"Coydog Wisdom"
Bite me in the tail to insidiously teach me a wicked lesson one more time
Cause I challenge the ultra-insensitivity of the Alpha Line;
Next, yes--nature must take its course,
And I can craft havoc with incisor force;
Moreover, natural selection didn't forge the dog--
That was man's lovely passion, better than Swamp Thing in a toxic bog.
"Jazzmin Flush (64)"
Thomas, in heaven's way, huffed; plus, he pantheistically puffed, mystically meshing with the Multiverse, knowing God's Good Ghost permeated it most; next, he quickly abandoned Jazzmin's nearby nuisance of being the typical dumb blond, wending wolfways, and towards the damned destination of Mister Merlin Pope, paw-pushing open the door, and almost galloping up to the dude's androgynous weirdness, drooling fanged intimidation of Catholicism gone wrong, a rogue knight hellbent on playing defense for a fair maiden, and himself.
Pope didn't look phased or even flinch. "I allow death upon me. For I once was like Bruce Jenner, but I actually wanted to be a man."
"What kind of freak are you?" Thomas hitting him with vociferous telepathy, snarling sharp threats behind a wet, black nose.
"Release me Catholic boy; otherwise, I'll happily take your death and stupefy your eternal regret."
"Jazzmin Flush (63)"
Jazzmin Flush lovingly followed Thomas' telepathic wolf-calling away from the area of Mister Merlin Pope. His (Thomas') metaphorical howls implied an imperative retreat from Pope. Hence, Jazzmin bolted, saying her polite farewells to the bizarre, living man she was interviewing for a futuristic obituary, scooping up her notes scribbled on an archaic notepad with a number 2 pencil.
So, Jazzmin Flush scooted towards the urban corn-dog stand where her and Thomas had their first date. Thomas was glimmering in potency and righteous truth, as always lately, munching his incisors on non-antibiotic fed chicken bread in corn meal and herbs--the delicious delicacy then stuck upon a spine-tingling, when chewed on, stick. She took a seat next to her arctic wolf boyfriend. "What's the rush? I was just about to get my interview to really open up."
Thomas scowled. "I got deep into Pope's mind. Not only was he a ruthless android hunter--he pursued all sorts of dangerous game, including werewolves."
Jazzmin puzzled yet defensive for the sake of argument. "But you're not a garden-variety werewolf. Your wolf is from the Holy Spirit."
"Which makes my divine pelt all the more rare and seemingly priceless." Thomas frowned.
Jazzmin Flush blushed, badly. "Holy Freakshow. He's luring me to get close to my friends--you in particular."
Thomas added, "I think your newspaper chose you not because of your journalistic skills, but to nail me to the wall somewhere in a freakshow museum."
Jazzmin blew the gold out of her rolling eyes. "And for a second, I thought the world was giving me a second chance."
"Honor thy elders"
Old men, sea hags, and the burdensome cripples--
Denying them HONOR is the carpet burn scald to a set of young nipples;
Alas, raise a toast to the true service of man,
For there are 40,000 suicides a year in the American plan--
A real war zone within the fake calm;
Thus, don't forget to on Sunday bring Grandma some gleeful love and healing balm.
"Jazzmin Flush (62)"
Donald Flush was heavy with cool, adorned in a gray recede and a bit of sea salt and cracked pepper goatee; moreover, Rascal on the coydog prowl, itchy and a bit with the old inflame, needing pups to nurture before she hit the dreaded thirty years of age.
She approached the mature man, prancing up to his classic hot rod, noticing the blue-black paint job and mag tires. "Mighty nice old man."
Donald was like, "I've delivered more onion and mushroom deep dish than any other type of hot pie. You want a ride?"
Within, windows down, California wind blowing through their 8-cylinder elation, Rascal probed an "in control" man who wasn't totally interested; as a result, used her canine telepathy to let him clearly know: "What's so wrong with me having a crush on you, old man?"
Donald blurted: "Maybe rabies."
"Drugstore Makeup Junkie"
Alas, my son cooked to life by incubation;
Next, a patriarch locked in controlling stipulation;
Indeed, should have let him play Canadian ball,
For I'm ornamented in glitter, gloss, and coverage purchased at the mall--
Things don't work--it takes "2",
But never is "3" the number for marriage's glue.
Don't worry; so many get an honorable clue,
Battling the big fish, fighting for their old man's due.
"Jazzmin Flush (61)"
Jazzmin Flush gushed with laughter and glee as she seemed to perpetually shoot the shit (oops) with Mister Merlin Pope; indeed, he was an eternal springtime of enlightening change, moving in a totally non-linear fashion as he offered the torrid and peaceful topics concerning his life; however, she was not infatuated with the ant-circuitry shutdowns he had ruthlessly performed as an Android Hunter. The sentient machines had American Rights; moreover, they need to download more conscience, but it was their right to be as scandalous as an Andy Warhol movie actress if preferred.
Jazzmin got up to give whiz within the commode abode. And Merlin's eyes hungrily followed her California lean dexterity as she seemed to dangerously dance across the floor in her desert boots; next, she heard Thomas cut in: "Watch it Jazzmin--Mr. Pope has a conscience, but he will resort to any type of adventure, proudly making himself longer in the tooth. This dude loves danger."
