For authority, who know, to their chagrin, that I am harmless, the mental illness I am thought to suffer from is depicted as they see fit to slur testimony of harrowing organized crime operating on the Federal level, and locally so violent that the mind is shattered by encountered. Like the story of Oswald killing JFK, the idea of schizophrenia accounting for what happened to me is a gyration that gives cover to the desolation attending the crime and the exhaustion that is necessary for acceptance. Sapping the airspace and attention span necessary to even try to understand fulfills the promise of the assassins to get away with it and rub it our faces. In my case, the gig is simple enough, to achieve victory by horrible humiliation means using me to rub it in your faces as you look away and thank the assassins for giving you an explanation that allows you to not care.
One of the most successful games that PITT has played, while tirelessly advocating for deranged complexities, is to sneer that if the explanation is complicated then it cannot be true. The political utility of scandal and slogan drowns out the screams of anguish that attend realization of the war crime. The Moral Majority, it is to be remembered, as well as The Silent Majority, are political constituencies that pre-date appearance of AIDS. The vocal minority meanwhile was an occupational Army of people in league with the plan, like Jello Biafra, drowning out the psyche of those who might have tried to be informed through the sin of omission. Protest anything but give them Leslie.
When I turned to King Crimson for help, the assassins listened. King Crimson said, “call his friends,” heedless to the fact that if they were my friends, I wouldn’t have been crawling thousands of miles to St. Louis begging for help and intervention. When Fripp started circulating little asides like, “my music is for mature listeners who get erections,” Rusted Root had a party, Fripp was going to needle Jimmy about Leslie, too. This was going to be fun.
Even though Reagan blamed a child, and said that a child who he brutally tortured, pedophiled and mutilated did it to myself for naming him, a child, by point of fact, like most adults, is not going to understand Helter Skelter neurology. The gestalt of Leslie Katz was based on the universal question of whether performing cunnilingus nightly on a nude girl is an invite to be taken. Do you or don’t you want me to make you. Sound Mental Health knew the pressures that I was under from torture when they battered me and took me prisoner. They knew I had not raped anyone when they helped Fripp have me chemically castrated. When Diamonda Galas and the Plague Mass Green Party slasher murdered Shannon Harps they were doing the F.B.I. a big favor, allowing them to say that if they tried to help me it would just make things worse. What a laugh.
When Peter Gabriel voided the Miranda Warning in favor of a deadly threat attending the words, “Wear your inside out,” on the album in which he inducted me without warning, he yammered African syllables like brainwaves with intent on neuroplastic trauma extrusion. By inducing shrieks of suffering he sought to prove the Irish goyem a defsukke of genetic racism. They toyyed with seizures they inflicted while forcing me to divulge being castrated and bukkaked as a child, listening in mirth, in bliss, as recreational sadism, or the children in my family will be next. Midori Goto and Yoko Ono, just as Japanese women, wanted to see the memory of my grandmother Marie stripped naked, shorn and tarred for Butcher Singer Bank.
I write to Seattle Magazines, orchestras, but most of my writing has disappeared from St. Louis Forums with names like Kid Frigate and Sawyer over the years. Nobody believes my testimony except the people who know it’s true because they are the assassins, enjoying the recreational sadism of hearing it spoken, because the only way to prove it was to see through the program, the Two Virgins War Game, semester-at-sex by Pitt on Mt. Desert Island. From captivity to the pedophile Ostro to castration by the V.A. at Harborview Medical Center, the performance art opus of the AIDS Onslaught in a war on sex was endorsed by Queers because they derived infinite jest from the tragedy of Jimmy Creary, who wasn’t John Lennon, man. So there’s proof but no justice because the confederates were so self-righteous and the victims so stupid, malicious and supine.
It was of course written as a narrative, like a numbers game, with the government voice of Arnold Schwarzenegger intoning, “No Mercy,” and “we’ll talk about it as we go along.” The AIDS Combine put on a big show for the inside elect who was following, while subjecting a victim of child mutilation to a Papillon ordeal of homelessness. The cruelty gets to be a laugh. They blackmail me into having dinner with them quietly and voting Obama, etc. because resistance is futile, it proves you dangerous even to speak out where no one can hear you.
The Mellons had their slanders in place. David McWade followed me around, “Did you do it? Did you do it?” while Peter Gabriel’s caustic magicianship had the pre-seizure neuroplasm audiating, “You raped somebody, you raped somebody, you raped somebody, you raped!” They made some money back on Lennon filming the avenging angel of karma whose cop did the raping of my only friend. We see the truth about Lennon in Mellons’ representation. He was steeped in cronyism, a closet racist, smut-addled giant who covered for the corruption of the elite by violence while espousing a silly altruism you could be killed for questioning. The media and psychiatrists were in place with a tall tale about Mark David Chapman, the obsessed killer, while Albert Goldman wrote a book printed far and wide about how Jimmy Crary was grafted as a golem through commiseration with the big bad Beatle. The Minds of John Lennon is an evil tract that repeats what Yoko Ono was doing through the letters of Gail Burstyn. Goldman was working with Chapman.
By adopting the crime through a narrative game of murder played out in recreational sadism the adroit bullies of sickening fascism at Carnegie Mellon, PITT and Peter Gabriel’s Real World, calling child rape funky, converted the text by endless years of intimate challenges into a twisted book of Eno-ology, a vehicle for Fripp to be admired by Hustler, slashers, Manson, Wheeler and Leto, anyone who isn’t deaf, like a medieval priest. The strong preference for villany automatically hotwires around the way my own potential in music was silenced by nerve agent. The Jews of course knew and easily predicted the spite behind English lack of manhood from their own experience. Imagine, Fripp raping a deaf girl legally a child because Reagan was an underdog to Jimmy Creary. Man, that’s balanced thinking, ain’t it?
It was set up by Lewis Lapham of Harpers to watch me screaming in agony from realization as I was being blamed. Prove you love us and die came their demand. Robert Fripp had zero’ed in on their strategy with two postcards that lured me to his cult in West Virginia where I was flayed. In and out came the superwave. They knew that massage therapy was helping so they came again to poison it.
Scream, Jimmy, Scream, maybe someday Ringo will have satisfy.
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