"Trump Fortune Cookie versus Bernie's Folk Friendly"
Two singular souls, beyond the oppression of collective thought,
Speaking to Dingbat Edith and the resound of Light Metal's hippie plot,
Rocking the boat as has President Obama,
Yet not transfiguring into the Dalai Lama,
Retaining aspects of the Holy Spirit haunting the Year of Our Lord: 1776,
And I surmised I was going to the pits of Pandemonium for jamming with Styx;
Regardless, two men speaking their hearts--neither a cold glacier,
Giving political clue to the generic, two party nature;
Thus, wends the weird of the Wendigo,
Reminding us not to devour human flesh in order to overthrow.
"Jazzmin Flush (87)"
Donald Flush and Rascal had regally reunited--and it feels sooooo good. Regardless, there was the whole vaginal stretch and no fooling around due to tissue sensitivity and fluidic, carnal ouchness such as that sloppy mess; still, Donald was the quintessential gentleman, adoring her, lathering her with a lion's pride, cleaning her benign beaver as it had birthed his litter of coydog pups. He was not in a state of complaint; nevertheless, there was the absence of his daughter. The Golden Jazzmin Flush on the insidious lam with Mister Merlin Pope, the gender-bending beauty armed with malevolent sorcery of the, possibly, quixotic kind. Indeed, he had it in him to thrive in this future of a luminous, star-spangled America. The Union Blue gelling States to a state of United, yet allowing autonomy for the collective individuals residing in the Magnificent 50.
Thus, Donald invoked his Catholic heritage, talking to the Saints and eating herbs, totally and completely knowing: Radical Remission is possible in every fashion of ill existence, regardless of Universal Webs Weirding, for existentialism and will have their place--so does invoking Saints and Arch-Angels to deliver your personal prayers, in trust, to the brilliant brain of the Almighty. "God, Father--I love Jazzmin." Yup, he was in a state of wanting grace.
"Jazzmin Flush (86)"
Jazzmin Flush--she never had no grush; regardless, the feminine aspects of Merlin Pope's elongated fingers caressed her soft kisses under Crescent Moon's neon cheese glow, a Star Wars sleeping bag strategically placed by Pope to be illuminated by the big, celestial glitter above, his french tastes exploring Jazzmin's mouth, it dripping with delicious honey, wanting him to spout something stupid, like: "Your lips are wine, and I wanna get drunk tonight baby."
Next, a deeper investigation into her aches and future spasms, but Jazzmin Flush awoke from the daymare, it departing as sunshine illuminated her consciousness, maybe lack of sugar and she needed a SNICKERS to satisfy or some bullcrap such as that; still, it was a moment of fascination, no betrayal to Thomas save the garden-variety aspects of being human and incarnate. Whatever. The Golden, California GIRL retreated into rationality, reminded of the Good Doctor, Aquinas knowing that a grand vision of the Almighty will thieve away his forge of theological prose, for too great is the Wizard of it ALL, and Jazzmin flung Merlin Pope with her pointer finger, rousing him from the same Sun Sleep, it fueled to us by exhaustion, being on the metaphorical lam, and all the nonsense in politics, which eclipses our freedoms, such as if a spiritual soul resides beyond the collective--individuals to the end, not damned by standardized testing and all the averages that make phony axioms, but there be werewolves here. And Jazzmin continued on her terrible trek with Mister Pope, wishing Thomas all the girly hearts and best.
"Jazzmin Flush (85)"
Merlin Pope mysteriously cunned, kinda, Jazzmin--allowing her to know the depths of barely ingestion, yet absorbing the nutrients eloquently, boasting with bold, confident speech: "The Confederate Battle Flag, that Mystical Cross of Saint Andrew and all--is aesthetically vibrant and entrancing, yet the meaning of some, some hate behind it confuses me; nevertheless, all is free, and since it has become mere art in our futurity--I adore the look is all."
Jazzmin Flush didn't gush or ooze attraction, despising any bit of negativity, not finding this sexxa, yet unappealing and gruesome; next, Merlin Pope added: "I always carry a switchblade with me--for the "flip out" effect. It puts a spasm in the beating hearts of the blue-blooded. I do adore the poor man, and his magic unsheathed before the spawn of the Industrial Revolution; plus, I adore Russian Literature. Pushkin was the shit. Women's unshaved legs and all--freaking brilliant and yet sexually macabre."
Jazzmin was liking him more and more now.
"A Wicked Gastroenterologist"
Calmly cruising through the physician's door; however, not a Doc; moreover, a Nurse Practitioner of the cruel imp family, some imps are awesome and nice--but not him. He was intrinsically hostile due to his own corporeal aspects, pre-judging my highly-paid necessity of his so-called, medical services.
NP
Your insurance doesn't cover that.
ME
I had REMICADE Infusions for years--of course they do.
NP
Maybe you have another insurance and just don't know it.
ME
How could I be paying a colossal amount for another health insurance and not know it?
NP
Anyway, a prescription for PREDNISONE for 2 weeks is like putting a Band-Aid on it.
ME
Aren't Band-Aids good? Too, the only cure for Ulcerative Colitis is removal of the large intestine, more or less. And why don't you look me in the eye, and why didn't you shake my hand? Why do you study the asshole for a living? And I'm the liar and freak? Why give me COLAZAL instead of DELZICOL when it doesn't offer the same protection against cancer? Change REMICADE into HUMIRA when REMICADE, which I had for years, did indeed fix me without side-effects? Put your hands near my junk when you examine me? No other medical man treating me for this condition did that, nor ask me if I'm ticklish, nor invite me to their non-denominational church. And why refuse treatment cause I bleed out, having required a blood transfusion, becoming anemic of the IRON kind; thus, am phobic concerning too high of a capacity of blood being drawn by cackling and jeering phlebotomists? Not drops of blood buddy, but cups--I got pics on my cell phone of the sanguinary circumstances. Have you no idea of the Hippocratic Oath? And no Organic, Western Medicine--that has been studied by myriads of suffering patients, and it calms and soothes them--this not legally allowed in the American South, though it is by a Higher Davidian Power. Who is this leader of the American South? May I remind him that they lost the biggest terrorist action launched upon the sublime turf of the United States? Do you know what it is like to have painful, bloody diarrhea and agonizing constipation for near 20 years? This is bullshit.
"Jazzmin Flush (84)"
Thomas--his wolfy blood boiled; indeed, telepathically attached in enchanting fashion to Miss Jazzmin's complete self--her soul, actually, more of her cerebral self; regardless, Thomas knew, as most canines do, what was going on in the head of a member of his pack. And remember, Thomas was the Spirit Wolf--forged by surfing the Holy Spirit as an energetic, ubiquitous wave of everything SUBLIME, like a Brahma Christ, merged with the nature of the complete Multiverse.
Anyway, to blow off the essence of angry steam, Thomas got wolf angst, deciding to morph into his arctic lupine delicious, remembering the whale blubber he munched on once, and took a trek into the wolf-like aspects of his supernature, becoming more of a garden-variety werewolf, even thinking about banging, after hunting, tail. It was all the improper myths of werewolves not ever being magnanimous--some are!!! Yet Thomas wanted blood at that moment. Wended ruralwards, finding a bullet-holed barn full of chickens. thought about Mister Merlin Pope touching cleverly his Miss Jazzmin Flush and her puristic pink; next, slaughtered the chickens--blood and broken bones galore, but his intestinal tract could handle it.
"Beer and Blondes"
Pulled back--it is flowing flaxen--
A rat's nest of cascading champagne--yup, I'm Saxon,
And I honor and revere the Irish and their ale;
Plus, I don't get skunked and give away my precious tail;
Alas, I'm a lonely crayon configuration,
Wetting my crimson lips on the stutter of a poet's coloring fixation.
