"Tongue-Lashing for Captain America"
We luv ya Cap, but you are a perfect man--
Many other creations don't intrinsically give a rat's ass damn;
Regardless--what I'm say'n:
"Asymmetrical creatures hungrily thirst for Liberty's Nation."
The Shapeless Divine
Need a brilliant beacon that opens up the throat chakra for us like a mime,
For there are differing levels of severity in disease,
And the Web of Wyrd does with existentialism what it does please--
Ya get me?
And in a honey bucket do I gotta squat and make pee pee.
Just give the freaks a chance,
Not axiomatically deflating their trophy's golden dance.
"She-Ra: Perpetual, Valentine Fascination"
Her wondrous name be: She-Ra;
Indeed, like Farrah Fawcett in Cannonball Run she wore no bra;
Moreover, what the hell with Joe Theismann in Cannonball Run 2?
Specifically, Adrienne Barbeau was great; alas, Swamp Thing made me blue;
Thus, I think Prince Adam is more handsome than He-Man,
And if a woman understands this--email me your number and a date plan--
Like shouting in the Hamburglar's face while purple Grimace puts the order through.
Girls!!! It's not you!
I've dated many a junk-in-the-trunk chick, curved for the mate,
And never vocalized suggestions that would their prestige taint;
Anyway, Bless She-Ra--
Like I implied: She looks better without the boa-constricting bra.
"Jazzmin Flush (95)"
Thomas and Jazzmin Flush had barely enough of the Cash King to find lodging; still, they managed. It was not a luminous and romantic room, with throw pillows comfortably crafted in pink hearts or a sex-shaped Jacuzzi to induce pulsating water sports, of sorts. Regardless, a basement-like interior, painted in olive green and illuminated by cryptic candles hand-made from the witchcraft manager, who had nice breasts.
So, as Jazzmin and Thomas unpacked--basically nothing, tiredness overwhelmed them as if from the Sandman's spirit, Miss Jazzmim melting onto the "ouch" of an outdated mattress and flagging fairyland, swimming deep into the sea of enchanted or otherwise dreams. Thomas, his mind on BOOBS, shifted into the arctic wolf and went outside to slum it and pounce on some mice, like a coyote would. While ingesting the wiggling tail of the cute, little vermin, he couldn't remember the mention of werewolves having had packs back in the days of television and movies until the illustrious release of: HOWLING 2. The reason he remembered being due to having telepathy that ran backwards; plus, there still are libraries in this futurity. Anyway, he remembered Sybil Danning, the hot-blooded blonde who ripped her shirt off while partying with the pack--it was an awesome explosion of gleaming-pink nipple and ripe, symmetrical buxomness, a sincerely beautiful moment for the movies. Then, he pondered: "Wonder if Jazzmin has nice boobs?"
Jerry Dingle followed them to the hotel. Salivating over Jazzmin's strut of curves and California cool. He waited an approximate half hour till they checked in, watching the arctic wolf take the elevator to the lobby and go devour some mice. Afterwards, he went inside the hotel dubbed the "Dandy Days Inn Or Outt" and maybe it was. So, he went up to the Wicca-wild receptionsit/manager, probing: "Do you know what room that glistening blonde checked into; she gave me a blueninja and I can't get my mind off of her?"
"I know your kind soul sucker, and you are a sucker if you think I'm gonna give that info out to you--now exit my real estate before I hex you with a garlic-crusted pizza."
"Jazzmin Flush (94)--Blue Ninja"
Fredrica's mundane life was again: "Yup, I'm making tacos."
Her brother Thomas and Jazzmin too--all with their "whatever" and having dramatic fun, while she was the only greasy, low-income worker. Felt kinda Republican about it. Not that Jazzmin and Thomas weren't eloquently divine in nature; plus, enduring spiritual lycanthropy and asexual golden-gloom. But, Fredrica was mad. Felt like: YOU'RE NOT INCLUDED!!!
So, Fredrica wrangled the chicken and spicy ranch into the soft taco shell--it the new rage of cheap chow product. Sad. But no. A dark wave of melancholy mutating her somber and suicidal for ALL the heck in Earthly existence; next, Girthy Gilda manifested from the incorporeal realm, bolding with spectral brilliance, declaring: "Don't be a wilted wussy Fredrica. Look at the "Urban Dictionary" on that antique Internet thingamajig. See what it claims about blueninja--an overly obese manifestation of great girth in the macho male member when the owner of that incarnate equipment sees some luscious lass. Heck, it made me laugh burps. And I'm kinda ghostly; plus--in heaven. Just--love yourself Fredrica, at least for once in your taco-making life. And, I love ya. Always."
"Radical Remission--in crayon"
Eating herbs and talking to God--
It ignites a mind and body gelled to give the Holy Spirit a Bounty Hunter's nod;
Indeed, ALL things are capable of incapable cure,
Yet bodily Transfiguration is seen as pseudo-science manure;
Regardless, passing into the Otherworld and beyond,
A soul must become their own love song,
Brilliantly branching out to ubiquitously feed the needing fields,
For a mother's milky bosom generates and heals.
"Jazzmin Flush (93)"
Simply dubbed: Jerry Dingle--he was not your grandmother's vampiric entity; specifically, there is no "one kind" in the biological architecture of vampirity, for like humanity, individuality eagles beyond the plausible possibilities; regardless, Jerry Dingle was a blood-sucking bum, thirsty to drink from between the juicy thighs of a curvaceous booty, waaaaay near the labia, them pinkish-hued lips that open for babymake. Yup--Jerry Dingle was a sicko, without a Master and had a crazy craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken, where he'd hang with the garden-variety werewolves--all these quasi-naturals embraced by protective acts from the futurity of the American Machine.
Anyway, there were laws in place, and folk kinda like Thomas couldn't cruelly slaughter a group of horndog teenagers at an android whorehouse, that flowing blood attractive to the hungry guts of werecanines, except Spirit Wolves; thus, Jerry Dingle could not simply suck anybody to the grave--a dilemma for him, indeed. Yet when he passionately observed Miss Jazzmin Flush eat pizza near the cool San Francisco Bay, the drippy mozzarella dangling from her pink lip gloss--how could he not want to explore her golden thighs, and beyond?
Too, he sensed his corporeal aspects (looks) were more ethnically-defined and symmetrically angular than Thomas'--the arctic wolf being an obvious mix of the Europes--we shall say. Thus, Jerry Dingle began to stalk Jazzmin and Thomas out of the pizza parlor, and would, even to the Omega of the Earth.
In the back of his mind, Thomas crafted thought: "I hate vampires."
"Super Suburban Virgin"
I'm physically missing out on life--my overly carnal friends do say,
Yet all gregariously gel with the freedom of rainbow gay;
Regardless, I am sincerely allowed to outshine the collective with individuality,
Knowing: getting my joybox juiced is not everything to my karmic destiny--
I'm not fiercely frigid or otherwise,
Just wanna be a "Leave It To Beaver" kinda wife,
Not minding pumps and pearls,
Or getting hubby to pay for a perm with cascading curls;
Thus, let me love a singular man,
Melting into his Phoenix and rising with a resonating plan
To damn the collective that attempts to bind my rights,
Like politicians acting as physicians, making ill plights,
But may I remind that liberty soars beyond
All the arrested cage-fighting induced by American politics forsaking an individual's song.
POST SCRIPT: The needs of the many don't always outweigh the needs of the one, for the many may be a bunch of stinking a-holes.
"Jazzmin Flush (92)"
Thomas was reminded of things, as Christ had once reminded him of the Holy Spirit Itself; indeed, wending wolfways--like a rainbow hued starburst of various blues, he transformed with might, mercy, and splendor before Jazzmin's adoring, golden-fused eyes. It was always a divine pleasure to watch her boyfriend become the Spirit Wolf, enhanced physically; plus, armed with a Good Spirit's chance to always right the wicked wrongness that flows with the intent of human destruction.
So, able to kinda smell the lingering scent of most anything nearly 40 feet buried in Mother Earth's virtuous belly, Thomas dug quite a ways till unearthing a large portion of agate--it being enough for Jazzmin's fluttering and charming eyelashes to sell for a ticket homewards, down in Southern California where the sunsets are still a bit purple hazy, and the Beach Boys remain to haunt with innocent and benign fever--ya get me.
As if "reminded" of all the nurturing things Thomas had done for her, Miss Jazzmin Flush could not help but burp up thanks after some of their wolf-sniffed funds bought a beautiful San Francisco pie of the Italian variety, it covered in rabbit thighs and banana peppers, Thomas never hungering for a big stag, knowing the protective, Northern European magic offered by the running beast--running to survive, running to live free, running to mate, but never running for office, only sweetly enchanted by the nature of its leaf-eating self, loving the land, and paying it forward with poops that fertilize farmlands, yet without the wolf, trees and vegetation die, for the stags devour the Earth, and the hunger of the wolf keeps the vegetation pumping better air; still, Thomas kept away, telepathically reminding Jazzmin how good whale blubber was up Northways, and she could not help but be playful with banana pepper seduction, french-kissing him suddenly, and pushing that mildly hot pepper onto the tip of his tongue, it lovingly touching hers.
"Jazzmin Flush (91)"
Rascal stomped and romped throughout the new, American tenement Donald and herself had been dwelling in; moreover, with all the DRAMA, and the coypups too, growing grizzly and fanged with coydog telepathy, offering constant brain-nag and nipple-suck--everything was sincerely freakshow crazy. Also, Donald was still horned as a stampeding bull, orally fondling her sore nipples in search of the magic milk he helped brew. Guys are such 12 year old boys at heart.
Anyhow, Thomas radiated his rage into Rascal's head, offering her the geographical location of Jazzmin and himself for a funds transfer, yet wily Rascal said she was too busy "at the moment" with feeding the pestering pups and assisting Donald in recovering from Jazzmin's unforeseen rebellion.
Actually, Rascal was lathered in cheap bubble bath, drinking some Tang gelled with Skull Vodka, smoking an unfiltered menthol--go figure. She wanted to make the stinging linger of regret hurt Jazzmin longer--the Golden Brat and all her Saintly glory gathering dust bunnies and rabbit punches of poop all over her once, perfect image. It all felt kinda nice for Rascal.
"Jazzmin Flush (90)"
Thomas, loyal as a candy ass kook, beyond being trained on the newspaper, I mean--he used the urban alleys cluttered with humble vagabonds not into scoping his "taking a whiz" and all, and sometimes he fumbled fecal matter in the wooded areas, burying it properly by way of digging the hole; next, pushing the bowel evacuation into nature's sewer with his hind paws; then, cleaning the pads and all by acting like a bull ready to charge atop Terra's Motherly Surface, knowing: the Spirit that haunted and had constructed his arctic wolf had protective energies against one's own poop.
Anyway, Thomas steered Jazzmin with guiding, human hands, almost big brother kinda creepy, but it didn't have no truth, for he was non-flawed with chaste control--and it hurt his wolf junk, a little swelling visible at times. Thus, he was gonna make Jazzmin earn his smiles and gratitude, even stealing away his probing telepathy that he knew cerebrally aroused her. Whatever.
He was still intent on having her willfully collapse into his carnal embrace, smelling the lovesex that would stink of hot sweat and investigative kisses; plus, emanating his Spirit deep into her super-flow of everything. Reminding himself of such gallant chivalry, a quest to lay Miss Jazzmin Flush in regal manner, he offered, as he pushed her across the Oregonian border: "Come on. I'll buy you that surf board you were always too afraid to try out. That one with Scooby-Doo on it. Dogs swim, right?"
Then, crossing into the Golden State, Thomas' suspended telepathy suspected Jazzmin's return of glistening girl cool. Yeah, one golden day they'd lay love till the synergy of ONE.
"King David and Solomon--Service of Man"
King David boldly barded:
"Herb for the SERVICE of MAN." Yup, don't get the Truth started,
For Service to God, pious and true,
Transcends wearing the uniform, like the Village People through and through--
What is greater: God or country?
Don't believe--ask an ascetic, Canadian Mountie.
40,000 approximate suicides from common Americans recently--in a freaking year,
Yet not for mental illness or cancer in the ass is there a rich man's tear;
Indeed, King David says: "The Service of Man."
Meaning there is a malignant plight for the common man;
Alas, they get no pensions, free health care, medals, or a parade
For the Inflammatory Bowel Disease and neurotic psychosis they, every second, brave.
Hell, the military won't accept the disabled or sick,
And reporters should spend a month in a trailer park out in the bucolic sticks;
Specifically, every singular soul deserves respect,
As mentions Voltaire's non-religious yet wise karma-churning hex,
For none is better from the mouth of the womb
Than those neglecting themselves for the charity of others before entering the tomb--
Service of Man, again from the seed of a man birthing the Most Wise,
Knowing fear of God is where true power resides,
And on television, where women have morphed from lady to (their privilege) whore,
Drinking a man's juices like Grandma's gravy not purchased at the store,
And I would pay for a babe like that,
But crunched by illness my loins don't act;
Thus, for all the physically castrated and what drives to trans-gender,
Or the hapless dude whose learning disability won't let him high school or college enter--
Roll out freedom without a doubt,
Cut the head off the chicken instead of giving genocide to a cultural shout
That expresses something Americans don't even study,
And label them as a collective, getting individuality muddy,
Reminding now it is all volunteered,
Instead of like NAM when over 50,000 poor kids died and teared--
All is relative to the mysterious Multiverse fluxing,
And Freedom of Speech deserves no bitchy fussing.
"Raven-haired religion; plus, BOOBS"
The social girl at swanky cosmetic counter says: "I'm spiritual, not religious."
Yet I adore men soaring heavenwards and the Saints gruesomely gutted by thugs vicious;
Indeed, I learn their sacred religion that plants a more potent spiritual seed;
Alas, I really have no regal regret, because I have crafted no misdeed;
Moreover, I showcase my ripe mammary glands in t-shirt--it kinda tight fitting,
More humble than a showgirl whose wardrobe displays lack of proper knitting.
"Jazzmin Flush (89)"
Jazzmin Flush ate in a rapid rush, finding the serendipity of an almond-infused, dark chocolate bar near a gas station dumpster in southern Oregon. It wasn't like when she journeyed to Canada in search of lovely Thomas--the Holy Spirit had been her guide and bodyguard. Maybe this scenario was caused by her melting down into hysteria and taking off with the weirdness of Pope. Regardless, Thomas found her vagrancy by way of canine telepathy, coming around the dumpster, scattering vermin, and elating the pretty face of Miss Jazzmin Flush, painting on her a toothy and platinum smile.
JAZZMIN
It's about time Thomas.
THOMAS
Maybe you should be wiser in choosing your weirdness. I had to huff it on all four paws here--we're all broke. Your Dad even had to sell his 1957 Chevy.
JAZZMIN
I'm out of it for a bit and the pack falls to pieces?
THOMAS
What's with the attitude? Did Pope butter your muffins or something?
JAZZMIN
Shut up! I'm a freaking basket case here. My Dad and Rascal copulating in front of my eyes. My stupid temptation with creepy Pope. And all--all because I love you so much, but I can't physically express it--too terrified about the act of sex.
THOMAS
Reaches out and strokes Jazzmin's golden face with soft, human hands. I'll wait forever. In the meantime, I'll eat anybody's liver right outta their body if they ever touched your virtuous essence; plus, I'd really bitch you out as well.
"CFL--bored American digs Montreal Alouettes"
Big Ben would beat my butt for crayon destruction,
Yet I'm pissed he's not playing in the summertime, NFL abduction--
At least in the 80's we had the USFL,
Now hats off like beer-drinking fat cats to ESPN 2 carrying the CFL,
For 3 downs and out; plus, field goals up front--
I wish my Dad would've at least in their league given it a punt,
For pro ball is an almost unearthly accomplishment indeed,
And athletes like the more crazy Saints fuel our inner man need.
"Jazzmin Flush (88)"
Mister Merlin Pope felt like retreating himself; indeed, Jazzmin would not be swayed by bizarre temptation to fit within her asexual self his portion--all is relative in persona. Moreover, she was probably a "stick in the mud" in the bedroom anyway, preferring the regularity of lovemake, not the pulsating grind of two feline beasts laying the lovepipe and receiving the differing effects of euphoric ecstasy. Thus, he ditched her. Just like that, Pope wended his way elsewhere, not minding that he anchored Jazzmin in the Pacific Northwest, a ways away from the City of Angels, abandoning her to the same poverty she was so welcome with. He knew she would find passage back to her eclectic sanctuary of non-human friends, though they were human--just perverted, in Pope's opinion, by the Divine Spirit of Truth and re-fabrication. Yup, he exited.
Jazzmin awoke near a dumpster in a bucolic area of monstrous Oregon, hearing the rural sounds of friendly folk getting their java at the energy station; plus, picking up the perpetual manufacture of Twinkies. In this futurity, they have a strawberry Twinkie full of anti-oxidants and all the rest that gelled your body to symmetry, making it a better houser for the Holy Spirit Itself. And Jazzmin knew Pope was not coming back, not in the meantime--she was glad she didn't "put out", for it ran the polite and docile cerebral-rapist away from her. She relaxed. Found Thomas' arctic wolf, canine telepathy. He communicated, knowing her ordeal: "Get a strawberry Twinkie, and I'll find a way up to the Duck State and pick you up babe."
"Mixiote Werewolf Girl"
My quasi-holy family came to a Free America--
Not undesirable, but I have to admit: "Brought a bit of werewolf hysteria."
At least a mixiote is inexpensive and filled with meat protein,
For us shifters desire to be sweetly trim and lusciously lean;
Plus, I hungrily celebrate Independence Day,
Believing in American Myth--that the real Aliens might bring galactic dismay.
"Trump Fortune Cookie versus Bernie's Folk Friendly"
Two singular souls, beyond the oppression of collective thought,
Speaking to Dingbat Edith and the resound of Light Metal's hippie plot,
Rocking the boat as has President Obama,
Yet not transfiguring into the Dalai Lama,
Retaining aspects of the Holy Spirit haunting the Year of Our Lord: 1776,
And I surmised I was going to the pits of Pandemonium for jamming with Styx;
Regardless, two men speaking their hearts--neither a cold glacier,
Giving political clue to the generic, two party nature;
Thus, wends the weird of the Wendigo,
Reminding us not to devour human flesh in order to overthrow.
"Jazzmin Flush (87)"
Donald Flush and Rascal had regally reunited--and it feels sooooo good. Regardless, there was the whole vaginal stretch and no fooling around due to tissue sensitivity and fluidic, carnal ouchness such as that sloppy mess; still, Donald was the quintessential gentleman, adoring her, lathering her with a lion's pride, cleaning her benign beaver as it had birthed his litter of coydog pups. He was not in a state of complaint; nevertheless, there was the absence of his daughter. The Golden Jazzmin Flush on the insidious lam with Mister Merlin Pope, the gender-bending beauty armed with malevolent sorcery of the, possibly, quixotic kind. Indeed, he had it in him to thrive in this future of a luminous, star-spangled America. The Union Blue gelling States to a state of United, yet allowing autonomy for the collective individuals residing in the Magnificent 50.
Thus, Donald invoked his Catholic heritage, talking to the Saints and eating herbs, totally and completely knowing: Radical Remission is possible in every fashion of ill existence, regardless of Universal Webs Weirding, for existentialism and will have their place--so does invoking Saints and Arch-Angels to deliver your personal prayers, in trust, to the brilliant brain of the Almighty. "God, Father--I love Jazzmin." Yup, he was in a state of wanting grace.
"Jazzmin Flush (86)"
Jazzmin Flush--she never had no grush; regardless, the feminine aspects of Merlin Pope's elongated fingers caressed her soft kisses under Crescent Moon's neon cheese glow, a Star Wars sleeping bag strategically placed by Pope to be illuminated by the big, celestial glitter above, his french tastes exploring Jazzmin's mouth, it dripping with delicious honey, wanting him to spout something stupid, like: "Your lips are wine, and I wanna get drunk tonight baby."
Next, a deeper investigation into her aches and future spasms, but Jazzmin Flush awoke from the daymare, it departing as sunshine illuminated her consciousness, maybe lack of sugar and she needed a SNICKERS to satisfy or some bullcrap such as that; still, it was a moment of fascination, no betrayal to Thomas save the garden-variety aspects of being human and incarnate. Whatever. The Golden, California GIRL retreated into rationality, reminded of the Good Doctor, Aquinas knowing that a grand vision of the Almighty will thieve away his forge of theological prose, for too great is the Wizard of it ALL, and Jazzmin flung Merlin Pope with her pointer finger, rousing him from the same Sun Sleep, it fueled to us by exhaustion, being on the metaphorical lam, and all the nonsense in politics, which eclipses our freedoms, such as if a spiritual soul resides beyond the collective--individuals to the end, not damned by standardized testing and all the averages that make phony axioms, but there be werewolves here. And Jazzmin continued on her terrible trek with Mister Pope, wishing Thomas all the girly hearts and best.
"Jazzmin Flush (85)"
Merlin Pope mysteriously cunned, kinda, Jazzmin--allowing her to know the depths of barely ingestion, yet absorbing the nutrients eloquently, boasting with bold, confident speech: "The Confederate Battle Flag, that Mystical Cross of Saint Andrew and all--is aesthetically vibrant and entrancing, yet the meaning of some, some hate behind it confuses me; nevertheless, all is free, and since it has become mere art in our futurity--I adore the look is all."
Jazzmin Flush didn't gush or ooze attraction, despising any bit of negativity, not finding this sexxa, yet unappealing and gruesome; next, Merlin Pope added: "I always carry a switchblade with me--for the "flip out" effect. It puts a spasm in the beating hearts of the blue-blooded. I do adore the poor man, and his magic unsheathed before the spawn of the Industrial Revolution; plus, I adore Russian Literature. Pushkin was the shit. Women's unshaved legs and all--freaking brilliant and yet sexually macabre."
Jazzmin was liking him more and more now.
