Jazzmin Flush (90)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (90)"
   
   Thomas, loyal as a candy ass kook, beyond being trained on the newspaper, I mean--he used the urban alleys cluttered with humble vagabonds not into scoping his "taking a whiz" and all, and sometimes he fumbled fecal matter in the wooded areas, burying it properly by way of digging the hole; next, pushing the bowel evacuation into nature's sewer with his hind paws; then, cleaning the pads and all by acting like a bull ready to charge atop Terra's Motherly Surface, knowing:  the Spirit that haunted and had constructed his arctic wolf had protective energies against one's own poop.
   Anyway, Thomas steered Jazzmin with guiding, human hands, almost big brother kinda creepy, but it didn't have no truth, for he was non-flawed with chaste control--and it hurt his wolf junk, a little swelling visible at times.  Thus, he was gonna make Jazzmin earn his smiles and gratitude, even stealing away his probing telepathy that he knew cerebrally aroused her.  Whatever.
   He was still intent on having her willfully collapse into his carnal embrace, smelling the lovesex that would stink of hot sweat and investigative kisses; plus, emanating his Spirit deep into her super-flow of everything.  Reminding himself of such gallant chivalry, a quest to lay Miss Jazzmin Flush in regal manner, he offered, as he pushed her across the Oregonian border:  "Come on.  I'll buy you that surf board you were always too afraid to try out.  That one with Scooby-Doo on it.  Dogs swim, right?"
   Then, crossing into the Golden State, Thomas' suspended telepathy suspected Jazzmin's return of glistening girl cool.  Yeah, one golden day they'd lay love till the synergy of ONE.  

King David and Solomon--Service of Man

   
   "King David and Solomon--Service of Man"
   
King David boldly barded:
"Herb for the SERVICE of MAN."  Yup, don't get the Truth started,
For Service to God, pious and true,
Transcends wearing the uniform, like the Village People through and through--
What is greater:  God or country?
Don't believe--ask an ascetic, Canadian Mountie.
40,000 approximate suicides from common Americans recently--in a freaking year,
Yet not for mental illness or cancer in the ass is there a rich man's tear;
Indeed, King David says:  "The Service of Man."
Meaning there is a malignant plight for the common man;
Alas, they get no pensions, free health care, medals, or a parade
For the Inflammatory Bowel Disease and neurotic psychosis they, every second, brave.
Hell, the military won't accept the disabled or sick,
And reporters should spend a month in a trailer park out in the bucolic sticks;
Specifically, every singular soul deserves respect,
As mentions Voltaire's non-religious yet wise karma-churning hex,
For none is better from the mouth of the womb
Than those neglecting themselves for the charity of others before entering the tomb--
Service of Man, again from the seed of a man birthing the Most Wise,
Knowing fear of God is where true power resides,
And on television, where women have morphed from lady to (their privilege) whore,
Drinking a man's juices like Grandma's gravy not purchased at the store,
And I would pay for a babe like that,
But crunched by illness my loins don't act;
Thus, for all the physically castrated and what drives to trans-gender,
Or the hapless dude whose learning disability won't let him high school or college enter--
Roll out freedom without a doubt,
Cut the head off the chicken instead of giving genocide to a cultural shout
That expresses something Americans don't even study,
And label them as a collective, getting individuality muddy,
Reminding now it is all volunteered,
Instead of like NAM when over 50,000 poor kids died and teared--
All is relative to the mysterious Multiverse fluxing,
And Freedom of Speech deserves no bitchy fussing.

Raven-haired religion; plus, BOOBS

    
   "Raven-haired religion; plus, BOOBS"
    
The social girl at swanky cosmetic counter says:  "I'm spiritual, not religious."
Yet I adore men soaring heavenwards and the Saints gruesomely gutted by thugs vicious;
Indeed, I learn their sacred religion that plants a more potent spiritual seed;
Alas, I really have no regal regret, because I have crafted no misdeed;
Moreover, I showcase my ripe mammary glands in t-shirt--it kinda tight fitting,
More humble than a showgirl whose wardrobe displays lack of proper knitting.    

Jazzmin Flush (89)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (89)"
    
   Jazzmin Flush ate in a rapid rush, finding the serendipity of an almond-infused, dark chocolate bar near a gas station dumpster in southern Oregon.  It wasn't like when she journeyed to Canada in search of lovely Thomas--the Holy Spirit had been her guide and bodyguard.  Maybe this scenario was caused by her melting down into hysteria and taking off with the weirdness of Pope.  Regardless, Thomas found her vagrancy by way of canine telepathy, coming around the dumpster, scattering vermin, and elating the pretty face of Miss Jazzmin Flush, painting on her a toothy and platinum smile.

JAZZMIN
It's about time Thomas.
  
THOMAS
Maybe you should be wiser in choosing your weirdness.  I had to huff it on all four paws here--we're all broke.  Your Dad even had to sell his 1957 Chevy.
  
JAZZMIN
I'm out of it for a bit and the pack falls to pieces?
  
THOMAS
What's with the attitude?  Did Pope butter your muffins or something?
  
JAZZMIN
Shut up!  I'm a freaking basket case here.  My Dad and Rascal copulating in front of my eyes.  My stupid temptation with creepy Pope.  And all--all because I love you so much, but I can't physically express it--too terrified about the act of sex.
  
THOMAS
Reaches out and strokes Jazzmin's golden face with soft, human hands.  I'll wait forever.  In the meantime, I'll eat anybody's liver right outta their body if they ever touched your virtuous essence; plus, I'd really bitch you out as well.  

CFL--bored American digs Montreal Alouettes

   
   "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)

   
   "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

   
   "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.