Existence Womb (19)

   
   "Existence Womb (19)"
   
   Miriam cycled her way to the joy of the junkyard, enjoying her labor-like duties, the company of skinny Mr. Pewter, and adored pillaging for pieces of metal that offered her slight metaphysical protection, knowing there was an alien or government implant behind her right ear where the missing patch of her raven-black hair mysteriously used to be--unless it was asymmetrical balding, but her iron levels were good according to her last blood count, and she suffered no type of anemia that caused hair loss--or so her doctor had informed her, but again:  In the leading causes of death in America, physician and nurse error is always at the top of the list--them hungry for sex, gladiatorial sports, cold six-packs, and benzos to easily drift off into dreamland, that sometimes teleports you to the Astral Plane or even the 5th Dimension, depending on your alignment with the Web of Wyrd as weirdly woven by the mystical Nornir--then knowing:  Bravery is truly salvation.  Though what observant Jew or Muslim would indulge in eternal pork chops served by Valkyrian blondes belted by honey-brewed beer. 
   Anyhow, as Miriam easily propped up her light-weight 50cc scooter on its phallic-appearing kickstand, Mr. Pewter sauntered over with mirth in his squinty Roy Rogers eyes, offering the Spirit of Christmas, as Yuletide had arrived, saying:  "Little girl, I think I got something behind those rusty AMC Javelins, which you might like."
   Miriam immediately knew what he was mentioning, having explored the entire junkyard as had the scavenger Rey explored her entire geographical area in STAR WARS.  So, she blurted out with excitement and girly glee:  "You mean that old motorcycle?"
   Mr. Pewter with:  "It's yours honey--just needs a little TLC and can get rolling; plus, that's no ordinary bike--it's a 1988 KLR 250cc, the kind Chuck Norris used in that movie, THE DELTA FORCE, with old, crazy Lee Marvin and Robert Forster as the mad Muslim Abdul Rafai--though I'm not voting for Trump, and don't mind me a bit of American diversity.  And did you know, the suavely cool Mr. Forster played in Quentin Tarantino's JACKIE BROWN--a rip off of Elmore Leonard's cult-like 1992 classic book entitled RUM PUNCH?  But like you, Tarantino is an autodidact--done some book-learning on his own, ya know.  And Elvis wasn't into no book-learning."
   Miriam's glee was explosive, becoming boyish, her blurting:  "How fast is the KLR 250cc?"
   Mr. Pewter with:  "Hell--it'll run way past 90 if you push it."

* * * * * *
   
   The sometimes called "Men In Black" were in Dr. Luke's office, uninvited, but American government spooks don't really give a shit about the Bill of Rights or being kosher.  They bluntly informed him of Miriam's surgical implant, and that they could hear everything; moreover, control her, if it would come to that, and that she needed to be a normal adolescent thing, getting laid, smoking dirt weed, find a Bush League College, and be a regular part of society, not some quasi or real-life Messiah of sorts.  Dr. Luke was obedient to their pistol-packing intimidation, but when they exited, he whispered to the Abrahamic God of King David and Christ Himself:  "Like hell.  She'll learn to kick the shit outta reptilians, reveal the truth, and find time to rest normally without the cruel Sleep Paralysis."  Next, he vowed to himself that he'd die before anything happened to her, repeating the cinematic mantra of HARLEY DAVIDSON AND THE MARLBORO MAN:  "It's better to be dead and cool than alive and uncool."  

Existence Womb (18)

   
   "Existence Womb (18)"
   
   Roman crucifixion--archaic mind control that showcases, with much gore, what happens when a soul offers resistance--like forced and toxic sodomy (wicked phallic entrance and fluidic discharge beyond the penetration of another man's anal cavity) is America's mind control.  What if Christ had been an American?  What would the crucifix look like then?  An even more perverted piece of wood and agony--what a great, new age America--an ethnological mix of varying people that loathe each other save the Hollywood elite, where bullshit riches heal with a Wolverine-like factor.
   Miriam took her new, illegal herb-derived medicine, remembering King David's Psalm and the import of many psychoactive healing herbs by even his son, the Wise King Solomon.  Verily, she was fighting for her life against the mind control of fallen angels morphed snakeways, yet as she took out her Rosary, a mystical-styled weapon in the fight against any form of the worst and most morbid mental illness, Clinical Depression, she was immediately teleported (spiritually) into a state of melancholy--this was Tuesday, and the Crowning of Mary as Queen of Heaven was not to be meditated upon; furthermore, today she had to fix her soul upon the Sorrowful Mysteries, which frightened her own pride, and when she got to the "carrying of the cross" she focused upon Simon of Cyrene, understanding that she should pray for her enemies; plus, assist them--even Tommy, the bourgeois prick who had attempted to thieve away her hymen's intact virtue.  But even the Virgin Mary appeared to carnally active folk, so again, she hated her pride and cried wet tears a bit; next, finished the Rosary, offering up a Marian Devotion at the culmination, before blessing herself in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
   Indeed, she should help rich boy Tommy carry his capitalistic cross that was stealing him from Paradise Gained.  It was her divine duty to release her own pride (rebellion against God) and do the sublime thing, or possibly be haunted more by the likes of slimy serpentine during her ongoing Sleep Paralysis; nevertheless, she remembered King David again, a man after God's Own Heart, knowing there can't be too much wrong in slaying a greedy, blasphemous giant hellbent on your own destruction and the values of a Multiversal God.  Tommy was not the little guy Bernie Sanders was attempting to heal, but of course he didn't have a chance to be President of the United States, for the Democratic Party wanted the coronation of a do-nothing Clinton to further appease the controlling corporations run by a wicked force of fallen angels that had already invaded, and were here, as mentioned by the bold and brave Ronald Reagan; then, he falls suddenly ill.  If only Honest Abe and his declaration of hate against prohibition blasted through the airwaves; next, the war would start, and the Good God would fight for us all save the weak-minded addicts being the ruination of legality, them only in it to chase wicked dragons, download sleazy porn, and metaphorically kill people in video games.   

Existence Womb (17) Junkyard Virgin

   
   "Existence Womb (17) Junkyard Virgin" 
    
   Miriam was far away from the mire-pulling reptilians for the day, escaping the gravity of resonating Sleep Paralysis, and the daystar was illuminating, bragging of Dagaz, the Nordic Rune tattooed on Balder's divine tongue, frosted by wisdom and sunshine, before the trickster and mistletoe ended him until the sublime sprawl of vegetative rebirth.  Anyway, Miriam was working on newer models of automobiles, pulling them to pieces for scrap sales under the guidance of the nice and lonely Mr. Pewter, him never loose with his tongue, giving up any personal information.  The day was to be of sunshine and enlightenment; however, her ex-boyfriend and his wicked aura of reptilian black magic fused into him by a sinister physician father pulled into the junkyard's entrance.  Tommy, strutted forth from his shiny Audi, engaged the humble Mr. Pewter in a brief conversation; next, approached Miriam with a diabolical smile of sorts, snorting:
   
TOMMY
Well, it looks like the junkyard virgin found a home--get used to your poverty drop-out.  You'll never be another Timothy Leary.  

MIRIAM
What do you want Captain Scum?
   
TOMMY
A satellite radio pulled from one of the newer Audi models.  The dealership didn't have any, and I figured I'd get it from the scourge of the Earth--people like you, unwilling to get laid and be somebody in life--and it's such a shame, for you were quite the beauty adorable Miriam.
  
MIRIAM
The Father of Lies is your Old Man.

TOMMY
My old man is wealthy.  And a genius.  He forecast your fall from American Capitalism and sanity.
   
MIRIAM
Reading the Bhagavad Gita I know you're in error concerning life.  For it gives the answer to real life--which you have not.  The Blue-Hued Krishna wanted Prince Arjuna to go into battle, but the Prince was phobic for many reasons concerning the art of war; regardless, Krishna wisely informed him concerning the answers to life:  "You must always do what is RIGHT regardless of reward or consequence."  You see Tommy, you're building up some bad karma babe.  If doing the right thing gets you killed or impoverished you are blessed--don't you see.  It takes a divine giant-slaying Smurf to teach lessons, lessons you'll never learn in school since religion is forbidden.  So, go ahead, bite me, you have no fangs of immortality--in fact, stay stupefied as you are my dear--it matches your 200 hundred dollar haircut.  

Existence Womb (16)

   
   "Existence Womb (16)"
    
Miriam's Dad got her a joyous job at a romantic junkyard--
There, there would be no college frat boy with Rohypnol targeting her virtue with wood hard;
Moreover, what sublime splendor and divine ornamentation in trash from an exodus,
Where you get to barter or pay even less.
While last night her Sleep Paralysis proved paralyzing--
The reptilians pinning her down, once again, whispering lies that she was dying,
Yet she knew corporeal existence is just the forming womb,
And the greater life comes forth from an eternal tomb.
   
   So, she met her boss, Mr. Pewter, him a true ectomorph, like the bodybuilding Frank Zane, living off of organic veggies and fruits; plus, an almond-laced chocolate bar here and there, her knowing Aaron and Moses' Staffs of God morphed almondways within the Ark of the Covenant or Testimony.
   
MR. PEWTER
Welcome aboard little girl named Miriam.  You can start by removing the hubcaps from the antiquated Gremlins and Chevy Monzas--they're the little piece of crap cars.   
   
MIRIAM
Miriam smiled, almost tranquilly, adoring the remote vagrancy and virtue of a STAR WARS type atmosphere, like a droid factory, away from the seducing sprawl of corporations corrupting.  Yes sir, Mr. Pewter--I look forward to disassembling any type of Gremlin.         

Existence Womb (15)

   
   "Existence Womb (15)"
   
   Miriam's conservation with her brave father, Dr. Luke, continued, wending further into the Truth of such reptilian things.
    
DR. LUKE
It's all a big lie.  Presidents elected; next bowing down to corporate America--money, more addictive than narcotics, and I'm sure you're aware of what Christ mentioned concerning the almost impossibility of a rich man inheriting heaven?  They fear God, the rich, for they are supporting their wicked pleasures, few passing through the eye of the needle, donating or giving their corporeal aspects to the needy.  Who is the Whore of Babylon--is it Iraq?  A whore kills a man, usually.  Uses him, lies to him; then, ultimately murders him.  Is it possible, America is the Whore of Babylon?

MIRIAM
I'm just a stupid teenage girl--I mean, I've turned over a library in the last few months, but I always figured America was good.

DR. LUKE
Nothing is good save God, did mention the penniless, excommunicated Rabbi--Christ Himself.  We have armed both sides, turned an evil cheek to Saudi Arabia, a great fuel for terrorism, as were their hijackers during 9/11--because we're tied in cause of their money.

MIRIAM
Are you saying America is evil?

DR. LUKE
America is concerned about itself, and itself only.  Like with college we've mentioned.  Rarely are intellects born on campus, mostly horseplay and sloppy sex goes on; next, these folks calling the rest retards, move into the lies of suburban sprawl, everything appearing ideal and sublime, yet wicked things go on in those human habitats.  Like with your Sleep Paralysis, visitations not wanted to be mentioned by our government--we want to keep the people under control.

MIRIAM
I was reading about this underground, mad poet of sorts.  His father fell ill, and his step-mother, who wickedly seduced him into a non-religious ceremony of marriage, well, she began to constantly neglect him, for years, as we've mentioned, one of the leading causes of death in America is physician and nurse error--yet stupid college folk believe all doctors to be smart.  Anyway, for years he was taking downers for restless leg syndrome, a false diagnosis; then, depression, but after intervention by the autodidact son it was Lewy Body Disease, and they were feeding him Haldol like 6 times a day, which made the Parkinson's aspects starburst into his complete paralysis.  The son was loving him for years after the initial batshit crazy of the disease began and was stupidly misdiagnosed.  He had an attorney sister, who for four months never came over to see her father, and then maybe monthly, talking for a few minutes before always making a clean getting.  Anyway, this mad poet was on Federal Disability, sick to the bone, and he was the one singularly taking care of his father--feeding him, clothing him, brushing his teeth, changing his diapers, exercising his legs and back, putting him on an organic diet, doing practically everything 24/7--even though the sister had called in for free assistance a mere six hours a day, though the pseudo-caretaker did nothing except smoke crack, put on murderous television that increased the old man's hallucinations, and shit loose stool in their only toilet--she couldn't even lift the man, and so on--did nothing but feed her morbid obesity and weak-minded drug addiction.  So, after years of this, the mad poet, knowing there was sincere neglect, incompetence, and other legal issues, especially that tied in with the Americans with Disabilities Act, well, he killed himself.  But not before leaving a note to the cops.  In the end, his father died shortly thereafter, and the step-mother, caretaker, and attorney sister were all indicted; plus, the sister got the justice of disbarment.  The mad poet was cremated and thrown in a trash can by his attorney sister--goes to show, but his long-suffering and bravery; plus, complete anguish in a monk-like dedication to protect his father, well, it led him to where he wanted to go--within the ranks of the Celestial Hierarchy.

DR. LUKE
I've heard that story--much lore there, but with lore comes truth, as in your case.  Now, we're a family again Miriam, and I will protect you and your mother; plus, I know it was the weak-minded killers of impoverished people with no real weapons in the Middle East, what I'm saying:  Our wounded warriors, who were shooting fish in a barrel, came home, got addicted to opiates and downers, overdosed, and the Federal Government regulated more all on their weak behalf.  It would be a damn shame if we ever had to take on China with Sun Tzu knowing numbers don't matter, and they have the numbers.  Or really deal with the concept of Reagan's royal admittance of alien life among us--if our warriors suffer so weakly from shooting these weak-armed fish in a barrel; next, how will they deal with a monstrous threat, as have you done, my courageous daughter?

Existence Womb (14)

   
   "Existence Womb (14)"
    
   Miriam's voluntary infusing of the herb-derived medication from Dr. Luke (Dad) reduced cranial inflammation (if necessary, but very much so after migraines from the Sleep Paralysis), proved a performance enhancer in all aspects of corporeal existence, and enabled her to move mouth muscles, invoking the Virgin Mary to inspire fear in the reptilians while they attempted to pin her down, them terrified at the name of Yeshua and His Mother; she was the egg that hatched the Divine Seed--understand?  So, she wended gallantly for a month, now back to Dr. Luke's less-than-ostentatious office, having a more metaphysical feel of ornamentation, like his bloodstone, for his secret of Inflammatory Bowel Disease; plus, hidden herb grown on his own, him knowing the controlling States, especially in the American South only produced things like syphilis and meth, because the only person you can control in life seems to be yourself.
   
DR. LUKE
I'm glad you dropped out of that high school and don't want to become a sorority girl pedagogued by demon-influenced professors, lost to the truth on Terra.  Plus, you won't have to eat Vaseline sandwiches or get spanked to secret submission--the Greeks, save the demigod Perseus, mostly distracted by Oedipal nonsense.
   
MIRIAM
I'm just happy now Dad, and glad you are supporting my autodidacticism.  The turmeric-derived medicine is helping Mom too--her less on birds and more on the Saints again.

DR. LUKE
Christ will return, but like with Fatima being covered up, the Book of Revelation has lost some of its much needed clarity.  As a Messianic Jew I know--it's all about the Middle East--now look at the world today.  Just remember as did King Solomon--no matter how much anguish you are undergoing, the King says:  "A merry heart doeth like good medicine."   

Existence Womb (13)

   
   "Existence Womb (13)"
    
   Miriam got more than a Eucharist-like mouthful of life from Dad--uh, Dr. Luke.  Regardless, he left in mercurial fashion, as if haunted by government conspiracies that he was singularly wrapped up in on his own--and Miriam could feel it with her coyote instincts, taking a heavy drag on the organic tobacco, sending her sighs and prayers to Grandfather--uh, God.
   She remembered the prodigy of Tebow in college, playing for a reptile-like dubbed team; next, thwarted by the National Football League, what, the juggernaut quarterback started in like 9 games and he won seven, while the Tennessee Titans had a QB whose named rhymed with "hamburger" and he never won a game in his life, but they kept playing him; specifically, it was like Tebow was the dangerous Maximus from GLADIATOR, elevating the people to God not wanted by America with his protestant mysticism, an unusual thing in itself, as Martin Luther was basing things on a singular verse while Christ confirmed to the Ultimate Reptile that:  "Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."  Yup, take everything in, even the Gnostic Gospels, and what is Gnosticism without the mention of Mani?  That man, claiming to have met his angelic twin, claiming to be the Holy Spirit incarnate; next, his body beheaded and stuffed with straw--people like to teach goody goodies lessons, unless they're the quintessential Christian sorority girls going commando underneath their blue jeans in case a frat boy wants to do jello shots off a shaved pubic region--what a life.  
   But Miriam felt the sands of time--not running out, but flowing in her immortal direction.  Us all immortal, that spirit of light infused into hairy man years ago so we could find gold as mentioned by Sumerian Texts and all the ancient astronaut theory she was digging into.  Angels, aliens, whatever--isn't it all synonymous?   She took another drag, having the placebo effect of it curing her from anxiety and disease, it would work as it had done some of the longest-living folk on Earth, them claiming tobacco was a soothing lovemake, not minding the Surgeon General's warning, and she reminded herself--one of the leading causes of death in the United States is totally physician and nurse error.  They just wanna go home and get laid like everyone else save the sublimity of ascetic healers that know their astrological signs as was mentioned by Hippocrates and further used by Ronald Reagan, the only President to publicly admit that the invaders were already among us.
   "What a bunch of shitty slaves we are."  Miriam muttered to the Four Winds blowing delicately in her suburban sprawl.