"CFL--bored American digs Montreal Alouettes"
Big Ben would beat my butt for crayon destruction,
Yet I'm pissed he's not playing in the summertime, NFL abduction--
At least in the 80's we had the USFL,
Now hats off like beer-drinking fat cats to ESPN 2 carrying the CFL,
For 3 downs and out; plus, field goals up front--
I wish my Dad would've at least in their league given it a punt,
For pro ball is an almost unearthly accomplishment indeed,
And athletes like the more crazy Saints fuel our inner man need.
"Jazzmin Flush (88)"
Mister Merlin Pope felt like retreating himself; indeed, Jazzmin would not be swayed by bizarre temptation to fit within her asexual self his portion--all is relative in persona. Moreover, she was probably a "stick in the mud" in the bedroom anyway, preferring the regularity of lovemake, not the pulsating grind of two feline beasts laying the lovepipe and receiving the differing effects of euphoric ecstasy. Thus, he ditched her. Just like that, Pope wended his way elsewhere, not minding that he anchored Jazzmin in the Pacific Northwest, a ways away from the City of Angels, abandoning her to the same poverty she was so welcome with. He knew she would find passage back to her eclectic sanctuary of non-human friends, though they were human--just perverted, in Pope's opinion, by the Divine Spirit of Truth and re-fabrication. Yup, he exited.
Jazzmin awoke near a dumpster in a bucolic area of monstrous Oregon, hearing the rural sounds of friendly folk getting their java at the energy station; plus, picking up the perpetual manufacture of Twinkies. In this futurity, they have a strawberry Twinkie full of anti-oxidants and all the rest that gelled your body to symmetry, making it a better houser for the Holy Spirit Itself. And Jazzmin knew Pope was not coming back, not in the meantime--she was glad she didn't "put out", for it ran the polite and docile cerebral-rapist away from her. She relaxed. Found Thomas' arctic wolf, canine telepathy. He communicated, knowing her ordeal: "Get a strawberry Twinkie, and I'll find a way up to the Duck State and pick you up babe."
"Mixiote Werewolf Girl"
My quasi-holy family came to a Free America--
Not undesirable, but I have to admit: "Brought a bit of werewolf hysteria."
At least a mixiote is inexpensive and filled with meat protein,
For us shifters desire to be sweetly trim and lusciously lean;
Plus, I hungrily celebrate Independence Day,
Believing in American Myth--that the real Aliens might bring galactic dismay.
"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.
