Jazzmin Flush (95)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (95)"
   
   Thomas and Jazzmin Flush had barely enough of the Cash King to find lodging; still, they managed.  It was not a luminous and romantic room, with throw pillows comfortably crafted in pink hearts or a sex-shaped Jacuzzi to induce pulsating water sports, of sorts.  Regardless, a basement-like interior, painted in olive green and illuminated by cryptic candles hand-made from the witchcraft manager, who had nice breasts.
   So, as Jazzmin and Thomas unpacked--basically nothing, tiredness overwhelmed them as if from the Sandman's spirit, Miss Jazzmim melting onto the "ouch" of an outdated mattress and flagging fairyland, swimming deep into the sea of enchanted or otherwise dreams.  Thomas, his mind on BOOBS, shifted into the arctic wolf and went outside to slum it and pounce on some mice, like a coyote would.  While ingesting the wiggling tail of the cute, little vermin, he couldn't remember the mention of werewolves having had packs back in the days of television and movies until the illustrious release of:  HOWLING 2.  The reason he remembered being due to having telepathy that ran backwards; plus, there still are libraries in this futurity.  Anyway, he remembered Sybil Danning, the hot-blooded blonde who ripped her shirt off while partying with the pack--it was an awesome explosion of gleaming-pink nipple and ripe, symmetrical buxomness, a sincerely beautiful moment for the movies.  Then, he pondered:  "Wonder if Jazzmin has nice boobs?"
   Jerry Dingle followed them to the hotel.  Salivating over Jazzmin's strut of curves and California cool.  He waited an approximate half hour till they checked in, watching the arctic wolf take the elevator to the lobby and go devour some mice.  Afterwards, he went inside the hotel dubbed the "Dandy Days Inn Or Outt" and maybe it was.  So, he went up to the Wicca-wild receptionsit/manager, probing:  "Do you know what room that glistening blonde checked into; she gave me a blueninja and I can't get my mind off of her?"
   "I know your kind soul sucker, and you are a sucker if you think I'm gonna give that info out to you--now exit my real estate before I hex you with a garlic-crusted pizza."

Jazzmin Flush (94)--Blue Ninja

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (94)--Blue Ninja"
   
   Fredrica's mundane life was again:  "Yup, I'm making tacos."
   Her brother Thomas and Jazzmin too--all with their "whatever" and having dramatic fun, while she was the only greasy, low-income worker.  Felt kinda Republican about it.  Not that Jazzmin and Thomas weren't eloquently divine in nature; plus, enduring spiritual lycanthropy and asexual golden-gloom.  But, Fredrica was mad.  Felt like:  YOU'RE NOT INCLUDED!!!  
   So, Fredrica wrangled the chicken and spicy ranch into the soft taco shell--it the new rage of cheap chow product.  Sad.  But no.  A dark wave of melancholy mutating her somber and suicidal for ALL the heck in Earthly existence; next, Girthy Gilda manifested from the incorporeal realm, bolding with spectral  brilliance, declaring:  "Don't be a wilted wussy Fredrica.  Look at the "Urban Dictionary" on that antique Internet thingamajig.  See what it claims about blueninja--an overly obese manifestation of great girth in the macho male member when the owner of that incarnate equipment sees some luscious lass.  Heck, it made me laugh burps.  And I'm kinda ghostly; plus--in heaven.  Just--love yourself Fredrica, at least for once in your taco-making life.  And, I love ya.  Always." 

Radical Remission--in crayon

    
   "Radical Remission--in crayon"
    
Eating herbs and talking to God--
It ignites a mind and body gelled to give the Holy Spirit a Bounty Hunter's nod;
Indeed, ALL things are capable of incapable cure,
Yet bodily Transfiguration is seen as pseudo-science manure;
Regardless, passing into the Otherworld and beyond,
A soul must become their own love song,
Brilliantly branching out to ubiquitously feed the needing fields,
For a mother's milky bosom generates and heals.
  

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.