The Plaza of Patience

I had hoped to hear from a man named John Ialetto regarding his reasoning that all was well in my issues, and that I was simply mistaken in his view due to psychiatric disability. There were several reasons I hoped to hear from John. One: to be reassured that I would not have to do his work for him, the long and tedious necessity to interpret and explain his snipes dripping with scorn and satire to my readers, as well as to be sure that he had won (hahaha) won (hahaha) so that I could be comforted that there is no need for concern that I won’t have time to finish expressing my own point of view, that I need not fear a government of child molesters who brutally tortured me, left me mutilated and brain damaged, raped my deaf girlfriend and threatened to slasher the children in my family. No, indeed, and yet Mr. Ialettio failed to respond.

There are certain things we would ordinarily, for example: we would ordinarily admit that compulsory surrender of a child by brutal beatings to compulsory subjection at the hands of brutal pedophiles for the purpose of humiliating the child in later life while selling child pornography of the child on the black markets would in principle be enough to confer victim status on the child. Compulsory child pornography is a little beyond corporal punishment. Under ordinary circumstances it would cause talk of serious victimization. Far from being ordinary, there was more to come. To understand this fact we must note the unasked question: how is that possible?

Yoko Ono promised the NAACP a lot of money if they helped her and her conjob had with it a complete philosophy that catered to their headliners in cultural revolution. They won’t call it murder for profit because that isn’t sagacious enough. It’s heaped in voodoo war and the philosophy salad of word salad gibberish that connivers in British prog rock swear by. The desire for a new Iliad of inkers in the modern world which seemed so stale to some gave Hollywood by mystery and adrenaline the upper hand in what we now know about Kennedy’s murder which is the resource and discussion lab where I was confronted with Ialetti’s pronouncements of unadulterated scorn.

The black hooligans at work in the very effervescent creed of voodoo war took up with Hollywood and the Veteran’s Administration fetish for rendering the local rotary club occult. Not that Jimmy Creary was too good a patsy to be true and that the news of public warning would hafta wait until the Black man won the war game for the spoils (if ever they deign to come clean), but rather that infinite compensatory cultural justice was conveyed by the micro-aggression of racist denial. Earning the money Ono paid them, they banged on for many decades in the blackout that the deteriorating European was a deaf white suck who compensatory sacrificialism of whom was sacred Black release art in the voodoo of mental oppression rather than suffer a fool to live. This took the vulgar form of entrapment, attack prostitution, spy theater summoning forth a lewd pornographic dialogue on behalf of police pedophiles while suppressing and pretending not to understand exculpatory information, while museum mafia moguls noted dryly that Robert Mapplethorpe had convinced a young boy he photographed nude to sign off on it after he turned 18, why shouldn’t Yoko Ono make a mockery of a waif she had had kidnapped through the Neva Corporation?

How exactly did the British force me to beg forgiveness from men who brutally mutilated me as a hostage little boy and fed me a nerve agent that still causes migraines and anguishing agony years later, beg forgiveness as they demanded that is from a woman who had my only true friend brutally raped? You would think that was pretty dirty criminal magic by King Crimson, but no, it was totally authorized by the FBI and White House. How did they do it? Why would they even want to?

It goes to the root of what Dr. Proctor calls the familiarity of African animism and Catholicism, what with the exorcism cult, the burning of witches, eating people alive, and other higher brands of sacred civilization.   We find at my college an anti-abortion Catholic extremist who created: Citizens to Abolish Domestic Apartheid, Inc. I recall this reasoning. His best friend charted convo from the Cricklewood where my papi lived to Upper St. Clair where also we would find him. A seven foot tall, huge black man who threatened to kill me, nicknamed after a funeral parlor Schugar Bear, who kidnapped me in to Last House on the Left through the back door of Regent Theater with the help of an usher and then getting me heavily intoxicated dragged me around a floor, while brain-damaged, with bulbar syndrome from beatings. The NAACP deny this is evidence of foul play. Little Jimmy was having fun, they cream to the tune of extruded pornography arranged by the confederates whose sisters of culture married black, paying their dues. Schugar Bear understood the abolition of domestic apartheid nicely and forgave me, saying he wouldn’t kill me after all, becuzz he remembered, or possibly his friend Sherlock reminded him, that I had let him sleep in our house before we moved in.

Citizens to Abolish Domestic Apartheid accuse the pale white racist libido of preferring a skin color for matrimony. This means that the revolution has no limitation upon home invasion to smash the oppressor. As the Midori hustler madness cooed enthusiasm to the NAACP for Reagan’s jest, Jimmy Creary was set upon by Peter Gabriel and Shawn Brooks, both of whom locked the doors of sanctuary on him, with someone he wanted to marry and then castrated me to make sure I understood the rightful dues of the V.A. brethren control the women and you’d better not try to investigate Space Ape who reigneth in the name of Mapplethorpe. Wear your inside out, I was told, so Michael Reagan and Neely Fuller could compense their loins on the cries and recounting of Marie Moore’s grandson being bukkaked in his sleep at the Jewish slumber party of the nerve agent manufacturer.

Not good enough for insulting authority.

The racist extremism among some of the Polish, Italian and Jewish children of the East End in those times took the form of street fighting and an ethic of die hard and die fast. The one called Kasper would laugh at those who knew the philosophy of Bruce Lee saying he knew the philosophy of lead pipe. The language of the seasoned screen actress doesn’t come out in evaluation by the lewd headmasters of the University of Pittsburgh but it was present in Kasper’s aside to his chick, “play like you are digging on that dude,” presumably so he could break his head. Play like you were ick ick about Jimmy Creary and he goobered your earlobe. This will help us test the superwave pussywhip of the neuroplasm implant when CMU goes berserk demanding Apology by neurohypnosis of a comatonic head trauma to the tune of prove it isn’t a suppressed date rape memory, queerball, myuh. Don’t laugh!

The overlap of the public man with the public interest is changed by the introduction of a celebrity politician which arguably JFK wasn’t. He was a real person. Death reduced him to celebrity utility, a fact we need to note in order to understand what happened. What they were thinking when the Warren Commission convened was to test the power of Hollywood’s enforcement of fiction over news. The discovery taking form of a contrary child is the tragedy that Obama’s faction negated and compounded by saying the utility of the persona was to be let stand. The trick was to evacuate Lennon and fulfill the trick of the tale: that he was in the Ayn Rand of superhood with HitlerReagan. Queerbait was just a mascot commie we taught to squawk. MYAWK!

Avoidance of reality is very prominent in the Taliban soothsay of the newspaper overthrow. The letters in question were not hidden, they were over my head as a child. Anyone who wanted to see them could. They were in the dining room cabinet, so Richard Starkey is just a liar. He is a beast of rapine, unworthy of credit, but his pirate constrictor is Federal and they’ve instructed the NAACP to “play like” they are defending the voodoo cult of chastity out of principle that slashered Shannon Harps in the name of Duduraq the cow-hooves doggy. Operation: Compense. Then when Sir McCartney brings on a gaggle of vengeful sorority flakes to play like he deserves it the FBI can say that queerbait haddit comin. He didn’t follow Nobuko’s stupid code and get a marriage license.

I know better than to expect my mother to be Beulah Mae Donald and wasn’t surprised by her comment when I told her I had been tortured as a child, “better you than me,” but it isn’t exactly the sort of domestic perplex you expect to find sanctioned by a city in modern America, much less the public purse, but it seems extremely likely to me that the well-publicized recent murders of lottery winners was a U.S. Government extra-judicial killing to spotlight to compensatory mission of the V.A. who reasoned: AIDS first, then equity, the show must go on.

Forbidden speech enforces alexytemia, the traumatized inability to express, and this allowed foreign English to bray that suspicion of white lies allows escalation to brainwave sonar extrusion in the name of the Madame of the Museum Mafia. The queerbait, she graces, has “a ghost of a chance.”

As Jesse Jackson said of Reagan, so I say of the Rainbow Coalition in their crooked defense of child molester HitlerReagan. “Let those who had the party pay for the party.”