The first real girl in Issue #1, And hell--the Baroness was Dominatrix School Teacher, whipping for fun; Thus, enlist in adventure if healthy and sure, Better than me with a hot girl score; Regardless, wending through puberty with Reagan at the helm, Was a patriotically true, television realm.
"-Blood and Chocolate- Review" During a gastrointestinal flare of pain, blood, and fecal-like mucus being cruelly evacuated, when I believed Tony Romo might win it all and wink deliciously at the lascivious ladies, I read "Blood and Chocolate" and was not rewarded with what I wanted. I wanted, of course, a bit quirky mixed in, and heavily. For what is a psychotically-driven tale of things macabre without a neurotic personality living within the dynamic danger? Nevertheless, I liked it, minus the fact that my intestinal tract was giving way. Meat Boy. Don't underestimate a Meat Boy, especially if he has a crazy compulsion to slay werewolves, like Jango Fett besting many Jedi. And the epic classicism of the Young Adult horror/love story is amazingly alive. The pull of the quintessential wolf, driving one to dreams of hunger and pack synergy. It's in there. Classically--in every form of the word. So, if you're reading about werewolves under Full Moon or any neon brag of moonbeam; next, purchase this book. Totally.
"Barney Miller Werewolf doohickey video" I can't find the entire comedic rant here 'bout Lycanthropy; still, it exists in time and space--I think so, kinda. Dislodged myself from Twitter, terrible trolls hacking; alas, some trolls are quite exotic and corporeally pleasing, in grotesque yet sexxa manner. So, here's a gregarious glimpse into the social aspects of a New York Group of Detectives around mojo mystical things and the Carter Administration time period:
"Jazzmin Flush (22)" "Canada is darn cold; still, the Chief did scatter there after flying over the Cuckoo's Nest." Girthy Gilda lamented while sucking down the anti-oxidant properties of tobacco burned carcinogenic. But Jazzmin Flush needed steel; specifically, Steel and Mercy. Indeed, Thomas' body had succumbed in silly fashion to spontaneous combustion, and he didn't even drink cocktails and burn butts simultaneously; moreover, Jazzmin Flush knew he was high into the arctic, haven forgotten his untransfigured humanity, back when his Pap Pap used to get up at the whip crack of dawn every dandy day, just to see what Ginger Zee was wearing, always hoping for the ashtray look of a leather skirt; still, cherry lipstick stains on a butted out, green-colored, menthol filter look awfully sexxa in an ashtray. Regardless, Jazzmin Flush was back-packing Canadaways. "Take a knife with ya, at least. I got a zombie blade--lime-green from surgical steel in China's fine land, and people says if it be made in China it sucks. Hogwash, they got one of the best space programs in this Global, Autonomous States of Federation." Girthy Gilda wise, puffing always, closer to death, to freedom . . . "I'll be safe Girthy Gilda. And I love you too Fredrica." Jazzmin Flush embracing her two buds. Then, Girthy Gilda with one last zinger. "Honey, don't sweat the hams and jams. They all got coming: A Rude Awakening."
"Jazzmin Flush (21)" Thomas ascended beyond the Tree Line--Northwards, truly; thus, armed with shorter ears and double insulation, surviving epicways, mythical--this new, benevolent beast of his eagerly examined the Arctic Beauty in glacial pond of frozen blue, shimmering him azure-hued, all around; next, a howl as the eyes squinting from ultra-chilly winds commanded an in-the-character scream, reminding the frigid atmosphere that there was NO Lion King here--only him, living off the Spirit's water, existing without the big game hunt, though the mercurial hop of a quick-footed rabbit might hit the belly spot. Jazzmin Flush's visitation, hovering love above, dirty-blonde cascading downwards upon Thomas' healing flesh, weirdly, rapidly, igniting another person almost--reborn from the carnivorous cruelty of it all--now: paw pads on internal command, healing always, especially when under any Moon's magnificent might and luminous light.
"Jazzmin Flush (20)" Jazzmin Flush danced with dexterity workways, magically moving with fun flash and cool kick--liking herself in heart-shaped love; on the contrary, Girthy Gilda and Fredrica were weeping woefully within the grease-fumed taco truck; next, they spilled the sadistic news. Last night, Thomas was mutilated--rancorously ruined were Fredrica's words through a tear-stained face. Vicious thugs shadowed Thomas to his humble trailer where they then brutally beat his facial features in, breaking bone and rearranging cartilage; furthermore, they knocked his screaming scrotum northwards, up into his entrails, and left a note for Jazzmin Flush, it salaciously saying: YOU DO NOT DESERVE LOVE--NOR HIM!!! Jazzmin Flush crashed down in anxious tears, like Christ crying for a fallen Lazarus, wishing bodily regeneration, yet knowing Thomas was, most likely, even more crippled for life. But, with love's telepathy, hearing Thomas at the hospital, she wisely surmised the optimism of the forever-fluxing Holy Spirit--it or Thomas mumbling: "Canis lupus arctos. Canis lupus arctos. Spirit wolf, into me without the mammalian terror of pure carnivore. Platinum form of Canis lupus arctos; Spirit of God . . ."
"Jazzmin Flush (19)" Jazzmin Flush, without being a bold makeup junkie, convinced Thomas by way of naked eyelash flux to take her out and enjoy a nocturnal night in the liberty-loving City of Angels. As a result, he, the male, picked the enchanting entertainment and cheap cuisine--since he worked on a taco truck. Thomas, not holding her angelic hand, but awkwardly escorting her quasi-winged shoulders, took her to a corn dog stand, not the kind that served rotten rat on a stinky stick, but the mechanically-separated chicken gelled with not-haunted by demons swine; thus, the twosome both crossed their fingers as they indulged in Christ breaking the Food Laws. Afterwards, two rainbow-flavored lollipops were innocently sucked; next, an amphitheater visited, where the Modern Gallagher smashed seedless, organic watermelons, inspiring gentle madness as the eager audience enjoyed aqua with anti-oxidants if fortunate enough to catch some yummy chunks between their chompers. Walking her back to her basement, Thomas noticed Jazzmin's thick, muscular stems glazed by the California Sun. "Uh, Jazzmin, I think you're too much of a pretty package for me." Jazzmin blushed. "I'm just a quirky girl is all." Thomas winced. "I think I feel gooey inside, like creamy cotton candy--and it frightens me." Jazzmin Flush stole a mercurial smooch, and darted into the basement, fabulously phased by her first, real kiss. Thomas looked into the star-kissed sky. "Lord, is it okay if I really, really like a cool girl? I mean--I'm just a dumb monk after all." And a deep, nurturing voice outside and inside of Thomas, a perfect psychotic synergy, verbally offered: "You are a dumb monk Thomas, but--you got couth!"
"Jazzmin Flush (18)" Jazzmin Flush pondered Thomas in quasi-carnal kinda fashion--nothing brutally nasty mind ya, just thinking if adorned with cherry lip balm he'd be sweet to kiss. Of course, duh, she knew he was soundgardenish sweet--stupidly so; moreover, she had no lusty loins on scarlet fire for him or anything, but had not embraced or lip-kissed a boy--ever, save being taken by force and slobbered over with uncouth intent. Asexuality wasn't difficult if programmed into cellular network; however, a divine touch from another Holy Spirit-infused human being, the idea, gave her the cosmic giggles. And she definitely didn't wanna corrupt Thomas--get his masculine mojo moving weirdways, but knew: That would not happen! So, as Jazzmin Flush skipped girlishly towards taco truck, Girthy Gilda's smokestack burning, she gave an innocent wink in Thomas' guacamole-scooping direction. Thomas felt a bit deliciously dazed and creepily confused. "Why am I so much like Jack Kennedy--skinny and available, my Lord?"
"Shmoo's Everlast" The built for terror, hating every freaky fox in the batch, forsaking the sublime-- Survival of the Terrible is their erratic rhyme, Dismissing the humble eunuchs, virgins, martyrs, confessors, and saints-- Them outshining the rest with their into mystical faints, Enduring everlast as pops the weasel; Moreover, Survival of the Fittest is Darwinian-Demon Myth under Holy Steeple, For the bizarre are born, hacked into and lied about Because the mighty and large have a myriad of doubt; Therefore, know the Shmoo, and he's a Vegetation God; The sublime seed regenerates, offering the Father unceasing nod.
"Jazzmin Flush (17)" Jazzmin Flush awoke to a lovely mouse kiss from Swiss; next, washed liked the Holy Tobias, though with a simple sponge, using mint on her chompers and in the heavenly strands of her golden, kinda dirty-blondish hair. Then, her holo-phone sang to life, and Thomas, in his Scooby-Doo boxers was weirdly standing there. JAZZMIN FLUSH What's up Thomas? THOMAS I know they still wanna kill me, and I'm a bit sad about the entire dilemma of such a sinister pickle. JAZZMIN FLUSH Relax--don't do it, when ya wanna puke it. Giggles at her own goofy. Regardless, they always want to kill smarter, better looking, and especially nicer people--it's the way of the sea hag and their vampiric mates--them trolloriffic. THOMAS It doesn't make me feel better. Where's Jesus? Utopia could exist if everybody used sports and cerebral gaming to cool their crazy. At least now I know why the blessed Arch-Angel Gabriel gave the gift of literacy and the Koran; sometimes you wanna beat the shit outta the nasty. JAZZMIN FLUSH But the Holy Spirit gave the New Testament too, and Her people are instructed to absorb the negativity, morphing it magnificentways. We're all a Holy Family--whether we fight or use the Good Ghost to absorb the negative flux of a wicked adder hacking into God's own creation, just to spite the Boss. THOMAS Yup--I'm ready for some Jesus about now. Totally ready.
"Jazzmin Flush (16)" Jazzmin Flush drifted off dreamways, igniting rendezvous with the Multiverse, lost in an enemy's hollow tree; next, an unborn, aborted daughter appears with spectral glow. DAUGHTER Why Mommy? Daddy had a RIGHT to raise me--mothers don't own the baby if they allow entrance through intercourse. JAZZMIN FLUSH It wasn't allowed. His pride and vanity took me without consent. DAUGHTER I love you even in the womb--the Book says. JAZZMIN FLUSH I hated you in the womb, too. Coyote Mantra: All is sacred; nothing is sacred. DAUGHTER I hate you. JAZZMIN FLUSH I am so sorry. I was wrong. The Catholic Church will raise All Children, unwanted. Even Merlin was half demon, yet he found sublimity in life. I was wrong. DAUGHTER I love you Mommy. Daddy and the rest have no RIGHT to perpetually malign you due to hubris. JAZZMIN FLUSH I will spend all my days doing God's Will. I have learned. And my sorrow for you will birth love for every soul. And still--you live, in an enchanted Otherworld. I will mystically pray for you everyday.
"Jazzmin Flush (15)" The foursome parted with merry exodus into opposing directions, happily going to their harbors of habitat. Jazzmin Flush walked it, underneath neon glow of moon cheese and glittering, starlit sky shimmering fantastic. Beyond every heavenly hobo and divine delinquent, her giving a happy nod, content with her own cool character; then, sprouted a black spot on her echo-location, a thunderous thug-like lover of misinformation materializing wickedly, obstructing her super-model strut. "Your Barney Miller-infused Spirit of God will not detour our malevolent intent to make you miserable, paying with your life." Jazzmin Flush snorted with a face wiggle. "Does your dumb demon let you outta the cage at night, all alone?" "I'm a troll girl--get it--a terrible troll!" Jazzmin Flush escorted her electric-blue spirit right through the villainous vagabond, strutting superior, till descending into her beloved basement--Swiss was waiting, whiskers twitching with eager anticipation of her soon to be spooning. "Yeah Swiss--bleak unto themselves and passable to the sweet are the trolls. Want some processed cheddar?"
"Jazzmin Flush (14)" Skirt steak, cumin, coriander, and a quintessential squeeze of organic lime juice--yup; specifically, savory sizzle it up, minus the lime-green grasshopper habitat-residing in the nuclear kitchen area--though that would add punch-out protein for the appetite of the Red Fox; regardless, just add guacamole on top, and DELISH. Girthy Gilda prepared soft, flour shells with a crunchy (what?) yellow-corn mix for them to all, like scavengers, scoop within their obscenities, and it tasted a bit bland--the food of Quasi-Saints, so white breadish; still, the foursome enjoyed a communal meal, and Jesus the Living, Vegetative Christ was invited, sacrificing tissue and glamorous gore for eternal fulfillment--no pride or hating hubris included, just stupification from his demi-godship Greatness. Jazzmin Flush devoured the eating hour. "This is it! I may need to verbally speak instead of only using the written word." Thomas choked, a little. "Scream for the Dodgers then; they make a delicious dog."
"Snake Plissken/Jack Burton/Shamrock/Kanji" Stamp a shamrock on hero divine, You get a multicultural, sub-machine gun rhyme; Indeed, American Bad Ass saving the family man, Remembering Reagan Era nurturing metal and glam; Alas, here we are, absent without the American Ninja, Adoring more a samurai, swayed by their wealthy charisma.
"Jazzmin Flush (13)" Girthy Gilda had a plan. A mystical, madcap-like idea to infuse the wicked with God's Good and Glamorous Ghost; however, it involved downloading every BARNEY MILLER episode on the holo-vid that sang to life on the airwaves during the Jimmy Carter Administration. Girthy Gilda was imperative in her adoration of BARNEY MILLER. "Every metaphor for life can be contained in a BARNEY MILLER episode." Jazzmin Flush, Fredrica, and Thomas were a bit baffled. They were modern folk, and not into viewing historical comedies from the dinosaur that was television; at the same time, they appreciated Girthy Gilda's wisdom, it being a VERB, a meaning in action: Knowing what is RIGHT; next, doing what is RIGHT--it all beginning with fear and reverence for God and the Otherworld. "So, what will BARNEY MILLER do for our adversarial trolls?" Jazzmin Flush asked. Girthy Gilda smirked, not cruelly. "Teachable moments minus true incarceration." And that was that. Taking the levitation magic of the public transport train--it having wheelchair access; plus, allowing nicotine ingestion to calm and soothe the anxious, tobacco being a healing balm for the uncomfortable aspects of social rancor--this was modern, angelic engineering. So, once anchored in Girthy Gilda's one bedroom shanty, the foursome squeezed comfortably inside, sweetly enjoying the taco sweat of each other, and Thomas found access to an episode of BARNEY MILLER were a man wends werewolfways before being exorcised by Barney's merciful patience. "This is our intent, to unchain the wicked, resisting not their evil, but allowing it entrance into ourselves--there it will gel with our Holy Spirit-infused souls, biting the empyreal dust." Girthy Gilda giggled, igniting an unfiltered LUCKY STRIKE.
"Jazzmin Flush (12)" Jazzmin Flush elaborately buried the deceased coyote after selling her grandma's silver bracelet enchanted by way of a Celtic Knot inscription--these deeds paying for transport and proper burial at a nearby pet cemetery. It had thieved away from her impoverished extravaganza; nevertheless, the mystical mutt deserved such Franciscan respect after being murdered by her cowardish enemies, them--friends of the dreary dark. So, Jazzmin Flush forced herself into enjoyment for the rest of the day, joking with Fredrica and Thomas at the taco truck. Thomas was back as part-time guac scooper, and Fredrica was constantly bossing him with sisterly love. The day continued on wonderways, and Jazzmin Flush ultimately opened up about the vulgar vandalism. Girthy Gilda overheard, and the firecrackerish, wheelchair-bound entrepreneur wasn't happy with Jazzmin's lack of anger. Girthy Gilda was like: "Suckers gotta pay! Oh my, I need a coffin nail. Thomas reach into my garter belt and grab my pack of LUCKY STRIKE--don't worry honey; they're toasted." "No way in heaven Girthy Gilda--I'm practically a monk!" Thomas cringed. Jazzmin Flush and Fredrica broke out in comical laughter; then, Fredrica kindly pulled out her own organic butt and ignited the cherry with a pocket-sized lightsaber type doohickey for Girthy Gilda--Jazzmin Flush couldn't help but wonder, RETALIATION, but that didn't seem nice, or . . .
"Jazzmin Flush (11)" Jazzmin Flush escorted her elegant soul back basementways, her winged ankles fluttering past the en vogue vagabonds till descending into her humble habitat. Upon keying open entrance--she was meant to be disturbed. Her little shanty was trashed--FREAK/LESBO cruelly painted on her walls, her pamphlets shredded, and a dead, bloody coyote, its throat slashed laying in her futon. She resisted tears, observing Swiss and his mice pack, like sublime fairies, weeping in prayer around the Canis latrans--she approached the alive-in-spirit animal, closing its mystical eyes, knowing: They envy what you represent. You are rich in the rainbow glow of spirit. As a thief in the day, all they did was increase your psychological steel and pin a vibrant ribbon on your lovely breast--a magical milkshake that will one day feed the mouths of eternal babes.
"Sainte Marie" Priez pour nous, pauvres-- Like the Son, love the pauper; Moreover, not an Oedipus Complex sad, Yet seeking His Father's Goodness and Glad; Indeed, Woman--My time has not yet come; Thus, to mimic the Christ is to luv thy Mum.
"Jazzmin Flush (10)" Jazzmin Flush and Thomas strolled the angelic walkways till upon the dieselsmellsound of a singular muffler taco taco--and it bragged of an 8 cylinder underneath. There, Girthy Gilda reclined comfortably in her well-lubricated wheelchair, and not by the snake oil sold by those adorned in multiple masks. Like: "Hey dude, do you have Multiple Personality Disorder, or are you just enchanted by the creepy adder and ornamented in a mask?" Anyway, Girthy Gilda was mercurial in her lovely thanks to Thomas and Jazzmin Flush for helping with the taco truck, for Girthy Gilda owned it. A large and in charge lady, capable of pooping a Twinkie on a neurological disorder's command, but it didn't BOSS her, for she was sweetly haunted by God's Good Ghost; indeed, Girthy Gilda had the Holy Spirit to wipe her, wash her, brush her teeth, give her green and white tea infused; plus, exercise her and remember Odin's burden on the tree, where he was self-pierced for love of his children, seeking the protective Runes and the charity of giving poetry. Girthy Gilda knew not negligence or neglect, nor negativity, it infused into people by iniquity as they had no spiritual steel. Girthy Gilda was heaven sent. Forging tacos for the common man; moreover, the uncommon man, such as Thomas, him locking himself away for months, like a quasi-saint in labor, awaiting the birth pangs of becoming, and being, a true erudite. Yup, the dieselsmellsound of tacos cooked throughout the City of Angels. and German/Austrian cyborgs were there, along with the late influx of hard-working Mexicans, and the Divine Mix that is AMERICA.
"She-Ra dominates 1980's cartoons" Dude had a high-tech bow that would become elongated and grow; Moreover, too elegantly fine; thus, they cancelled the show, And the Christmas Special when Skeletor saved the day Trumps all this crappy crayon cartoonist can sloppily say.
"Jazzmin Flush (9)" Jazzmin Flush had uncanny, fruit-loopish empathy--to her own sorrow; nevertheless, it was the glorious intent of a sublime everlast. As a result, the magnetic magic of the poor man's train pulled her closer to the diesel-puffing taco truck and into Thomas' past misery due to myriads of crusty crab curses. Like an unscrupulous attorney, son of a pseudo-physician inspired by greed, back in the day, poisoning his entrails and hoping infertility cause his vociferous sister spilled sour grapes and was ridden with monkey-hungry envy. Thomas endured as did Sir Gawain, and Jazzmin Flush knew--he would die again, happily paying with his little life as insisted Christ: "Resist not evil." Yup, desire, freakishly, to lose it. Simple Franciscan humility, hungering only to be a pregnant lady craving a deep dish with garlic crust covered in anchovies and gummi bears. Life is over in the blink of an eye--for everybody. Those that curse, waking tomorrow with a tumor on their macabre dreams, unless of course the mercy of a car crash veers their way; regardless, the optimism here: God knows everything. Your full mind like a computer He is plugged into, keeping a Divine Diary of every singular and complex thought and action crossing your soul. God knows EVERYTHING. There is no sweeping your mustard stain under magic carpet. The Divine Justice System awaits every soul--Jazzmin Flush just hoped Thomas would be forgiven for his uncouth appreciation of watermelon in naked, pulsating fashion. Well, it was only once, and he imagined an android lady without prospect of consciousness. He crazily crafted her liquid-like legs in his mind. Still, he was a nice boy, having resisted the urge to deliciously dream of his 7th grade Math teacher--she and her seductive pantyhose would not haunt him. Jazzmin Flush let out a hopeful exhale, and the train halted, floating on the Earthy air that was, indeed, God's Good Breath.
"Jazzmin Flush (8)" Jazzmin Flush elegantly escorted Thomas through the imprisoned underground till upon the levitation tracks of a public transport train--arm under his, their weird synergy made entrance, and they took their seats near the caboose. There, they listened as an elderly man holding a bottle of ketchup gave verbal confession on his holo-phone to a robotic physician. MAN HOLDING KETCHUP BOTTLE Look Doc, I've had chronic diarrhea with blood for nearly twenty years now--and I still don't mind living too much. Thanks to the Libertarians allowing me medical herb for my service as a man--it keeps me kick'n. And the wolves hate us for it. But we ain't ask'n for much. Just a seat at the public park, interesting people to observe, and a transistor radio for entertainment. We cripples don't wanna rule the world, but we have RIGHTS to exist. Once the wolves do away with us; then, who will they have to pick on? Like my psychotic God told me: "Don't worry--not on My watch." Jazzmin blushed with a grin--so did Thomas. JAZZMIN And the small, solitary Vulpes vulpes ensnared the wolf into lovemake; thus, the coyote liveth!
"Jazzmin Flush (7)" Jazzmin Flush sways Thomas to elegantly exit the less than modest trailer, entering outside--into the daystar shimmer divinely dancing about the City of Angels. Once outside, Thomas ignites a Cuban, cherry-flavored cigar, puffing away on the tobacco magic, one arm against the trailer to get his land legs back. THOMAS It is time to be positive; negativity always attempts to tear the lovely world down, and Terra needs optimism on Her surface. JAZZMIN There ya go guy. THOMAS Yeah--it's Survival of the Wolfish! JAZZMIN What? Darwin you talk'n? THOMAS People hear that and they loathe the lame. Let them die. They're weak and useless; thus, the wolfish thrive, intoxicating Mother Earth with selfishness, believing themselves canonized by greatness--when it's all a Divine Quiz or something. But truly, Survival of the Superb should exist within a City of God. Laying down your life force for the lame, igniting them and their wise knowledge of having known neglect; next, they become someone's friend till the very end, perpetuating the truly awesome. Greater love hath no man-- JAZZMIN That lay down his life for another. THOMAS And to ponder--I once smacked my nephew with a copy of TOM SAWYER, but now I know I could have inspired him to read it instead of forcing him to do so. JAZZMIN You like tacos? Your sister and me use plenty of yummy guac.
"White Coyote and Virgin of Guadalupe" Sprawling suburban and rural around, Skulking sweetly with a teacher's sound-- Coyote Cool spotted the Great, Virgin Saint, Knowing the Virgin of Guadalupe does not deny love--will with the impoverished acquaint; Hence, a piece of boiled fish Materialized for the coyote's faithful wish.
"Jazzmin Flush (6)" After a protracted, bizarre symposium on the super-serum known as Truth, which is a bitter pill for yeast and man-cheese, Thomas invited Jazzmin Flush into his humble abode. There, throned upon carpet and ash, Thomas entertained the angelic poet, her kneeling down next to his skeletal emaciation. JAZZMIN Man--you look real bad. THOMAS Monks get steeled by neglect. JAZZMIN You might wanna eat a cheeseburger, or six of them. I suggest plenty of mayo, and pour some gravy over them too. THOMAS I'll try.
JAZZMIN Will you? Look Thomas, it doesn't matter what girls and their hypersensitive males holding extinguished torches say. The Total Truth is a Super-Sublime Brute at the end. THOMAS I've sinned as well, but I always set my scrotum hairs aflame. JAZZMIN Don't do that! Crap guy, remember Muhammad Ali--that guy offered not the bullbeans of bravado when he spoke of the Divine. THOMAS What did he say? JAZZMIN Something like: I AM THE MAN OF THE LAND . . .
"Queen Leia" Why do creepy guys drool over me in Jabba's bikini? Are they attempting compensation for Force-thin linguine? Look--I'm a nice Lady, And kissing my brother is as hearty as Mon Mothma's gravy, But Han Solo is the scoundrel for me-- So know: Urinating on Hoth will an icicle pee be.
"Quasi-Albino, Punk Cut, Mourning Blade . . ." Alas, sophisticated synergy of femme fatale with the Gods Is wisdom's fruit, like unto borrowed nods From above--within the Empyreal Spangle, Where all written life does like unto a fig from a tree dangle; Thus, lace up them boots, Allowing Lady Patrick to blow away mostly scarlet-necked coots.
"Jazzmin Flush (5)" Jazzmin Flush knocks on Thomas' trailer door under purple sunset of Californ--IA. She's got a Dodger cap on, looking golden. Hears feathery footsteps quicksilver around in locked retreat. Says the name "THOMAS" 29 times until there's an answer from behind the cheap barrier. JAZZMIN You okay buddy? Your sister asked me to pray for you. THOMAS Are you that weirdo poet named Jazzmin? JAZZMIN I'm the weirdo? THOMAS Look, I just wanna be left alone. JAZZMIN To torture yourself? THOMAS Worked out well for plenty of the Saints. JAZZMIN Come on guy--the world is blooming. THOMAS With toxins and poison people--vipers I tell ya, everywhere. JAZZMIN Snakes can be charmed. THOMAS By rich people. JAZZMIN You got me there.
THOMAS Hey Jazzmin--you know what Jesus has been doing for the last two millennia? He's been trying to figure out how to return and kick everybody's ass without hurting their feelings. JAZZMIN He's such a nice Lord.
"American Language; plus, Anchors Aweigh" President Clinton discriminates not; Indeed, he adores all flavors of the Multiversal Knot; Alas, America is a wacky dictionary-- We invented hamburgers with mayo, and a Hebrew Pickle dandy; Thus, college is crafted to get you in their economic design, And Plato knows--we've been refashioned soooo much--she's got the cerebral line, But Christ's wise action dictates to obey man's law too; Unfortunately, a local Deputy Dawg can be the ruination of Federal True.
"Jazzmin Flush (4)" Taco days--so cheesy. Jazzmin Flush tightened a soft shell around a hearty scoop of sour cream over pulled chicken and shredded cheddar; next, she willfully wrapped up the yummy edible, sending it on its way. Then, her Mexian friend Fredrica gently squeezed her arm, and took her behind the diesel-burning taco truck. "Smoke break." Fredrica, sucking down the preserving tobacco product, it armed with a charcoal filter, dished: "You gotta pray for my bro, Thomas. He's been locked inside his government-funded trailer for nine months. Chiseled by the angels he is. Yet after dismissing horn-hungry girls and their wanting vaginal cavities--they cursed him. He's a solitary man, and it's unfair to fight demons after having been touched by angels. Guy has set himself on holy fire, purifying his celibacy; still, they come--all because he won't lay their desired pipe; specifically, he won't make fun and play with reptiles. Even these canonized whores' boyfriends wanna kill him cause their girlfriends have a thirsty urge for his angelity. It's so cruel and unusually usual Jazzmin." Jazzmin Flush borrowed the burning butt. Inhaled, exhaled, letting her innards carry her pure yearnings to Grandfather and His Holy Family. Maybe, maybe, she'd splurge and get some peach schnapps in a recycled glass bottle on the way home. God Bless Thomas and his lack of bold to battle with rotten fruit she thought, further knowing: Once the sophisticated lame make divine friends, there is nothing offered to adversarial parties save--MIRROR OF JUSTICE and TOWER OF IVORY.
"Jazzmin Flush (3)" Jazzmin Flush awoke to the sound of the soft scramble of Swiss atop her dreaming vertebra, feeding a brain straight and with luminous visions of the enchanting Otherworld. Yawning comprehension of the day amid the darkness of her basement habitat, she picked the cat boogers outta her crusty, chocolate-brown eyes and peeled herself from the multi-colored futon thingamajig. Sponged clean, brushed by mint, and dirty-blonde pulled back into a tight, neon-pink ponytail, Jazzmin ascended from the concrete depths and into the Los Angeles Day. Her eyes adjusted to the risen daystar, offering a glimmering, imperial-white perspective of light to further her awakening. With a velcro-sealed, purple purse full of her poetic pamphlets, she sauntered through the back alleys of the blessed bums and hookers hell-bent on making love's frustration, passing out the prophetic pseudo-prose, wending her way to quasi-industry, where she would wrangle soft tacos filled with chicken, cheese, tomatoes, and healthy heapings of lime-green guac.
"Jazzmin Flush (2)" Jazzmin Flush lay in her basement, ornamenting a fuchsia-striped futon doohickey with her golden, angelic curves, spooning with Swiss, her favorite mouse in the pack. Swiss' whiskers fluxed rapidly as she stroked him lovingly. "And to think some tightly wound tomcat might play with your corpse." Miss Flush was also penning her new poetic pamphlet, which was entitled: Junkyard Virgin. Yeah, she wished. Alas, still dreamed of friends transfigured platinum. The many hues of confessors, martyrs, and the freakishly lovely comforting her wonderous affliction known as poverty; nevertheless--she could not be charmed. And perhaps, that was a problem. Yet, that was what made her thrive, riding the ridiculous heavenwards.
"Jazzmin Flush" Asexual. Not a naughty word--in fact, beautacious, but it gets you labelled a weirdo. Jazzmin Flush didn't care; that would womb despair. Got her cherry thieved away by a brute at fourteen--some desperate dude thought he'd show her his lengthy strength. Him stinking of pride and dominance, like he owned her, and he did, for one defenseless minute. Then came the abortion. She couldn't live knowing his beast was blossoming in her belly. Anxiety is not a strong enough word. Next, the pernicious purgatory of guilt. Self hate. A lost sister. An aspect of herself having had the wicked synergy of a violating seaman. Jazzmin Flush was twenty-two now. Healed. Celibate. Residing in the Angelic City of California during a future nowadays. Delivering her poetic pamphlets to the mentally homeless while making a taco her and there to afford a basement filled with gregarious mice. And she had no friends. Just looks. Gawks. Guys thinking her lesbianiac cause she wasn't spreading like crunchy peanut butter. But they loved her--with hate. Her dirty blonde mane and chocolate brown eyes highlighting curves gone golden.
"Nuclear Reverence" My Holy God--I'm such an ass-- A personal power-play wombed uncouth is a braggart's mail-order, switch-blade sass; Regardless, the Sub-Gods, below the Divine Perimeter Are still like unto nuclear power--a heavy hitter, And AMERICA, haunted by the Holy Spirit of 1776 Will perpetually guard from thuggish hicks; As a result, respect and comprehend the Defensive Dome, For it guards All LOVE'S endless home.
"Lady Jaye & Reagan: Hot Women In Cold War" LADY JAYE Staff Sergeant = E-6 Airborne and Ranger Qualified Expert: M-16 and Reflex Crossbow Fluent in several tongues Like Bram Stoker, did some time @ Trinity College * * *
The Gipper and Mikhail "Gorby" Gorbachev knew, Poonani would the United States unglue, For curvaceous ladies in popular 1980's fishnet thigh highs Can persuade almost any non-monkish CIA guy; Alas, Ukraine needs restrain, Waring with love in a seductive game Instead of killing for geographical claim-- Lady soldiers adore giving an arrogant man shame-- Oh well, Better than drinking from a nuclear water-well.
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