"The Nebulous Beauty Of A 1950's Vampire"
Outstanding is a weak word, wending from the woes of limited knowledge concerning the non-linear American Language, yet the nebulous beauty of a 1950's vampire knows better; indeed, she resisted with mortification of the Catholic senses, wearing an itchy and scalding crucifix around her ivory neck, not minding the heavenly nag of it all. Besides, her reproductive system was like Stoker's Un-Dead; specifically, not crafted for the lubrication of life.
But we all dive into the abyss of death save the real immortal freakshows. And reconfiguration due to resonating purpose seems to construct our eternal everlast. So don't deny this dandy, blood-sucking lady, for hers is to be nurtured until coffin nails close off her company. She needs sage rubs and holy water showers, being mystically ignited by a lamb's ichor. Verily, she has a psychotic love of righteousness, which never serves well the God-Blessed American Souls--them taken advantage of cause they have conscience and couth.
Here's Patricia Radulovich of Southeastern Europe in California during the early 1960's:
"Jazzmin Flush (65)"
"Grody to the max!" Jazzmin Flush exclaimed in quintessential, California girl fashion upon noticing her Dad's 1957 Chevy getting kind of heavy, doing the old bump and grind--her totally knowing: the commotion and thrusting locomotion persuading the classic car to rumble without being ignited by gasoline was the devilish doing of wily Rascal's hungry heart. "Oh great--my old man and a coydog are doing the junk exchange--right freaking in front of my house."
Jazzmin walked away, thinking of her oddly shaped siblings that would arrive in many months, being her pristine classicism gelled with Rascal's ass-grabbing delinquency; thus, the California girl shot off towards the urban layout of the City of Angels, hoping to find Thomas and confess her disturbed disgust; however, before another step was taken, her mind was shaken with Thomas' telepathy entering, sounding: "Pope is gonna kill me Jazzmin. Get over here, and bring a gun--a big one!"
Jazzmin Flush didn't know where to purchase a firearm; then, she knew Rascal probably had access. So, she darted back to the crude intercourse happening in her father's hot rod, banging on the glass window, actually seeing her father's naked fanny, and before she could warn them about Thomas' dangerous situation, she started to violently hurl corn dogs all over the car.
"The sour taste of a sucker's blood"
Eva doesn't thrive on bad blood--
Might as well suck up some Count Chocula or fertilized mud
Instead of imbibing the life of corrupt souls
Lost to the modern metaphor of Black Mass, filled with diabolical tolls.
"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.
.JPG)
