"Gothic Cowthing"
Toxic bars of incarcerating Clinical Depression
Dodged by a dreamer offering everlasting confession,
Knowing his best defense is high alacrity,
Spawning divine escape with sublime fecundity--
Of all kinds;
Hence, Westward wending with Gothic/Cowthing rhymes,
Not minding a tenderfoot to be,
Or a rodeo clown stuck in a bull-speared barrel having to pee.
"Jazzmin Flush (66)"
Mister Merlin Pope had Thomas around the arctic wolf neck--the androgynously abnormal man forcing Thomas' lethal incisors closed with uncanny, almost god-like strength. Thomas' canine telepathy hit him loud: "I mean not your destruction! Just stay away from my friends and me!"
"Too late!" Pope loudly blurted, increasing his gruesome grapple and snout crunch.
Then, the door to Pope's modest shanty exploded, okay, flew open, rascally Rascal totally coydogged out, snarling like uncouth vermin, as some coyotes are considered; plus, weirdly wagging her fluffy tail as did the Pomsky within command her to do, oddly enough. "I'm here fella!" Rascal linking her thoughts to Thomas'.
"My blasphemous gods! What foolish stupidity and lack of suave rescue is this? Cotton candy with teeth doesn't frighten the great Merlin Pope--android hunter and werewolf stalker."
"Save it!" Thomas telepathically screamed at him.
Next, Rascal powerfully pounced on Pope's big head, her hungry chompers going for the nasal cavity and getting fanged anchor, biting him, blood squirting from his flaring nostrils, and he ultimately released his deadly grip on Thomas; as a result, the mystical dogs forced him into a locked corner--the Spirit Wolf and coydog, her dripping blood from a happy mouth, but both breathing the heavy huff and giving pernicious puff in the direction of the human demon.
Jazzmin Flush enters. Not blushing, and not minding the flowing gold dangling in her angel-shaped, California eyes. "What's your damage? Mr. Pope?"
"Women are not self-cleaning ovens!"
I have written about Ukraine; still, my affection for Russian Literature; regardless, whatever is going on, and their leaders know what is going on with us, we owe it to the meek, even though they are assholes sometimes--everybody non-insidious should be left to live freely. We are all a bunch of sons of bitches. Yet, we can harness the Spirit of it ALL, and grand-slam to capable couthness.
Too, American Women should be cleaner. I know icy fresh Canadian lass. Life is not an American Panties Party. I'm just upset cause I never get invited. Does a curvaceous woman ever kindly and politely say: "Hello?" Even to a deliciously weird chap?
"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.
.JPG)
