The books I have written do not only tell the story of my life, so they entertain the reader through the Great American Novel.
The books I have written do not only tell the story of our world, so they inform the reader through a great work of history.
And the books I have written do not only have more than one hundred and twenty-five thousand (125,000) downloads, after four years, so you can take as many copies as you like, without registration, for free.
The MK-Ultra Series celebrates so many amazing places, plants, animals, and people—along with the stars, the sky, the sea, and the earth—to record their stories, so we all may grow in renown.
As an epic poet, I sing of the beauty, trials, and achievements of the amazing women who posed for Playboy.
While I expose sexual programming, I make no apologies for healthy relations between consenting adults.
My books have a visual component, through which I will sometimes describe the geometrical composition, the color palette, and the wholesome effect of an iconic, erotic, and historic photograph, showing a beautiful naked woman, embodied in Playboy.
Sometimes a work will become so geometrical that it is almost cubist, losing its sexuality, as we experience the objective artistry of the photographer.
And sometimes a work will have a textural aspect, so it evokes, through the beauty that strikes the eyes, not only the loving feelings of the heart but also the tactile sensations of the body.
And, so, as a proper incentive to read my books, and to explain a literary device, which might else lie hidden, and through which I draw on photographic art, I wish to share another example.
Every woman is different, as is every image, while some recall particular works of art or poetry.
Some inspire me through practical advice, embodied in their lives, while they themselves are authors.
Others inspire me through their tenacity, and their flexibility, while we continue to hold our own, and excel, as survivors.
And others inspire me through their fight, and their martyrdom, as I avenge their deaths at the hands of the enemy.
It all started with the awesome women in whose company I grew up.
And one lived right down the road, in my home town, while she and I were brainwashed at the same soccer camp.
Here’s the latest, a racing jockey, who flew in hot air balloons, while I met her at the beach, so my imaginary friend serves to embody the sexy summers of my teenage years.
And so Ruth Guerri, who still looks great, appears in my fourth book, currently in progress, as I work in a different summer.
“Miss Guerri was reprised in the newsstand specials, reclining on a raft, sparkly purple, like a seventies dune buggy, revving its engine just for sport, kicking up sand, on the beach. She floated in aquamarines, rippling and marbled, shimmering in the light of the sun, so I could scent the chlorine on my skin, chemical clean from the country club, bleaching our bodies, where we swam, dived, and played, touching terry towels, cast on concrete, lying and lounging, sipping drinks, reading books, and casually privileged. Thousands of blues, with adjacent indigos, perfectly set off, through the use of complementary colors, the oranges and yellows of her hair, like the stitchy fabric of her swimsuit bottom, pulled down in front, and up behind, to reveal, highlighting, more than an inch of the top, almost a palm’s width, of her beautiful animal bush. Thick and furry, it curled and cast a shadow over the edge, trapezoid tanline, just below the model’s musclebelly, pumping and pulsing, to present the strongest color against the pinks, browns, and reds of her athletic instrument. Purring, snarling, and growling, sunlotioned in the summer, striking she stroked her lean, lithe, and lissome frame. Hips thrusting upwards, bouncing on the bendy curves of the squeaky chaise lounge, her hotbody floated in the cool of the splashy water, the hardest thing, by far, on its surface. Ruth’s rider-legs were gripping, and gripped, around the inflatable, and so it was caught, and couldn’t escape the strong seat of the gentle equestrienne, who, elegant, and rearing ruddy, riding her moving mount, was posting easy. Lost in solar sensation, her eyes shuttered, and fluttered, orgasmic, in her ecstasy, while her hands—same as seastars, sexy coral-clawed, color-recalled the flesh of her lips, glossy surrounds for the gleam of her teeth, pearly and pink—pressed, rested, and sprawled against the mermaid’s a-cupped chest.”
Playboy was not only a psychological operation.
Playboy was not only put out by the enemy.
But, on its best behavior, it could be more.
Playboy was art.
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Fighting Monarch 