What VInce Eirenus pulled with the museum thieves, including Martin Sheen, who actually thinks he is Mr. President (no joke), pulled for the child pornographers behind Mt. Desert Island and thus, as http://doubleillusionblog.wordpress.com testifies to, released the AIDS attack, was a sleight of hand construction of a persona wangled by Shulman, McCartney and Wen at Kelly School during Iran Contra as a form of rescue of the National Security Government by Colin Powell and his witch doctor Penis Fripp of King Crimson, the usual mongerers of occultism. The big sale in Iran with Khomeini had been Dialectical UW-ists working with Michel Foucault and Seattle Theater plotters for the sale of a sacrificialism art production campaign all clocked to artfully bomb American targets some more while calling it Queer dibs. This is one of the reasons poems of mine like Raft of the Medusa show so clearly why it is only rational to call Covid-19 the bonus attack and testify to the occult war crimes being committed by those who worked the CMU situation for New York Times and Yoko Ono through Warhol for Trump, slashering Shannon Harps if anyone defies their stolen penny, ripper hattering to the muse of Ramos, Clemente, and Molly.

The truth is that a fraud has authenticity when backed by plotters like the evil Lew Lapham of Harpers who announced the crime as a "priceless forgery" when they set upon me with Starsinic's persona.

Aaaaah, it ain’t poison if it’s a golem, aaaah.

The Raft of the Medusa
(March 18, 1993)

Scores of working Christians and I am uncertain.
Judgement. Grudging ardors. Tempestuous silences.
Frustrated men in camoflague defend against treason. Defend!
It reminds me in melancholy of a childhood certainty.
There is a moral fire and there is a living hell.
With intent, outside the rustic New England sanctum
the living witch tattoos her thigh, hisses with derision
her crack black slacks
her boyfriend loves the Boomtown Rats.
School is on holiday, they kiss,
life replies with twins of lightning, ha!
So there is a God, a mythic Bonaparte.
The quintessential names are listed in a telephone directory
and in the alleyway Eve is burning on a pyre.

Complete the death certificate.
A JDL boy will administer the whipping. Form six.
What was the note she left behind?
Did they really find it on Old Father Thames
and did she drown?
Alfred Hitchcock slaps his armpit.
Would you be interested in speaking to the publisher?
Were her lovers interested in LSD?
Did she drink coffee at the Beehive?
Did she chase white gulls
and swing away towards the evening star,
and was she beautiful?

One Thursday we drank vermouth from a funnel
and listened to the Doors.
Und so man cher we hanged out.Concentrated on homework
a textbook printed at Temple
indefinitely made plans to study together again
tried not to steal away into ourselves
feeling desperately wrong.
But I was a part of it.
Carried water to her under the tree.
Talked like a Chinese talking dog of germ warfare
and wargs from goblinhog hell.
And the street lamps lit up effigies of the Feral Family
and that fat kid, a bong toking lawyer
took me out to play horseshoes
under the cold white light of a bad afternoon sun
the spikes were so erect we never missed a beat
it was mystical perfection a universe of sleaze
at that stage anyway the revolution sputtered
but then I remembered Shoah and excused myself please
I re-instated funding for my values
fixxed my tie
wrote to the President for Peace of All Living Things
in Otsu, Shiga-ken, Japan.

Whilst her mum wrote me a love letter to cheer me up
I scribbled a bacchus in the confession.Mordechai, the gift of memory, with drawings by Shawn McBride,
schizophrenic women saving earth from nuclear armeggedon
and pure Americans riding the river of abortion's blood
to a holy war on lesser men
straddle the gay cadavers in plastic body bags
and my voice snarls, "Nuremberg".
Whatever happened to Buckminster Fuller.
Dreamer, naive idealist, a chorale of local misers sneer.
Abolish prejudice.
Scribbles and cheers can heal heartbreak.Plagarize nothing, but with a chainsaw.
No jokes and no mistakes around here
crooked exertions over fuzzy legal pitfalls
scramble out with letters and enclosures.

Over the rooftops, hookers are braying to the KKK.
You should be proud, oh titans of plenty,
pray for your conquerer with pragmatic faith.Let me sustain you.
Won't you plan, having written nothing?
Brilliant and climbing up to the avenue of the sun
a new world order where your voice is changed by darkness.
Why would we feel shattered, left vacant by the day
if pale thighs went still, fading into the wall?