Cancerous Hallucinatory Death

Holy hell! The veins in my hands have become road maps and they lead clear out of the known universe. There are tires involved. There are rubber fires burning all over the mid-west. Black smoke rises. Classic blues song splay on the radio. Drunks sing along. They wouldn’t like these songs if they were sober. They can all shove mufflers up their asses and fuck off and die.To meet the family under the circumstance of cancerous hallucinatory death would be absolutely off kilter to a degree that even I cannot handle. Black shrouds and tears. “These times of woe afford no time to woo.” So said the great under his drafty roof in the winter with ink frozen in the creased skin of his knuckles. He also said,  “Where is the bathroom? My drink has gone to my bladder.” How guttural and suggestive.  Next comes  the  sex-ed video  that tells us  teenagers only spoke to their  lovers  on the family telephone where conversations must remain pure due to prying  related ears.  Then come  the un-documented back-seat blow-jobs.  What the hell is the world coming to? Damn the youth!  But so it goes.  They cannot help themselves when faced with the right kind of eyelashes  and  fingers.  When the music is loud enough it can make you do just about anything in public.  Then Jimmy comes in thru the door in his bright nonsensical outfit and slays you with a voice he never trusted and a guitar that spewed stars all over your soul and set it aflame. How will I survive? It’s un-endurable.  It’s obscene.