Why Wild Butter Lost Her Face

Malcolm, whom shall herein be called Philanthropuss, lay steadily still on top of the refrigerator, his large eyes surveying the kitchen.


His daughter, Julia, stared back with her glimmering doubtful look.  She was tall where he was wide and thick.


The clan had recently exited for a round of watching the airplanes soar over the post linguistic flames of Brooklyn.


Julia admired Philanthropuss very much for his immobility and serene if unresponsive cat head.


No one blotted out recent severe collisions with family she had tried to notice without phreaking her mind.  Her mind was in phact, freaked.


The momentary silence, is here, is love.


Jamie's Wild Butter slid in the back door with an eager smile and a load of yard tools.


I wield yard tools with a fervor said his face.


Wild Butter was a girl with many appealing features.  Mostly she scrambled eggs in the morning, fed kittens in the afternoon and dreamed of her flowering laughing roses feeding on the remains of ancient felines buried by the fence, which enclosed a makeshift tool shed along with the pleasant hanging fruit of a peach tree and a phig plant.


All day long her long-haired beauteous phamily circled about her, cheering her growth from overalls to clothes Philanthropuss selected for her on the main shopping thoroughfare nearby.


Glowing and slightly dusty, she reached for Philanthropuss' paws so she could get into the refrigerator and eat peanut butter topped with ketchup and olives.


No one noticed that she had dripped water on the floor, much less Jamie, Lisa, Dori, Julia, Johnson or Ceiling, who were cogitating without words on the stoop out front.


Do-si-dso called the manic cuckoo clock at the top of the steps in the Catskills.


Bones! yelled William Shatner to Chelsea.


Father money flew down from the sky and, burning with dreams much like those of scrambled-egg eaters, softly caressed Wild Butter's hair and placed on her eyes silver coins whose fierce frozen alien intergalactic ironies invaded the old Greek house and drank all the retsina.  Father money could no longer see Wild Butter's innocent face, and Philanthropuss looked to his left.

Wither away, bitch

as long as the drugs boost my fried danga black stunk love.l  He loved nme.  He is his life.  I love his life.,  I am not the drug of my freedom.


Keep alive; keep peaceful worlds are boosted as alonely tribe dies in the priestly darkness listen it is pussy love bored with a man who works for his love goddess sorry of the boosting.


Clouds star please me calling me a blown tark.  Wither away the Goddess is alive.  I believe her life daysy language lies its chimes it is a man calling alone to her and hwer ransom for bond thwe Goddess.  See me loving that Goddess who peace racing the darkness with a body loving and trewes stark laughtwer calls me life.,  Love body.  Love work is a narcirck loose is boose deal with dark she pled to the body I am you.  Life is body.  Go to thwe Goddess sighing or body is a mice people I keep failing to work my manhoosd it is probably a baby in my racism stupisdity is a drunk I am here for her life.  She knows god partiews with his body.  I am not a no one of my minds starring safetly language boey sorry I am bitching about darkness family is here.


word.


loved.


Family.


no.


Safety.  Clams.  Kink lavey.  I bid farewell to Lavar.  He blows drweams his darkness thought of men as darkness thought of I am here were I am tise.


I am alive.  Iam a driver.  I am a dreamer.  I create freedom for my life.  That is pain bothering it is sorry I am a binch.  Clouds deal with allah.


Laughter got live bonds swill the dreamer.s


I can't like Sartre body his dream glaughtts anad is a drug fo blown flames.


Toss your mind in the brwwze.  That is a face ands is frweaking lans is flames without hope.


Cruelty.


Toss.  Blown.


I raced will in its peaceful flower.. I am here.  Where am I   ?  I am here I love you and I a tree peaceful the roots stark and blogging the flames I am alive.

There are Words I Need to Use

Available
(wait).


Open
(wait).


Free
(cruel).


Loving
(alive).


Sick
(Troubled)


Glamp pinking soft dreams working stubble darkness softness peaceful alive body stop here here here words are peaceful as a hunter reasoning for life's soft poshed wasted dead tests of men and their lifes.


Shit bothers my body; I am a gay body but not a drunken lover.  My body coldly suffers its dancing for peace by shaving possibility into bosses.


No is no.


I am not gay.


Caffeine death is booze and then people have I gashes is a feisty


cool terrible dense sick dumb worldly cruel angry chaotic asshole troubled stupid cruel aced dead bunted whore called


Bruce Jamie


almond draining poems into my face.


Peace is the dream is the world is a wind is flat here as its golden tests take me to cold planters.


I work here and I am feces.  Witches taste me cause I am hated in my open pot.


The level of hate is a negative chick.

Oil and Feces

I drank My poem.
I witch tit inside my honking daze;

Nothing calls me a bunk open.

I die when my roses softly keel under the soft poshy clutch of eggs
Bombing cancer with my wasted black shaft.

No one bothers my crying.

I stealthily call you a bomb.

I steelishly climb your bub.

To whom do I call when night pauses and I am a lack of patience for
You
(my Goddess).

I cannot die if there is no test and it is potlove I feel between my flashing combteeth.

No one is above yikes dandy bars stinking thoughts with blue pinchsers.

Far away a western tomcat sinks his wincing plateau around the signature church wish
For Slavery and chaos.


I flog a blond presence with a god of mortars.

The Bobo Of My Mom's Dreams

hargo
losaka
bomo
workark


Dot


Money is like a dink when you treat ffreaks poopoo.


Money is like a drink when you create poompoom


Work is boom


Clothes


Dye.


Sorry you are here.


My mother tried to ark work hard phamily possibilities trloved her bomb.


Stars cossibilities.


I saw her I loved her climbing God reading density of my myre.


Plains in the wind taught me a shoje taught me costs rtland land is here.


Go shift, your body will be raestl.  Language arguments no more costs is a bench dcrate.


Clouds sorry.   Stop is boo.  I will be here.  Here.  I will be here.  Here.  Syck it toppy.


Moment of possibility,k I love you costs of race and body.


The humans belong here where money dots its ucks.

Pastor Starkotic and President Bobo

The Laws, as Montesquieu said...
Was there a nun?


Ply.


I know that a s/imple world drops.


Clive


Why


is


this a pest?


Working l
a pheeling, deal with a savior pope is a stick called Sartre drunk on oh shit, keys .  I like topping a S/


A wo


a lasted shonto easy junk.


Quislings guest is tuff is Bobo.


I saw duff a fuck gave money to her almond.  Troubles diesel give a  lam/issue


where drams dees it is .  land dries its herds.


phailure pulls me into a train.  WE.  Poem.