Afraid for my life, and traumatized into amnesia, lacking language skills, I opted for the high drama of King Crimson and just spent most of my high school years listening to them and writing poetry, winning a Governors School Scholarship and hitchhiking to St. Louis from Pittsburgh just to hear Fripp play on his human contact tour. I was anything but pushy, barely able to squeak out a hello to him. Yet he had come to America looking for a fan to example and identified me.
He set upon me as a brutal pimp, lying to my face, using me in horrific ordeals of war-gaming he dreamed up with his close personal friend Colin Powell. They drove me into homeless with teargas in my bedroom. I was screaming in convulsive arrest from reliving, vomiting out memories of having been tortured. They lied about what was happening, saying I was a harasser and set their mobscene on a dear, dear deaf girl who tried to help me. Jeannie was horribly raped outside her door in the morning going to work. These murdering pigs advertised their involvement in whole thing, sending me jeering letters like, “did they use a ball gag?” Why don’t you read something I’ve written about what happened. It’s not easy reading but it tells the truth about this hideous SADIST.
Among his cowardly, cowardly, cowardly acts was to get me chemically castrated through his alliance at Harborview Medical Center in Seattle where I had to go, thousands of miles from home, trying to get away from him. I know from long experience that Robert Fripp is dangerously crazy and that he is a key figure in the cardinal doublecross of the AIDS Onslaught. Do not be fooled by fascist arguments about Earth’s limited carrying capacity. They originate with the builders of super-highways scornful of our soil, demanding our gross national product for their drone wars.
The perverse Russian literature gone French Hollywood existential nausea of the simple reality that The Beatles were used as a media Trojan Horse to accomplish the AIDS Onslaught and make us a generation of Hitler’s Willing American Executioners has no saving grace. It is a backstab so deadly that the mind is shattered as though stepping out the door and finding oneself in end times. The mind of Paul McCartney is one of war, ennui and petty indulgence, with nothing to offer our sick society by way of wisdom or guidance except to sell out to the highest bidder and step on the weakest of the weak. The Beatles let millions of people die for their practical joke concerning Leslie Katz and the letters of Gail Burstyn. They set upon me wilding, with no remorse about the cruelty to the mind of a traumatized victim of child mutilation who had gone to them for help and been encouraged with ravenous facelies like Peter Sinfield’s vicious guttersnipe, “I love you, man.” They have called the screams of their victims a tonic, replenishing the vial of potion with the slasher homicide of Shannon Harps, a form of refreshment, laughing at it as therapy as though murder were love, rather than a sign of their sickening love of murder. Ringo Starr is President of the United States of Hate.
Don’t vote Hillary. Don’t call yourself represented and be ruled by these criminally vicious slime.
A key feature of the AIDS Onslaught, which was dramatically playwritten through the Warhol group aiding Will Zell and the child mutilaters who wrote the book of Burstyn, as they proceeded to Mt. Desert Island, was the widow, a corpulent Nazi bigwig named Yoko Ono, lording over youth sex culture while advocating for a New Age prank named Obama. The doofous faction led by Donald Trump don’t know anything. They pin the American Flag on their lapels as a substitute to caring a fig about our heritage and destiny. They have no grasp of the concerns that a person faced with a myriad of paradoxical situations in a cruel identity crime has to endure, and they were allowed to make a joke of a victim of torture. Listen to this, because it matters: There is nothing more piteous than a broken child, screaming in fear and pain, from ravenous betrayal in acts of war, being greeted by schadenfreude, and there is nothing more hideous to demand from the defeated by way of humiliation than to demand that such atrocity visited upon the minds of children be accepted by the parents, yet this is all the coward Fripp has to offer to the Post-Dispatch community for the friendship filled gesture of my hitchhiking from Pittsburgh just to hear him play in 1979. He castrated an American treasure over complete inventions known to trace to his violent sister’s attempts to make the book written by Lennon’s killers into a holy screed; complete inventions without trial, maniac allegations from the hardened syphilis of Bush coat-tail riders, jibbering of insults to Billy Graham and Frank Zappa.
The medical malpractice of Harborview Medical Center perfectly illustrates the traitor Gabriel’s package sale, knifing another completely innocent person, as part of his claim that Mt. Desert Island was just an “Experience Park” meant to enlist sympathy for the Buddy Program. Nobody balked. Nobody raised their hand to say: I have a question. Not even Kathy Hayford who lived with me in Montana, because it all comes from the mind of Beatles Paul.
Lewis Lapham of Harpers thought it was just great. He played like he was just being neat, that the role of a pimp is the proper and fitting place of a New York dandy in senescence marketing the tabloids of privilege. I paid with my wife. The AIDS lesson was in fact, to him, so Kennedyesque that how could he be faulted? Then, having done pimpery he saw it as within his right to castrate a deaf poet. Nothing cruel, nothing unusual. King Crimson’s jaw of evil has snatched innocence from its cradle, and so be it.
The British were determined to explode the AIDS Bomb and didn’t not care one bit about what was true or any such familiarity. When Beatles Paul called, plastic reality beckoned and the worms of our struggling Commonwealth would have to go. Who I am and what I had suffered meant nothing, only what he could make of me through cowardly, authorized, powerful lies. King Crimson turned on the juice with NSC powers klukkered through the cloak and dagger syndicates that are their viper domain. They made the most of vigorous deceits offered on campus by female chauvanists who wouldn’t be caught dead with a deaf poet. Nor did they care a whit about the murder of Martin Luther King or what they were doing with his name by outrageous, and deranged extremist experimentation going well beyond research into the ungodly realm of Nazi vivisection, and you stood by snickering, Hitler’s willing American executioners.
Just as there is nothing more terrible than the mind of a child shattered with fear, betrayal on the highest level cannot be remedied. The French tried shaving the heads of women, as Patricia Fripp’s head should be shorn. They used Amnesty International for rape, murder and torture, as a vile tribune to lie for the AIDS Combine. They sneered that a hostage was guilty as written by a nest of assassins, a traumatized child, was guilty due to the transference of being written into a script that they were given all they needed to show was going on, because Beatles Paul prefered it that way, prefered to work with Lennon’s killers than admit the truth.
The Rolling Stones are coming to Pittsburgh as dogs of war, to show off their pukey little lives once again before a brain-damaged mob of drunks lost in the hopeless idiocy of empty lives seeking fulfillment by a moment of black color. It will give American STASI workers like Scott Mervis a chance to prance about a little bit, having embellished the deed with the sum of his flattery. The scorn for human rights, the kill a rival mentality of his sickening newspaper wouldn’t be able to explain the situation to themselves much less to malicious, foolish children like you.
After 30 years of isolation to think about all of it again and again, I can tell you for a fact that they didn’t find the script, those British, they wrote it, it was done by child mutilaters acting out a thrill kill in cunning. Africa was a covered base, thanks to the token corporate politics of David Geffen. Real people do not matter to them. American history was mocked at them with the poison spit of Adolf Hitler, demanding Apology from a groveling little boy to the sanctimonious and sneering self-made widow Ono, with brave little Aaron Dixon lurking in the shadows calling castration clemency for not having AIDS.