While King Crimson playacts being capable of Green River Murderer style contrition, we need a reality check on their devious and mad hatter criminality. J.R.R. Tolkien and Frank Herbert, wherever you position those two writers in your pros and cons, both dealt with the sugar sounding but effluvient tongues of faceliars. Herbert had men press a fist to their ear as a ward, while Saruman’s ministrations held his victims enthralled to the silky voice of supplication beckoning them to slavery. King Crimson sided with Ringo Starr in atrocity and will be buried in the spirit of Bitberg-Belsen, no condemnation too severe, no moralizing too grave. If a wreath from Reagan brings them comfort, well and good. To allow them one degree of cold comfort will find them re-emerging like a Baalrog, appetites whetted by the screams of devoured children, and for nothing will they stop. From the moment you wake up and see them for what they are, grant them in your heart no reprieve.
The politics of their attack have been made obvious by their selection of prey and their creepy insidiousness in mishandling of their treasured victim, in an atrocious act of murder by rock star. The paradigm they have created is the idea that my entitlement to my own name is a Capital offense. This had everything to do with the human rights stance of my father in a city with a parochial chain gang engaged in an illegal war. Symbolically I was the heir apparent to a whole school of thought. Successful people begin to believe themselves exemplars of extremism. In my case, they came shopping for an example. A child was mutilationed by a gang directed by a cruel, hard-boiled, millionaire sickiopath, and that was just the beginning. No truth will ever stop them.
They led me to believe that I was loved. It was a defining moment for the arsonists in Reagan’s thrill kill cult and led to a death camp. From watching the Beatles I have learned the most destructive lessons there are about power and impunity, and about the sadism that nursed the birth of atrocity. Peace they say to the dinner guest they mean to cannibalize.
Partly because I am deaf, brain damaged dreams still inform my heart with the power of motivation. It is hard to break the spell of ethers that consume you in the night. For the last twenty five years, where my manhood evaporated in a dungeon of slanders attending King Crimson’s ferocious and unprovoked identity crime, I have slave labored (on some invisible level, which the ravenous pig in King Crimson jeers is all I am entitled to), I fear fading like a firefly light maybe thinking subconsciously that the truth would bring her back, but Rosa was never about the truth. She was about avenging Hitler. She knew what she was doing and lied through the teeth. She was the lead partner of Gail Burstyn, Midori Goto’s female Oliver North. I know my readers don’t credit the big names, but if you can’t stand the smell of the pig sty, get out of the country.
Ultrahigh is a crime illegal to report. It has no shame. The malice and evil of their rabid eccentricities comes over loud and clear. From the 911 attack we learn of Orwell’s utility to those who landgrabbed Ayn Rand’s name, whose protagonist bombed his own building, but it is the Sisters of Mercy underworld who gave the signal to Timothy McVeigh. The ghoulishness of the bad boy scene is a hunger for the scarlet harlequins of the church brothels in poverty row. They were playing kill the man with the ball with the head of little Jimmy Query. True to form the rabid foreign stacked his ledger with a woman named Sin D Rue D.
The faith nerve they stroked when MisterRogers gave lurid cover to the AIDS attack was perfume leading to their furnace. Richard McGarvey spoke openly of using, “sympathetic vibrations” to supply a vivisection guinea pig. They also spoke openly of brutalizing, and pounding the queerbait into what they called a “gaseous paint chamber” in a “lifelong project” and then the murdering pigs in King Crimson, covering for these Guttersnipes, stole the evidence and had it destroyed along with a letter from Martha Gellhorn. How despicable can you get? I would like to see the United States exercise some self-reflection and second guess their mortifying alliance with the loathsome foreign English.
Speaking for child rapists to the guzzling consumers, all licky-chops, they were our lies, Yoko Ono sneers, and we own them. The Beatles were behind Reagan’s suspension of the U.S. Constitution. They resorted to insane brutality to cover for insane brutality. They made soothing noises on the road to the slaughterhouse, a double entendre in a war game of double meanings. And of course the pimps, forever Catholic, wriggled their nostril finger for the juveniles with their guitars.
The strategy of the assassins was built on a collider model intended to spotlight rejection trauma in such a way as to render its poignant suffering as if sissy and evil, leading to the disturbed judgment that raping an innocent deaf girl was suitable punishment for admirable restraint. While they decreed and invented horrible ordeals to brutally punish casting a shadow of doubt on the idea that Reagan was framed, Fripp’s necessary evil, Thos. Gordon, conjured one of those Dartmouth situations at Harvard concerning date rape, which is all the bellowing ogre Richard Starkey needed to refract his insane, slanderous fantasies onto me. Reporting the discrepancy in their action program was set upon by a flock at Carnegie Mellon identifying themselves as Nazi Feminists and Lesbian Avengers, for telling on them is a macro-aggression against celebrity voodoo.
One of the Sisters of Mercy took my pen away and when I requested its return, she jabbed me with it. This speaks eloquently of their style of plan disguised as a verdict. This cliff-hanger ending is sacrosanct provided you conclude as they claim that Mt. Desert Island was just a game from a deranged and evil fantasy charimastic in hives over this or that, but on the day you realize that what you have been forbidden to give due consideration, the truth, is the truth, and that those who released AIDS have been rubbing our faces in it with the full blessings and intelligence services of England is the day the slashering of Shannon Harps becomes an AIDS jabber’s free-for-all. What does Sean Strub care? Gail Burstyn already can’t believe she pulled this off. They even chose a Miss Universe with her genetic flares.
The Bible bullet for poetry and Oklahoma Federal came from a sleight of hand code named Evangelia Karmas to rig perception that those who started AIDS are the avengers. The double meaning of A.T.S. who lured me to the sexual trap of hypnosis authored by Bard College for sexual interrogation of neurotrauma where screams of pain are diagnosed as threats and withdrawing from consensual sex is despised as defiant trespass, back when they were calling themselves: He’s Dead, Jim, spells out the double meaning of the malicious farce: ATS ~ Above Top Secret / Artificial Tears Solution. Tell them I cried, Muskie, he said with a laugh, heard all the way to Telluride.
Gays loyal to the Golden Temple of McCartney cheered the own assassins while they used me for Operation: Glad I’m Not You, to which ends the victims of 911 and Shannon Harps also stood in the stead of cowhooves for the gnawers. Braying of his largesse Pete Sinfield shoved his power and influence down everyone’s throats by crowing that overpopulation shuddna never even happened, illustriously repaying the Faith Nerve by a vomitbag attack on the right to marry. They mocked the clerk by his dream of a wife. How droll for someone who barely escaped being burned alive in an alley to omoja Mrs Dumpling.
Naturally, the humbug pertains to protecting sources, anonymous creeps, engaged in a childish betrayal all heaped up in a political aggression, heralds of anonymity. To make a putrid joke of one battered child and our right to know laws they claim that I tried to hide from insane mistreatment in an adolescent mask of cool. A child who just doesn’t know who to trust. They let AIDS spread far and wide, literally spooking the horses to self-destruction, subordinating every human drama past and present, to their ridiculous occult claim of insight into mass coping mentality. They hotwire little football codes into their online mentalplex as gyrations, like the TV episode of “In the Heat of the Night” about a man spreading AIDS knowingly, they simply shrugged and said they own the lies.
From Donald Ostro to Donaldo Gulligan they immobilized the victim like a spider stinging a fly with misinformation, and they want the knowledge cloistered, but of course, convened in mirth by those to whom it matters least, and that’s the bag of sand you got in return for the once glorious lighthouse of public education.
You should have heard Michael Reagan laugh.