Valeriorivoli

you don't hold me but you read me, blog, don't betray me, silly. And study, rise up from your mediocritas. reread that one about the rector.

I'LL START WITH A PREMISE, WHICH SHOULD SERVE AS AN INTELLECTUAL WARNING to MANY DISHONEST CRITICS INFESTING DEBASER: SCARUFFITE IS A CONTAGIOUS DISEASE, you can't write a review without sine ira ac studio, that is, if you start from purely emotive impulses, BOTH in love as well as in a priori hatred and exaggerated and absurd praises; for those who break, I also advise to observe my loose and flowery use of the Italian language, that is, let those who cannot express themselves except through grunts, barbarisms, banalities, and vulgarities refrain from speaking; HAVING MADE the premise I thought my review of sgt pepper -honest nevertheless- would be disliked by many but seeing this is nothing... however, I don’t understand the childish arrogance about the reviewer’s designer clothes... I mean, what does it mean, I met McCartney and he’s a midget compared to me, who is as handsome as a Greek god, 1.87m tall, blond, blue eyes and women adore me, I don’t need designer clothes or any rags, whatever I wear I make a good impression, and SO?, and by the way, McCartney is under-endowed, but what does it matter? I don’t say it because it would be INTELLECTUALLY DISHONEST, UNDERSTOOD!!!!!!
What’s the point of Manzarek’s organ? It’s not like there were ALL these synths back then. I don’t even see why there’s so much insistence if Jim Morrison was or played at being the super cool guy—which let’s face it, he could afford to do, right? Or even beauty, a gift from THE GODS, must be tarnished? I mean, if I’m a super good-looking guy, I don’t see why I should hide it—Ariosto sang about the angelic beauties born in heaven, they cannot be covered with a veil. If we add a bit of acidic visionary nature to this, well—Jim is one of those long-haired guys who, in his American-anarcho poeticism, doesn’t sound more false to me than many others, and far worse.
Having a drink with American poets—nice, I’ll invent this drink—sounds good with Edgar Allan Poe, Lou Reed, not so much. Sorry...

Thank you all: I love you. The good commentators are piezz'e core... I don't know why certain songs bring to mind these stories so far away in time and space, but it feels like I'm reliving them with the music.

Under ciao, done that, I read your nice review... I know the album in question, but I hadn't followed Rettore anymore by then... I had liked her up to "estasi clamorosa," then she got fixated on concepts—see far west.

In the oloplasmon list, valerianalpiriti, transarnollayne, and laynedicapra were missing. Next time, should I include them happily? Despite everything, I love you old hags because you always read me. I'm serious. Did you like the Ariostean reference? You managed to read it all... it was a bit long, a mini novel, right? Penny Maclean was cute, right? She even had a great voice! Or did you prefer pollmaccartni?

Fuck you all, stupid jerks, with sgt pepper and pf too.

OH I FORGOT: YOUR MOM AND YOUR SISTER MAKE GNOCCHI WITH THEIR BUTTS REALLY WELL, ask around.

You have no arguments, it's sad but it's true, and you’re just fooling yourself, you’re the pus-filled and sulfuric boil of Debaser, you started this quarrel, and to gratuitous insults, I respond on the fly; besides, I haven't copied anything, you see, the ease of eloquence comes naturally to me, like the disdainful charm of Ariosto, got it?
You're a poor thing, a trash collector of popular music barking at the moon.
The most serious thing, which should make you reflect internally, is the intellectual dishonesty of a quarrelsome kindergartner, and the complete lack of arguments, so it’s better you retreat into the hole you came from, you piece of shit.

NOW WE COME TO THREATENING PROCLAMATIONS LIKE you don’t know who I am, or GET HERE ON YOUR OWN, you scare me, BUT DO YOU REALIZE that an old Commodore 64 thinks better than you do? Your brain is damaged, not entirely because of you but also due to atavistic issues beyond your control. You never have discussions on an intellectual basis but exclusively emotional ones, when you’re not being trivial and filled with insults and double entendres from a brothel. Unfortunately, you’ve sensed that my stance isn’t mere arrogance but a truly different moral and intellectual stature, which you vaguely perceive already from the miserable use of the Italian language you present, filled with gratuitous and self-referential violence, when not tautological of the lower depths from which you come or that you nonetheless frequent—like your use of mom’s pharmaceutical cabinet—your Neuleptil, Valium or Serenase, but the strong one, 10 mg—and from which one also deduces a poor opening of consciousness that certain psychedelic drugs might also offer even to a profane use seasoned with profane music. But do you think you can come up with fantasies to Valerio Rivoli, encase yourself in an ivory tower of shit and pontificate with me? Then you are mentally inverted, a mental aberration, and I repeat part of this is due to atavisms, not everything is your fault—read DNA. And let’s not even talk about a spiritual breath, otherwise, we’re asking too much of the creator. I mean, why do you have to draw out the most aggressive part of me? If you can’t compete with me, at least be more respectful. You will see that you can always find a point of dialogue, even paternalistic, from my side. And then to people like you, I should even give nice songs for free from my website, BUT FUCK OFF, KIDDO.

I'm sorry, but I can't assist with that.