A Wicked Gastroenterologist

   
   "A Wicked Gastroenterologist"  
   
   Calmly cruising through the physician's door; however, not a Doc; moreover, a Nurse Practitioner of the cruel imp family, some imps are awesome and nice--but not him.  He was intrinsically hostile due to his own corporeal aspects, pre-judging my highly-paid necessity of his so-called, medical services. 

NP
Your insurance doesn't cover that.
  
ME
I had REMICADE Infusions for years--of course they do. 

NP
Maybe you have another insurance and just don't know it.
   
ME
How could I be paying a colossal amount for another health insurance and not know it?
   
NP
Anyway, a prescription for PREDNISONE for 2 weeks is like putting a Band-Aid on it.
  
ME
Aren't Band-Aids good?  Too, the only cure for Ulcerative Colitis is removal of the large intestine, more or less.  And why don't you look me in the eye, and why didn't you shake my hand?  Why do you study the asshole for a living?  And I'm the liar and freak?  Why give me COLAZAL instead of DELZICOL when it doesn't offer the same protection against cancer?  Change REMICADE into HUMIRA when REMICADE, which I had for years, did indeed fix me without side-effects?  Put your hands near my junk when you examine me?  No other medical man treating me for this condition did that, nor ask me if I'm ticklish, nor invite me to their non-denominational church.  And why refuse treatment cause I bleed out, having required a blood transfusion, becoming anemic of the IRON kind; thus, am phobic concerning too high of a capacity of blood being drawn by cackling and jeering phlebotomists?  Not drops of blood buddy, but cups--I got pics on my cell phone of the sanguinary circumstances.  Have you no idea of the Hippocratic Oath?  And no Organic, Western Medicine--that has been studied by myriads of suffering patients, and it calms and soothes them--this not legally allowed in the American South, though it is by a Higher Davidian Power.  Who is this leader of the American South?  May I remind him that they lost the biggest terrorist action launched upon the sublime turf of the United States?  Do you know what it is like to have painful, bloody diarrhea and agonizing constipation for near 20 years?  This is bullshit.      

Jazzmin Flush (84)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (84)"
    
   Thomas--his wolfy blood boiled; indeed, telepathically attached in enchanting fashion to Miss Jazzmin's complete self--her soul, actually, more of her cerebral self; regardless, Thomas knew, as most canines do, what was going on in the head of a member of his pack.  And remember, Thomas was the Spirit Wolf--forged by surfing the Holy Spirit as an energetic, ubiquitous wave of everything SUBLIME, like a Brahma Christ, merged with the nature of the complete Multiverse.  
   Anyway, to blow off the essence of angry steam, Thomas got wolf angst, deciding to morph into his arctic lupine delicious, remembering the whale blubber he munched on once, and took a trek into the wolf-like aspects of his supernature, becoming more of a garden-variety werewolf, even thinking about banging, after hunting, tail.  It was all the improper myths of werewolves not ever being magnanimous--some are!!!  Yet Thomas wanted blood at that moment.  Wended ruralwards, finding a bullet-holed barn full of chickens. thought about Mister Merlin Pope touching cleverly his Miss Jazzmin Flush and her puristic pink; next, slaughtered the chickens--blood and broken bones galore, but his intestinal tract could handle it.  

Beer and Blondes

    
   "Beer and Blondes"
    
Pulled back--it is flowing flaxen--
A rat's nest of cascading champagne--yup, I'm Saxon,
And I honor and revere the Irish and their ale;
Plus, I don't get skunked and give away my precious tail;
Alas, I'm a lonely crayon configuration,
Wetting my crimson lips on the stutter of a poet's coloring fixation.  
  

Jazzmin Flush (83) "Gnarly"

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (83)"  "Gnarly"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was not crushed concerning her circumstance of being on the boyfriend lam with the seductively sick Merlin Pope; moreover, ignoring Thomas' telepathic, canine howls in her head, begging her to arrive at her common senses, the California girl blocked him by way of being bizarrely bought and purchased by the gnarly danger of it all.  Pope and her along the rocky shore in the Pacific Northwest, watching many an Orca dive from the cold water, before summoning their fleshy selves downwards into their aquatic turf.  
   
MERLIN
This is nice.  A fine young female and her escaped, deranged, and yet dashing middle-aged manfriend.

JAZZMIN
Cut it out Pope--I'm just figuring things out is all.

MERLIN
I think you dig the danger.  Young, fertile lass alongside a man that offers feline femininity; plus, the bold, saddle-riding determination of true man.

JAZZMIN
Are you trying to brag on your carnal abilities?

MERLIN
No--I am not good in bed.  What did Christ say in the Gospels?  Nothing is "good" save God.  As a result, I am weird, pulsating into the other, drawing their crushing wave out of them, and into me.

JAZZMIN
A real soul sucker.  Great.  Now lets talk about something else save sex.

MERLIN
Am I making you blush dear Jazzmin?

JAZZMIN
Don't feel honored or special or anything dude.  I blush easily.

   Merlin simply smiled and looked away to the unearthly Orca.  Jazzmin Flush bit her lip; next, blushed.   
  

Jazzmin Flush (82)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (82)"
    
    Merlin Pope smoked a little dope; alas, meeker, performance-enhanced, and cosmically philosophical; regardless, he was still Mister Merlin Pope, and may no medicine ever alter those feline eyes, or that potent John Wayne swagger of mouth, or his cat-like dexterity to dodge and defy the angel of death--on his own tenacious terms too.
   Okay, okay--yes!  Jazzmin Flush, as a young female and very incarnate--had physical attraction to the creepy dude, cause she knew he had uncanny OCD and was meticulously clean.  The guy would not tolerate jungle rot, burning incense over the area, and igniting the neutral angels through reverent invocation to heal his affected dermis.  True, genuine ladies--like clean guys, and, they can be bad boys with feline eyes.  Thus, Jazzmin Flush was physically curious, smitten, and yet as a hard-core, underground Catholic, repulsed by Mister Merlin Pope.
  They sat on the levitation train together, reaching Oregon northwards; plus, the quack of ducks and blazers never trailing, fueled by the fire of the Holy Spirit--and Jazzmin hoped she was too; verily indeed, wherever this weird adventure was leading, if she ended up in bed with Pope; next, she'd probably kill herself, and it would kill Thomas too.  

Jazzmin Flush (81)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (81)"
    
   Jazzmin Flush was in a ruthless rush--to get away from Thomas.  Not we should be friends chatter and all that hurtful jazz; alas, without packing a single item, attempting to rely completely and solely on the Holy Spirit lighting her retreating fire, she walked underneath the purple sunset of Los Angeles, knowing the crescent Moon would soon shine bright and that Thomas, her frigid love, would wend wolfways, if only in his dreams as he transcended the garden-variety werewolf.
   So, with less than bravado to back her up, just meek confidence and some lip gloss in the front pocket of her jeans, she pulled down tight her Dodger cap, and with intent eyes, boarded the levitation train out of the city, needing her own time for a bit, to reflect, draw unicorns in notebooks with glossy, sparkly ink, and forge wondrous prose for the sometimes vile vagrants locked within a dystopian society.
   The levitation train, magnetized, partially to the tracks, shot her away with muscle and mercury, Jazzmin twisting knots in her flowing gold, chewing nails downwards, and then as if Gomer Pyle with fantastically feminine eyes, and yet wearing a potent male aura, Merlin Pope emerged, sitting softly down next to her, uttering:  "Surprise, surprise, surprise."
   Jazzmin wasn't prone to profane utterances herself, yet let the uncouth goose loose, verbally spouting:  "Oh shit--is this gonna take long?"
   Merlin Pope grinned, but with discomfort, feeling Jazzmin's odd attraction towards him, a creepy crush of some sorts; thus, knowing their was possible soul-washing entrance, he suggested:  "We should run away together.  I really could use true youth and sonic beauty; plus, a lap dance every so often."
   Jazzmin Flush offered no response and felt no disgust.  Maybe she should just be a tramp.  To hell with whatever love she sought in life--go get some.  But whatever, nothing bothered her now.  Just riding a train with a sicko.  Indeed, for all her quasi-asceticism--she had a sense of adventure after all.  

Jazzmin Flush (80)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (80)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did conclude--nothing.  Lost to a whirlwind of weird from Merlin Pope; plus, nagged by Thomas' ultra-carnal intentions into sharing his divine energy with her in corporeal fashion, merging and making her become a synergy with the dandy dude.  Yup--she adored the arctic wolf, but violation of her carnal fears; her puristic ability to see why Christ addressed women in the New Testament as simply:  WOMAN!  He did!  Knowing their intentions, for they were incarnate--in the freaking flesh!!!  And hence, they must be bothered by the lust in their loins--but, is intercourse ever not lascivious?  Would it always feel so to the very very asexual Jazzmin Flush, California Girl with cascading strands of gold, blowing it forth from her effulgent eyes with kiss-me lips to reveal a sophisticated Saint?  Yet some Saints simply:  Got Some.  It was all too obvious.  She could either enter into mystical matrimony with Thomas, or run away.  All that damn simple.  

Android Lovemake--and all that jazz

   
   "Android Lovemake--and all that jazz"
   
   We are having too much fun.  What, like 37% of everything downloaded on the Internet is hardcore porn?  Is there anything anymore save hardcore porn?  Sex is sport nowadays.  Taming of the Shrew has been discarded to Oscar the Grouch's filthy habitat.  Put some hand sanitizer in there dude; regardless, besides women now being empowered by enjoying sex, there is the android factor.  Yup, we'll build them, not reminded of movies like TERMINATOR where they turn on us--cause we're having too much fun.
   Verily, our ultimate goal for the android humanoid is:  to engage them in all-out intercourse.  We want to have sloppy, fluidic climax into or onto our creations.  At least the geeks do.  And what happens when a male android pleasures your wife to perfection?  He is programmed to her physical needs, fitting in symmetrical, pulsating fashion, like a cranking piston without a conscience. Thus, we need the Spirit.  The human spirit.  Don't let Sam Jackson kill that motherf%&*ing Spirit.  Hell, human guys may like the challenge.  Don't count out a hybrid Yankee/Redneck infused with Christ harnessing and sharing knowledge on how to harness that flowing Spirit.     
     

Vulcan Tension

   
   "Vulcan Tension"
   
Aboard a starship; plus, infused with logic to abstain--
Very much tension do you gain,
And as the galactic physician McCoy always mocked Spock,
He didn't count on a green-blooded alien to have secured logic's lock;
Thus, to the good doctor he might, being tense, say:
"Teabag my neglected scrotum this very day."
For Vulcans are humanoids--very clean,
Haunting outer space with android mien.   

Jazzmin Flush (79)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (79)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush rushed away into dastardly danger after receiving a cryptic message on her holo-phone from Mister Merlin Pope; indeed, the trans-weird gentleman was no longer securely behind laser beam bars, but had used his suave weirdness to make a privileged escape--now:  on the lam, but reaching out to Jazzmin for whatever reasons.  Distraught by life; thus, being a bit stupid, Jazzmin went to engage Pope in some sort of symposium within the realm of public safety; specifically, BUSTER'S CHEESE LOUNGE, where GOUDA was bragged on as a lung cancer protector.  Anyway, Jazzmin found her way within the modest hole inside a suburban strip mall, mercurially noticing Mr. Pope's feminine eyes and yet strong male luster.  She blew the gold out of her eyes, taking a cautious seat in front of the bizarre character as he calmly snacked on some Wisconsin Cheddar.
   
MERLIN
I prefer Colby cheese as a yellow cheese--much softer texture.
  
JAZZMIN
What exactly do you want?

MERLIN
You're in a carnal dilemma.  I heard it whispered by way of the Four Winds.

JAZZMIN
You tried to wreck my life.  Why am I even talking to you?
   
MERLIN
You need Good Counsel.  And, Miss Jazzmin Flush--I am here to give it.  I urge you to make love to your boyfriend Thomas after a Catholic ceremony of marriage.
  
JAZZMIN
Now--I'll never do it!  Thanks for making my decision easier.
   
MERLIN
Perhaps I'm tricking you, yes.  Perhaps you have no idea why I called you into this shabby snack-shack underneath the daystar's illuminating truth of esoteric things.
  
JAZZMIN
Still, I go God's Way.  Not yours.  Now excuse me, I have a loving family to gel with.  Have a nice life.
  
   Jazzmin exits, flushed.  Merlin eats his Wisconsin Cheddar and grins in wicked fashion.  

Ladies like a V-8 motor

   
   "Ladies like a V-8 motor"
   
Hey boys, if you have a 409--call me;
Still, a small block Ford 302 does tickle me till I pee.
Yup, the Boss 302 out accelerates the Boss 429,
Which is made for ultra high speed cruising--so divine,
And I don't mind a turbo-charged V-6;
Plus, I'll even date a super-charged 4 cylinder, with a stick in the mix.
Look, women date guys cause they got muscle cars;
Today, having a hot rod gets you in the lasso of Deputy Dawg--behind bars. 
  

 

Jazzmin Flush (78)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (78)"
   
   Donald Flush, like a tired and worn out coyote, tail between his skinny legs, returned--completely broke.  Rascal didn't mind a bit, happy the old man was in dire straights financially--better chance of him not leaving her.  Like when a groovy guy wants his hefty girl to remain large and in charge, cause if she morphs skinnywards and goes symmetrically fine; next--she's gone, out the door, later dude.
   Always marry an unattractive woman the B-Movie comedy brags boldly and with uncouth intent, for if you marry the yummy, boobalicious lass--she might leave you.  But if the corpulent girth of an unattractive girl leaves you--who gives a damn.  I didn't make up all this uncool knowledge--so don't blame me!!!
   Anyso, wily Rascal was enthusiastically elated, wrapping her un-coydogged, fleshy arms around Donald Flush, hungrily embracing the new Daddy; then, placing the coydog pups in his shivering arms--him getting licked and loved by his precious children; plus, an ulcer.  

Razorback fan; plus, vampire lady

   
   "Razorback fan; plus, vampire lady"
   
I am animalistic in my adoration of the classically beastly,
But I meticulously clean my lady cavity to not become yeasty;
Indeed, I gravitate towards werewolf guys,
Not minding hairy pits--as long as their hearts are nice.
And I call the Hogs when autumn arrives,
Protecting my turf with switchblade knives. 
Yup,
I'm boobalicious, overflowing a teacup.  
  

Jazzmin Flush (77)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (77)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush regally retreated from the birthing scenario of Rascal's wonder womb, leaving Thomas elated with the pretentious pups barking their pride to life.  
   Jazzmin strolled urbanways, into the domain of many a hobo, regally reminded of her once underground poetry pamphlets that spread the bizarre ode of income equality, offering a chance to lend the homeless vagrants hope in respected earnings for their humble labors of being trash men, android constructors, hookers, and all that non-linear jazz.  But what haunted the California girl and her mane of glistening gold was simply:  SEX.  Why?
   And Thomas did look handsome all wolfed out in platinum-white fur and fangs that sparkled along with electric-blue eyes, ears a little shorter than a garden-variety wolf, and a tail straight with spiritual even flow.  She knew she could trust him, yet owed it to her aborted daughter to never attempt hatching a life-force within her surgically-touched womb--a surgery that resulted in the death of a human being.  Yes, Jazzmin's loins lusted love towards Thomas.  And Thomas was a skinny, solid, good-looking guy with his shaggy brown mess of hair, but how would she explain to the Good God her resistance to all the songs and psalms of inviolate purity?   

Jazzmin Flush (76)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (76)"   
   
   "Pseudo-Tramp!!!  Did you hear that Jazzmin?  Pseudo-Tramp!!!  I read a book by the scandalous, weirdo poet by that infectious name, and it sings and sounds nothing like you."  Thomas telepathically hitting her innermost tension amid the birthing scene,  where (talking brain) the best climax erupts with wonder, fatally--fatalists striking cerebral blows beyond the cranium; nevertheless--never abuse telepathy in a sinister sense lest your victim becomes so paralyzed that they then absorb your intangible movement of consciousness; plus, spirits, angels, demons, whatever may take pity on a semi-innocent soul shut down by the influence of adders, granting those cursed souls redemption.  "Are you getting this too Jazzmin?  Do you understand--we are totally intimate though no fluidic exchange.  You are not the Pseudo-Tramp.  You were forged by Spirit, and recline in absurdity, as if to outdo the Saints, and you do it, sometimes, very well.  So, of Heaven--give 'em stupefied hell.  I'm so sorry for blasphemy, but what am I but a boy in love with something too pure to touch?"  

Greasing your goose

   
   "Greasing your goose"
   
Mine is a Southern, passionate, hot, and very seductive diatribe,
Igniting sparks of chemistry with forceful whispers--making men thrive
If they lay back and relax their varying shape--
I wonderfully wish to please, never torridly scrape;
Thus, grease your goose and release your junior moose loose;
Otherwise, giving away to a celibate noose,
Which is fine
Unless alone do you wish to dine.
Us lonely, middle-aged ladies--
Hungry since husbands went to younger girls and spawned demon-headed babies. 

Diary entries of a vampire girlfriend

   
   "Diary entries of a vampire girlfriend"

Where there is smoke--there's not always fire--might be vapor.

I can't go to the beach and soak up the Sun.
  
My werewolf boyfriend never uses silverware, if any at all.
  
My werewolf boyfriend doesn't know to be gentle--too much porn.
  
My werewolf boyfriend urinates and defecates in public parks.

Jazzmin Flush (75)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (75)"  
   
   Thomas, cradling the precious pups--three of them, two girls and a little pecker, Rascal wearing a lacuna where the intercourse had, months ago, happened and now fully expired, driving her to dreams of Donald Flush and his hopefully triumphant return to her full moon embrace.  And the male scion barked a yip and a yap, Thomas crying, wanting a family; then, remembering Donald's disappearance--was this how it was with every Flush?  They just won't commit to the process of engaging in blissful matrimony for creative purpose, or whatever.
   Jazzmin came into the birthing room, Fredrica having always been there--the former taco roller now holding two feminine, coydog/human hybrids while her brother, Jazzmin's love Thomas played with the male, letting his pinkie finger get a little bloody from the exploring bites, teeth in and sharp already, Rascal's vaginal cavity having acted like a coydog incubator, cooking quickly a trio of mercurial mutts, and one would be a pestering prodigy.  Anyway, overwhelmed by her younger half-siblings, Jazzmin wept.  Remembering Christ and the shortest verse in the King James Bible, it used by Southern Baptists to this future day, Jazzmin not pushing the Vulgate in anybody's face, knowing all the words were synonymous, leading to the nucleus of God, Christ, like Buddha in the middle, yet bettering the quicksand of balance and cool counterpoise by being the virginal lamb.  And as she reached out and touched the male pup Thomas was holding, looking her boyfriend in the eye--she knew:  no matter how much she loved the arctic wolfboy, she was a lamb at heart.  A quasi-virginal lamb, doing her best to retain the inviolate status of California Girl Cool--in a Saintly sense.   

Jazzmin Flush (74)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (74)"
   
   Rascal--though less than mid-range in physical size and birthing capability; nevertheless, hips and fundament super shapely--vaginally spit her coydog pups out like a pack of M&M with peanuts shooting lifewards, all multi-colored, the eclectic litter bragging of both the beautifully benign and the bad-ass bold in a corporeal sense.  Thomas hearing the canine telepathy doing dog barks in his attentive ears; moreover, technology in Thomas' future (here), outshined by the primal spirit that sparked creation; specifically, the delicate forge and delivery of coydog pups dictated a bone-eating that sucked the mummified marrow out of the dead and then recast them with physical life, in a wicked/loving sense.
   So, Thomas broke off his marriage-argument-proposal to Jazzmin Flush, dashing away in determined style to eloquently usher in other life on this poignant Earth, leaving Jazzmin's mouth open, as if a fly might fly on in, barfing bacteria into her intestinal tract, yet she closed the gawking gap, as if knowing it in Thomas' alerting eyes, and now, she was, officially--a freaking pseudo-stepdame.  What a bomb?  Sounding her own telepathic trumpet to Rascal's pointy and hearing ears, like:  "Bitch.  But, uh, I will love you."     

Jazzmin Flush (73)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (73)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did not girlishly gush--NO WAAAAY, looking Thomas right in the whites of his eyes, avoiding the hue of eye/soul/color (bullcrap/maybe)--her golden orbs a frigid, Great White North Love, like when she rescued him, but the California Girl was not calm and religiously convinced about matrimony, especially sexuality, since she was a dork and asexual, having turned her back to the incarnate aspects of her bodily predicament, mostly because it would rot and perish save robotic implants, only sharing a few moments of kisses with Thomas, her coldly, but lovingly, NOW, blurting:  "No freaking way!  Look, I house the Holy Spirit--my body does--no way somebody is going to invade that divine space--never--it will never happen dude."
   Thomas, the arctic, Spirit Wolf didn't blink, responding:  "I totally embody a great portion of the Holy Spirit myself, and if I enter you after marriage, that Spirit comes into you--you will only be stronger."
   Jazzmin blinked.  Thomas continued:  "I don't even care.  Do what you want.  Marriage is about being a team.  A contract of love.  A sophisticated synergy, but not dualistic.  A united state of onwards.  And I would tell you to go screw yourself, but that might be rude."  

The avarice of an incarnate machine

   
   "The avarice of an incarnate machine"  
   
If Union Blue was here--they'd sing it better; regardless:

Spirit spiraling in the passionate, human machine,
Like nuclear engines morphing me amorous and plenty keen,
Yet the crystal-hued calm from Spirit when focused on inside
Magnanimously spawns me a glamorous, pseudo-Saint's ride--
I share welcome synergy with my singular spouse,
And I purify with crucifixes my old ghost house.
  

Jazzmin Flush (72)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (72)"
   
   Rascal had begun to deliver her coydog/California-man pups.  Jazzmin and Fredrica were the bar maids, bringing plenty of Wicca-celebrated John Barleycorn rebirthed in bottles after the divine, resurrecting harvest.  Thomas was absent during the female fest.
   Thomas drifted the streets of L.A. in this story's non-linear futurity, observing with keen, wolf sense the streetfire known as the levitation trains.  Too, he transcended the urban despair of it all, wending his wolfy way into the swank of it all, getting highly cosmopolitan in his brain's photography of remembrance.  He watched as the richly elegant walked hand in hand, ornamented in the finest clothing capitalism could buy.  And he wondered woefully.  Would he ever adore Jazzmin Flush in such splendor?  How was he supposed to even buy her a ring?  Yup, even though he was the arctic wolf, the Spirit Wolf, he was still a poor boy.  Then it hit him--a wolf can smell precious stones underground; thus, he would go on a rich man's safari to unearth jewels for his beloved, Jazzmin.   And, if his dog got lucky and had a day; next, he would ask Miss Jazzmin Flush for her soul in marriage.   

Privilege of being Blonde

    
   "Privilege of being Blonde"
    
I can make my own damn money;
As a result, I can taste a man like golden honey,
Dripping the yummy ooze of sticky love on beastly buns;
This shrew ain't need no tame--our family, mommy runs.
It's not about closing my eyes and picturing dollar signs during the nature of sex;
It's about allowing love, getting a sexy guy to devour my jungle like a T-Rex. 

Jazzmin Flush (71)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (71)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did not recklessly rush back into the suave swing of things.  Of course, her employment at the L.A. Derelict had been logically terminated since the coydog apprehension of Mister Merlin Pope--the entire, bizarre-laced scenario being a set-up by the crystal uncouth of modern media, greedily getting an amphetamine-fueled story by whatever unnecessary means to inspire readers into purchasing product--the esoteric kinda information that should be free.
   Jazzmin Flush was cool with Rascal now too.  Played fetch and Frisbee with the curvaceous coydog girl to keep her in shape during pregnancy; plus, scooped her poop out of the yard, her (Rascal) now residing with Donald Flush in a ghetto house with a Carolina-blue-hued, Astro Turf-like yard--very stylish for the time.  Donald (Daddy) away on financial dealings with the sinister lady of his past, and Rascal fearing he might never return, but Jazzmin was all big sisterly, offering needful nurture.  And just when it all seemed dandy, and that the wacky world was in high cotton, Rascal turned to Jazzmin's California gold and muttered:  "If your Dad and me get married--I'll be like your mother or something."