"Big Orange versus Orange"
Seems like the rusty android, Peyton Manning, played 37 years for UT;
Nevertheless, it was Tee Martin who scored them to victory;
Regardless, back when dubbed "the Orangemen"
Syracuse was cooler than Sherilyn Fenn,
With a name not to blame,
Yet now: let the ORANGE have pigskin synergy and play for that hue's fame;
Indeed, the Orange Bowl will never be the same,
For braggadocio should be this color's claim.
"Having a werewolf pet"
Way middle down in Tennessee,
Where country music don't sing about true, American victory,
Hiding behind the strict corners of the flag,
Not knowing: the shimmering stars and lambent stripes give larger brag;
Alas, my pet werewolf stole my bone;
Thus, I hunt for America in the inhuman woods alone,
Finding my crop, and hunting the swift, Canadian goose
To bring back to my werewolf--I never let him loose.
Or is it me?
Duh, I'm so unaware of my dualistic destiny.
"Hayride Hallelujah"
The True Artist, forged from Himself,
Always hanging on Pre-Creation,
Existing due to a stubborn spirit of determination--ahem:
Alas, country lass is passionately ignited,
And man, if armed with couth and charm, can get her dance deliciously excited;
Thus, lovingly lasso the sicko, and unleash your best beast,
For a beautiful woman, so many, will submit and spark to firework heat--
Roll in them balls of thunder; plus, pour her purr some alcohol,
Knowing: Love-Trusting transcends the Garden's self-admiring fall.
"Jazzmin Flush (70)"
Months, even more into the future, had been like a dream, dealing with a concussion, her brain having bounced and banged against the skull, sinking Jazzmin Flush into a hypnotic state, like perpetually fed nerve pills from the mouth of a Pez Dispenser, Popeye the Sailor Man spitting the tranquil euphoria experienced by most Millennial Women; plus, they always mixed red wine with them for greater elation.
And Rascal's wily belly was blooming, pre-birthing a litter of roustabouts ranging wildly in her coydog womb, snacking on baby crackers from the inside, and infused with her cellular structure to be, at least, mildly obedient. Donald Flush was proud yet poignant, pointing philosophically to the eccentricities of life.
Thomas, well, always at Jazzmin's golden side as she healed and digested her mild disgust, not wanting to be a nasty, resentful big sister. That would suck for the little peckers and pansies on the way to Rascal's cupcake cleavage for some dog milk.
"Want some shrimp, Bubba?"
When I indulge in the shellfish shrimp--you must cook;
Otherwise, I'll have gastrointestinal movement like the Chess Piece, Rook,
Wending linear till expunged and out;
Hence, pasteurize the bacteria without a doubt;
Alas, I usually adhere to smoked, Alaskan salmon,
And I believe the Apocryphal Books to be canon.
Post Script:
Dude back in Arkansas during the Reagan 80's used to stay at all the rural parties till the end--this due to the axiomatic fact that all the heavy-set girls would stay till the end--the slim ones leaving early with the carnally-crazed dogs; anyway, he'd hook a big one every time he endured long partying hours involving Southern Comfort and Cheetos. Thus, they called him: BUBBA CHEESE. God Bless BUBBA CHEESE in this America.
"Jazzmin Flush (69)"
The neon lines, resonating, barfing out the delicious past and its stink never cleaned up by the low income Mexicans--it was--futurity/now--beyond. All gelling for America's once-dreamed purpose, yet iniquity still lurks within as Ronald Raygun instructed the world. And Jazzmin didn't entirely loathe Rascal as she dreamed, giggling, laughing, feeling the precious pins and needles of moderate pain and elation--from sins and more sins--these necessities of life. Yet, things soooooooo fun, if you let them. And Thomas slurping her into consciousness with his almost fuchsia-hued tongue, now happily licking her, bringing the gold open in her California eyes, them crowned by an almost brunette brow, giving Jazzmin Flush the perfect symphony of religious counterpoise. It's good to love the superlative God.
"Jazzmin Flush (68)"
Rascal had never called "no stinking cop" her entire dog life, but she did, and happily watched them cuff and clasp Merlin Pope, stealing him off the streets and into the under-funded jails where bologna sandwiches and skim milk were the order of the day, sometimes considered a delicacy. Afterwards, she got dressed in her mechanic's jump suit, the couthless cops melancholy made as they exited the crime scene, Rascal's cupcake cleavage, not jiggly, yet solidly firm and uncaged--this haunting their carnal reflections when reminded of being on the dangerous job.
"I'm so sorry Jazzmin." Rascal turning to the California blonde. "I was in heat, and your Dad is really nice and cute too."
"Oh don't talk to me." Jazzmin Flush with nose up. "And I'll say this with as much sophistication as I can muster--you're an incapable bitch. Incapable of having friends."
"You can't kick me out of the pack. It's larger than just your California gold and all that holy-reeking crap. Plus, I think I'm pregnant, and my pups will be your nieces and nephews."
Jazzmin collapsed. Bit the unconscious dust. Life is good when you're under.
"Bunnies in my suburban sprawl"
I was minding my own business, choking down an organic lung dart, when a small mammal from the family Leporidae; specifically, a RABBIT; moreover, a baby bunny came hopping like an infant Peter Cottontail into my garage/hangout. I turned down the Skynyrd, forgetting Alabama for a moment; next, I scooped up the retreating bunny, minding not to burn it with my hot cherry, blazing my prayers to Grandfather as wended away the electric-blue, purifying smoke.
My Step-Dad was planting a shrub or some crap like that in front of our cookie cutter suburban stronghold, and he pointed me in the direction of the family hole. I placed the bunny down on the freshly-cut grass, and was stupefied, I'm easily stupefied, as another baby bunny hopped outwards under the daystar's dangerous dream of predatory birds. I wasn't worried about the local foxes, my Irish Wolf Hound (a Will Wheaten Terrier), keeping away the wild canines, including coyotes, with her defensive posture and rumbling vociferousness.
Anyway, I hope the bunnies grow boldways, eating plenty of carrots, evading the antiquated necessity of the food chain. Here's a picture I snapped of the action.
"Asphalt Ballet Vampire"
A crown so coolly cropped,
Making the cascading nimbus not the only hot and holy spot--
She cuts her hair on humility's dare,
Content with the symmetrical angles of her facial lair,
Which still attracts guys and their predatory safari;
Thus, she invites them into her bloody habitat to play 1980's ATARI;
Next, she dances on the street like a dime-store doll,
Being for blood one hell of a moll.
"Emerald-Eyed, Low Income Vampire"
I'm bound in a coffin, dealing with a quandary;
Specifically, the garlic pizza steams and cleans my springtime nasal cavity like a laundry;
Thus, to bite the stinking rose that heals,
Resurrecting my heart that grieves and bleeds and feels--
All is about the power of positive perception,
Forcing yourself to gel and gregariously fit in.
"Jazzmin Flush (67)"
"Righteous!" Jazzmin Flush announced as Donald (her Dad) had arrived with a heavy chain Rascal had given him from her mechanic's shop as a mating gift, though Jazzmin didn't know that's where it came from; regardless, she was gleefully elated when Dad tied up Mr. Pope with something much like steel; next, putting his dirty socks in the twisted dude's mouth so as to sincerely quiet his profane utterances aimed at Jazzmin, which described both her naivete and unusually shapely, muscular stems highlighted so nicely in her desert boots with Dodger Blue laces.
So, NERF said, protected yet shackled, all was well, and Thomas licked his arctic wolf wounds while Rascal simply morphed back into the naked girl she was, Jazzmin announcing: "Bag your face!" To which Rascal roughly replied: "Eat my shorts." To which Jazzmin logically pointed out: "But you're not wearing any." To which Donald passionately probed: "Is there a problem girls?" To which Jazzmin angrily announced: "Like duh." And wily Rascal aimed to hammer the odious, verbal nail: "She just pissed her panties cause I saved her boyfriend's life like a true hero."
"No!" Jazzmin Flush proudly exclaimed with a desert boot stomped hard on the floor. "I'm mad that you bagged my Dad."
Rascal was like: "Oh, that."
"Gothic Cowthing"
Toxic bars of incarcerating Clinical Depression
Dodged by a dreamer offering everlasting confession,
Knowing his best defense is high alacrity,
Spawning divine escape with sublime fecundity--
Of all kinds;
Hence, Westward wending with Gothic/Cowthing rhymes,
Not minding a tenderfoot to be,
Or a rodeo clown stuck in a bull-speared barrel having to pee.
"Jazzmin Flush (66)"
Mister Merlin Pope had Thomas around the arctic wolf neck--the androgynously abnormal man forcing Thomas' lethal incisors closed with uncanny, almost god-like strength. Thomas' canine telepathy hit him loud: "I mean not your destruction! Just stay away from my friends and me!"
"Too late!" Pope loudly blurted, increasing his gruesome grapple and snout crunch.
Then, the door to Pope's modest shanty exploded, okay, flew open, rascally Rascal totally coydogged out, snarling like uncouth vermin, as some coyotes are considered; plus, weirdly wagging her fluffy tail as did the Pomsky within command her to do, oddly enough. "I'm here fella!" Rascal linking her thoughts to Thomas'.
"My blasphemous gods! What foolish stupidity and lack of suave rescue is this? Cotton candy with teeth doesn't frighten the great Merlin Pope--android hunter and werewolf stalker."
"Save it!" Thomas telepathically screamed at him.
Next, Rascal powerfully pounced on Pope's big head, her hungry chompers going for the nasal cavity and getting fanged anchor, biting him, blood squirting from his flaring nostrils, and he ultimately released his deadly grip on Thomas; as a result, the mystical dogs forced him into a locked corner--the Spirit Wolf and coydog, her dripping blood from a happy mouth, but both breathing the heavy huff and giving pernicious puff in the direction of the human demon.
Jazzmin Flush enters. Not blushing, and not minding the flowing gold dangling in her angel-shaped, California eyes. "What's your damage? Mr. Pope?"
"Women are not self-cleaning ovens!"
I have written about Ukraine; still, my affection for Russian Literature; regardless, whatever is going on, and their leaders know what is going on with us, we owe it to the meek, even though they are assholes sometimes--everybody non-insidious should be left to live freely. We are all a bunch of sons of bitches. Yet, we can harness the Spirit of it ALL, and grand-slam to capable couthness.
Too, American Women should be cleaner. I know icy fresh Canadian lass. Life is not an American Panties Party. I'm just upset cause I never get invited. Does a curvaceous woman ever kindly and politely say: "Hello?" Even to a deliciously weird chap?
"The Nebulous Beauty Of A 1950's Vampire"
Outstanding is a weak word, wending from the woes of limited knowledge concerning the non-linear American Language, yet the nebulous beauty of a 1950's vampire knows better; indeed, she resisted with mortification of the Catholic senses, wearing an itchy and scalding crucifix around her ivory neck, not minding the heavenly nag of it all. Besides, her reproductive system was like Stoker's Un-Dead; specifically, not crafted for the lubrication of life.
But we all dive into the abyss of death save the real immortal freakshows. And reconfiguration due to resonating purpose seems to construct our eternal everlast. So don't deny this dandy, blood-sucking lady, for hers is to be nurtured until coffin nails close off her company. She needs sage rubs and holy water showers, being mystically ignited by a lamb's ichor. Verily, she has a psychotic love of righteousness, which never serves well the God-Blessed American Souls--them taken advantage of cause they have conscience and couth.
Here's Patricia Radulovich of Southeastern Europe in California during the early 1960's:
"Jazzmin Flush (65)"
"Grody to the max!" Jazzmin Flush exclaimed in quintessential, California girl fashion upon noticing her Dad's 1957 Chevy getting kind of heavy, doing the old bump and grind--her totally knowing: the commotion and thrusting locomotion persuading the classic car to rumble without being ignited by gasoline was the devilish doing of wily Rascal's hungry heart. "Oh great--my old man and a coydog are doing the junk exchange--right freaking in front of my house."
Jazzmin walked away, thinking of her oddly shaped siblings that would arrive in many months, being her pristine classicism gelled with Rascal's ass-grabbing delinquency; thus, the California girl shot off towards the urban layout of the City of Angels, hoping to find Thomas and confess her disturbed disgust; however, before another step was taken, her mind was shaken with Thomas' telepathy entering, sounding: "Pope is gonna kill me Jazzmin. Get over here, and bring a gun--a big one!"
Jazzmin Flush didn't know where to purchase a firearm; then, she knew Rascal probably had access. So, she darted back to the crude intercourse happening in her father's hot rod, banging on the glass window, actually seeing her father's naked fanny, and before she could warn them about Thomas' dangerous situation, she started to violently hurl corn dogs all over the car.
"The sour taste of a sucker's blood"
Eva doesn't thrive on bad blood--
Might as well suck up some Count Chocula or fertilized mud
Instead of imbibing the life of corrupt souls
Lost to the modern metaphor of Black Mass, filled with diabolical tolls.
"Coydog Wisdom"
Bite me in the tail to insidiously teach me a wicked lesson one more time
Cause I challenge the ultra-insensitivity of the Alpha Line;
Next, yes--nature must take its course,
And I can craft havoc with incisor force;
Moreover, natural selection didn't forge the dog--
That was man's lovely passion, better than Swamp Thing in a toxic bog.
"Jazzmin Flush (64)"
Thomas, in heaven's way, huffed; plus, he pantheistically puffed, mystically meshing with the Multiverse, knowing God's Good Ghost permeated it most; next, he quickly abandoned Jazzmin's nearby nuisance of being the typical dumb blond, wending wolfways, and towards the damned destination of Mister Merlin Pope, paw-pushing open the door, and almost galloping up to the dude's androgynous weirdness, drooling fanged intimidation of Catholicism gone wrong, a rogue knight hellbent on playing defense for a fair maiden, and himself.
Pope didn't look phased or even flinch. "I allow death upon me. For I once was like Bruce Jenner, but I actually wanted to be a man."
"What kind of freak are you?" Thomas hitting him with vociferous telepathy, snarling sharp threats behind a wet, black nose.
"Release me Catholic boy; otherwise, I'll happily take your death and stupefy your eternal regret."
"Jazzmin Flush (63)"
Jazzmin Flush lovingly followed Thomas' telepathic wolf-calling away from the area of Mister Merlin Pope. His (Thomas') metaphorical howls implied an imperative retreat from Pope. Hence, Jazzmin bolted, saying her polite farewells to the bizarre, living man she was interviewing for a futuristic obituary, scooping up her notes scribbled on an archaic notepad with a number 2 pencil.
So, Jazzmin Flush scooted towards the urban corn-dog stand where her and Thomas had their first date. Thomas was glimmering in potency and righteous truth, as always lately, munching his incisors on non-antibiotic fed chicken bread in corn meal and herbs--the delicious delicacy then stuck upon a spine-tingling, when chewed on, stick. She took a seat next to her arctic wolf boyfriend. "What's the rush? I was just about to get my interview to really open up."
Thomas scowled. "I got deep into Pope's mind. Not only was he a ruthless android hunter--he pursued all sorts of dangerous game, including werewolves."
Jazzmin puzzled yet defensive for the sake of argument. "But you're not a garden-variety werewolf. Your wolf is from the Holy Spirit."
"Which makes my divine pelt all the more rare and seemingly priceless." Thomas frowned.
Jazzmin Flush blushed, badly. "Holy Freakshow. He's luring me to get close to my friends--you in particular."
Thomas added, "I think your newspaper chose you not because of your journalistic skills, but to nail me to the wall somewhere in a freakshow museum."
Jazzmin blew the gold out of her rolling eyes. "And for a second, I thought the world was giving me a second chance."
"Honor thy elders"
Old men, sea hags, and the burdensome cripples--
Denying them HONOR is the carpet burn scald to a set of young nipples;
Alas, raise a toast to the true service of man,
For there are 40,000 suicides a year in the American plan--
A real war zone within the fake calm;
Thus, don't forget to on Sunday bring Grandma some gleeful love and healing balm.
"Jazzmin Flush (62)"
Donald Flush was heavy with cool, adorned in a gray recede and a bit of sea salt and cracked pepper goatee; moreover, Rascal on the coydog prowl, itchy and a bit with the old inflame, needing pups to nurture before she hit the dreaded thirty years of age.
She approached the mature man, prancing up to his classic hot rod, noticing the blue-black paint job and mag tires. "Mighty nice old man."
Donald was like, "I've delivered more onion and mushroom deep dish than any other type of hot pie. You want a ride?"
Within, windows down, California wind blowing through their 8-cylinder elation, Rascal probed an "in control" man who wasn't totally interested; as a result, used her canine telepathy to let him clearly know: "What's so wrong with me having a crush on you, old man?"
Donald blurted: "Maybe rabies."
"Drugstore Makeup Junkie"
Alas, my son cooked to life by incubation;
Next, a patriarch locked in controlling stipulation;
Indeed, should have let him play Canadian ball,
For I'm ornamented in glitter, gloss, and coverage purchased at the mall--
Things don't work--it takes "2",
But never is "3" the number for marriage's glue.
Don't worry; so many get an honorable clue,
Battling the big fish, fighting for their old man's due.
"Jazzmin Flush (61)"
Jazzmin Flush gushed with laughter and glee as she seemed to perpetually shoot the shit (oops) with Mister Merlin Pope; indeed, he was an eternal springtime of enlightening change, moving in a totally non-linear fashion as he offered the torrid and peaceful topics concerning his life; however, she was not infatuated with the ant-circuitry shutdowns he had ruthlessly performed as an Android Hunter. The sentient machines had American Rights; moreover, they need to download more conscience, but it was their right to be as scandalous as an Andy Warhol movie actress if preferred.
Jazzmin got up to give whiz within the commode abode. And Merlin's eyes hungrily followed her California lean dexterity as she seemed to dangerously dance across the floor in her desert boots; next, she heard Thomas cut in: "Watch it Jazzmin--Mr. Pope has a conscience, but he will resort to any type of adventure, proudly making himself longer in the tooth. This dude loves danger."
"Supergirl and CFL"
Ismail, Flutie, Moon--many others too,
Bootlegging (kinda) while encompassed by the pigskin cult zoo
Of glacial-visited tundra galore,
And few Americans are keeping score;
Regardless, what else to watch in the summer,
Yet Baseball is not a sincere bummer.
"Jazzmin Flush (60)"
Jazzmin Flush and Merlin Pope became engrossed in the non-fiction of their bizarre lives--Jazzmin confessing her unborn daughter, weeping with great regret, and Merlin offering up his inability to gel and merrily mesh with fine women.
MERLIN
A bit androgynous, not as tall or hairy as Magnum P.I. either; thus, I will never be a big hunk of a man as might a snobby landlord announce; regardless, contacted a guy on the holo-vid, I just want communication. Moreover, to be properly steered in the arms of an adoring 40ish lady that won't compete with me. A traditional relationship, man and woman playing love. But all I get is stabbed in the back, and I do stupid things, not physically, but with communication. There's a nice lady who serves the dumplings and noodles at CHINA MING.
JAZZMIN
Why do we all have problems? So, you feel guilty and were going to punish or off yourself?
MERLIN
Why not? Who am I?
JAZZMIN
You are a cool guy Mr. Pope. I know this coydog named Rascal, and she's nothing but a pill. Crap, she's probably proud of being raunchy, when she decides to be raunchy that is--and it's plenty of the time. Look, just embrace your passions, don't spill your guts about love with anybody--reserve it for where your treasure chest is; next, where your treasure is, so is your heart also. And don't wimp out on me. I think you and my Dad would be good friends. The two of you could pick up some ladies, or whatever it is old men do. I dunno.
MERLIN
I'll lift my head then Jazzmin. And as for your friend Rascal--you never know with a coydog--they're the weirdest.
"Union Blue--introspection and a wackadoodle"
Step-Daddy, Carolina forged, when things are labor-oriented--he declares with swift, militaristic plan to sweep the debris: "Boy--we gotta grease this goose." Or perhaps dandy days with NASCAR and Bud Heavy flowing: "Boy--we're in high cotton." Regardless, absorbing everything Southwards as commands heavy empathy, what to do but gleefully vent with dynamic ditty, remembering: babe crowned in a symmetrical explosion of girly curls, and tough. Here goes:
Woman--you just so girly curl fine--
Punch me in the throat if I get out of line!
You got scald; you got grit--
I'm all about your life-giving tit--
I ain't uncouth in vulgar way;
I just know what I want, and I want what I say--
So thank your stars I hung the moon;
The coyotes are calling for a waxing boon.
Woman--you just so girly curl fine--
Punch me in the throat if I get out of line!
"Jazzmin Flush (59)"
With fervor for California comfort food in the furious future, Jazzmin Flush ordered "in" some fish and chips, ornamented with softly mild salsa and crowned with sea salt and cracked pepper gelling atop fresh parsley. She had the matriarchal mojo to feed Mr. Merlin Pope. All the dandy dudes she knew were so darn slender, and she sweetly hoped that her severely muscular legs weren't intimidating these meagerly yet macho men she hung out with--them all illuminated by some sort of spirit. So, the food arrived, and it was hot. Jazzmin sat on a somewhat clean floor, hardwood, while Merlin remained gimpy in his misplaced chaise lounge.
MERLIN
This is nice--my sweet Jazzmin.
JAZZMIN
Thanks Mr. Pope--I used to work on a taco truck, and food can be inexpensive yet healthy. Salsa is fortified with lycopene, and parsley, besides being the king of garnish desires decent digestion; moreover, fish is swimming in Omega oils, and the chips--well, some say that they might increase bodily inflammation, but they were cooked in olive oil and onion powder, if that matters. I read all my food labels.
MERLIN
Jazzmin Flush--you intrigue me. I know that I'm an asymmetrical creature; nevertheless--I must ask: "Are you seeing anybody?"
JAZZMIN
Buster--yup. And he's totally a big, bad wolf. Actually no--he's really nice, like white cotton candy with teeth.
"Union Blue--a very personal, underground song"
Mercury delivery--me--not a garden-variety mortal, yet an organic form of man, John Barleycorning my nightshade after laboring at the local newspaper, regally rising from a pimple-faced paperboy to a merciful manager with a shaggy goatee and creeping out all the pseudo-ladies. Anyway, my Country Boss told me: "Boy--there ain't nothing better than walking barefoot on a plantation of naked titties." Ahem--here's the ditty--total writing time: 1 minute and 39 seconds.
Slinging papers under crescent moon glow,
Down in the South sending insight to the crow;
I came across a coyote laying dead on the road,
Took a look'n at his spirit and my shy did erode--
Talking to the ladies with couth in my glass--
No greedy hand-grabbing but glances at the ass--
Adore the pubs and every domestic bar
That tolerates with love my Yankee bizarre.
"Jazzmin Flush (58)"
Jazzmin Flush didn't have time to be petty concerning a stepdame's pretentious persona; specifically, the L.A. Derelict had sent her on a labor-like duty--to forge an obituary on a living guy, but he would soon perish in cruel fashion as did dictate a cursed circumstance. His guy name was Merlin Pope, and he wasn't to give his complete story--not yet. Jazzmin Flush was imperatively instructed to only ask a few questions, take meticulous notes, and craft a literary brainstorm. She entered a dilapidated shanty, near where Girthy Gilda used to reside, and wending further within, she found Merlin Pope reclining on a chaise lounge, looking a bit lime-green.
MERLIN
You must be Miss Jazzmin Flush--what a quintessential California girl you are. A flowing, golden mane, and very hearty thighs. Please sit down.
JAZZMIN
Are you hitting on me--being uncouth?
MERLIN
I'm dead in the loins--not even your curvaceous physicality could resurrect my blood flow.
JAZZMIN
So, what's the scoop Mr. Pope?
MERLIN
Born under a shimmering, beautiful blade. Carved like a jive turkey from my mother's obedient womb; next, placed in incubation--cooked to life, more or less. Growing into a skittish coyote, androgynous in face and body, yet athletic and goofy. I had no chance. My greatest destiny is death.
JAZZMIN
I'm sorry. Really. I know some low people--low in a sublime way. Why does life have to suck so much? Doesn't God know--we've already been tested.
MERLIN
Plus, immune problems. That's all I'll say save--don't ever indulge in a romantic dinner with a hungry lass who ingests lobster bisque and doesn't brush her teeth before carnal play--if you do, or if I did, and I did--you'll get a monstrous case of epididymitis.
Jazzmin Flush sat on the edge of Merlin Pope's chaise lounge. Jazzmin wept.
"Remembering: WEREWOLF BY NIGHT"
Name: Jack Russell--more or less . . .
First Arrival: 1972--Marvel Spotlight #2
Hangs Out With: Legion of Monsters & Night Shift
Talents: Hard to kill by conventional means; however, items with silver sublimity might slay.
Too: Full Moon Fury morphs him into a hybrid of human and wolf--intellect replaced with fangs, fur, and fright.
Appearing: Early 1970's and into the Carter Administration; plus, WEREWOLF BY NIGHT spawns one of Moon Knight's first manifestations of his mystic self.
"Union Blue--a very underground and android song"
Got poured a Bud Heavy, me: Heavy with empathy, and she oozed carnal sophistication, and I ran to the Saints, happy for God's sense of EVERYTHING STYLE, and I'm grateful for the divine differences, that asymmetrical mix of man; plus, got a confederate-loving kin; hence, what needs to be penned with pulsating purpose: CONFEDERATE CYBORG CHIMPANZEE, or better: TRIPLE C! Heston on the pony, well-groomed generals, and the mystical mix of simplistic man submitting to the machine gods. It will happen, sometime, place, or where . . .
Here's the dubious ditty:
The South don't brave none android galore--
Give me a "for sure" Carolina girl;
She's a bit more fleshy with organic jugs,
And I don't give no artificial consciousness country hugs,
Resisting them Yankees pushing the Queen--
Her forged with pride that ain't spiritually clean--
I love my Dixie and all the dogs;
I voted for a President who called them Hogs!
"Jazzmin Flush (57)"
Rascal electrically elongated her canine telepathy, mind-hunting Thomas, barking her boldacious bewitching persona in his arctic wolf's direction; specifically, being a bitch in heat, offering, "I want you to stop being a stick in the mud and help Jazzmin too. You can't be a wimpy weasel and walk away from your girlfriend's needs. Do you even know how to be a boyfriend?"
Thomas, frozen forever in ascetic awesomeness--never to be tarnished or twisted by tempting circumstance other than that which was directly knighted by the Good Ghost, barked back: "Maybe you need to leave this wolf alone coydog girl. Or perhaps you need a deliberate dose of wolf's bane to repel your passionate instincts, or perhaps a less organic approach--a scientific exorcism like Haldol, the anti-psychotic--both put supernatural mange into remission; I know you're in heat--stay away from Jazzmin's Dad. Now, how's that for being a boyfriend?"
Rascal like,"I never sniffed your hindquarters cause of flirtation--it was just kicks; I'm nobody's junkyard tramp."
"Jazzmin Flush (56)"
Jazzmin Flush was emotionally crushed; specifically, her father had, not angelically, architected a pistol-packing plan to regain his stolen funds from the self-obsessed woman he wrongfully married, rightfully returning Jazzmin's sacred inheritance--long overdo, this lack of family trust twisting her into a magnanimous vagrant of sorts. But Jazzmin Flush was no thief.
"I am." Rascal boasted upon her return, her hindquarters still a bit inflamed and itchy. "Coyotes are renowned for righteously ripping off larger predators. And Jazzmin's stepdame sounds too selfish to ever attain spiritual peace without our interference. Totally, she's building up some waaaay bad karma for herself with all that greed, and we could straighten her out with a spanking."
"She likes to be spanked." Donald Flush admitted.
"I'm out." Thomas stoic. "Gonna check on Fredrica." And he made like Tom and cruised.
"We can't do this Daddy." Jazzmin confessed. "I don't have it in me to be naughty."
Donald Flush was like, "I get it girl. But now--so should you. I slaved my way working as a mathematician--your birth mother getting me through college with her labor. The myriads of monies I worked for in hopes of bettering my offspring belong to you. You, by blood, deserve a little nest egg."
"I'll help you Mr. Flush." Rascal grinned hotly. "Uh--I mean Donald."
Jazzmin blew the gold out of her eyes, blushed, and profanely uttered: "Shit."
"Spirit versus Machine"
A strong, biological family member I knew, fully equipped with an artificial pacemaker and implanted cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD), was--under the antiquated rules of the English language, a living cyborg--part man/part machine. His thoracic cavity having had more mechanical hardware than Darth Vader's--it kept him alive.
On the flip side, a woman willfully enduring to near 90 years of age, Grandma, abusing 2 to 3 packs of coffin nails a day for over 70 years, only hospitalized for one week her entire life before being birthed elderly--she seemed, I surmise, ignited by pure spirit. I could see the determined dauntlessness in her olive-green eyes--them energetically shimmering with this spiritual gift from Anotherworld.
Humans can harness the Spirit of God, and soon we'll learn if machines can. Being conscious is one thing, but having a conscience is groovy and sublime.
"Jazzmin Flush (55)"
Rascal got control--was REMINDED of the SPIRIT of it ALL. Still, rebellious and cute in rascally fashion, she knew--Thomas didn't need to be her telepathic babysitter or her complete conscience; nevertheless, she crushed on his spiritual probings.
And in this Future Year of Our Lord, Rascal witnessed an obvious android plugging itself into an energy diner. Now away from the park, she approached from an escapable distance, swallowing the yummalicious remnants of a thieved, dug-up bone, attempting to infuse Spirit into Machine. Later, she muttered to herself: "I just evangelized an android."
"Jazzmin Flush (54)"
Wily Rascal went to the park, beyond the URBAN of it all--kicked a spherical stone, got paw-padded; next, dug up another's bone, ingesting the protein nature, and thanking the SPIRIT that she had a willed and unbeatable digestive tract as did her Coyote ancestors--the Pomsky genes are less forgiving when it comes to eating diapers and toxic waste.
Anyway, what she was thinking: "It's all about Jazzmin Flush. California Girl. Boyfriend and father both billowing in her bright life. Yup--it's all about Jazzmin, and I think I'm going into horny heat. Her father is looking cute. If I mated him, our pups would be Jazzmin's dubious sisters and brothers. Oh crap. Even though it is all about Jazzmin--she's just so darn nice. The me of yesteryear would have thought "damn nice" but Thomas is telepathically linked to me. I won't hurt his lovely Jazzmin. You hearing this Thomas? I like my new friends! I won't mess this up!"
"Pac Man in Northwest Nature--Boxing Northways"
1788 and timeline beyond, seasoned Filipino sailors anchor it strong--
Ships on keel of a Spanish expedition, sailing Northwest Passageways--never wrong,
For after letting air outta ring with dancing and numerous safety jabs,
Mayweather, Jr. births research into more economical and technical boxing labs.
"Morphing Emo; plus, Canis lupus familiaris"
In Stoker's Dracula, terriers are written as rat killers;
As a result, find no live-action in bouncing balls without vermin fillers;
Thus, owners fed up with vampiric mutt
Mutate themselves with blue-black dye and cut.
"Union Blue--underground song"
SONG: About having a girl who is a friend--a real friend; moreover, if you have a girl that is just that, a friend--don't accidentally glare at her beloved boobies. If you do, she will vociferously launch an obnoxious diatribe while pointing at her well-respected buxom, like: "Why, these are my puppies buster! And, you are what I thought was different about every other guy."
She needs not to be accidentally ogled by friendship; nonetheless, she needs to set you up with one of her friends, even though she might fancy you a fruitcake. Here's the ditty:
Hey friendly lady, I'm a bit fruity,
Don't ya worry; I ain't scoping your booty--
Come on now: "Send me your girlfriend cutie!"
Yankees are born--Southern everyday,
Let Country Western spread every which way,
Don't stand there, acting all proud and snooty.
Hey friendly lady, I'm a bit fruity,
Don't ya worry; I ain't scoping your booty--
Come on now: "Send me your girlfriend cutie!"
"Jazzmin Flush (53)"
Thomas morphed back humanways, changing politely, in private; however, Swiss observed his nudity, yet the house mouse did not seem a bit phased; still, Thomas was not cool and comfortable with it, snarling a fanged incisor in Swiss' direction, sending the now phobic rodent scatter-feeting to his hole.
Next, an obnoxious knock at the bathroom door (where Thomas was of course--in Jazzmin's basement), and Thomas knew by telepathy; plus, Occam's razor mentioned it as well--it was rascally Rascal! So, after getting on his khaki pants, moccasins, and a L.A. Dodger shirt he picked up at Mr. Thrift, he opened the door, Rascal grinning. "Get comfortable with being in the buff fella. You're a wolf."
Thomas explained, "I am a young man too. The wolf does not own me, nor I him. It is a fabulous synergy of fellowship leading to reverence of God and protection of the weak."
"You and Jazzmin are soooooo goody-goody; plus, just weird." Rascal snorted. "Anyway, you'd better get out here; Jazzmin and her Dad are getting mushy. I think I'm gonna have to puke in the sink."
"Jazzmin Flush (52)"
Donald implied, admitted more: "Jazzmin--I'm Yankee born, yet Southern torn. Your stepdame was a Southern Belle, more in love with chic things than a Southern General's adoration of peacockish pageantry. And what a piece of ass."
"Daddy! You can't cuss in my holy basement." Jazzmin's foot down, blowing gold out of her eyes.
Donald puffed on a fake cigarette to pee her off. "Darling daughter, you got dog people as your comrades and friends. Who are you?"
Jazzmin retorted, "I don't deliver pizzas for a living though. Sorry."
Donald like, "I love you girl. You are my sweet angel of dirty-blonde gold."
Rascal zipped her naked self up in a mechanic's jumpsuit. Thomas kept arctic wolfways, resisting his red-hued desire to lift a passionate leg, urinating on any nearby furniture.
"Jazzmin Flush (51)"
Jazzmin Flush got the juicy gist from Daddy, Mr. Donald Flush, further enlightening her on his ravaged and raped past, getting stolen away from his wife, Jazzmin's mother, because he didn't fully appreciate Conan the Barbarian, where the young thief/fighter Conan is told precisely and imperatively: "Domination of women!" Or how he should have pushed the ominous witch into the cleansing fire as did young Conan when that horrid harridan attempted to thieve his godly steel, a soul forged by a father's instruction.
Then, in the bare scud, Rascal came violently bursting through the entrance door, awakening Jazzmin and Donald to the reality that when you have dogs as friends, sooner or later you'll have to clean up after they make a mangy mess.
And Thomas entered next, fully arctic-wolfed, growling lowly at Rascal, her defensive. "Sorry big fella--my rump-like posterior is inflamed and itchy. Just wanted to see if your rear end had any health secrets is all."
Donald rolled his mature eyes at Jazzmin. "I'm gone for a little over twenty years and you still haven't trained your dog."
