"What bullcrap"
If you hunger for a man to be kicked outta da club;
Next--tell him! Not digest probes that the ill way rub--
Look, it's obvious people frown sour grapes upon your success,
Jealous of sheer pretty; plus, megatons of money and problems much less;
Thus, they wickedly attack, armed with bloodthirsty contempt,
Surmising they have privilege in asking for your soul's fated rent--
What bullcrap! For when on the socially deviant streets
The American Dictionary has a voluminous variety of non-linear beats;
Alas, selfishly getting loved for what you are not
Does wrongly Trump the hate for your platinum pot.
"Jazzmin Flush (98)"
Rascal didn't give a graveyard shit concerning the uncouth nature of the wolf--yet getting the telepathic overtones from Thomas, the spirited arctic wolf, him always mouthing about that darn, silly Wolf Totem and the remembrance of: Loyalty. Ultra-Fidelity and carnal castration of the blood-flowing human spirit; next, teaching Thomas reminded of sheer hubris, and the grander brilliance of the mega-loving Holy Spirit--if merged and having synergy and sophisticated linguistic bullshit like that; then, All Is Well, right?
Regardless, coydog Rascal had intimate itch. She knew that she was off--never belonging with Miss Jazzmin Flush and her freaky pack of pseudo-Saints and werewolves. Whatever. And Donald was a freaking old man--had she just noticed? Like hindsight is 20/20. Thomas reminding of Christ reminding: "Be REMINDED of the Holy Spirit." Put rocks together in the old days and they build radios and scanners, magic crystals, but Rascal knew there was a science to the magic. Thomas and his Pre-Industrial Revolution Dogma of Doom concerning the denial of a Spirit God. As a result, she pondered: "Perhaps Thomas visited an android whorehouse in his adolescence?" She knew he was dirty somewhere, and Jazzmin too. As for Donald--a middle-aged gimp in the sack. But what of her coypups? And to give another bad example, being another stereotype of the trickster coyote--it was just pure bullshit. Maybe go wolf? The wolf and the coyote are in one another. Get bigger? More samurai as opposed to shadow-scattering shinobi?
"Jazzmin Flush (97)"
Jerry Dingle was more voyeuristic than violently vile; indeed, he was canned pussy--Miss Jazzmin Flush continuing to be like Teflon to torture. Anyway, Jazzmin and Thomas in the hotel room--Jazzmin snoring a pack of "z's" that had zigged and zagged her symmetrical bosom, that cupcake cleavage, flopping outta her binding bra, Thomas eagerly noticing the fleshy and fun pink of a shiny nipple and all that juicy stuff; moreover, Jazzmin, like unto Sleeping Beauty gone semi-topless, and he wondered if it would be couth-filled and merit any class to just playfully fling her bare nipple with his bowfinger; alas, whimpering wussylike, phobic concerning political correctness in action, it incarcerating both action and speech; thus, Thomas wilted away from Jazzmin's sleeping seduction, staying the spirited arctic wolf, laying at her feet that dangled off the bed--good dog.
So, the wolfboy licked his mouse debris chops, burping telepathy to Jazzmin's darling dreamstate, like: "I'm sorry, but I'd like to play with your boobies--them milky mammary glands glistening goldenways."
"Does Trump like dogs?"
Extravagantly more independently interesting; plus, less politically correct--
The Donald--give em sincerely honest grief and tongue-lashing heck;
Moreover, Megyn Kelly, the glistening glam of pink lipstick vociferously announcing
While horndog men on their lime-green couch--imagining and mentally pouncing--
Call the Republican, brethren-like nepotism what it is--a bimbo is a bimbo;
Indeed, only the mercurially wise are agile concerning Trinidad's Limbo.
Does Trump like dogs?
Regardless, President Clinton did call em Hogs.
"At Baptist School"
As passionate and curious children, iniquitous entities were conservatively removed from us by Southern Preachers calling upon their personal fabrication of the Holy Spirit Itself, using their deep drawl-like invocation of Jesus' Name and all that country-cooking jazzmustard; next, Rock and Roll labelled as Devilistic--me: 6th Grade mind you, Reagan thriving and brilliantly alive in a commonly corporeal sense; moreover, the Evangelical Erudite Folk of the Southern Church would sing and say: "Country Western (as it was known back then) has some dirty messages as well. Men having wicked affairs and scandalous women sipping whiskey till beyond the couth of tipsy, and her socks may come off too; alas, boy--get you some Gospel Sound."
And then, while not canonized, told me Judas was most-definitely in the Poor Pits of Pandemonium. Yet I witnessed no Transfigured Souls in my teachings; at the same time--me either.
"Jazzmin Flush (96)"
Bodaciously bouncing BOOBS--yup, Thomas was regally reminded of sweetly scoping, sooooo kinda truly, Jazzmin's holy cupcakes--freckled, little sprinkles ornamenting the mammary flesh. And what did Tim Allen, the comedian of ancient days kinda/sorta voice concerning the magical misfit movie that uplifted a mental midget--it dubbed: FORREST GUMP? "Mamma told me--life is like a box of hand grenades--sooner or later, you're gonna blow the hell out of something."
Alas, Thomas reflected more, swallowing a squirming mouse and the wiggling tail, burping remembrance, like: I napalmed myself in the macabre past with guilt and grief. Regardless, he liked being a quasi-Saint gone dejected, ascetic, and yet deserving of the holy training known as suffering; indeed, Thomas needed that unique suffering and megatons of humility to not hungrily hump and hunt human tail, wisely knowing: The Wolf Totem is not purely about savagery and painfully desired sex--it sings a song concerning loyalty and taking chances to play beyond the pack. Thus, he went back inside the hotel, taking his white paw and igniting the elevator button. Looked back with his arctic-blue eyes, noticing again--the witch did have remarkably nice breasts, so perky and full of spirit behind the confines of a tight-pulled, purple sweater.
"Fuzzy Bunny Survives Full Moon Frenzy"
Blue Moon--twice does please,
Illuminating the enduring coyote's fanged desire to ease
A gastrointestinal tract that like hungry quicksand can devour
Any small mammal; plus, not result in a tummy gone sour;
Thus, as pleine lune did eerily glow and beam beyond
The capture of photograph or even this song--
This adorable bunny on my suburban walkway
Thrives with life in the Sunny Morn, and I got me some organic carrots on the way.
* * *
Step-Daddy was like: "Boy--ya don't feed em critters--come on now." Too, being out in the suburban sprawl, on your own property mind ya, approximately near the Witching Hour--you can get the Fuzz called on ya for simply smoking a cigarette. The cherry ignites; next, blue lights I tell ya.
