Thursday, September 3, 2015
Comic Books & Sons
"Comic Books & Sons"
Totally--they seem to freakishly fade away, magically teleported into your genetic material's underground bunker, or traded mischievously to his teen friends for tobacco products; regardless, we, as fathers, highly value these enchanted items of our pre-adolescence, before those hot cheerleader girls from junior high thieved away our vigilant virtue, it mercurially happening--us dazed and dumb by elevated kicks at the Friday Pep Rally. Nevertheless, we explode ourselves Back to the Future, finding bizarre classics and filling our quasi-geek with many metaphorical meatball and kosher WEREWOLF BY NIGHT sandwiches, digesting them into our intestinal treasure chests, beyond the bowels of constipated agony, like an omnivorous coyote built to dine on toxic waste from city sewers and dirty baby diapers out of suburban trash cans. Yes, we do--love our comic books.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Shame--a speck, why not . . .
"Shame--a speck, why not . . ."
Your dastardly daughter dunks far worse than a doobie into liquidy threesome,
Tattooing bizarre and beyond her once innocently powdered plum;
Moreover, hubby happily rests in uncaring uncouth with your best friend's heart--
Does the pain not start?
Unless daughter's folks are wing-clipped and demon,
Or husband has permission to on your friends spill his semen;
Alas, SHAME . . .
What's an android without a conscience?
Most likely--very violent and obnoxious.
Yup, I still believe in old Santa Claus,
Only minding the unjust laws.
Shame on me too.
Not cunning enough to thieve my way through.
Merry Christmas Mr. Gumby.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Lime-Green Doll
"Lime-Green Doll"
Lingerie designed with the healing hue of a seductively alive green
Allows me to believe and will myself into a She-Hulkish machine,
Not wending monstrous cause of gamma rays gone crazy,
For my feminine muscle is fueled by the Good Spirit--an antonym of lazy.
I'm not saying others are limp and lack heart and soul,
Yet without the Spirit present--the afterlife makes you pay a toll,
And I'll go to a metaphorical college to flavor my Multiversal eternities
By billowing sublime, pumping iron, eating acidophilus milk over my Wheaties.
Just remember: Whether skinny, mid-grade, or sincerely obese--
Forge yourself fantastic by being reminded of the Good Spirit's peace.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
BLONDE--northern beauty weeps over Romo & Manning
"BLONDE--northern beauty weeps over Romo & Manning"
Eli Manning, bad comedian: "Whaaaaaaat!!!"
And I keep large-curd cottage cheese out of my gut;
Otherwise, jiggly junk in an asymmetrical trunk.
"Daddy, I'm 18; thus, please inject my ripe rump with selfish lard for a birthday chunk;
I'll endure the A Cup with no teen angst dismay,
And to the Holy Spirit will I merge and pray."
Look, be the god or goddess you are,
For King David did Psalm: "Ye are gods." Hence, shine like your birthed star;
Regardless, organic cucumbers in tap water
Fight cavities and electrolytes do holler;
Indeed, keep the body cool that does house the keen Spirit,
And on All Saints' Day--of possibility--do hear it!
Friday, August 28, 2015
Vampiric Patriot
"Vampiric Patriot"
Shrinks claim I'm a real hard case;
Alas, I did try to bite off my boyfriend's face,
But the hunger and crave to be who I am
Means that like a fox in the trap--I don't give a guilt-ridden damn,
For I'll vote for Trump and drain the rich people;
Next, confess my sins under non-heretical steeple;
Moreover, the government knows the supernatural exists,
Yet the spineless people would shit Twinkies and discharge a nervous piss;
Thus, wend weirdways but keep your American Couth,
Knowing: Wisdom (fear of God) does outshine hubris-tainted youth.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Jazzmin Flush (103)
"Jazzmin Flush (103)"
Fredrica was nervous, but not nastily so--her singular and heavy concern being an overflowing case of Franciscan humility, being a fool for Christ--having clumsy, awkward spiritual aspects of the Good Shepherd instead of morphing Aquinasways--him, the surgical instrument of God's Divine Intellect or some fancy theological stuff like that. Regardless, Fredrica was lifted out of the mire of melancholy, recollecting Girthy Gilda's ability to harness the Holy Spirit, always reminded of Holy Scripture, whatever it was that was hatched from within the Abrahamic Realm--whether the Torah, New Testament or Koran--it worked if sublime submission was willed. Like Cool Christ offering the iniquitous adder: "Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
Yup, Fredrica was beyond high school jokes concerning spilled jism and cheerleaders morphing zombieways. It's all about that pace, right? Gotta keep on keep'n on. God knows everything for Heaven's Sake; thus, no matter if her Holy-Written Life was gonna end with mutilation and suffering, for This Life is another WOMB. A place of generation till, possibly, wending into the magnanimous family, soooo HOLY and loving, able to afford you your innate talents fused into your eternal Soul by the quill of God. Indeed, she was wise enough to know that all the gods exist. Everything is super-freaky real. Drugs, sex, hookers, fire trucks, werewolves, vampires, aliens in the working class known as angels, and some not. The Celestial Hierarchy and Ezekiel's Close Encounter with them Living Beings. Crap it was all real. And she was just a taco-making girl living in the futuristic slums of an Angelic City, or so the name inspired and heavily magnetized. Still, how was she to sincerely do it? Survive? Rascal, that mutt and bitch of a coydog. Oh well; as a result of trepidation, Fredrica blessed herself, and voiced her best ACT OF HOPE, hoping that the Good God will further fuel her with the Good Ghost; next, she gobbled up a left over taco with chicken and guac; plus a little sharp cheddar was atop it from within the chilled aluminium foil.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Jazzmin Flush (102)
"Jazzmin Flush (102)"
Fredrica, her mousey brown hair falling kinda/sorta bangless--I mean deep and messy all over her chocolate-brown eyes, almond-shaped and not enchanted yet by Otherworldly things; regardless, how average and modestly mediocre she felt--not knowing. Yup, average guys will fluidically do and caranlly cram anything. They love the ladies. Got crushes deep on the ancient Internet and in little Green Lantern Diaries where they secretly point the squid ink, usually diablo-black, onto the inviolate-white paper beneath, screeching tunes and prose for darlings who will never dig em.
Anyway, it doesn't matter how worthless Fredrica felt, her vociferously blurting while Swiss dodged and ducked the verbal pollution, her barking: "Super shit! Super shit! Jazzmin Flush you worthless, rotten fink. I'd freeze your tits in Lando's carbonite and make you give Jabba the Hutt a lime-green bikini lap dance you dirty little Saint! And Thomas . . ."
Then, tears of continual melancholy aching from her weary orbs, dripping not Freya's gold across her shallow cheeks; next, cutting into her cerebral awareness like a bird shit from above, Thomas, with that old canine telepathy: "We want you Fredrica! We want you to run away with us and be a family of freaky friends!"
Fredrica processed God: "Oh darn Father. I'm so sorry for having a potty-like oral cavity."
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