Existence Womb (22)

   
   "Existence Womb (22)"
    
   Miriam blurted:  "Oh my God!!!  Oh my God; I'm sorry if that's taking Your Name in vain--for the love of the Virgin, I just don't know anymore!"
   Indeed, Miriam had exclaimed her tremendous turmoil vociferously concerning the gore-smeared scene of her beloved mother laying in a bubble bath with scarlet-like water, her wrists slit vertically (properly), and a razor blade floating among the bubbly red champagne of it all.
   Miriam teared up something awful, bawling hysterically, and immediately tried to phone her bio-Dad (Dr. Luke), but the receptionist at his psychiatric practice said he had recently and quite suddenly quit.  Miriam loudly uttered a profane vulgarity:  "Mother of shit!"  Then, back to the macabre and gory horror of Mom's corporeal mass, lost without the breath of life.  Yet as Miriam's eyes cleared of redness, tears, and the puffy clouds of unbelief, she noticed a note taped above her Mom's body on the granite tile--duct tape no less, how redneckish and appropriate for a woman beyond a Bush League education, but always with a sense of humor--even to this bloody end.  So, Miriam ripped the note off the wall and took a tearful glimpse--it offered:
   
   Miriam, my darling child--they have a hold on me, and have--for years--pestering, probing, making me as wacky as a doodle mixed with a neurotic terrier.  I love your father, but he was always too deep within the secret government, their conspiratorial Illuminati and such, and was well within their ranks as an Ivy League shrink.  But fear not; I have been brave to the maximum end of things.  And hungry bravery equals Nordic salvation ya know.  Not just the reptilians floating around, but the angelic Nordics.  The thunder god Thor, much like the Arch-Angel Saint Michael, always hunting the murderous World Serpent, and now I will eat pork chops forever--your Dad used to be an Observant Jew (giggles).  But suicide is no sin for a Norse Wiccan if life has been fought with a zeal and courage to exist; thus, the blonde Valkyries will come, take me across Bifrost, the glimmering Rainbow Bridge--or some crazy ass shit like that, and into Folkvangr, where upon Freyja's Fields I will live eternally--she is so beautiful with her shimmering mane of honey blonde, and was part of your fertility--I believe.  I had my secrets too daughter.  So, trust your instincts, and that Abrahamic God your father insists upon, and know that He has friends among the lesser gods as well--them that loathe Greek shenanigans and hunt the serpents.  Be in peace.  Your loving mother.
   
   Miriam was perplexed--to the bone of it all.  Her non-linear mind going hazy and haywire.  Her asking:  "Why God?  Why me?  Oh shit--I sound like Nancy Kerrigan."   

Existence Womb (21)

   
   "Existence Womb (21)"
   
   Miriam continued to battle her Sleep Paralysis, pinned down by reptilians that implanted, sodomized, whispered weirdness into her flowery spirit, or whatever they were doing; regardless, a garden-variety physician merely thinks these hallucinations, yet the missing patch of raven-black hair behind her right ear; plus, the admittance of Dr. Luke (her father) and Princeton psychiatrist that aliens or angels (synonymous terms) were real--she got the gist of it.  Too, Dr. Luke was once involved with a government agency, such as might be dubbed the Men in Black--she knew something malevolent was occurring upon her corporeal essence, or within her spirit.  The soul:  A gel of body and spirit.  Also, her mother's cognizance, due to an unknown neurological condition was stabilizing thanks to the turmeric-derived medicine; moreover, her (Miriam) adoring the lady whose egg had forged her, while not working at the junkyard that is, had proved imperative in helping the elderly women obsessed with Grackles, Rooks, and Saints.  Anyway, it was time for Miriam's shrink appointment with Dad, and upon her newly jury-rigged KLR 250cc, she flew there without much concern for safety, adoring the boyish thrust of the potent cycle.
   
DR. LUKE
Miriam, the government came to see me--they know I'm helping you, but be not worried, for you are strong, employed, and learning.  Mr. Pewter can help you even more if you put in a good day's work consistently.  
  
MIRIAM
What, you're cutting me loose, uh, Dad?
  
DR. LUKE
Just listen to me, and continue to pursue your autodidactic studies.  Know:  Magic can happen--even though that word might be considered blasphemous.  Look, Evolution, the Big Bang--mere theories, and resisted by many, including myself.  Did the Annunaki from the Sumerian Texts put spiritual light into hairy man?  Is that why the famed Dr. MacDougall found out we lose 21 grams upon the process of death?  Or did hairy man eat psilocybin-containing mushrooms and spark consciousness; next, spread it with beastly mating?  I prefer the first theory.  And somehow, the Abrahamic God, Master of the Multiverse, has intervened for us, freeing our gold-digging slavery, sending a potent Celestial Hierarchy to help those who help others.
   
MIRIAM
I know all those things Dad--I just want a family, and am terrified Mom will die.  I'll have nothing.
   
DR. LUKE
Get closer to Mr. Pewter--he is not just a junkyard fink, but knows, uh, certain things.  As for your mother, read up on "radical remission" which can occur for any type of illness.  Usually through eating herbs and spices; plus, communicating with God.  

MIRIAM
Lowered her head.  I was up all night after they came.  Watched THE WATER HORSE:  LEGEND OF THE DEEP.  I wish I had supernatural friends and a family.

DR. LUKE
In time my dear.  In time.   

Existence Womb (20)

   
   "Existence Womb (20)"
    
   Miriam imbibed the melt-away herb, the indigenous flowering divinity, enhancing consciousness, propelling performance, and allowing entrance into higher levels of consciousness--her particular strain not unlike that used by General George during his first two years of being President, before replacement by his binary self, reducing gum inflammation to lessen the psychosis of true anguish and corporeal suffering.  She imagined people like her living near or in the American South, arrested or worse--prosecuted, paying court fees, paying probation fees, watching Sandra Bullocks's 28 DAYS at least 28 times while undergoing this process of government incarceration, them not knowing of Biblical Kings and their herbal importations, Christ saying He was thirsty, or the first American Flag sewn on cannabis fibers; regardless, she remembered Mom used to say back when she was an awkward child:  "It's a free country honey."     
   Miriam didn't like having more secrets.  Wished she was with the divinely and Davidian-like Justin Trudeau of Canada, where the Great White North offered hope to all peoples with the garden-variety quirks and personal sufferings; plus, allowed Inflammatory Bowel Disease to wend easily into remission, gave cancer patients solace, treated everything, our Godly-inspired bodies having natural receptors fused right within--a synergy with Good, Green Terra.  Yet those people.  Those freaking demon-ignited dolts getting a piece of sublimity and becoming their own ruination and that of others by wasting enlightenment on American Sexuality, the multiplicity of partners, females made to squirt and knighting it high love, while James Joyce pens ULYSSES and only offers linguistic ecstasy through FINNEGANS WAKE, going batshit crazy and halfway blind--what would Internet porn do to that genius, like:  "A drop every minute for Stumblestone Davy, or a rise every morning for Standfast Dick."  Yet when the cops always come to your house, they first ask:  "Has anybody been doing hard drinking?"  And the foolishness of not letting wine make man's heart happy, but the pollution of the soul with utter stupidity, and America has a death-trap bar on every corner; moreover, the American South offers rare public transportation of any sorts--pseudo-cowboys, not Western save in Clint Eastwood's day, thinking their macho, monster trucks killing the globe are hot-trotting for women known as peanut butter because they spread so college-like and easy.  It's all bullshit.  
   And Miriam had been up for 22 hours pulling radiators outta STARSKY AND HUTCH Gran Torinos all day, without even a MILKY WAY bar to fuel her loving labor; regardless, she took her illegal medicine, got into bed, beat her pariah complex into the black, thought of how gorgeous Bernie Sanders was and that Clinton was a phony not needing the Virgin Mother's Queen of Heaven Coronation to be mocked here on Terra's invaded and reptilian-smeared surface; furthermore, she found 4 hours of peaceful sleep before a much a nagging need to urinate woke her from kissing Matthew McConaughey and then laughing to his perfumed face with glee, before breaking out in an awkward-sounding, non-soprano girl sound of a quasi-Christmas jingle:
  
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony;
I'd like to hold it in my arms
And keep it company.

   No more Coca-Cola before bed--the protracted urination kept her awake afterwards, and she blazed a sulfur and phosphorus-inspired match--the kind you can never find at restaurants anymore; next, gave fire to the organic tobacco, blowing her prayers to God and giving the Virgin Mother honor with praise and delicate invocation, mentally telling the reptilians to stay in hell, unless of course, this Earth was a piece of it.   

Existence Womb (19)

   
   "Existence Womb (19)"
   
   Miriam cycled her way to the joy of the junkyard, enjoying her labor-like duties, the company of skinny Mr. Pewter, and adored pillaging for pieces of metal that offered her slight metaphysical protection, knowing there was an alien or government implant behind her right ear where the missing patch of her raven-black hair mysteriously used to be--unless it was asymmetrical balding, but her iron levels were good according to her last blood count, and she suffered no type of anemia that caused hair loss--or so her doctor had informed her, but again:  In the leading causes of death in America, physician and nurse error is always at the top of the list--them hungry for sex, gladiatorial sports, cold six-packs, and benzos to easily drift off into dreamland, that sometimes teleports you to the Astral Plane or even the 5th Dimension, depending on your alignment with the Web of Wyrd as weirdly woven by the mystical Nornir--then knowing:  Bravery is truly salvation.  Though what observant Jew or Muslim would indulge in eternal pork chops served by Valkyrian blondes belted by honey-brewed beer. 
   Anyhow, as Miriam easily propped up her light-weight 50cc scooter on its phallic-appearing kickstand, Mr. Pewter sauntered over with mirth in his squinty Roy Rogers eyes, offering the Spirit of Christmas, as Yuletide had arrived, saying:  "Little girl, I think I got something behind those rusty AMC Javelins, which you might like."
   Miriam immediately knew what he was mentioning, having explored the entire junkyard as had the scavenger Rey explored her entire geographical area in STAR WARS.  So, she blurted out with excitement and girly glee:  "You mean that old motorcycle?"
   Mr. Pewter with:  "It's yours honey--just needs a little TLC and can get rolling; plus, that's no ordinary bike--it's a 1988 KLR 250cc, the kind Chuck Norris used in that movie, THE DELTA FORCE, with old, crazy Lee Marvin and Robert Forster as the mad Muslim Abdul Rafai--though I'm not voting for Trump, and don't mind me a bit of American diversity.  And did you know, the suavely cool Mr. Forster played in Quentin Tarantino's JACKIE BROWN--a rip off of Elmore Leonard's cult-like 1992 classic book entitled RUM PUNCH?  But like you, Tarantino is an autodidact--done some book-learning on his own, ya know.  And Elvis wasn't into no book-learning."
   Miriam's glee was explosive, becoming boyish, her blurting:  "How fast is the KLR 250cc?"
   Mr. Pewter with:  "Hell--it'll run way past 90 if you push it."

* * * * * *
   
   The sometimes called "Men In Black" were in Dr. Luke's office, uninvited, but American government spooks don't really give a shit about the Bill of Rights or being kosher.  They bluntly informed him of Miriam's surgical implant, and that they could hear everything; moreover, control her, if it would come to that, and that she needed to be a normal adolescent thing, getting laid, smoking dirt weed, find a Bush League College, and be a regular part of society, not some quasi or real-life Messiah of sorts.  Dr. Luke was obedient to their pistol-packing intimidation, but when they exited, he whispered to the Abrahamic God of King David and Christ Himself:  "Like hell.  She'll learn to kick the shit outta reptilians, reveal the truth, and find time to rest normally without the cruel Sleep Paralysis."  Next, he vowed to himself that he'd die before anything happened to her, repeating the cinematic mantra of HARLEY DAVIDSON AND THE MARLBORO MAN:  "It's better to be dead and cool than alive and uncool."  

Existence Womb (18)

   
   "Existence Womb (18)"
   
   Roman crucifixion--archaic mind control that showcases, with much gore, what happens when a soul offers resistance--like forced and toxic sodomy (wicked phallic entrance and fluidic discharge beyond the penetration of another man's anal cavity) is America's mind control.  What if Christ had been an American?  What would the crucifix look like then?  An even more perverted piece of wood and agony--what a great, new age America--an ethnological mix of varying people that loathe each other save the Hollywood elite, where bullshit riches heal with a Wolverine-like factor.
   Miriam took her new, illegal herb-derived medicine, remembering King David's Psalm and the import of many psychoactive healing herbs by even his son, the Wise King Solomon.  Verily, she was fighting for her life against the mind control of fallen angels morphed snakeways, yet as she took out her Rosary, a mystical-styled weapon in the fight against any form of the worst and most morbid mental illness, Clinical Depression, she was immediately teleported (spiritually) into a state of melancholy--this was Tuesday, and the Crowning of Mary as Queen of Heaven was not to be meditated upon; furthermore, today she had to fix her soul upon the Sorrowful Mysteries, which frightened her own pride, and when she got to the "carrying of the cross" she focused upon Simon of Cyrene, understanding that she should pray for her enemies; plus, assist them--even Tommy, the bourgeois prick who had attempted to thieve away her hymen's intact virtue.  But even the Virgin Mary appeared to carnally active folk, so again, she hated her pride and cried wet tears a bit; next, finished the Rosary, offering up a Marian Devotion at the culmination, before blessing herself in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
   Indeed, she should help rich boy Tommy carry his capitalistic cross that was stealing him from Paradise Gained.  It was her divine duty to release her own pride (rebellion against God) and do the sublime thing, or possibly be haunted more by the likes of slimy serpentine during her ongoing Sleep Paralysis; nevertheless, she remembered King David again, a man after God's Own Heart, knowing there can't be too much wrong in slaying a greedy, blasphemous giant hellbent on your own destruction and the values of a Multiversal God.  Tommy was not the little guy Bernie Sanders was attempting to heal, but of course he didn't have a chance to be President of the United States, for the Democratic Party wanted the coronation of a do-nothing Clinton to further appease the controlling corporations run by a wicked force of fallen angels that had already invaded, and were here, as mentioned by the bold and brave Ronald Reagan; then, he falls suddenly ill.  If only Honest Abe and his declaration of hate against prohibition blasted through the airwaves; next, the war would start, and the Good God would fight for us all save the weak-minded addicts being the ruination of legality, them only in it to chase wicked dragons, download sleazy porn, and metaphorically kill people in video games.   

Existence Womb (17) Junkyard Virgin

   
   "Existence Womb (17) Junkyard Virgin" 
    
   Miriam was far away from the mire-pulling reptilians for the day, escaping the gravity of resonating Sleep Paralysis, and the daystar was illuminating, bragging of Dagaz, the Nordic Rune tattooed on Balder's divine tongue, frosted by wisdom and sunshine, before the trickster and mistletoe ended him until the sublime sprawl of vegetative rebirth.  Anyway, Miriam was working on newer models of automobiles, pulling them to pieces for scrap sales under the guidance of the nice and lonely Mr. Pewter, him never loose with his tongue, giving up any personal information.  The day was to be of sunshine and enlightenment; however, her ex-boyfriend and his wicked aura of reptilian black magic fused into him by a sinister physician father pulled into the junkyard's entrance.  Tommy, strutted forth from his shiny Audi, engaged the humble Mr. Pewter in a brief conversation; next, approached Miriam with a diabolical smile of sorts, snorting:
   
TOMMY
Well, it looks like the junkyard virgin found a home--get used to your poverty drop-out.  You'll never be another Timothy Leary.  

MIRIAM
What do you want Captain Scum?
   
TOMMY
A satellite radio pulled from one of the newer Audi models.  The dealership didn't have any, and I figured I'd get it from the scourge of the Earth--people like you, unwilling to get laid and be somebody in life--and it's such a shame, for you were quite the beauty adorable Miriam.
  
MIRIAM
The Father of Lies is your Old Man.

TOMMY
My old man is wealthy.  And a genius.  He forecast your fall from American Capitalism and sanity.
   
MIRIAM
Reading the Bhagavad Gita I know you're in error concerning life.  For it gives the answer to real life--which you have not.  The Blue-Hued Krishna wanted Prince Arjuna to go into battle, but the Prince was phobic for many reasons concerning the art of war; regardless, Krishna wisely informed him concerning the answers to life:  "You must always do what is RIGHT regardless of reward or consequence."  You see Tommy, you're building up some bad karma babe.  If doing the right thing gets you killed or impoverished you are blessed--don't you see.  It takes a divine giant-slaying Smurf to teach lessons, lessons you'll never learn in school since religion is forbidden.  So, go ahead, bite me, you have no fangs of immortality--in fact, stay stupefied as you are my dear--it matches your 200 hundred dollar haircut.  

Existence Womb (16)

   
   "Existence Womb (16)"
    
Miriam's Dad got her a joyous job at a romantic junkyard--
There, there would be no college frat boy with Rohypnol targeting her virtue with wood hard;
Moreover, what sublime splendor and divine ornamentation in trash from an exodus,
Where you get to barter or pay even less.
While last night her Sleep Paralysis proved paralyzing--
The reptilians pinning her down, once again, whispering lies that she was dying,
Yet she knew corporeal existence is just the forming womb,
And the greater life comes forth from an eternal tomb.
   
   So, she met her boss, Mr. Pewter, him a true ectomorph, like the bodybuilding Frank Zane, living off of organic veggies and fruits; plus, an almond-laced chocolate bar here and there, her knowing Aaron and Moses' Staffs of God morphed almondways within the Ark of the Covenant or Testimony.
   
MR. PEWTER
Welcome aboard little girl named Miriam.  You can start by removing the hubcaps from the antiquated Gremlins and Chevy Monzas--they're the little piece of crap cars.   
   
MIRIAM
Miriam smiled, almost tranquilly, adoring the remote vagrancy and virtue of a STAR WARS type atmosphere, like a droid factory, away from the seducing sprawl of corporations corrupting.  Yes sir, Mr. Pewter--I look forward to disassembling any type of Gremlin.