Earth's Demonology

   
   "Earth's Demonology"
    
   Prisons, insane asylums, urban apartments, and suburban homes--all house the wicked and weird supernatural.   Mental illness is not singularly illness, but sometimes a sinister infusion of Legion's resound, yet we turn off the supposed fiction of axiomatic truth, our modern and still ancient science stupidly unable to gel with theologians and the hidden truth of the pseudo-sciences.  
   Psychosis is a word--it has an ambiguous meaning; moreover, it is rarely treated with herbs, incense, prayer, and an intensity to connect with the super-sublimity of the Holy Spirit.  Material gain, fast-paced friends with benefits, fleeting fame, and good tits surgically implanted in your darling daughter for her high school graduation dominate the dastardly deals with the devil.  And we consider these people the victorious on Earth; still, they will fantastically fade into tumor-ridden hunchbacks suffering their lose of life, sadly passing without spiritual meaning due to science's braggadocio concerning the myth of the Otherworld, for we have not constructed the technology to counteract the abuse of the intangible.  Verily, we think TODAY is the apex of knowledge--it is totally not!  In ten or a hundred years from now, our science will be outdated and utterly viewed as historically stupid.
   Speaking in languages never having been heard before, or having demon-filled people know your inner secrets that you have never revealed prove the existence of a superior race of beings, playing us like a game of checkers.  And while wolfsbane and Haldol put Lycanthropy into remission--these scientific exorcisms are only momentary.
   Truly, we must share God's dream--not ours.  Yes, I'm tempted by firm, symmetrical breasts, but I'd rather walk with Saint Francis and rub his wolf's belly; plus, share my Slim Jim with him.
   A State University physician has absolutely "no chance" of properly treating a soul made foul by way of diabolical possession; next, cops arrest the infected victim, he's sodomized in prison, and the demon grows stronger, all while the conservatives laugh at the victim having dropped the soap in our cruel American Prisons.  Buddy--keep up the hilarity, for you will get yours.  Your love of creature comforts will quicksilver you with much mercury into a stupefied state of Pandemonium.  Unless of course you sense the absolute nature of the Ultimate God and the lesser gods beneath Him, offering them the reverence they deserve.   

Catholic School, Butts Kicked, & Sister Shaq Diesel

   
   "Catholic School, Butts Kicked, & Sister Shaq Diesel"
    
   My history teacher, punishing me for an outburst I did not commit--even in that mistake of violence, I really didn't give a rat's ass, just let it awesomely propel my pulsating infamy.
   He, the history teacher, grabbed me from my desk, during the 9th grade mind you, threw me up against the chalk board, lashed me numerous times on my back with a yardstick; next, made me kneel on the heater, praying to the heater god for obedience.  Too, my Catholic Football Coach violently slapped my face-masked face for not tackling with a sincere intensity--good for the man-smelling Coach.  I suffered two fractures playing ball that freshmen year, and I initiated no litigation against the school.  A school where you could mystically invoke the Holy Spirit, God Himself, Christ, or the Virgin Mother without getting suspended or arrested.
   Better to be a spirited coyote nowadays, surviving on rabbit marrow, burping up and shitting the remains on your adversary's front porch during the sublime mischief of Halloween.  However, in today's America, CSI will test the fecal matter and you'll get three years in the sodomizing pokey; moreover, the liberal feminists don't give a holy damn concerning a man's intestinal tract suffering many megadeaths and the ruination of proper stool formation, ever-after.  What a great fucking country.
   Like when I crafted a bizarre yet magnanimous poem containing no fighting words, no clear and present danger; plus, it was ambiguous, and I was wrongfully threatened with the wicked dream of prosecution to appease the sanctimonious fiction of a mentally-deranged girl full of a fervent sex drive, contaminating my Bill of Rights with a condemnation birthed out of wounded pride.  Don't ever think it's over.  This life is just the womb, and it all comes back on you.  As for me--I was already kicked out of hell for selling ice cream.   

POST SCRIPT:  I love you Sister Shaq Diesel.    

Legion Infusion

   
   "Legion Infusion"
    
   Cut from Mom's belly; next, cooked to life in incubation like a skittish coyote and hijacked from my homeland, losing knowledge of my mighty cousins and uncles, forever.  Then, anchored in the southern region billowing with selfish hubris and peacock-like pageantry--if General Lee would've humbly plucked some feathers from his ornamental apparel, maybe his unappreciated soldiers would've had shoes.  These generals made due to wealth and status, not strategic wisdom.
   And now; plus, after 1,000 years before the Almighty cage can no longer contain the contagion of fear--they are implanted in us by terror, chips, blood, and an underground government that rewards our sinister leaders with demonic favors.  Yes, I'm a bit wacky.  So was Nietzsche and Little Saint Francis, though I am a dog compared to them.  And every Good Shepherd needs a sheep dog.  
   Regardless, the phobia concerning Christ--a half man infused by the Good Ghost, that Holy Spirit, possibly a feminine aspect gelled with the Almighty God--though one Abrahamic religion informs that it is not necessary to put the Gods next to God; indeed, God is the Father of the Multiverse.  But the Catholics and Orthodox are the True Christians save Tim Tebow; unfortunately, the demons hate his gladiatorial nature--look, some of us intensely need the mesh of the Holy Trinity and the four leaf clover that the Virgin Herself adorns with special miracles, as may the Russian Poet Pushkin give ode--and he did!
   But whether there is a singular demon or myriads--they fear the lack of caring for material gain and status as did the penniless Rabbi, Our Living Christ.   

Asymmetrical Nation

   
   "Asymmetrical Nation"
    
   Putin offers informative observations concerning Our America--police criminal mischief and brutish brutality!!!  Moreover, King David, the most read bard, has been robbed of imported elixirs and herbs for the ill-fated, a power hungry, hubris-filled government controlling our chance at comfort.  Try being sick.  Asymmetrical.  Shapeless.  Maybe you'll succeed like the fiction of Forrest Gump; maybe, probably--you will not!
   Violently maligned and shackled by the corruption of swine, bullied by the hot-tempered envy of others, their green eyes never shimmering effulgent like a supermodel; plus, we had an American President with dumb-shit intelligence, him maliciously murdering myriads of innocents in the Abrahamic God's special region, constructing wicked karma for our ancient settlers, before immigration flooded and morphed our country away from the settled and converted European kids who bravely defended us in World War 2, doing plenty more than serve the hate of nations, becoming a hated mix of malcontent misfits, for the most part--not all.  Forgetting our once great mantra:  "It's a free country!"  Indeed--no longer.  A quasi-police state, in the least.  Forgotten is the chaste, inviolate, caring Mother of God, women now fornicating into female mutations while their heart-broken men lose the synergy of true love.  And even supersymmetry can burst a change.  The wicked adder hacking into the creation of the Multiverse during God's resting period.  And we seek not the friendship of the Celestial Hierarchy, them heretical religions denying anything but the proud apex of God Himself, as if they deserve to be birthed brilliant, guardian angels losing human interest, and your parents terribly perish in a slow-burning death without knowing the pity and mercy of family saints.  We have forgotten unearthly clarity.  Where's the mercy--oh, I guess that's reserved for the weak, and then our proud leaders claim the benevolence of the Living Christ. 
   Remember:  We slaughter tens of thousands each year in America--the American Coyote.  The ultimate survivor, armed with a digestive tract that rivals the most obese of abusers.  The American Indian knew:  "He will bring God to man."    

The lipstick aesthetics of Fox News

   
   "The lipstick aesthetics of Fox News"
   
   Verily, I intently watch Fox News for physical arousal, horned to carnal completion by way of glistening lipstick orally delivering the sex appeal of tragic news, it casually oozing like painted glamour for those info babes having won the genetic lottery; on the other hand, I get my real, tangible news from the BBC worried over Merkel's insane ingestion of millions of immigrants not wanting to gregariously gel with German heritage, a love for the Nordic Deities; plus, everlasting hope for personal courage against the World Serpent.
   I don't particularly mind a seductive delivery of opinionated news, so unfair and unbalanced it makes Buddha's supernatural philosophy look like a circus only highlighting the bearded-lady with cottage cheese chunks in her ripply buttocks--this news channel so utterly disgusted by the necessity of shadows and light having utopia-like synergy.  Regardless, I find the death of print media, crafting my own internal jive, and I don't merely thank God, the Angels, or Saints, yet offer them the truth of their awesomeness.  

Union Blue: Ease My Pain Baby

   
   "Union Blue:  Ease My Pain Baby"
    
Come on baby,
Let's take a ride in my car,
We won't go far--
Just to the shade, where the pain fades away--
Hide me in that lovely shade,
Hide me in that lovely shade.
Psychotic thinking and heavy drinking,
Brings you down; makes you frown,
Paints your face into a saddened clown.
Wired minds and false inspiration,
Brings you nothing except for pain comes,
Think your a genius in disguise,
Only a fool riding the high.
Ease my pain baby,
Hide me in your shade,
Take my pain away--
Hide me in your lovely shade.

* * *

Indeed.  An adolescent croon from a bard hellbent on obtaining a sophisticated love.  But without a soul mate's comfort--it's never enough.  Bombarded nowadays by way of Internet images carnally showcasing marital disasters.  But--the sublime synergy of two engaged in the noble symphony of true love.  A team.  A union.  A chance at survival.  And what is better than to eternally survive, encompassed in a true love's saving embrace?    

Steampunking the girl at the bar

   
   "Steampunking the girl at the bar"
   
   Oh Red Sonja.  Come to me with your shimmering cascade of scarlet strength and anti-witchcraft boobs, you not bothering with wicked or even benevolent thaumaturgy, yet slaying with quicksand death the self-serving and gluttonous--those that feed on the freedom of others, slicing open their fat bellies with a swordwoman's corporeal suavity holding the friendship of promising steel.
   The West.  America.  North.  Canada electing a chance at freedom the other day.  Like American Free States, existing in the few--for now.  
   And I glimpse the crimson piece of luminous lass parked on sturdy stool, erect with points supporting various pivoted directions.  Young lady.  Notice the bard.  The animal-guided monk, drinking, yet getting to know John Barleycorn betterways, defunking the super-literary fruits to their leather pajamas, and the best wine is on the lips of a fiery woman.
   Totally.  Definitely.  Sonja.  Come to me.  Wrapped in the instinct of genius, when industrial steam does power technology, stealing away the magic before a revolution industrial, yet you are luminous and militarized, garbed in the "get" of gorgeous man gear, all to slay my lopsided heart.  
   Make a mild pass guys.  If she doesn't go for it--run like hell.  

Telepathy concerning werewolves and vampires

   
   "Telepathy concerning werewolves and vampires"
   
   In my dumb shit opinion, it would seem that the werewolf has a definite bestial balance, like with the physics of certain Eastern symbols, which means that a werewolf uses telepathy for communication, not manipulation, loving his wolfish aspects enough to hunt only with them--though, this could be argued against.
   The gelled pack, hunting, playing, rolling in the delicious mud, eating rabbits on a slow day--it speaks to the family-raised, more divine nature of the wolf.  Seems to be friendship driven, a social synergy to everlast as a best friend, in your particular place, speaking in telepathic silence, as all dog owners are well aware, and using that telepathic gift only for communication within the pack.  On the flip side, the animism of their physicality is monstrously menacing, and the violent acts of hunting are best done by the corporeal aspects, armed with fangs, fur, and fright--the primal juice of using your carnivorous physique to rip apart a meaty lifeforce, tasting the blood only out of survival and digestion till the next stage of hunger, not narcotic-like, as it is with the garden-variety vampire.
   The blood is the life--says the Living Christ.  And vampires are blood junkies for survival, but more and also:  ELATION.  You rarely see an obese werewolves in folklore; there is no hypnotic euphoria in simply feeding oneself and then shitting it out.  But the vampire "gets off" from drinking blood, and would therefore be prone to use telepathic persuasion to immediately ingest euphoric elation, whereas the werewolf hunts on paw pads and in primal form, loving this physical nature that gifts him with the intimidation of being a mad dog, so to speak.  Next, the vampire flosses and polishes himself pristine, wears a nice suit, and speaks eloquently.  The werewolf smirks with a meat-filled grill, it glistening with bits of kill--happy to slay prey with the huff and puff of a hairy heartbeat.    

Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities

   
   "Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities"
    
   I hear six man football is big in Montana, the last great place.  Especially for kids.  Good odds for a scrambling quarterback.  Think:  Roger the Dodger, Flutie, and Steve Young gorgeously driving the 49ers and their gladiatorial gold quest, emasculating Montana to become a ghostly memory, and a Chief for a bit.  You cannot pour new wine into old wine-skins; the old wine-skins will burst open, unable to contain it--might say a Living Christ.  
   Anyway, living in this American Police State where the government monitors everything, furthering personal paranoia, and with a gore-guilty, yearly slaughter of the coyote that ranks in the myriad range--I dream of Canada for the occasional escape.  Alaska is a Free State with its grass stations and a former politician armed with nice ta-tas.  But with the disappearance of all the people and the FBI called frequently to interview interstellar travelers--too much for me.  Unless I could muster a brass scrotum and shoot a moose; plus, spell my name in the snow with a protracted piss that glistened golden.
   So, a glacial city in Canada.  They have football.  Next, maybe beyond the tree line, facing the divinity of the Northern Lights, and a mad hermit's cabin containing nothing that needs Bluebeard's wife to cruelly unearth, for friends will share.  I can't make friends.
   Maybe then, the Pacific Northwest, where Free States bless America.  A more frigid soil to grow the grape.  
   Watch the news.  Find true melancholy.  A pharmacist can't make a pimento-cheese sandwich anymore--what good are they.  A wise sage kinda/sorta mentioned that and PLAYBOY has finally approved.  How nice to see lace over the fishy labia.  They have edible panties; plus, they have those with odor shields.  How nice to live in America.  

Cosplay and uncouth groping

   
   "Cosplay and uncouth groping"
   
   Usually not traveling in the curvaceous circles of lascivious ladies with symmetrical breasts, the American Intellectual Man, him changing the corporeal world by dreaming of crafting android tail has a problem.  It is:  While witnessing the act of Cosplay, he is tempted to grope.  Female humanoids adorned in vibrant hues and tightly wrapped in the carnal imagination--this produces an increases in the testicular production of semen but is not totally a wicked thingamajig, unless of course the observer insidiously morphs into a Vaseline-fingered groper.  
  Women don't know how much they're loved; specifically, that men only want to honestly gel and have sexual synergy with what they physically adore.  All men are not pigs--Playboy magazine is putting the bra and panties back on; plus, Captain Kirk mated with triple-headed women, not giving a rat's ass about dating outside of his own species.  Few of us have the monk-like control of Spock, and without the blue pill we are not fully functional if over the age of forty.  And Lord Byron knows, kinda/sorta:  "The middle ages are the worst of all the ages; moreover, man being reasonable must therefore get drunk, for what is the best of life but intoxication."  Thanks Jeb for wanting us to be even bigger slaves while the French enjoy two hour lunch breaks.  As Trump might elegantly boast:  "You have no chance."  

Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man

   
   "Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man"
    
   In the mid 1990's, when America cosmetically elected a leader from the Razorback Nation and movies moved away from machine gun metaphor, sweetly exposing the hypocrisy of violence and sex by way of American Beauty--I purchased a "Kermit the Frog" muppet, muppets being less insidious than possessed puppets, all in hopes of facing and consoling my terrifying fear of the Mad Puppet Man.  I'd strap the somewhat lime-green, artificial amphibian under a seat belt's safeguard in my V-8 Chevy and cruise around like a pseudo-Mercury delivering newspapers to the more pastoral parts of Nashville.
   Whether it was the Mad Puppet Man or extraterrestrials, when Sleep Paralysis finds and haunts you--it is like a dynamite stick burn of fear.  Laying helpless in bed or on the couch, unable to move anything, eyes open but weak; plus, lost to limbs that won't respond, and there is something behind you or hovering above.  Use your prayers and willpower; next, possibly you will become unchained from this weirdness.
   Are we pawns in the battle between the Supreme God and the lesser gods?  Is there a Web of Wyrd imposed on us, like a well-spun predestination thieving away any attempt at manifesting existentialism?  And, as a lab rat for the supernatural I know:  "Who am I to engage in hubris or scold the brilliant beyond with selfish pride?"  All we can do is correctly connect to the core of sublimity, steering ourselves into the Loving Heart of an Almighty God.  I hope.   

Wild woman on a sofa

   
   "Wild woman on a sofa"
   
   Having been electrically ill and unwanted as I ooze the doom of weirdness, igniting always that of toxic flatulence on misery's command; specifically, I feel solace on the fresh linens that ornament my bed.  Not a place for carnal contagion, but a pre-coffin, a place to lay and pray, and maybe not die in a state of suffering for Southerners, for the American South rejects comfort by way of an opinionated government that controls medication.  Regardless, how holy is your bed?  Not to be smeared with juicy discharge from the oral and vaginal areas of a loose dame, her damning the intent of Saintly synergy as you levitate on the mattress of death.  Better to watch iZOMBIE and craft a grilled-cheese sandwich on oatmeal bread with an orange hint of turmeric to calm the chainsaws that might be perpetually cutting through your large intestine.
   Thus, a love sofa.  It having the intent of spiritual lovemake, not just allowing you to spray slippery jism over your adoration, but passing her the Spirit of love's romantic command, enslaving her to a freedom with you, mating like a wild dog's life, not gone malcontent and misfitways; plus, burning wise incense over the sofa for reasons of purification, always keeping your bed clean from nefarious spills and devilish dust bunnies, in order to engage in the super-symmetrical art of pristine prayer.

  

Spock and Eggs

    
   
   Enuff 'bout big boobies.  The exotic and intellectual ecstasy provided by the perpetual pulse of 60 Minutes, which cosmetically covered Putin and Trump, being a sublime, press-graced bomb--was da bomb.  Scott Pelley getting feedback--letters sent to the show agree that he was more of a demonic-styled prosecuting attorney than that of an empathy-driven journalist.  But who wants to be a garden-variety journalist when one can be an organic journalist, like the Lizard King of Rock 'n Roll.  Mix it up Quixotic Blues  
    And is America driven to worship the dollar?  Thieve away the religion of immigrants and transplant it with obedience to money.  It makes you happy.  It erases problems.  And yes--it does, but there is James Tiberius Kirk, him kinda/sorta say'n:  "I can't believe it--they're still using money."    Yup, back when Spock talked to humpback mammals, and time-travel was sparked by Klingon transport--all is good.
   But now, Bones does cry:  "Damn't Jim--I'm a doctor, not a transexual."   So, don't ask Mr. Physician to give a colonoscopy, and I feel guilt for linguistically forging sophomore steak and cheese biscuits.  Yet, if people don't write; next, life falls through the cracks. 

The news and Skylab

   
   "The news and Skylab"

  She didn't like Scotch.  And could never purchase an Irishman a birthday present. How to gift wrap an entire bar?  You'd need an advanced degree in architecture; plus, help from Santa's little slippery elves.  Regardless, she was sexxa.  A pulsating piece of Tang--better than the astronauts drank in the 1970's.  Whatever happened to Skylab?  She had a stamp collection.  Skylab was a major part of it; indeed, the Skylab stamp was mystical.  Eating weird astronaut ice cream and noticing the effects of gravity gone on its ass backwards.  
   He was the weather man.  It was always coming from Canada.  The cold shit.  Canadians, sitting up there, throned above our scepter of contagion, where we shoot people with guns and the roaming journalist cleans up the Sherlock pieces.  Agatha had a better detective.  Still, the chaos of a sideline flunky covering the high school football game.  Again:  Concussions.  Don't let your boys play American football soccer moms--that's what it implied.
   And just like us--the news people enjoyed the carnal act of sex.  Whatever.   

The Milky Way Brothers (25)

   
   "The Milky Way Brothers (25)"
   
   The quixotic foursome, lovingly ensnared in a rectangular lovemake of the pack, though Gloin still mortal by all means, yet Cherish would turn his werewolf mojo on, igniting it with glimmering cool, like a fanged piece of his ass out of spite--hey, he had to know she was the Alpha Female, and the missing chunk in his butt would regenerate rapidly under Full Moon's kiss of neon magic.
   
   As for Dad, he decided to move to Oregon.  Pack up his bloody stools and suffering self; next, took the Hound westwards with his retirement stuffed in his ex-wife's purse, Ben Franklin's insistence for liberty peeking out without propaganda, but the total truth of liberty.  Once anchored down up high by the Great White North, Washington the only geographical obstruction, Dad would grow and eat the edible green, reducing his anal inflammation and sense of supermundane stress; indeed, it would pass, as do all things great and bold, of the Earth.
   
   Davy and Indigo would continue on with their older siblings, being the goofy Omega wolves they were, sharing flesh and bone; plus, stealing kisses and many cuddles under the waning Moon when all was too human, and a nice visit to the Waffle House at midnight for crisp bacon and eggs that oozed a little blood, if they were lucky, blessed by the elegant gore of dead animal parts--they were werewolves after all.