Jazzmin Flush (93)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (93)"
   
   Simply dubbed:  Jerry Dingle--he was not your grandmother's vampiric entity; specifically, there is no "one kind" in the biological architecture of vampirity, for like humanity, individuality eagles beyond the plausible possibilities; regardless, Jerry Dingle was a blood-sucking bum, thirsty to drink from between the juicy thighs of a curvaceous booty, waaaaay near the labia, them pinkish-hued lips that open for babymake.  Yup--Jerry Dingle was a sicko, without a Master and had a crazy craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken, where he'd hang with the garden-variety werewolves--all these quasi-naturals embraced by protective acts from the futurity of the American Machine.
   Anyway, there were laws in place, and folk kinda like Thomas couldn't cruelly slaughter a group of horndog teenagers at an android whorehouse, that flowing blood attractive to the hungry guts of werecanines, except Spirit Wolves; thus, Jerry Dingle could not simply suck anybody to the grave--a dilemma for him, indeed.  Yet when he passionately observed Miss Jazzmin Flush eat pizza near the cool San Francisco Bay, the drippy mozzarella dangling from her pink lip gloss--how could he not want to explore her golden thighs, and beyond? 
   Too, he sensed his corporeal aspects (looks) were more ethnically-defined and symmetrically angular than Thomas'--the arctic wolf being an obvious mix of the Europes--we shall say.  Thus, Jerry Dingle began to stalk Jazzmin and Thomas out of the pizza parlor, and would, even to the Omega of the Earth.  
   In the back of his mind, Thomas crafted thought:  "I hate vampires."  

Super Suburban Virgin

   
   "Super Suburban Virgin"
   
I'm physically missing out on life--my overly carnal friends do say,
Yet all gregariously gel with the freedom of rainbow gay;
Regardless, I am sincerely allowed to outshine the collective with individuality,
Knowing:  getting my joybox juiced is not everything to my karmic destiny--
I'm not fiercely frigid or otherwise,
Just wanna be a "Leave It To Beaver" kinda wife,
Not minding pumps and pearls,
Or getting hubby to pay for a perm with cascading curls;
Thus, let me love a singular man,
Melting into his Phoenix and rising with a resonating plan
To damn the collective that attempts to bind my rights,
Like politicians acting as physicians, making ill plights,
But may I remind that liberty soars beyond
All the arrested cage-fighting induced by American politics forsaking an individual's song.

POST SCRIPT:  The needs of the many don't always outweigh the needs of the one, for the many may be a bunch of stinking a-holes.    
   

Jazzmin Flush (92)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (92)"
   
   Thomas was reminded of things, as Christ had once reminded him of the Holy Spirit Itself; indeed, wending wolfways--like a rainbow hued starburst of various blues, he transformed with might, mercy, and splendor before Jazzmin's adoring, golden-fused eyes.  It was always a divine pleasure to watch her boyfriend become the Spirit Wolf, enhanced physically; plus, armed with a Good Spirit's chance to always right the wicked wrongness that flows with the intent of human destruction.
   So, able to kinda smell the lingering scent of most anything nearly 40 feet buried in Mother Earth's virtuous belly, Thomas dug quite a ways till unearthing a large portion of agate--it being enough for Jazzmin's fluttering and charming eyelashes to sell for a ticket homewards, down in Southern California where the sunsets are still a bit purple hazy, and the Beach Boys remain to haunt with innocent and benign fever--ya get me.
   As if "reminded" of all the nurturing things Thomas had done for her, Miss Jazzmin Flush could not help but burp up thanks after some of their wolf-sniffed funds bought a beautiful San Francisco pie of the Italian variety, it covered in rabbit thighs and banana peppers, Thomas never hungering for a big stag, knowing the protective, Northern European magic offered by the running beast--running to survive, running to live free, running to mate, but never running for office, only sweetly enchanted by the nature of its leaf-eating self, loving the land, and paying it forward with poops that fertilize farmlands, yet without the wolf, trees and vegetation die, for the stags devour the Earth, and the hunger of the wolf keeps the vegetation pumping better air; still, Thomas kept away, telepathically reminding Jazzmin how good whale blubber was up Northways, and she could not help but be playful with banana pepper seduction, french-kissing him suddenly, and pushing that mildly hot pepper onto the tip of his tongue, it lovingly touching hers.   

Jazzmin Flush (91)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (91)"
    
   Rascal stomped and romped throughout the new, American tenement Donald and herself had been dwelling in; moreover, with all the DRAMA, and the coypups too, growing grizzly and fanged with coydog telepathy, offering constant brain-nag and nipple-suck--everything was sincerely freakshow crazy.  Also, Donald was still horned as a stampeding bull, orally fondling her sore nipples in search of the magic milk he helped brew.  Guys are such 12 year old boys at heart.
   Anyhow, Thomas radiated his rage into Rascal's head, offering her the geographical location of Jazzmin and himself for a funds transfer, yet wily Rascal said she was too busy "at the moment" with feeding the pestering pups and assisting Donald in recovering from Jazzmin's unforeseen rebellion. 
   Actually, Rascal was lathered in cheap bubble bath, drinking some Tang gelled with Skull Vodka, smoking an unfiltered menthol--go figure.  She wanted to make the stinging linger of regret hurt Jazzmin longer--the Golden Brat and all her Saintly glory gathering dust bunnies and rabbit punches of poop all over her once, perfect image.  It all felt kinda nice for Rascal.  

Jazzmin Flush (90)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (90)"
   
   Thomas, loyal as a candy ass kook, beyond being trained on the newspaper, I mean--he used the urban alleys cluttered with humble vagabonds not into scoping his "taking a whiz" and all, and sometimes he fumbled fecal matter in the wooded areas, burying it properly by way of digging the hole; next, pushing the bowel evacuation into nature's sewer with his hind paws; then, cleaning the pads and all by acting like a bull ready to charge atop Terra's Motherly Surface, knowing:  the Spirit that haunted and had constructed his arctic wolf had protective energies against one's own poop.
   Anyway, Thomas steered Jazzmin with guiding, human hands, almost big brother kinda creepy, but it didn't have no truth, for he was non-flawed with chaste control--and it hurt his wolf junk, a little swelling visible at times.  Thus, he was gonna make Jazzmin earn his smiles and gratitude, even stealing away his probing telepathy that he knew cerebrally aroused her.  Whatever.
   He was still intent on having her willfully collapse into his carnal embrace, smelling the lovesex that would stink of hot sweat and investigative kisses; plus, emanating his Spirit deep into her super-flow of everything.  Reminding himself of such gallant chivalry, a quest to lay Miss Jazzmin Flush in regal manner, he offered, as he pushed her across the Oregonian border:  "Come on.  I'll buy you that surf board you were always too afraid to try out.  That one with Scooby-Doo on it.  Dogs swim, right?"
   Then, crossing into the Golden State, Thomas' suspended telepathy suspected Jazzmin's return of glistening girl cool.  Yeah, one golden day they'd lay love till the synergy of ONE.  

King David and Solomon--Service of Man

   
   "King David and Solomon--Service of Man"
   
King David boldly barded:
"Herb for the SERVICE of MAN."  Yup, don't get the Truth started,
For Service to God, pious and true,
Transcends wearing the uniform, like the Village People through and through--
What is greater:  God or country?
Don't believe--ask an ascetic, Canadian Mountie.
40,000 approximate suicides from common Americans recently--in a freaking year,
Yet not for mental illness or cancer in the ass is there a rich man's tear;
Indeed, King David says:  "The Service of Man."
Meaning there is a malignant plight for the common man;
Alas, they get no pensions, free health care, medals, or a parade
For the Inflammatory Bowel Disease and neurotic psychosis they, every second, brave.
Hell, the military won't accept the disabled or sick,
And reporters should spend a month in a trailer park out in the bucolic sticks;
Specifically, every singular soul deserves respect,
As mentions Voltaire's non-religious yet wise karma-churning hex,
For none is better from the mouth of the womb
Than those neglecting themselves for the charity of others before entering the tomb--
Service of Man, again from the seed of a man birthing the Most Wise,
Knowing fear of God is where true power resides,
And on television, where women have morphed from lady to (their privilege) whore,
Drinking a man's juices like Grandma's gravy not purchased at the store,
And I would pay for a babe like that,
But crunched by illness my loins don't act;
Thus, for all the physically castrated and what drives to trans-gender,
Or the hapless dude whose learning disability won't let him high school or college enter--
Roll out freedom without a doubt,
Cut the head off the chicken instead of giving genocide to a cultural shout
That expresses something Americans don't even study,
And label them as a collective, getting individuality muddy,
Reminding now it is all volunteered,
Instead of like NAM when over 50,000 poor kids died and teared--
All is relative to the mysterious Multiverse fluxing,
And Freedom of Speech deserves no bitchy fussing.

Raven-haired religion; plus, BOOBS

    
   "Raven-haired religion; plus, BOOBS"
    
The social girl at swanky cosmetic counter says:  "I'm spiritual, not religious."
Yet I adore men soaring heavenwards and the Saints gruesomely gutted by thugs vicious;
Indeed, I learn their sacred religion that plants a more potent spiritual seed;
Alas, I really have no regal regret, because I have crafted no misdeed;
Moreover, I showcase my ripe mammary glands in t-shirt--it kinda tight fitting,
More humble than a showgirl whose wardrobe displays lack of proper knitting.