"Queen Leia"
Why do creepy guys drool over me in Jabba's bikini?
Are they attempting compensation for Force-thin linguine?
Look--I'm a nice Lady,
And kissing my brother is as hearty as Mon Mothma's gravy,
But Han Solo is the scoundrel for me--
So know: Urinating on Hoth will an icicle pee be.
"Quasi-Albino, Punk Cut, Mourning Blade . . ."
Alas, sophisticated synergy of femme fatale with the Gods
Is wisdom's fruit, like unto borrowed nods
From above--within the Empyreal Spangle,
Where all written life does like unto a fig from a tree dangle;
Thus, lace up them boots,
Allowing Lady Patrick to blow away mostly scarlet-necked coots.
"Jazzmin Flush (5)"
Jazzmin Flush knocks on Thomas' trailer door under purple sunset of Californ--IA. She's got a Dodger cap on, looking golden. Hears feathery footsteps quicksilver around in locked retreat. Says the name "THOMAS" 29 times until there's an answer from behind the cheap barrier.
JAZZMIN
You okay buddy? Your sister asked me to pray for you.
THOMAS
Are you that weirdo poet named Jazzmin?
JAZZMIN
I'm the weirdo?
THOMAS
Look, I just wanna be left alone.
JAZZMIN
To torture yourself?
THOMAS
Worked out well for plenty of the Saints.
JAZZMIN
Come on guy--the world is blooming.
THOMAS
With toxins and poison people--vipers I tell ya, everywhere.
JAZZMIN
Snakes can be charmed.
THOMAS
By rich people.
JAZZMIN
You got me there.
THOMAS
Hey Jazzmin--you know what Jesus has been doing for the last two millennia? He's been trying to figure out how to return and kick everybody's ass without hurting their feelings.
JAZZMIN
He's such a nice Lord.
"American Language; plus, Anchors Aweigh"
President Clinton discriminates not;
Indeed, he adores all flavors of the Multiversal Knot;
Alas, America is a wacky dictionary--
We invented hamburgers with mayo, and a Hebrew Pickle dandy;
Thus, college is crafted to get you in their economic design,
And Plato knows--we've been refashioned soooo much--she's got the cerebral line,
But Christ's wise action dictates to obey man's law too;
Unfortunately, a local Deputy Dawg can be the ruination of Federal True.
"Jazzmin Flush (4)"
Taco days--so cheesy. Jazzmin Flush tightened a soft shell around a hearty scoop of sour cream over pulled chicken and shredded cheddar; next, she willfully wrapped up the yummy edible, sending it on its way. Then, her Mexian friend Fredrica gently squeezed her arm, and took her behind the diesel-burning taco truck. "Smoke break."
Fredrica, sucking down the preserving tobacco product, it armed with a charcoal filter, dished:
"You gotta pray for my bro, Thomas. He's been locked inside his government-funded trailer for nine months. Chiseled by the angels he is. Yet after dismissing horn-hungry girls and their wanting vaginal cavities--they cursed him. He's a solitary man, and it's unfair to fight demons after having been touched by angels. Guy has set himself on holy fire, purifying his celibacy; still, they come--all because he won't lay their desired pipe; specifically, he won't make fun and play with reptiles. Even these canonized whores' boyfriends wanna kill him cause their girlfriends have a thirsty urge for his angelity. It's so cruel and unusually usual Jazzmin."
Jazzmin Flush borrowed the burning butt. Inhaled, exhaled, letting her innards carry her pure yearnings to Grandfather and His Holy Family. Maybe, maybe, she'd splurge and get some peach schnapps in a recycled glass bottle on the way home. God Bless Thomas and his lack of bold to battle with rotten fruit she thought, further knowing: Once the sophisticated lame make divine friends, there is nothing offered to adversarial parties save--MIRROR OF JUSTICE and TOWER OF IVORY.
"Jazzmin Flush (3)"
Jazzmin Flush awoke to the sound of the soft scramble of Swiss atop her dreaming vertebra, feeding a brain straight and with luminous visions of the enchanting Otherworld. Yawning comprehension of the day amid the darkness of her basement habitat, she picked the cat boogers outta her crusty, chocolate-brown eyes and peeled herself from the multi-colored futon thingamajig.
Sponged clean, brushed by mint, and dirty-blonde pulled back into a tight, neon-pink ponytail, Jazzmin ascended from the concrete depths and into the Los Angeles Day. Her eyes adjusted to the risen daystar, offering a glimmering, imperial-white perspective of light to further her awakening.
With a velcro-sealed, purple purse full of her poetic pamphlets, she sauntered through the back alleys of the blessed bums and hookers hell-bent on making love's frustration, passing out the prophetic pseudo-prose, wending her way to quasi-industry, where she would wrangle soft tacos filled with chicken, cheese, tomatoes, and healthy heapings of lime-green guac.
"Jazzmin Flush (2)"
Jazzmin Flush lay in her basement, ornamenting a fuchsia-striped futon doohickey with her golden, angelic curves, spooning with Swiss, her favorite mouse in the pack. Swiss' whiskers fluxed rapidly as she stroked him lovingly. "And to think some tightly wound tomcat might play with your corpse."
Miss Flush was also penning her new poetic pamphlet, which was entitled: Junkyard Virgin.
Yeah, she wished. Alas, still dreamed of friends transfigured platinum. The many hues of confessors, martyrs, and the freakishly lovely comforting her wonderous affliction known as poverty; nevertheless--she could not be charmed. And perhaps, that was a problem. Yet, that was what made her thrive, riding the ridiculous heavenwards.
