Jazzmin Flush (77)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (77)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush regally retreated from the birthing scenario of Rascal's wonder womb, leaving Thomas elated with the pretentious pups barking their pride to life.  
   Jazzmin strolled urbanways, into the domain of many a hobo, regally reminded of her once underground poetry pamphlets that spread the bizarre ode of income equality, offering a chance to lend the homeless vagrants hope in respected earnings for their humble labors of being trash men, android constructors, hookers, and all that non-linear jazz.  But what haunted the California girl and her mane of glistening gold was simply:  SEX.  Why?
   And Thomas did look handsome all wolfed out in platinum-white fur and fangs that sparkled along with electric-blue eyes, ears a little shorter than a garden-variety wolf, and a tail straight with spiritual even flow.  She knew she could trust him, yet owed it to her aborted daughter to never attempt hatching a life-force within her surgically-touched womb--a surgery that resulted in the death of a human being.  Yes, Jazzmin's loins lusted love towards Thomas.  And Thomas was a skinny, solid, good-looking guy with his shaggy brown mess of hair, but how would she explain to the Good God her resistance to all the songs and psalms of inviolate purity?   

Jazzmin Flush (76)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (76)"   
   
   "Pseudo-Tramp!!!  Did you hear that Jazzmin?  Pseudo-Tramp!!!  I read a book by the scandalous, weirdo poet by that infectious name, and it sings and sounds nothing like you."  Thomas telepathically hitting her innermost tension amid the birthing scene,  where (talking brain) the best climax erupts with wonder, fatally--fatalists striking cerebral blows beyond the cranium; nevertheless--never abuse telepathy in a sinister sense lest your victim becomes so paralyzed that they then absorb your intangible movement of consciousness; plus, spirits, angels, demons, whatever may take pity on a semi-innocent soul shut down by the influence of adders, granting those cursed souls redemption.  "Are you getting this too Jazzmin?  Do you understand--we are totally intimate though no fluidic exchange.  You are not the Pseudo-Tramp.  You were forged by Spirit, and recline in absurdity, as if to outdo the Saints, and you do it, sometimes, very well.  So, of Heaven--give 'em stupefied hell.  I'm so sorry for blasphemy, but what am I but a boy in love with something too pure to touch?"  

Greasing your goose

   
   "Greasing your goose"
   
Mine is a Southern, passionate, hot, and very seductive diatribe,
Igniting sparks of chemistry with forceful whispers--making men thrive
If they lay back and relax their varying shape--
I wonderfully wish to please, never torridly scrape;
Thus, grease your goose and release your junior moose loose;
Otherwise, giving away to a celibate noose,
Which is fine
Unless alone do you wish to dine.
Us lonely, middle-aged ladies--
Hungry since husbands went to younger girls and spawned demon-headed babies. 

Diary entries of a vampire girlfriend

   
   "Diary entries of a vampire girlfriend"

Where there is smoke--there's not always fire--might be vapor.

I can't go to the beach and soak up the Sun.
  
My werewolf boyfriend never uses silverware, if any at all.
  
My werewolf boyfriend doesn't know to be gentle--too much porn.
  
My werewolf boyfriend urinates and defecates in public parks.

Jazzmin Flush (75)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (75)"  
   
   Thomas, cradling the precious pups--three of them, two girls and a little pecker, Rascal wearing a lacuna where the intercourse had, months ago, happened and now fully expired, driving her to dreams of Donald Flush and his hopefully triumphant return to her full moon embrace.  And the male scion barked a yip and a yap, Thomas crying, wanting a family; then, remembering Donald's disappearance--was this how it was with every Flush?  They just won't commit to the process of engaging in blissful matrimony for creative purpose, or whatever.
   Jazzmin came into the birthing room, Fredrica having always been there--the former taco roller now holding two feminine, coydog/human hybrids while her brother, Jazzmin's love Thomas played with the male, letting his pinkie finger get a little bloody from the exploring bites, teeth in and sharp already, Rascal's vaginal cavity having acted like a coydog incubator, cooking quickly a trio of mercurial mutts, and one would be a pestering prodigy.  Anyway, overwhelmed by her younger half-siblings, Jazzmin wept.  Remembering Christ and the shortest verse in the King James Bible, it used by Southern Baptists to this future day, Jazzmin not pushing the Vulgate in anybody's face, knowing all the words were synonymous, leading to the nucleus of God, Christ, like Buddha in the middle, yet bettering the quicksand of balance and cool counterpoise by being the virginal lamb.  And as she reached out and touched the male pup Thomas was holding, looking her boyfriend in the eye--she knew:  no matter how much she loved the arctic wolfboy, she was a lamb at heart.  A quasi-virginal lamb, doing her best to retain the inviolate status of California Girl Cool--in a Saintly sense.   

Jazzmin Flush (74)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (74)"
   
   Rascal--though less than mid-range in physical size and birthing capability; nevertheless, hips and fundament super shapely--vaginally spit her coydog pups out like a pack of M&M with peanuts shooting lifewards, all multi-colored, the eclectic litter bragging of both the beautifully benign and the bad-ass bold in a corporeal sense.  Thomas hearing the canine telepathy doing dog barks in his attentive ears; moreover, technology in Thomas' future (here), outshined by the primal spirit that sparked creation; specifically, the delicate forge and delivery of coydog pups dictated a bone-eating that sucked the mummified marrow out of the dead and then recast them with physical life, in a wicked/loving sense.
   So, Thomas broke off his marriage-argument-proposal to Jazzmin Flush, dashing away in determined style to eloquently usher in other life on this poignant Earth, leaving Jazzmin's mouth open, as if a fly might fly on in, barfing bacteria into her intestinal tract, yet she closed the gawking gap, as if knowing it in Thomas' alerting eyes, and now, she was, officially--a freaking pseudo-stepdame.  What a bomb?  Sounding her own telepathic trumpet to Rascal's pointy and hearing ears, like:  "Bitch.  But, uh, I will love you."     

Jazzmin Flush (73)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (73)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did not girlishly gush--NO WAAAAY, looking Thomas right in the whites of his eyes, avoiding the hue of eye/soul/color (bullcrap/maybe)--her golden orbs a frigid, Great White North Love, like when she rescued him, but the California Girl was not calm and religiously convinced about matrimony, especially sexuality, since she was a dork and asexual, having turned her back to the incarnate aspects of her bodily predicament, mostly because it would rot and perish save robotic implants, only sharing a few moments of kisses with Thomas, her coldly, but lovingly, NOW, blurting:  "No freaking way!  Look, I house the Holy Spirit--my body does--no way somebody is going to invade that divine space--never--it will never happen dude."
   Thomas, the arctic, Spirit Wolf didn't blink, responding:  "I totally embody a great portion of the Holy Spirit myself, and if I enter you after marriage, that Spirit comes into you--you will only be stronger."
   Jazzmin blinked.  Thomas continued:  "I don't even care.  Do what you want.  Marriage is about being a team.  A contract of love.  A sophisticated synergy, but not dualistic.  A united state of onwards.  And I would tell you to go screw yourself, but that might be rude."