Jazzmin Flush (86)

   
   "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.