I realize that supposedly I’m just Jimmy Creary, but who can accept being chemically castrated over their beliefs? The City of Seattle bears the brand of responsibility for luring me there after torture and the rape of my loved one, professing to be offering sanctuary and advocacy when in reality they lay in wait with more of the same. It is to be noted that this drastic punishment took place under Obama after a long feud with his moneybag Geffen Corporation over that they hypnotized a neuroplasm to espouse an aggressive impulse during consensual sex as though such hush money giants as Bill Clinton have no real concept of rape, which was never the real issue, but consummation of their cover story and conjob for Mt. Desert Island, an AIDS testing war game proving AIDS manmade because premeditated.
Obama is the issue. Just as Lyndon Johnson had demanded the NAACP endorse the war in Vietnam defending the honor of the Vichy French who Ho Chi Minh chased out in return for the Civil Rights Act, Bush knew that Black Americans didn’t really love Martin Luther King, and don’t really care much about human rights, much less Africa. They just wanted a Black Mr. President for their egos. Rev. Jesse Jackson and John Lewis the both of them shut their eyes and cheered Obama’s cut throat agreement to promote a fantasy about me to cover for AIDS being manmade. Is it The Promised Land, Mr. President, where Faust, or Citizen Kane, if there is any precedent at all for you, turns their back on the cries of Dachau while advancing business as usual? Our sad mortal lives are over faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Do you really believe the cynics who save our morals are meaningless in the eyes of God, which do not really in any event behold your invisible legacy? Do you simply believe the telluric currents of Brian Eno can settle accounts with history as easily as they stop the hysterics of the Hit Factory when their uteruses start floating over Lennon? Are you truly agog with the vespers of Hitler’s Merlin?
It is not from his art that one is shocked and disappointed to learn that Peter Gabriel is Jack the Ripper, and that the slasher murder of Shannon Harps fulfilled another necessary deceit in the web of the unidentified registered nurse at Harborview Medical Center who pinched my heart with an unneeded medicine, leading me down the road to diabetes and beyond. Orchestrations of this sort permeated his realm of dark and morbid calling in costume change psychosis of glamour rock. It is his politics, his shedding of the demonic for Amnesty International, his call of mourning for Steven Biko that make the yammering of his dacoits for Hitler’s Merlin so sad.
For cold-blooded serial killers to hide their true face in politics they have to have a gimmick, and sure as eggs is eggs, Gabriel has one. If Jimmy can’t tell about his delinquencies, he muses with a sneer, then there’s no reason for London to issue timely warning to the at-risk about the manmade origins and plan behind AIDS. Telling that story is a hard job. The University of Pittsburgh refused to publish my dearly loved father’s long lost autobiography, “Root ‘n Oop, Here Come the Glozier,” about growing up in Cedar Rapids, because they thought its comic tone would compromise his reputation as an educator. They have lorded over my attempts to get help as though dragging me by the foot around the basement of Lene Langer’s house after taking me to Last House on the Left.
It’s important to understand some things about Hillary Clinton’s rhetoric in the matter, coldly asserting that the only thing which stands between me and prison is that people don’t really know what I did as a child, that none of what happened, even on their terms, which are dark with police society libels, had a snake eyes chance of getting much more than a stab in the showers of Shuman Center. Being knocked out in the backseat of a stolen car in the presence of adult huns would not have landed me in Warrendale. This feud with the Pinkertons doesn’t add up. Any intern in child psychology would be able to adduce at once that my insane laughter through horrifying tears was some sort of bulbar syndrome caused by insanely cruel beatings. What gives that Yoko Ono can engineer the stabbing of a girl with the initials S & H to underscore the street law of Aaron Dixon over Chris Cook’s testimony that I helped him steal Green Stamps from a neighbor? Robert Fripp places me offering towards the bra line of Aspinwall Carrie over the seat of Billy Gutendorf’s hotrod borrowed from the neighbor of Debbie Pugliesi whose neighbor conveniently left the keys in the door for little Jimmy to see.
What do you expect Tom Ridge and Pennsylvania State Police to make of that in light of the circumstances? The horrific beatings, the brain-damage, the macabre presence of Mark Mancine taking me Cannibal Girls, Deep Throat, Climax One before I had turned 14, while his friend Don Ostro cannibalized my psyche by forcing me in tears to take things I’d never heard of, while his Gay friends Ron talked about defecating in the holes of hideous dead mercenaries photographed by Larry Flynt from Soldier of Fortune for Huster’s Supreme Court defense. Lewis Lapham of Harpers called Flynt in defense of Ostro and Mancine to prosecute Ward Moore’s grandson over this? I was in tears of unspeakable trauma! Then they delivered me, thirteen years old to a mysterious woman on Black Street who used me for her sex toy, barely conscience from their fell ethers, at one o’clock in the morning. The Pittsburgh Police have always gotten a good laugh out of that one. When Michael Reagan really wants a good howl, after issuing Peter Gabriel’s brutal ultimatum for extrusion of every intimacy, he forces me to cry again about being bukkake’d by the Jews he overzealously defends as they made me scapegoat in their Japanese offer of rejection at the age of nine.
The weird cruelty of Japan absolute permeates the entire hideous rendering of what Paul McCartney’s imagines to be the Greatest Story Ever Told. Reagan proceeded to suffocate, test, blame, embellish, control and humiliate the liberal queerbait for all they were worth in the name of Gutendorf, braying how lovely the story written by the murderers of King and Lennon really were, and how it’s tall rendering would grace Granger Morgan’s estate klan protecting the Onos at Carnegie Mellon. The Police Code of Two Virgins Pussyball clocked to the AIDS Onslaught and war on liberalism was so grimly soothsayer’d by McCartney that the Beatles brutally murdered people to deter testimony about the lies covering for Zell on Mt. Desert Island, hissing at me if I talked I would only get myself in trouble.
Come ahead, Nordenberg.