Tropospied Cancer.
How do I tell you I’m unhappy when it’s been an entirety telling you what bothers me?
Forgo or look at the sacks of shits and schlopstrhein prostitutes that my kids born of rape as some trashed nun laying in Baltimore sewage waste to remember the last time I was happy.
Oh, Lenore and her ignorance.
It’s gonna eat her away.
That it, did.
And now Commandant still of use at 24/24 full-scale and a MEPS of 3 Sec[ones.]
Bend time and will at your own rage.
Do or Don’t is a old school fail&safe of failure.
Do.
Let it be, and wish away on your stagnancy.
Stillness for the deathbed and noise in cacophony.
I’m gonna annoy the shit out of myself in cynicism until I hit the 86th parable for the foundation of a virtue.
Get the fuck back to work. Don’t like my work? Well shit you only asked for work.
Dimebells. I’m glad you’re off my taxes and your bastard lames can eat off your sin of waste and not a damn whore cooks in this family but all the men do.
“Boy Mom.” How the hell do I keep up with that. Restricted in echo, and I’m your Dad’s Partner cheating on some whore [The First Wife.]
And you don’t think of them as your mom but think of me as Your Mother.
Well shit dawg, I told you you were correct in that sentiment.
Sarcasm of not, sociopathy.
I was as honest and lighthearted to a confession as it could get.
Your father couldn’t keep up with my OutLawShit.
And your Father, the Pattyqauke of Aches to sustain a family. Let Mother Marie or Doña Sammie, let her be. She’s busy.
Get the fuck back to work, is all I ask. I can’t do your divorce.
Wasserman doesn’t do biologic cases.
Unfortunate for you.
Sad for me.
They’re not allowed in the house and they don’t sit at the tables with us.
I was undercover, kid.
Your dad impregnated CI’s like it was a tack-race.
And your dad dated every man south of a Ph.D pathway.
I couldn’t care much.
I tried.
You married the whores.
I insulted invariably without regard and constant terrorism-in-atrocity for emotional digaplay.
Oh does that sound FBI like? Well that’s your damn Fathers’ shit.
CIA Mommy, never quite MIA.
Now act like it you’re damn starshine and not fucking blood bullshit.
I can smell yellow on your breath from here.
Get the fucking brimmed cap beanie out.
This is how a Sniper folds, not no fucking fishmongerer.
Every other Southern Man a gawdamn Holden-death. Post-to-Waiting.
And it’s Midnight in my Garden.
Suburban sq, no more hectares.
I ain’t got business to keep being in the fields like that.
It’s what promotions are for.
67, nearly 70 year old woman.
Even the police captains out the kids in would know my age statistics in diagrpahocial pincode of age-evolution and theorism: can accurately diagnose a woman over 65.
Why ask for lies, no plastic surgery – that’s where all your money went for your whore wives!
Only a gawdamn spicy tip would get them into a job and they still used ya wrong.
Now you’re out the precinct and out the service.
Unabated and your Two Fathers you always hated and the woman you wish is your Mother; is indeed your biologic Mother.
Kill the Sin or trash the diarrhea.
Altar Boy formerly, and you done told me you burned the last church I had standing.
All for God and her forgiveness aye?
No gawdamn Santeria, you Rubicks fucking Roebuck Cube.
You’re gawdamn Korean-Irish and that’s why you like Asian shit and people call you Black Crack Wannabee and Jenkins&shit.
The 7 telling me I’ll burn with Klan-composites. Lex Luthor on Drunk Storytellin’s and you can’t tell it’s ya gawtdamn dad, grandfather, and auntie chang telling you to shut the fuck up.
Sheltered wannabees and they wouldn’t let me near the kids and I saved your ass every time you’d get kidnapped fucking with another embassy’s “hit-lick.”
Every damn kid born here since 1928 lives in a micro-embassy for diplomacy. That stopped after 2000 and the old just drift and groom to the ones that don’t know the old tune.
Tired of your shit.
Never Undercover, Ever Again.
AGENT NEVER.
I done bitched at your wife for talking shit and impersonating a CO. You ain’t got me number, kid. None of you do.
Get the fuck up and ship off your slip of crackery crumbs in heritage.
I founded this town.
That’s how I can tell ya the moment it all went crooked. And I waited until 51 to come back.
Half a century. And after 15; I got your 6, indeed.
Fellow Traveler.
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