"Lime-Green Doll"
Lingerie designed with the healing hue of a seductively alive green
Allows me to believe and will myself into a She-Hulkish machine,
Not wending monstrous cause of gamma rays gone crazy,
For my feminine muscle is fueled by the Good Spirit--an antonym of lazy.
I'm not saying others are limp and lack heart and soul,
Yet without the Spirit present--the afterlife makes you pay a toll,
And I'll go to a metaphorical college to flavor my Multiversal eternities
By billowing sublime, pumping iron, eating acidophilus milk over my Wheaties.
Just remember: Whether skinny, mid-grade, or sincerely obese--
Forge yourself fantastic by being reminded of the Good Spirit's peace.
"BLONDE--northern beauty weeps over Romo & Manning"
Eli Manning, bad comedian: "Whaaaaaaat!!!"
And I keep large-curd cottage cheese out of my gut;
Otherwise, jiggly junk in an asymmetrical trunk.
"Daddy, I'm 18; thus, please inject my ripe rump with selfish lard for a birthday chunk;
I'll endure the A Cup with no teen angst dismay,
And to the Holy Spirit will I merge and pray."
Look, be the god or goddess you are,
For King David did Psalm: "Ye are gods." Hence, shine like your birthed star;
Regardless, organic cucumbers in tap water
Fight cavities and electrolytes do holler;
Indeed, keep the body cool that does house the keen Spirit,
And on All Saints' Day--of possibility--do hear it!
"Vampiric Patriot"
Shrinks claim I'm a real hard case;
Alas, I did try to bite off my boyfriend's face,
But the hunger and crave to be who I am
Means that like a fox in the trap--I don't give a guilt-ridden damn,
For I'll vote for Trump and drain the rich people;
Next, confess my sins under non-heretical steeple;
Moreover, the government knows the supernatural exists,
Yet the spineless people would shit Twinkies and discharge a nervous piss;
Thus, wend weirdways but keep your American Couth,
Knowing: Wisdom (fear of God) does outshine hubris-tainted youth.
"Jazzmin Flush (103)"
Fredrica was nervous, but not nastily so--her singular and heavy concern being an overflowing case of Franciscan humility, being a fool for Christ--having clumsy, awkward spiritual aspects of the Good Shepherd instead of morphing Aquinasways--him, the surgical instrument of God's Divine Intellect or some fancy theological stuff like that. Regardless, Fredrica was lifted out of the mire of melancholy, recollecting Girthy Gilda's ability to harness the Holy Spirit, always reminded of Holy Scripture, whatever it was that was hatched from within the Abrahamic Realm--whether the Torah, New Testament or Koran--it worked if sublime submission was willed. Like Cool Christ offering the iniquitous adder: "Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
Yup, Fredrica was beyond high school jokes concerning spilled jism and cheerleaders morphing zombieways. It's all about that pace, right? Gotta keep on keep'n on. God knows everything for Heaven's Sake; thus, no matter if her Holy-Written Life was gonna end with mutilation and suffering, for This Life is another WOMB. A place of generation till, possibly, wending into the magnanimous family, soooo HOLY and loving, able to afford you your innate talents fused into your eternal Soul by the quill of God. Indeed, she was wise enough to know that all the gods exist. Everything is super-freaky real. Drugs, sex, hookers, fire trucks, werewolves, vampires, aliens in the working class known as angels, and some not. The Celestial Hierarchy and Ezekiel's Close Encounter with them Living Beings. Crap it was all real. And she was just a taco-making girl living in the futuristic slums of an Angelic City, or so the name inspired and heavily magnetized. Still, how was she to sincerely do it? Survive? Rascal, that mutt and bitch of a coydog. Oh well; as a result of trepidation, Fredrica blessed herself, and voiced her best ACT OF HOPE, hoping that the Good God will further fuel her with the Good Ghost; next, she gobbled up a left over taco with chicken and guac; plus a little sharp cheddar was atop it from within the chilled aluminium foil.
"Jazzmin Flush (102)"
Fredrica, her mousey brown hair falling kinda/sorta bangless--I mean deep and messy all over her chocolate-brown eyes, almond-shaped and not enchanted yet by Otherworldly things; regardless, how average and modestly mediocre she felt--not knowing. Yup, average guys will fluidically do and caranlly cram anything. They love the ladies. Got crushes deep on the ancient Internet and in little Green Lantern Diaries where they secretly point the squid ink, usually diablo-black, onto the inviolate-white paper beneath, screeching tunes and prose for darlings who will never dig em.
Anyway, it doesn't matter how worthless Fredrica felt, her vociferously blurting while Swiss dodged and ducked the verbal pollution, her barking: "Super shit! Super shit! Jazzmin Flush you worthless, rotten fink. I'd freeze your tits in Lando's carbonite and make you give Jabba the Hutt a lime-green bikini lap dance you dirty little Saint! And Thomas . . ."
Then, tears of continual melancholy aching from her weary orbs, dripping not Freya's gold across her shallow cheeks; next, cutting into her cerebral awareness like a bird shit from above, Thomas, with that old canine telepathy: "We want you Fredrica! We want you to run away with us and be a family of freaky friends!"
Fredrica processed God: "Oh darn Father. I'm so sorry for having a potty-like oral cavity."
"Jazzmin Flush (101)"
Jerry Dingle shockingly took a whiz, squirting the rancorous-yellow body juice all over the hotel carpet before making an intent exodus out of Jazzmin's life--and forever. Miss Jazzmin Flush curled her celestial nose in disgust, and Thomas' arctic wolf did a coyote chuckle, bringing out the laughter in Jazzmin too. Then, Thomas closed the hotel room door with a well-trained paw pad, looked over at Jazzmin's California Girl Beauteousness, licked his lovely chops; next, plugged his canine telepathy into her cerebral capacity. The conversation wended this way:
THOMAS
Now--it is just you and me.
JAZZMIN
Totally! Like it always should be. Look Thomas--even I can tell Rascal doesn't roll with us in fidelity. No loyal wolf instincts for the coydog girl. She's sincerely feral, even beyond. Couldn't be religiously trained on newspaper--ya get me?
THOMAS
And I suspect no reunion with your Dad or her?
JAZZMIN
Yup. We should head Northwards. Canada. Maybe Alaska. I wanna resurrect our romantic rescue of the past. Maybe I am ready to be your eternal mate.
THOMAS
My only concern is Fredrica. She's giving me crazy brain static about her perpetual suffering. And she usually camouflages it so well.
JAZZMIN
Invite her on the journey. She's practically my sister.
THOMAS
Taco girl moves Northward with werewolf brother and delicious babe birthed in the City of Elegant Angels. We should get some Kentucky Fried Chicken to celebrate--grease the deal.
JAZZMIN
Don't eat the chicken leg bone this time. Remember how you had trouble pooping it out.
THOMAS
Not even a wolf has a coyote's awesome digestive tract--capable of easily passing stool forged from Kentucky Fried Chicken bones, toxic waste, or a dirty diaper from a child with a turbulent sense of digestion.
JAZZMIN
Yup . . .
"Blessed are the bold confessors"
My throat chakra--it is brilliantly blocked
By a wing-clipped demonic flock
Of the proudly fallen, yet my intent is to get on the horn,
Wearing my sports bra and frightening myself, reading: Children of the Corn.
Look, a corn cob pipe is sincerely nice,
And devouring sweet butter spinach is anti-oxidants twice;
Therefore, I guard my virtue from a villain's intent,
Gelling with folk paying God-fearing rent;
Alas, I may not grossly squirt bacteria or climax like over-spread sorority girls,
But I will charm entrance into sublime Otherworlds,
Laying in varying colors radiating from the spirited Sun,
And I drink cold beer; plus, put mayonnaise and flax seed on my hamburger bun.
"The elderly, ill, and unwanted"
Bring Chief Mojo Rising organic tobacco
To saturate his breathing organs; next, soul-laced smoke rises to the Big Show;
Then, Inflammatory Bowel Disease cannot easily resist remission,
And accepting a cancerous fate becomes, maybe yes or no, my decision;
Regardless, I was infused by scarlet life, having bled out,
And my nurse says: "If I lose control of my bowels--I want death--no doubt."
Does she not know how to fight a poor person's plight?
The Otherworld pulling my spirit between this day or the Dark Night--
Yup, Otherworld tarantulas I do witness crawling on my bedroom floor--
Feminine aspects telling me to web and craft words some more;
Moreover, exploding diarrhea ten times a bloody day,
Making boys laugh at my shameful sickness--they say I deserve this corporeal dismay,
But they are not gods nor Transfigured,
Only arrogant souls not knowing that God has reconfigured;
Next, they selfishly pray for their sick mothers to die with a weeping sigh
Because of laziness and the Prince of this World forging the Ultimate Lie;
Alas, I'm unable to gel socially or enter a workplace;
Therefore, they call my dualistic suffering a lazy disgrace,
But tumors will rise on their unwanted parts--like a scrotum,
Putting, possibly, their humility on an Earthly Totem--
Life is over in the blink of an eye;
Then, the Otherworld births everything, and does stupefy.
So with moist tears I wash my soiled panties,
Taking care of Mom and invoking gravy-making grannies,
Knowing: Suicide decided by me
Might offer escape from the Adversary's victory;
Specifically, I know where to go and what to do--
Into the Virgin's entrails where Truth transcends humanity's phony clue;
Hence, beware of your bravado, believing only YOU are right;
The Multiverse is greater and more super-infinite than both day and night.
"Jazzmin Flush (100)"
Plain Jane-like Fredrica resisted the seemingly-ubiquitous evil of it ALL; nevertheless, like Skeletor told Evil-Lyn with a jiggly jawbone flapping bullyways: "Evil-Lyn--you boob!"
And Fredrica remembered how many freaky folk in the heretical past and still today resist the Masters of the Universe, informing their children: "There is only one Master of the Universe; hence, it is merely occult-like to observe that wicked animation." Moreover, Fredrica remembered how some taught all suicides are slack-jawed cowards and axiomatically have their weak and pathetic souls transported to the horrific heat of hell, becoming the Adversary's flax-seed gravy, him devilishly dipping the digestion of fallen Saints into them, cruelly forging two souls into a synergy of eternal suffering and all that Multiversal Jazzmafunk.
It kept getting more delinquent and dire for meek Fredrica. Working. Always working. Shit jobs and humiliation--handsome rich boys laughing behind her curved vertebra--a straight spine is everything claims the Hindu SuperFlux. But she was morphed ascetic. Low Income. Sleeping in Jazzmin's place like an unwanted vagrant. Talking to Swiss. Keeping Jazzmin's lovely mouse alive with bits and pieces of her deformed love. Is love ever deformed? Suffering so much. Doing, always, the right thing. No karmic burst of happiness for all her humility. Girthy Gilda dead while brother Thomas and Jazzmin were having their spiritual rodeo of awesomeness, like that Buffy Show, but them armed with werewolf and Sleeping Beauty superpowers--and she had bupkis, like a goat, doing all the heavy lifting and getting metaphorically blamed for not trying to be SUPERNATURAL enuff! What sincere and reeking crap. Thus, she pondered, and myriads of times: SUICIDE. "Ah hell--who will take care of Swiss? I can't do this. Get some butt implants and be beautiful. But only rich people can afford silicone curves. Yup, gotta kill myself. Nope. One more day. One more day of sweeping up spilled shit and rolling burritos. Great God in Heaven--I do like burritos and especially the guac-scooped tacos. Please, I hate to ask--but: Help Me!"
"Jazzmin Flush (99)"
Miss Jazzmin Flush awoke from a sweet dream of indigo-hued Smurfs tickling her fantastic fancy, making her awesomely alive and with a lion's yawn oozing dream slobber down her voluptuous yet pouty lips. She brilliantly blew her gold mane out of her glimmering eyes, licked her teeth smooth, finding a bit of rabbit thigh and loosening it from her sharp incisor; next, swallowing the tasty meat, giggling girlishly and almost tripping over Thomas' arctic wolf self that was snoozing on the fuchsia-colored carpeting. "Crap!"
And Thomas growled himself to consciousness, sensing the immediate danger, leaping to all fours, and paw padding his furry way to the door; then, he turned to Jazzmin and let out a number of high-pitched barks till the stupefied California Girl blurted: "Thomas, I don't speak dog."
Thomas revealed White Fang, backed up, and the door mysteriously opened, it showcasing Jerry Dingle in cosmetic drag, standing in hot pink heels with a Carolina-blue suit painted over his stiff corporeal essence; moreover, his gigantic junk proudly contained within the mathematics of the artificial clothing, and upon viewing Thomas' spirited, glowing eyes the creepy dude voiced: "Don't eat my pride off."
Jazzmin, not telepathic yet used to uncool guys craving her unearthly body yelled: "Reverse it lady buster; my dog can snag that wacky weiner off in a sec!"
Yup, stuff like this is already happening in the future book of our lives . . .
"What bullcrap"
If you hunger for a man to be kicked outta da club;
Next--tell him! Not digest probes that the ill way rub--
Look, it's obvious people frown sour grapes upon your success,
Jealous of sheer pretty; plus, megatons of money and problems much less;
Thus, they wickedly attack, armed with bloodthirsty contempt,
Surmising they have privilege in asking for your soul's fated rent--
What bullcrap! For when on the socially deviant streets
The American Dictionary has a voluminous variety of non-linear beats;
Alas, selfishly getting loved for what you are not
Does wrongly Trump the hate for your platinum pot.
"Jazzmin Flush (98)"
Rascal didn't give a graveyard shit concerning the uncouth nature of the wolf--yet getting the telepathic overtones from Thomas, the spirited arctic wolf, him always mouthing about that darn, silly Wolf Totem and the remembrance of: Loyalty. Ultra-Fidelity and carnal castration of the blood-flowing human spirit; next, teaching Thomas reminded of sheer hubris, and the grander brilliance of the mega-loving Holy Spirit--if merged and having synergy and sophisticated linguistic bullshit like that; then, All Is Well, right?
Regardless, coydog Rascal had intimate itch. She knew that she was off--never belonging with Miss Jazzmin Flush and her freaky pack of pseudo-Saints and werewolves. Whatever. And Donald was a freaking old man--had she just noticed? Like hindsight is 20/20. Thomas reminding of Christ reminding: "Be REMINDED of the Holy Spirit." Put rocks together in the old days and they build radios and scanners, magic crystals, but Rascal knew there was a science to the magic. Thomas and his Pre-Industrial Revolution Dogma of Doom concerning the denial of a Spirit God. As a result, she pondered: "Perhaps Thomas visited an android whorehouse in his adolescence?" She knew he was dirty somewhere, and Jazzmin too. As for Donald--a middle-aged gimp in the sack. But what of her coypups? And to give another bad example, being another stereotype of the trickster coyote--it was just pure bullshit. Maybe go wolf? The wolf and the coyote are in one another. Get bigger? More samurai as opposed to shadow-scattering shinobi?
"Jazzmin Flush (97)"
Jerry Dingle was more voyeuristic than violently vile; indeed, he was canned pussy--Miss Jazzmin Flush continuing to be like Teflon to torture. Anyway, Jazzmin and Thomas in the hotel room--Jazzmin snoring a pack of "z's" that had zigged and zagged her symmetrical bosom, that cupcake cleavage, flopping outta her binding bra, Thomas eagerly noticing the fleshy and fun pink of a shiny nipple and all that juicy stuff; moreover, Jazzmin, like unto Sleeping Beauty gone semi-topless, and he wondered if it would be couth-filled and merit any class to just playfully fling her bare nipple with his bowfinger; alas, whimpering wussylike, phobic concerning political correctness in action, it incarcerating both action and speech; thus, Thomas wilted away from Jazzmin's sleeping seduction, staying the spirited arctic wolf, laying at her feet that dangled off the bed--good dog.
So, the wolfboy licked his mouse debris chops, burping telepathy to Jazzmin's darling dreamstate, like: "I'm sorry, but I'd like to play with your boobies--them milky mammary glands glistening goldenways."
"Does Trump like dogs?"
Extravagantly more independently interesting; plus, less politically correct--
The Donald--give em sincerely honest grief and tongue-lashing heck;
Moreover, Megyn Kelly, the glistening glam of pink lipstick vociferously announcing
While horndog men on their lime-green couch--imagining and mentally pouncing--
Call the Republican, brethren-like nepotism what it is--a bimbo is a bimbo;
Indeed, only the mercurially wise are agile concerning Trinidad's Limbo.
Does Trump like dogs?
Regardless, President Clinton did call em Hogs.
"At Baptist School"
As passionate and curious children, iniquitous entities were conservatively removed from us by Southern Preachers calling upon their personal fabrication of the Holy Spirit Itself, using their deep drawl-like invocation of Jesus' Name and all that country-cooking jazzmustard; next, Rock and Roll labelled as Devilistic--me: 6th Grade mind you, Reagan thriving and brilliantly alive in a commonly corporeal sense; moreover, the Evangelical Erudite Folk of the Southern Church would sing and say: "Country Western (as it was known back then) has some dirty messages as well. Men having wicked affairs and scandalous women sipping whiskey till beyond the couth of tipsy, and her socks may come off too; alas, boy--get you some Gospel Sound."
And then, while not canonized, told me Judas was most-definitely in the Poor Pits of Pandemonium. Yet I witnessed no Transfigured Souls in my teachings; at the same time--me either.
"Jazzmin Flush (96)"
Bodaciously bouncing BOOBS--yup, Thomas was regally reminded of sweetly scoping, sooooo kinda truly, Jazzmin's holy cupcakes--freckled, little sprinkles ornamenting the mammary flesh. And what did Tim Allen, the comedian of ancient days kinda/sorta voice concerning the magical misfit movie that uplifted a mental midget--it dubbed: FORREST GUMP? "Mamma told me--life is like a box of hand grenades--sooner or later, you're gonna blow the hell out of something."
Alas, Thomas reflected more, swallowing a squirming mouse and the wiggling tail, burping remembrance, like: I napalmed myself in the macabre past with guilt and grief. Regardless, he liked being a quasi-Saint gone dejected, ascetic, and yet deserving of the holy training known as suffering; indeed, Thomas needed that unique suffering and megatons of humility to not hungrily hump and hunt human tail, wisely knowing: The Wolf Totem is not purely about savagery and painfully desired sex--it sings a song concerning loyalty and taking chances to play beyond the pack. Thus, he went back inside the hotel, taking his white paw and igniting the elevator button. Looked back with his arctic-blue eyes, noticing again--the witch did have remarkably nice breasts, so perky and full of spirit behind the confines of a tight-pulled, purple sweater.
"Fuzzy Bunny Survives Full Moon Frenzy"
Blue Moon--twice does please,
Illuminating the enduring coyote's fanged desire to ease
A gastrointestinal tract that like hungry quicksand can devour
Any small mammal; plus, not result in a tummy gone sour;
Thus, as pleine lune did eerily glow and beam beyond
The capture of photograph or even this song--
This adorable bunny on my suburban walkway
Thrives with life in the Sunny Morn, and I got me some organic carrots on the way.
* * *
Step-Daddy was like: "Boy--ya don't feed em critters--come on now." Too, being out in the suburban sprawl, on your own property mind ya, approximately near the Witching Hour--you can get the Fuzz called on ya for simply smoking a cigarette. The cherry ignites; next, blue lights I tell ya.
