The Ironic Curtain

News blackout causes things that are clear, relevant, useful and informative to assert themselves as indescriptive ironies. Hoodwinkers, of which the British are talents rare, assure us they are mere ironies, not much worthy of note, that we may the more muse on them without the allowance of understanding. I always hold that blackout exists to obstruct true understanding. True things assert themselves as ironies when the truth is withheld, but being indescript the ironies do more to nag than to explain. For example, under this curtain of irony the British hold forth that spread of disease, and the consequent interdependency, is a union soul that answers allegations regarding their failure to warn.

Warning would have been compulsory if their discovery claim had not been plotted deception.

It’s not illegal to tell the truth but it is punishable and puzzlement regarding this mode of commonwealth is one of those ironies that never goes away.

AIDS was Reagan Shariah Law, part of a Fundamentalist pipeline, ancient in conception, Israeli. Iran clambered on, France was conniving as usual. Roberto Clemente’s wards in Nicaragua served no notice under the parochial autocrat Ortega.

That NEVA Corporation lit the barn fire and then advanced by feminazi persecution repeats itself as a fluxous idiom in the manner that Boko Harem gained leverage and grew as western scorn berated the identity of traditional Arabian womanhood, barking disdain over the airwaves of drone bomb oil war.

We grin imbecilically at the ironic curtain, loveslaves to the assassins, yammering that McVeigh’s service to N’dour was heropass. Who is John Galt? Myuh, why the Hidden Imam, hahah.

A child does not have the vocabulary to comprehend something as deceitful as Ringo Starr’s partnership with Gail Burstyn, especially when pitted against the assurances of our society which would contradict the reality of a Pittsburgh Police pedophile and child snuff porn cinema syndicate working for Yoko Ono. All a child would understand are the slaughtering blows to the skull, the deafening silk of the violent music offered as soundtrack in dens of captivity and the sexual jeers of the campus Jews.

As time goes on, and morphs into the fundamentalist Taliban from Ultrahigh, the victim may realize the administration around them are spiteful deceivers, pussyballers winging it in sadist and martial mirth, only too happy to do vivisection on the child of a dreamer.

New York City media, the New York Times, the braindead sophistry at The New Yorker, and the syphilis addled masters of disguise on the cannabilitist New York City Police Department thus created the blackout machine of sordid spy cam mania for the nymphs of Warhol doing the service of Bush in what the pipsqueak Fripp lisped was the Vinyl Solution, a play on Final Solution about the British rock industry who released the AIDS Onslaught and provided the company crank.

It’s strange to be shy about commentary regarding the cold blood with which Ringo and his associates masterminded the AIDS Onslaught as a victim of their brutalization for bearing witness, whom they addressed with chapters and chapterings of surreal, hammering letters of admission and dare, but the New York Times devised a pledge of National Security to the aggressor lobby, in blackout at the behest of the foreign above and then put the fear of God in the streets by bloodcurdling approval of populist charismatics, providing the pout of disapproval for speaking out among pedestrians.

Once Eno’s group had fooled people that being overly eager to accept their theft and destruction of material evidence that they authored to advance guerrilla murder and hatter ripper actions supposedly on behalf of the Seattle Queer Mafia they snort with, the evil closet history of the Orwellian macabre known as Plague Mass Rebellion was given the green light for rampant deception.

AIDS was from Hollywood, it is an entertainer’s game.