"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.
"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!
"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.
"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.
"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."
"Jazzmin Flush (101)"
Jerry Dingle shockingly took a whiz, squirting the rancorous-yellow body juice all over the hotel carpet before making an intent exodus out of Jazzmin's life--and forever. Miss Jazzmin Flush curled her celestial nose in disgust, and Thomas' arctic wolf did a coyote chuckle, bringing out the laughter in Jazzmin too. Then, Thomas closed the hotel room door with a well-trained paw pad, looked over at Jazzmin's California Girl Beauteousness, licked his lovely chops; next, plugged his canine telepathy into her cerebral capacity. The conversation wended this way:
THOMAS
Now--it is just you and me.
JAZZMIN
Totally! Like it always should be. Look Thomas--even I can tell Rascal doesn't roll with us in fidelity. No loyal wolf instincts for the coydog girl. She's sincerely feral, even beyond. Couldn't be religiously trained on newspaper--ya get me?
THOMAS
And I suspect no reunion with your Dad or her?
JAZZMIN
Yup. We should head Northwards. Canada. Maybe Alaska. I wanna resurrect our romantic rescue of the past. Maybe I am ready to be your eternal mate.
THOMAS
My only concern is Fredrica. She's giving me crazy brain static about her perpetual suffering. And she usually camouflages it so well.
JAZZMIN
Invite her on the journey. She's practically my sister.
THOMAS
Taco girl moves Northward with werewolf brother and delicious babe birthed in the City of Elegant Angels. We should get some Kentucky Fried Chicken to celebrate--grease the deal.
JAZZMIN
Don't eat the chicken leg bone this time. Remember how you had trouble pooping it out.
THOMAS
Not even a wolf has a coyote's awesome digestive tract--capable of easily passing stool forged from Kentucky Fried Chicken bones, toxic waste, or a dirty diaper from a child with a turbulent sense of digestion.
JAZZMIN
Yup . . .
"Blessed are the bold confessors"
My throat chakra--it is brilliantly blocked
By a wing-clipped demonic flock
Of the proudly fallen, yet my intent is to get on the horn,
Wearing my sports bra and frightening myself, reading: Children of the Corn.
Look, a corn cob pipe is sincerely nice,
And devouring sweet butter spinach is anti-oxidants twice;
Therefore, I guard my virtue from a villain's intent,
Gelling with folk paying God-fearing rent;
Alas, I may not grossly squirt bacteria or climax like over-spread sorority girls,
But I will charm entrance into sublime Otherworlds,
Laying in varying colors radiating from the spirited Sun,
And I drink cold beer; plus, put mayonnaise and flax seed on my hamburger bun.
