"Want some shrimp, Bubba?"
When I indulge in the shellfish shrimp--you must cook;
Otherwise, I'll have gastrointestinal movement like the Chess Piece, Rook,
Wending linear till expunged and out;
Hence, pasteurize the bacteria without a doubt;
Alas, I usually adhere to smoked, Alaskan salmon,
And I believe the Apocryphal Books to be canon.
Post Script:
Dude back in Arkansas during the Reagan 80's used to stay at all the rural parties till the end--this due to the axiomatic fact that all the heavy-set girls would stay till the end--the slim ones leaving early with the carnally-crazed dogs; anyway, he'd hook a big one every time he endured long partying hours involving Southern Comfort and Cheetos. Thus, they called him: BUBBA CHEESE. God Bless BUBBA CHEESE in this America.
"Jazzmin Flush (69)"
The neon lines, resonating, barfing out the delicious past and its stink never cleaned up by the low income Mexicans--it was--futurity/now--beyond. All gelling for America's once-dreamed purpose, yet iniquity still lurks within as Ronald Raygun instructed the world. And Jazzmin didn't entirely loathe Rascal as she dreamed, giggling, laughing, feeling the precious pins and needles of moderate pain and elation--from sins and more sins--these necessities of life. Yet, things soooooooo fun, if you let them. And Thomas slurping her into consciousness with his almost fuchsia-hued tongue, now happily licking her, bringing the gold open in her California eyes, them crowned by an almost brunette brow, giving Jazzmin Flush the perfect symphony of religious counterpoise. It's good to love the superlative God.
"Jazzmin Flush (68)"
Rascal had never called "no stinking cop" her entire dog life, but she did, and happily watched them cuff and clasp Merlin Pope, stealing him off the streets and into the under-funded jails where bologna sandwiches and skim milk were the order of the day, sometimes considered a delicacy. Afterwards, she got dressed in her mechanic's jump suit, the couthless cops melancholy made as they exited the crime scene, Rascal's cupcake cleavage, not jiggly, yet solidly firm and uncaged--this haunting their carnal reflections when reminded of being on the dangerous job.
"I'm so sorry Jazzmin." Rascal turning to the California blonde. "I was in heat, and your Dad is really nice and cute too."
"Oh don't talk to me." Jazzmin Flush with nose up. "And I'll say this with as much sophistication as I can muster--you're an incapable bitch. Incapable of having friends."
"You can't kick me out of the pack. It's larger than just your California gold and all that holy-reeking crap. Plus, I think I'm pregnant, and my pups will be your nieces and nephews."
Jazzmin collapsed. Bit the unconscious dust. Life is good when you're under.
"Bunnies in my suburban sprawl"
I was minding my own business, choking down an organic lung dart, when a small mammal from the family Leporidae; specifically, a RABBIT; moreover, a baby bunny came hopping like an infant Peter Cottontail into my garage/hangout. I turned down the Skynyrd, forgetting Alabama for a moment; next, I scooped up the retreating bunny, minding not to burn it with my hot cherry, blazing my prayers to Grandfather as wended away the electric-blue, purifying smoke.
My Step-Dad was planting a shrub or some crap like that in front of our cookie cutter suburban stronghold, and he pointed me in the direction of the family hole. I placed the bunny down on the freshly-cut grass, and was stupefied, I'm easily stupefied, as another baby bunny hopped outwards under the daystar's dangerous dream of predatory birds. I wasn't worried about the local foxes, my Irish Wolf Hound (a Will Wheaten Terrier), keeping away the wild canines, including coyotes, with her defensive posture and rumbling vociferousness.
Anyway, I hope the bunnies grow boldways, eating plenty of carrots, evading the antiquated necessity of the food chain. Here's a picture I snapped of the action.
"Asphalt Ballet Vampire"
A crown so coolly cropped,
Making the cascading nimbus not the only hot and holy spot--
She cuts her hair on humility's dare,
Content with the symmetrical angles of her facial lair,
Which still attracts guys and their predatory safari;
Thus, she invites them into her bloody habitat to play 1980's ATARI;
Next, she dances on the street like a dime-store doll,
Being for blood one hell of a moll.
"Emerald-Eyed, Low Income Vampire"
I'm bound in a coffin, dealing with a quandary;
Specifically, the garlic pizza steams and cleans my springtime nasal cavity like a laundry;
Thus, to bite the stinking rose that heals,
Resurrecting my heart that grieves and bleeds and feels--
All is about the power of positive perception,
Forcing yourself to gel and gregariously fit in.
"Jazzmin Flush (67)"
"Righteous!" Jazzmin Flush announced as Donald (her Dad) had arrived with a heavy chain Rascal had given him from her mechanic's shop as a mating gift, though Jazzmin didn't know that's where it came from; regardless, she was gleefully elated when Dad tied up Mr. Pope with something much like steel; next, putting his dirty socks in the twisted dude's mouth so as to sincerely quiet his profane utterances aimed at Jazzmin, which described both her naivete and unusually shapely, muscular stems highlighted so nicely in her desert boots with Dodger Blue laces.
So, NERF said, protected yet shackled, all was well, and Thomas licked his arctic wolf wounds while Rascal simply morphed back into the naked girl she was, Jazzmin announcing: "Bag your face!" To which Rascal roughly replied: "Eat my shorts." To which Jazzmin logically pointed out: "But you're not wearing any." To which Donald passionately probed: "Is there a problem girls?" To which Jazzmin angrily announced: "Like duh." And wily Rascal aimed to hammer the odious, verbal nail: "She just pissed her panties cause I saved her boyfriend's life like a true hero."
"No!" Jazzmin Flush proudly exclaimed with a desert boot stomped hard on the floor. "I'm mad that you bagged my Dad."
Rascal was like: "Oh, that."
