silver jews or gold? part 2
his ghost haunts me sometimes.
i can see him, twisted and male, demanding i arise to help him. he threatens to "hex" my computers, a threat, to destroy my communication with the outside world, february 12.
i had just received word from sweden, to meet goran rudling.
the heinous stench of coal in scotland sickened me, and the smell of filthy streets, as i raced to get away, my knees shaking with fright.
i was tired of the drag, of everything i said, not being understood.
i was tired of his use of facebook.
i was tired of the way he got caught in a heathrow dragnet.
tired of his scolding me for speaking around his mancrush charlie.
it must be said, one finds it tiring.
he was putting his paws on me to wake me, and i felt the irony, of the email from consent now, or samtycke.nu calling.
little did i imagine, goran rudling would shortly be emailing me non-consensual emails about his penis.
at the airport, arran would not let me be, skype chatting and google chatting me up, with a horror.
he let me know his father had bashed his mum's belly with a two by four, a piece of wood, when he was a fetus, perhaps the first instance of brain damage.
his scottish father, after his lovely jewish american mum.
this man, a thomson, of edinburgh, lauded as a spectacular misogynist, a bitter man.
we sat, in an architectural firm, to hear of the affair.
cold maybes, or solid no's, intolerable arran had us kicked out of blackheath, kicked out of stoke newington, one cannot be so gauche.
no one could stop the impending doom, not even the scottish eyes of the scottish girl staring me down, like really?
his baggage.
it was all i could do, to get him to his father, a raison d'etre.
it was only after this horrid meeting, 48 hours into the arrival of monies in my account, that this horror of the paternal shalom bayit bashing of the mother, the secrecy, why had he not told me, the horrors, of his father's violence.
the horrors of his uncle a ponzi, getting people killed.
the horrors of his mother, screaming at him.
the horrors of his mother's boyfriend, bashing him in the head as a child.
the horrors of his mother, telling me of her horrific time calling family in january, to remove his screaming self from her home in arizona.
at which point he was sent to me in england. how dare they.
i could not take any more.
the horrors that his daugher might know this.
and shariah, i called it, the cruel way he used words to cut me up. to eat my time.
his mother would not accept his arrival, for more than a few days. her clear distrust of him, weakened his case further.
so its all documented.
the monstrosity i felt, on a grey road in edinburgh, reading a mary queen of scots, with electrolytes so thinned in my weak blood.
giving my bracelets to the gypsy at the church.
my blackheath bracelets, of 133 kidbrooke.
it wasn't fair, the horror of loneliness and fear that kept me beholden, but distrustful, desperate, for money of state.
intellectual starvation, for a friend of merit. an unforgettable intellect, so plagued with cruelty and delusions, as to demolish every ounce of joy therein.
and all the talk, of mossad this and that, and things i knew not of like boycott divest sanction, which i now resent as bourgeois monetary-centric elitism, racist, all the many horrors, one by one, piling into the greatest horror, the greatest anger, from which i still suffer.
who is a person that can berate you so cruelly to your face, you would rather destroy yourself with your own hands?
only a letter, from the best, would stay the tide of abuse, from his raving mother.
running to hallakah.
so sometimes, i feel his ghost, and i cannot remember much joy at all, but a loathing and fear and desperation, in which a human transacts friendship via bribery, and trickery, and lies, and then steals from you, your life, your time, your health, your youth, and all you have afterwards is wisdom.
and all one ever wanted, sort of at hand, but not.
i imagined being his nanny, his caretaker, was a replacement for my apathy's objectless. it would distract me from my total sense of meaninglessness.
his obsession with trans-sexualism, and his obsession with trans-sexual surgery, wherefore?
his anger about vegetarianism, as if eating corpses were the highest expression of human freedom?
his fish breath.
his use of ugly petty words, sexist words.
his credit card transactions to his internet bribe network tangerine bolen.
his deletion of my you tube video.
censorship, ghost of destruction.
everything ends on sunset boulevard, sometimes.
strengthened by dust soon returning, i could hold my papers in my hand, and take my pain north.
and fink felt me arrive in LA/hell in may
sending me this document
my first night back
Judgment Entered 04-19-12 Dita Von Teese v. Patel
re: anti-semitic landlord abuser
of heather sweet
when peter told me no, i spoke of the horridness of arran. he had been to me, horrid.
but peter's no, like a nail in the coffin of my soul, sent me forth to do zombie things, like lure arran, back into my particular hell, where clearly from 23 march until april 11, his unfortunate cruelty grew until total despair, clutched at me april 11-22, after which pain took over.
relieving the burden from me, pain had a way of sailing the ship, with its excruciating realness, so little time was left over for thought.
pain was a gift i could give myself, and let indifference accompany his cruelty.
his cruelty had no way in, to my pain, so entirely mine.
my pain, was the expression of despair in losing him, having him, wanting him, and fearing him.
for fear of his own life, then came the damage.
i could not comprehend his refusal to apologize.
now i see it as the hallmark of the patriarch, so wrong, so abusive, and so incapable of admitting his errors.
manarchism.
his effexor headaches, and his tardive dyskenisia, we were two fruits of MKUltra engineered for the daytime special.
now if that makes our neon chemical romance, any less than his high school pot or y2k meth, one surmises there is nothing jewish about crystal.
he told me, he didn't want to be there just to fulfill my jewish fetish. which is fair enough.
how a "holocaust revisionist" or "self-hating jew" as he called himself could really do, is unsure to me.
it was breivik's trial that really got to me.
and the feeling of max schuster stomping on my skull, mother sending me for the MK, and ransom eng taking out his own life with a ballpoint pen.
all of that snowballed into a horrid feeling, that and the neonazi on assange's rape defense website.
it just did me in.
the restraining orders, were primarily for his daughter, that she might know in quick time, it is okay to say no, to abusive men.
all my no's were railroaded.
he was delusional from the first. for a while i found his delusions entertaining.
but then quickly they ceased to be.
me and my thing for asperger's.
his apartment, with pet fruit flies swirling like a death camp, chrome refrigerator so fine, but full of rot.
and the horrible allergy to cats feeling sleeping in his spare room.
but the re-assuring, OMG he didn't rape me feeling, the next day.
men get a lot of points for passing the OMG he didn't rape me Test #1.
the glorious feeling of pride, walking with him, arm in arm, through the hasidic neighborhood of london, day one at supreme court february 2012.
love is a terrible thing sometimes.
cells divide.
i can see him, twisted and male, demanding i arise to help him. he threatens to "hex" my computers, a threat, to destroy my communication with the outside world, february 12.
i had just received word from sweden, to meet goran rudling.
the heinous stench of coal in scotland sickened me, and the smell of filthy streets, as i raced to get away, my knees shaking with fright.
i was tired of the drag, of everything i said, not being understood.
i was tired of his use of facebook.
i was tired of the way he got caught in a heathrow dragnet.
tired of his scolding me for speaking around his mancrush charlie.
it must be said, one finds it tiring.
he was putting his paws on me to wake me, and i felt the irony, of the email from consent now, or samtycke.nu calling.
little did i imagine, goran rudling would shortly be emailing me non-consensual emails about his penis.
at the airport, arran would not let me be, skype chatting and google chatting me up, with a horror.
he let me know his father had bashed his mum's belly with a two by four, a piece of wood, when he was a fetus, perhaps the first instance of brain damage.
his scottish father, after his lovely jewish american mum.
this man, a thomson, of edinburgh, lauded as a spectacular misogynist, a bitter man.
we sat, in an architectural firm, to hear of the affair.
cold maybes, or solid no's, intolerable arran had us kicked out of blackheath, kicked out of stoke newington, one cannot be so gauche.
no one could stop the impending doom, not even the scottish eyes of the scottish girl staring me down, like really?
his baggage.
it was all i could do, to get him to his father, a raison d'etre.
it was only after this horrid meeting, 48 hours into the arrival of monies in my account, that this horror of the paternal shalom bayit bashing of the mother, the secrecy, why had he not told me, the horrors, of his father's violence.
the horrors of his uncle a ponzi, getting people killed.
the horrors of his mother, screaming at him.
the horrors of his mother's boyfriend, bashing him in the head as a child.
the horrors of his mother, telling me of her horrific time calling family in january, to remove his screaming self from her home in arizona.
at which point he was sent to me in england. how dare they.
i could not take any more.
the horrors that his daugher might know this.
and shariah, i called it, the cruel way he used words to cut me up. to eat my time.
his mother would not accept his arrival, for more than a few days. her clear distrust of him, weakened his case further.
so its all documented.
the monstrosity i felt, on a grey road in edinburgh, reading a mary queen of scots, with electrolytes so thinned in my weak blood.
giving my bracelets to the gypsy at the church.
my blackheath bracelets, of 133 kidbrooke.
it wasn't fair, the horror of loneliness and fear that kept me beholden, but distrustful, desperate, for money of state.
intellectual starvation, for a friend of merit. an unforgettable intellect, so plagued with cruelty and delusions, as to demolish every ounce of joy therein.
and all the talk, of mossad this and that, and things i knew not of like boycott divest sanction, which i now resent as bourgeois monetary-centric elitism, racist, all the many horrors, one by one, piling into the greatest horror, the greatest anger, from which i still suffer.
who is a person that can berate you so cruelly to your face, you would rather destroy yourself with your own hands?
only a letter, from the best, would stay the tide of abuse, from his raving mother.
running to hallakah.
so sometimes, i feel his ghost, and i cannot remember much joy at all, but a loathing and fear and desperation, in which a human transacts friendship via bribery, and trickery, and lies, and then steals from you, your life, your time, your health, your youth, and all you have afterwards is wisdom.
and all one ever wanted, sort of at hand, but not.
i imagined being his nanny, his caretaker, was a replacement for my apathy's objectless. it would distract me from my total sense of meaninglessness.
his obsession with trans-sexualism, and his obsession with trans-sexual surgery, wherefore?
his anger about vegetarianism, as if eating corpses were the highest expression of human freedom?
his fish breath.
his use of ugly petty words, sexist words.
his credit card transactions to his internet bribe network tangerine bolen.
his deletion of my you tube video.
censorship, ghost of destruction.
everything ends on sunset boulevard, sometimes.
strengthened by dust soon returning, i could hold my papers in my hand, and take my pain north.
and fink felt me arrive in LA/hell in may
sending me this document
my first night back
Judgment Entered 04-19-12 Dita Von Teese v. Patel
re: anti-semitic landlord abuser
of heather sweet
when peter told me no, i spoke of the horridness of arran. he had been to me, horrid.
but peter's no, like a nail in the coffin of my soul, sent me forth to do zombie things, like lure arran, back into my particular hell, where clearly from 23 march until april 11, his unfortunate cruelty grew until total despair, clutched at me april 11-22, after which pain took over.
relieving the burden from me, pain had a way of sailing the ship, with its excruciating realness, so little time was left over for thought.
pain was a gift i could give myself, and let indifference accompany his cruelty.
his cruelty had no way in, to my pain, so entirely mine.
my pain, was the expression of despair in losing him, having him, wanting him, and fearing him.
for fear of his own life, then came the damage.
i could not comprehend his refusal to apologize.
now i see it as the hallmark of the patriarch, so wrong, so abusive, and so incapable of admitting his errors.
manarchism.
his effexor headaches, and his tardive dyskenisia, we were two fruits of MKUltra engineered for the daytime special.
now if that makes our neon chemical romance, any less than his high school pot or y2k meth, one surmises there is nothing jewish about crystal.
he told me, he didn't want to be there just to fulfill my jewish fetish. which is fair enough.
how a "holocaust revisionist" or "self-hating jew" as he called himself could really do, is unsure to me.
it was breivik's trial that really got to me.
and the feeling of max schuster stomping on my skull, mother sending me for the MK, and ransom eng taking out his own life with a ballpoint pen.
all of that snowballed into a horrid feeling, that and the neonazi on assange's rape defense website.
it just did me in.
the restraining orders, were primarily for his daughter, that she might know in quick time, it is okay to say no, to abusive men.
all my no's were railroaded.
he was delusional from the first. for a while i found his delusions entertaining.
but then quickly they ceased to be.
me and my thing for asperger's.
his apartment, with pet fruit flies swirling like a death camp, chrome refrigerator so fine, but full of rot.
and the horrible allergy to cats feeling sleeping in his spare room.
but the re-assuring, OMG he didn't rape me feeling, the next day.
men get a lot of points for passing the OMG he didn't rape me Test #1.
the glorious feeling of pride, walking with him, arm in arm, through the hasidic neighborhood of london, day one at supreme court february 2012.
love is a terrible thing sometimes.
cells divide.
Comments
Post a Comment