Weredog Tart (26)

   
   "Weredog Tart (26)"
   
Siria knew:
As a hot-dog weredog, she was puissantly potent, but not a cruel shrew;
Forsooth, she was fanged and ferocious,
Yet tame as a dame that guys did sweetly crush on and notice--
Erelong, she'd take the wheel
And pilot herself with Christ's wise appeal,
Though displayed regret for slaying a demon,
Praying for his spirit and body to reunite; specifically, have a soul born again, and smoothly even.  

Weredog Tart (25)

   
   "Weredog Tart (25)"
   
All was dandyism for Noah, him dressing in a shirt with a collar;
Next, Siria gave him a mellifluous shout and glorious holler,
For they were on their way to ancient Mass
Even though guitars and Protestantism had influenced since an approximate 16th Century sass,
And even Nietzsche in his Antichrist proclaimed he was no longer a German,
Disturbed by the wheels of something splintering into myriads of groups, such as Pee-wee Herman;
Regardless, for 1,600 years did the Catholics protect the Kingdom Divine,
A Vatican Library having all the secrets of verse and rhyme--
Them Romans before Saint Helena keeping every book, knowing the pages--them turning;
Thus, how is that history denied, yup--it is disturbing!
You don't thieve away the Holy Family;
You don't plant another tempting fig or apple tree;
Alas, corruption gets involved everywhere,
Even attempting to slay Saint Benedict, yet saved by a mystical raven's flight, so aware;
Still, Siria held no contempt,
Only wondering if she would get fleas from her shape-shifting events,
Being capable now, under any sliver of waning or waxing Moon--
Always able to generate the weredog boon.   

Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr. "G. Gordon Liddy: An Enigma"

Weredog Tart (24)

   
   "Weredog Tart (24)"
   
   While Lance clumsily sauntered off to produce urination, and as a clean boy, probably would whiz on the mint-colored thing in the urinal, to fascinate himself by making his water turn pink or blue, Siria contemplated the supernatural essence of herself.  There had to be more out there.  And as John Donne mentioned:  "No man is an island, entire of itself."  Or something, for her summer school classes all seemed so crazy with everything going on.
   Regardless, she knew she was a mutt.  A weird creature.  Did she need a pack?  Canines thrive and are stronger with a pack.  But being an Omega would suck.
   But isolation?  Then she pondered Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in Stir Crazy, where after locking Mr. Wilder in the dog house for a night or two, he said:  "Three more days, please, three more days."
   Yup, she was wired on weird, so much so that she figured she could handle being a lone wolf and golden retriever mix wending completely solo; next, Lance stumbled back into view, working on his button fly.   

Weredog Tart (23)

   
   "Weredog Tart (23)"
   
   Lance was like:  "In vino veritas."  
   Siria was like:  "I'm Catholic--what do you mean about wine?"
   Lance further pushed:  "Yeah, my overly sober, Irish Mom is probably giving your Dad the business for drinking, though he seems a sublime drunk--no offense."
   Siria pushed:  "He's not a drunk.  Wine to make man's heart happy did King David proclaim, and his son King Solomon with prescribing the downtrodden wine.  And all my Dad drinks is beer nowadays; plus, he is downtrodden.  Lost the love of his life--for real, not just words to get in her pants.  Watched her die slowly, there every moment, at her side while the help didn't help.  Held her hand, said prayers, and burned candles.  Willed her to live 7 years through it all, making her laugh, feeding her, brushing her, washing her, like in the French movie Amour; indeed, he was tested, but never broke."
   Lance nodded:  "Anyway, I guess the cops will be investigating my Dad's death.  The crap will hit the fan."
   Siria knew that wouldn't happen.  Fang marks from a weredog would stupefy the bumbling, brutal cops.  Yup, weredog lives matter and all that crap.  If only everyone had true love and loyalty--nope, they're out for themselves.   

Weredog Tart (22)

   
   "Weredog Tart (22)"
    
   Mandy McGee and Siria's Dad sat alone as the adolescents of this story-tell did wander through Steel City, hand in hand, speaking of purity, noticing the urban birds and all the wonders of the four winds blowing wherever they chose.
   Mandy asked:  "I never did get your name?"
   Siria's Dad with:  "It is Noah."
   Mandy further probed, noticing the brew in his hand:  "Early to drink.  And did God not tell the Hebrew Noah not to drink?"
   Noah replied:  "I am not here to save the animals; moreover, my heart is made happy by creamy lager.  Gee whiz, back in the day, there was Robin Hood Cream Ale made up here in this city--it stated on the steel can that men of adventure, well, their name is being called by the bow-slinging Englishman."
   Mandy snorted a giggle:  "All is for some, and some is not for all, but I can tell by your face that you are a kind and gentle man."
   Noah with, after a gulp of the lager and a mustache of foam:  "Life is too short to be a demon; plus, don't they know what they'll get in the end?  It's in both Scripture and myth--the poor and downtrodden shall be lifted, made white as snow, though tried, yet the wicked, well, we know how that ends."
   Mandy blushed, and was like:  "Yes.  Yes we do kind sir."   

Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable

   
   "Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable"
  
   Mercurial stream of consciousness or automatic; regardless, tears in the other room, false testimony, and sloths I pray for; plus, penetration of pineal pea by demonic wizardry.  
   Hence, take an hour or two before inhaling the breath of my Blog, for at first--there might be an explosion of Swamp Thing smog, and how touching with Adrienne Barbeau; specifically, so much better than crazy like me.  We are all things together, and so much better, yet protect your portion by sending it outwards.