"Tongue-Lashing for Captain America"
We luv ya Cap, but you are a perfect man--
Many other creations don't intrinsically give a rat's ass damn;
Regardless--what I'm say'n:
"Asymmetrical creatures hungrily thirst for Liberty's Nation."
The Shapeless Divine
Need a brilliant beacon that opens up the throat chakra for us like a mime,
For there are differing levels of severity in disease,
And the Web of Wyrd does with existentialism what it does please--
Ya get me?
And in a honey bucket do I gotta squat and make pee pee.
Just give the freaks a chance,
Not axiomatically deflating their trophy's golden dance.
"She-Ra: Perpetual, Valentine Fascination"
Her wondrous name be: She-Ra;
Indeed, like Farrah Fawcett in Cannonball Run she wore no bra;
Moreover, what the hell with Joe Theismann in Cannonball Run 2?
Specifically, Adrienne Barbeau was great; alas, Swamp Thing made me blue;
Thus, I think Prince Adam is more handsome than He-Man,
And if a woman understands this--email me your number and a date plan--
Like shouting in the Hamburglar's face while purple Grimace puts the order through.
Girls!!! It's not you!
I've dated many a junk-in-the-trunk chick, curved for the mate,
And never vocalized suggestions that would their prestige taint;
Anyway, Bless She-Ra--
Like I implied: She looks better without the boa-constricting bra.
"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nothing, tiredness overwhelmed them as if from the Sandman's spirit, Miss Jazzmim melting onto the "ouch" of an outdated mattress and flagging fairyland, swimming deep into the sea of enchanted or otherwise dreams.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"
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"
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)"
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"
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.
