Jazzmin Flush (20)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (20)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush danced with dexterity workways, magically moving with fun flash and cool kick--liking herself in heart-shaped love; on the contrary, Girthy Gilda and Fredrica were weeping woefully within the grease-fumed taco truck; next, they spilled the sadistic news.
   Last night, Thomas was mutilated--rancorously ruined were Fredrica's words through a tear-stained face.  Vicious thugs shadowed Thomas to his humble trailer where they then brutally beat his facial features in, breaking bone and rearranging cartilage; furthermore, they knocked his screaming scrotum northwards, up into his entrails, and left a note for Jazzmin Flush, it salaciously saying:  YOU DO NOT DESERVE LOVE--NOR HIM!!!
   Jazzmin Flush crashed down in anxious tears, like Christ crying for a fallen Lazarus, wishing bodily regeneration, yet knowing Thomas was, most likely, even more crippled for life.  But, with love's telepathy, hearing Thomas at the hospital, she wisely surmised the optimism of the forever-fluxing Holy Spirit--it or Thomas mumbling:  "Canis lupus arctos.  Canis lupus arctos.  Spirit wolf, into me without the mammalian terror of pure carnivore.  Platinum form of Canis lupus arctos; Spirit of God . . ."  

Jazzmin Flush (19)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (19)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush, without being a bold makeup junkie, convinced Thomas by way of naked eyelash flux to take her out and enjoy a nocturnal night in the liberty-loving City of Angels.  As a result, he, the male, picked the enchanting entertainment and cheap cuisine--since he worked on a taco truck.
   Thomas, not holding her angelic hand, but awkwardly escorting her quasi-winged shoulders, took her to a corn dog stand, not the kind that served rotten rat on a stinky stick, but the mechanically-separated chicken gelled with not-haunted by demons swine; thus, the twosome both crossed their fingers as they indulged in Christ breaking the Food Laws.
   Afterwards, two rainbow-flavored lollipops were innocently sucked; next, an amphitheater visited, where the Modern Gallagher smashed seedless, organic watermelons, inspiring gentle madness as the eager audience enjoyed aqua with anti-oxidants if fortunate enough to catch some yummy chunks between their chompers.
   Walking her back to her basement, Thomas noticed Jazzmin's thick, muscular stems glazed by the California Sun.  "Uh, Jazzmin, I think you're too much of a pretty package for me."
   Jazzmin blushed.  "I'm just a quirky girl is all."
   Thomas winced.  "I think I feel gooey inside, like creamy cotton candy--and it frightens me."
   Jazzmin Flush stole a mercurial smooch, and darted into the basement, fabulously phased by her first, real kiss.  Thomas looked into the star-kissed sky.  "Lord, is it okay if I really, really like a cool girl?  I mean--I'm just a dumb monk after all."
   And a deep, nurturing voice outside and inside of Thomas, a perfect psychotic synergy, verbally offered:  "You are a dumb monk Thomas, but--you got couth!"  

Jazzmin Flush (18)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (18)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush pondered Thomas in quasi-carnal kinda fashion--nothing brutally nasty mind ya, just thinking if adorned with cherry lip balm he'd be sweet to kiss.  Of course, duh, she knew he was soundgardenish sweet--stupidly so; moreover, she had no lusty loins on scarlet fire for him or anything, but had not embraced or lip-kissed a boy--ever, save being taken by force and slobbered over with uncouth intent.  
   Asexuality wasn't difficult if programmed into cellular network; however, a divine touch from another Holy Spirit-infused human being, the idea, gave her the cosmic giggles.  And she definitely didn't wanna corrupt Thomas--get his masculine mojo moving weirdways, but knew:  That would not happen!
   So, as Jazzmin Flush skipped girlishly towards taco truck, Girthy Gilda's smokestack burning, she gave an innocent wink in Thomas' guacamole-scooping direction.  Thomas felt a bit deliciously dazed and creepily confused.  "Why am I so much like Jack Kennedy--skinny and available, my Lord?"  

Shmoo's Everlast

   
   "Shmoo's Everlast"
   
The built for terror, hating every freaky fox in the batch, forsaking the sublime--
Survival of the Terrible is their erratic rhyme,
Dismissing the humble eunuchs, virgins, martyrs, confessors, and saints--
Them outshining the rest with their into mystical faints,
Enduring everlast as pops the weasel;
Moreover, Survival of the Fittest is Darwinian-Demon Myth under Holy Steeple,
For the bizarre are born, hacked into and lied about
Because the mighty and large have a myriad of doubt;
Therefore, know the Shmoo, and he's a Vegetation God;
The sublime seed regenerates, offering the Father unceasing nod. 

  

Jazzmin Flush (17)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (17)"
  
   Jazzmin Flush awoke to a lovely mouse kiss from Swiss; next, washed liked the Holy Tobias, though with a simple sponge, using mint on her chompers and in the heavenly strands of her golden, kinda dirty-blondish hair.  Then, her holo-phone sang to life, and Thomas, in his Scooby-Doo boxers was weirdly standing there.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
What's up Thomas?

THOMAS
I know they still wanna kill me, and I'm a bit sad about the entire dilemma of such a sinister pickle.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Relax--don't do it, when ya wanna puke it.  Giggles at her own goofy.  Regardless, they always want to kill smarter, better looking, and especially nicer people--it's the way of the sea hag and their vampiric mates--them trolloriffic.
  
THOMAS
It doesn't make me feel better.  Where's Jesus?  Utopia could exist if everybody used sports and cerebral gaming to cool their crazy.  At least now I know why the blessed Arch-Angel Gabriel gave the gift of literacy and the Koran; sometimes you wanna beat the shit outta the nasty.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
But the Holy Spirit gave the New Testament too, and Her people are instructed to absorb the negativity, morphing it magnificentways.  We're all a Holy Family--whether we fight or use the Good Ghost to absorb the negative flux of a wicked adder hacking into God's own creation, just to spite the Boss.

THOMAS
Yup--I'm ready for some Jesus about now.  Totally ready.   

Jazzmin Flush (16)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (16)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush drifted off dreamways, igniting rendezvous with the Multiverse, lost in an enemy's hollow tree; next, an unborn, aborted daughter appears with spectral glow.  
  
DAUGHTER
Why Mommy?  Daddy had a RIGHT to raise me--mothers don't own the baby if they allow entrance through intercourse.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
It wasn't allowed.  His pride and vanity took me without consent.
   
DAUGHTER
I love you even in the womb--the Book says.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
I hated you in the womb, too.  Coyote Mantra:  All is sacred; nothing is sacred.
  
DAUGHTER
I hate you.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
I am so sorry.  I was wrong.  The Catholic Church will raise All Children, unwanted.  Even Merlin was half demon, yet he found sublimity in life.  I was wrong.
  
DAUGHTER
I love you Mommy.  Daddy and the rest have no RIGHT to perpetually malign you due to hubris.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
I will spend all my days doing God's Will.  I have learned.  And my sorrow for you will birth love for every soul.  And still--you live, in an enchanted Otherworld.  I will mystically pray for you everyday.   

Jazzmin Flush (15)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (15)"
   
   The foursome parted with merry exodus into opposing directions, happily going to their harbors of habitat.  Jazzmin Flush walked it, underneath neon glow of moon cheese and glittering, starlit sky shimmering fantastic.  Beyond every heavenly hobo and divine delinquent, her giving a happy nod, content with her own cool character; then, sprouted a black spot on her echo-location, a thunderous thug-like lover of misinformation materializing wickedly, obstructing her super-model strut.  "Your Barney Miller-infused Spirit of God will not detour our malevolent intent to make you miserable, paying with your life."
   Jazzmin Flush snorted with a face wiggle.  "Does your dumb demon let you outta the cage at night, all alone?"
   "I'm a troll girl--get it--a terrible troll!"
   Jazzmin Flush escorted her electric-blue spirit right through the villainous vagabond, strutting superior, till descending into her beloved basement--Swiss was waiting, whiskers twitching with eager anticipation of her soon to be spooning.  "Yeah Swiss--bleak unto themselves and passable to the sweet are the trolls.  Want some processed cheddar?"