My Aunt, why hast thou forsaken me?

   
   "My Aunt, why hast thou forsaken me?"
   
   Kerouac's Aunt provided.  A bum in the alley; still, she believed, hoping against hopelessness, and it worked.  My Grandmother's Words:  "My daughters were ladies, until they married those two, no good Southern men."  My Bio-Dad, a college football player, letting his teammates put their cigarettes out on his back before the big games, to pump him up, like G. Gordon Liddy burning his non-shooting hand to "embrace the pain" or me setting my face on fire due to mortification of the senses, as I drank the Kool-Aid of the Messiah, and I understand the metaphor of PLANET OF THE APES.  Heston and me--SOYLENT GREEN, getting out of the bathroom @ the grocery store, where fickle and pickle are not kosher, but a swine's uncouth--do ya get me?
   My Bio-Dad put my Uncle's head in an embrace of CHOKE, as my Uncle was beating his wife; next, the Uncle got payback, by setting up a submissive lady with a salesman.  Mom said:  "He's a dud.  He sold himself to me, and it never lived up to the deal."  
   Born stillborn.  Incubation for a protracted period.  No speech till four years of age, yet I was lifted upside down, thrown on my head, and knocked down by thrown pillows; plus, my Mom contemplating suicide on the Richmond cliff with her car, all due to true BEAUTY.
   They fed Mom and me mantras since four years of age--too bad my memory is religious.  "You're too close to the boy.  He's not worth it.  He's his own worst enemy.  He's retarded.  He's bad.  You need to untie the apron strings.  Kick him out.  Dismiss him."  
   And after three years of infusion listed under chemotherapy, the Free Mason Debutante flatly said:  "Make him get a job and his own fucking place."  The boy beat his face till purple, possible neurological damage, suicidal tendencies from lack of mercy, third degree burns beneath the eye, and fourteen stitches from a beer bottle.  He's damn crazy, yet Martha Stewart is proven crooked, and still celebrated.  
   Thugs putting on violent and insidious shows in front of Lewy Body.  Talking about Lucifer.  Jesus is black with an afro.  Your son is a drug addict.  I have no teeth and smoke crack, but he's bad.  I go on to my next victim.  I wonder if prostate Kenneth and Alzheimer's Lisa will send her a Christmas Card, for I have her address.  Next, "Motherfucker" played in front of paralysis and hallucinations, making tears flow, and I simply say to the six foot three and nearly 300 pound simian:  "Please turn off that jive-turkey music."  She asked with reptilian thrust:  "What did you say?'  I repeated myself twice, and she was gonna get pissed off, but I resisted not evil, her dropping Mom in the shower, and flipping her over in the chair; plus, leaking illegal narcotics on the floor, and my step-dad accepted it, to kill his burden that he ignored--a six year vacation.  Jesus can kill, not heal.  That's what they totally say.  No miracles, only death.  Not Alzheimer's asshole, but a State of Grace, incapable of sin, and more beautiful than your snake-face that tried to suck me off.  Tell Baby Huey not to do you on the carpet, for you're a squirter.  
   My brother says his cars are worth more than their fundamental Bart Simpson at the nuclear power plant.  RH negatives face many challenges.  3.5 percent AB-; moreover, 5 percent B-; indeed, try getting a blood transfusion, as I did--it will take over 24 hours, for a mere two pints, when I had barely that in my system, knowing death, and Wikipedia says NO, those people have never had a blood transfusion--phony news, people.
   My brother says my Uncle and step-dad have black blood.  But I'm a party type of guy.  Look good in drag.  Back in the day.
   I've confessed about the watermelon.  And the Force is not with their lack of a protracted war, for he does nothing--has had a six year vacation, sipping whiskey and writing Great Tales of Courage that is false testimony.  The lust of his life, and a son that offered venomous erectile offenses.  Oh well, that's why they built hell--for the proud in their own imagination, as the Mother mentioned.  
   It's great to be young and insane.  Just trust the truth.  Lycanthropy isn't was it used to be; thus, we are making progress.