler of heapery, facelying as she went.
With the bluster of Mussolini and Al Capone, she High Dophin’d that lust wasn’t good for the soul, and a lusty soul like mine was broken in the marriage bed by the deceit of lowly prostitution arrive with a Hollywood tongue. Tortured into a state of trauma so profound it was neurobedient catatonia, schooled by death threats, deadly toxins, beatings without number and mockery so ethnic they spelled it out to amuse the EnglishGermans, lynching from within the courthouse walls without trial by whisper, with money passing hands from the Judge’s purse, constituting conspiracy to ruin, to void civil rights, to reinstitute the 13th Amendment and to prove it valid by a hyenas online ravenously gibbering at the laughingstock whose heart thuds from malpractice, the corruption mad politics of Oliver Stone. Something just went wrong with everybody, all the pent up scofflawry of someone Lennon was set loose like Nuns in an orgy. It would have helped if someone, anyone, would have just had the humanity to see through it and say something, but not even Kathy Hayford would disobey the criminal McCartney.
It is in its way nothing less than the revenge of the institution of school for being reported by someone they maimed. No one to read it, no one to care, no one to send me flowers on the brink of an early grave, only the incessance of the rabid, and their enthralled lopers, a lynch jury in trance, easily manip’d.
Rosine Monteleone was instrumental in casting the neuroplasm as rape phenomenon. It was a serious crime of premeditation. At one point, deaf, in shock, with no hearing aids, I spent an entire month homeless with no money and no identification. Loneliness allows them to pry by cyber-means in ways to fuel the prurient leer, calling me a two-timing impressario for favoring a cover girl over Midori, the FBI and King Crimson are slapping five at the barbershop of pedophile jesters, high and proud of their craven experiment in the voiding of the social contract, lisping at me as pussyball Jimmy. You understand we may in fact be seeing the seedy ungarments, the shameful syphilis, of Queen Elizabeth herself?
Gabriel was beside himself with ravenousness. He conjured album after album, spend on by the juicy remorselessness of the humiliation he had in store. Sex perks, he laughed, for being the guinea pig, the puniness of the erstwhile walrus. The jealousy pretext was unleashed with complex gobblery by the corpulent Sir Paul the Putrid and whipped on by King Crimson’s jealousy their own. The most sickening amusement attends those charged with pedantically droning that I should get on with my life, put it behind me, at age 54, unable to copy my own text, enshadowed by the lie that America is a nation of laws. In his Nazi humors Gabriel unplugged me abruptly from high voltage lovemaking in which the neuroplasm was gasping with the prospect of healing, to watch the strangulation of dead matter in coma caustically snipe at my better judgment, making me crazy with suffering. Do not beg me, she hissed. He did it to watch the seizures, the Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the dissociation, to relish the spectacle of backknife infamy. The parochial savage had himself a pork barrel party.