Notes from the Daybook of Butch Dogwood

If Rorgchon Tagblon hits Paddy Blussy,
she keeps a goon on her squat
and teeny weeny frogs come down.

Aleister Onan Bit The Devil!

Shadows unless the brew begs the bleed,
he'll patch himself up and fork down pillows,
some horse trying to rest, shacking her tone,
getting it right for some morning sausage.

They walk in glue like the dead.

When she come I peepee
and the friends make a teepee
ooh yawls bang the johnboats
and that goon has fancy quips to flap!

After forking chard greens, having a smoke.  Spurn that back well, we speaking tongs.

My Charlie stepped on a rung and hurried a sun
to give me a pocket of primate, an orange crossroads
in the goodly run away rig, right as a shell come to me
stepping on my tongue, good nights in the cloak of fun.

The sand fords us nothing, Haddle Jango
passes his microphone and the podium
is empty.  They ain't nobody there to eat no onions.
  Shake it off and qualify foppishly for a fucking monkey.

I got five weinies, I got a hunch
that no hobble-legged Roky fort
sheds light on yams, turnips,
I hamper myself into dominion.
Can it give me bread?  Probably not.

Inna Hosnu.  Inna Hosno.  You right on the baloney.  Blotter.

A tongue bit through, I caint hep ye, son.
  Busted on a mission from Dorghallans,
raided when we got to the convenience shed
and took the pops out to pop.  Why I did the nascent free?
I pray to Mingus for a chime.  Playing it on,
I must hit hay in the soon hour, busted by weeks.
Soft stool belies your cafeteria tray.  Have it a good.

A poodle packed butt eagle, the current cruelty
is a collard green whahooza sloshed with apple cider vinegar
which I shot out at least five times and work to the sixth,
add to that a hose of bourbon, German gut bloaters,
and a jar of whore-stomped wine.  Not exactly raw yet,
I'll work one here in a moment and be back soon,
you chum chucking gerbil bangers.

I felled a turbo tree (dead pine) on my neighbor's roof
last spring and last night a shaggy pinball rolled
from their back door, a preacher lady who spooked me
and I jabbed my own eyes out, the girl was duped
when I dug a hole for friendly loops spit out.
Insipid she kept coming and my chainsaw
wasn't oiled too good and kept jamming,
and I dug a basketball court with a mattock
and a shovel and half a red wheelbarrow
and set a hoop up with the ghost of my father.  But I knew
there wouldn't be a choke chain for me to pray to
and I sought the light, sawdust people about half a hand high
came out and brought me parchments made of grapes...
a go-devil splitter was quick to hand and I gripped it
like the serpent staff of Moses.  I split the atom of a new Bible
  though my old lady left with a Mexican insurance agent
who took her to a school built from swimming pools.
She angered him with her Hindu tamales
and I woke up drained of quivers, yanking my lingam,
my nose nuzzled up on our kitty's behind.

Hurples Corlando cuffed pork and his underlamps got asspigged
on a plowcake hanging from the bull's rectal hecatomb?

Choosy is be beggared pansy, and I'm hacking on some Porvlent.  But choice!

My queef wetted me and my shell came off in a fornight's rest
with James Mason sucking a diamond pig beneath my mattress,
but one of the shakers he pulled out was a game distilled of all its truth—
in kaleidescope there was once a man called P. Dunkins
and he sputtered off a salute like this: "Monhosto Padgrow,
throw it like fuck my face, I fucky for you face box!"

Flubbed by the puke lag, I took a patient's symbiosis as a dream
and gave her the vibrating hawk beetle for her pillow—
caint puke but I might need a rope for my sickness.
My pee smells bleached.  Dat dos bood?
Does corkscrew the mountainous sprays of Pigeon waters,
does giveth thy hand a smear of Tupelo honey...

I plumb well hated how the monkeys chapped my upper node,
and grabbed the stone and picked through coals
and found an emerald glow. David's dream wasn't mine
for I was weak upon the ark.

I’m more mule in the poor tree cogs, but stag in mind.

You dig even a speck of lapius philosophorum,
I'll give it to the diminished red door facing East,
I dig a monstrous canopy of pigs, each stuffed with silver.
  I am thorned and rarified by this therapandisticum—gracias.
Yamacha, allegorg, chee wendemast porg coddy noots!

Ana Grim, Ana Grim
Ana Ball her Face Hart,
til a wick fuzzled out
and she split apart
for a deer nudging nightways (hart!).
Three dollar queers,
one whole bread, one fried
a nickel black to neon.
I Shasta, eulogy of bastard,
have numbered a nothing squid.

Anamobo, O dynastic cobra mist,
we made Erits Yallas, fallow boy, lack he pop
and he hind sang Teebret Teebret,
O Phrallusium, I done underbaited my nicrabator.
She black she black and he wasn't him!

Chag Wandop,

I snorelever for the gum in shoes, hankering to get the pure rood.
Noddy gortabs, nemmelskin vooks, Polutraskin Febs has brought me
Yontilly and she whimpies.  I tie that shad waistcoat
and hear smellers get well, cause she wafts free bombs of fish loads.

What was them oval ones gambled me into a trace
of a skinny public and I got my glands by standing
high inside the bean, cause I grew some god-urged sweaty beans,
you pork winders. Left to the squib and tight in my hip glot,
hurted when she come stout in the wolf den,
holding ta-tas like cannisters,
what made snow cream bowls like magazines.
Who might'n ugly flamp I sand? If sum of one is twenty knees,
I'm three times that!

Torn anus flip,

Torgabblist Ubbers

Am I garrulously fitted for this test pitted here?
  In shunning optics I fan my face to the gloom of serious Aeolusness.
  I get sunburnt ever day.

Mother jumpers need some Norfkoppling to come down—belee dat.
Much dove, chobber hopplies. Right as ice ribs in a cafeteria prime.

Chommis Nom Nebs, gables fallen from Castle Kneeborn,
shadows lodged in my pillow got in my mouth
and hamper my speech like sparkledust vampteeth,
Charles Nimwaith chucked my dharma wheel out the flim-flam gate
and now shapers behind screens wetten my staples. 
My gauges boing out on rusty springs—this isn't work, more like a seeming.

Fladge Jablangro,

The last bedded lamb, such alley curtains cradled
had a crusted fort of hate. So the heat came down
in a charcoal sound. Can you give it again that way?
Something ugly you have been expecting swills the rainbow trout.

Toaster's fortitude is a maimed trait, sorely sacked
for hauling freight, and I'm here in the domestic
to combine the few for the many. Alas, and in a brook
maybe a dance is seen: the turkey and the rabbit.
Not a fear of digging, but welts inside. I cusp, I can cough out,
shutter by Set and have these hulls ground with madder and glyphs.
Mornshab Horps, the teagrapes come to you fully scaped,
and from such vines the grapes have ousted their dewdrops,
can be mashed.

Popping the hatches,

Gortlebunt Yang, the Wedge

Forty seconds til Wobbly Spear comes on
and I found my hat in the dishwasher,
my eyes pinched like little corn niblets. 
They is a flame what nobody wants in they scar box,
and that is Tambala Shinwooster, the detective on Dorkonsnobs—
when she comes out with her bird legs and her sequined briefcase
you better catchee you breff. And I caint breeve no way,
just a no count dice shuffler. 

Beans grapple backways, say groot!
  I warble not zippermints melting on the mound
but the god riddance in corpus.  I'm an eastern bandaid,
cobbling over the failed carnivals, the coves
where soundwaves clanged me back to belief. Canvas and stanzas
  only hijacked Carolina, Florida, Spain
where grease-backed the quick chimers flowered.
Gobbledygonk, thus brained, I'm blackly.

Makes Bom McJagbort globular tomes,
delivered from fiery wheels.  Tingle got wove.
  Three limbs ago, one protrusion bent from forehead
but he gots to Cabradoobra this, knuckles bashing screens.
  Tight lace over Elk Lords, disfigured articulation, pommes de terre
become frumes don aborry, sans a table a man becomes woman frugal,
nascent in leaf pack.  Morn Cable bog teemles, the gaver of Gwaft has norkchodded,
lax commence on my Xerios.

Yon wool gooz a treasure mooded out of mode.  Soon.


Don Arry Jamoorist

Chag Wandop,

I snorelever for the gum in shoes, hankering to get the pure rood.
  Noddy gortabs, nemmelskin vooks, Polutraskin Febs
has brought me Yontilly and she whimpies. 
I tie that shad waistcoat and hear smellers get well,
cause she wafts free bombs of fish loads.

Chag Wando forked a plume of grunting lamb,
a cheap scoop like manna in its puffy bruised breadlump:
lamb with spiked spine and aegis of titan.

Log my bowl, Panchammals!  Give a tip to the scorned colon porter
and get in the wagon.  We butterloofing.

I hold a nub out in disagreement: belief is crux
in seeing a typhoon wondrous romance. 
Speech is a whale blubber beach, but not when stumbling tongues.
  Corner of the eye, spot of light with crow presiding,
you accept the scepter of cathartic rumination and blow, Mr. Wind.
  Fate is spat on by children.
As aborted doves so bellow,
yolk in the conical pyxis seems below above,
the infernal never summed in light
but deluded by agony, loves, alphabets.

I send a lemon tree of sun.
Yes.  Won't be long for the tar, Zang Lapitch.
  Snaked under blankets on a sweat log,
we'll ride tonight on swift flings,
Papery Nonmomo, a silhouette girdered across the moon.

  Got snakes, just no keen apples.

Migrant piss strained through a Nazi flail
and cabernet Perrier spritzers sprinkled with Ultramad Wompers.

Ain't nothing like a milk jug full
with microscopic corn bubbles.
And in a wide-mouth Mason jar
it is illumination spied.


Can I pork the spine beneath your idiom,
the shattered flim-flam dam where we used to congregate,
down where the woman jumped to die with her baby capsule? 
I caint jump no higher and it's now hurrying my Interzone. 
Scape the rad pogo mind and slip into a teenage face, please?
I'm a drag unto a one.

Some tadpole dying in June.  Narhar Bongchastinow!
  When a farmer takes her lover to the screen on a creek
near the fields and spreads the lie of Urizen, so much garlic
is for a lover to be attentive.  Gallop.

This is the way, step inside.  How problematic
for a youngun to cross his parents and break
the tongs that held him, to skirt the woods and end
to build a bridge of canvas.  He wasn't going
to heap his body any other way.

Saturn is above and slipping not, gay wangs
have plunged into the pop.  I mean pot, Zaza Gwimchip.

  Incompricated sums gots unbrems, Lumpry.

Leak kingly on the leaf, sheik.

The spackle has dried and the corn isn't any wider.
Wonder what does an umber colored chest feel free,
what with the yucking up of treats all days?
There is ominously a thing eating my nodes
that won't allow me to transpose fat humor,
but fat as fuck there angle some angels in my dreams
that won't consider my proposition. If those hot potato whores
take five pickled eggs a piece and shove them
into cavities I'll sear an andiron to my knees
to remember what the mountains felt like.

Plunk an ace in a holemouth, winner.  Kids make a shadow
when they drop like mosquitoes, why can't we?  Graves
have gotten specifically runted, make an ash forehead
and be treading ready for this full moon tomorrow.  Goncrats!

Cheese pump, 1578, or an anus flowered rat clump.
  In fifty-nine shells I got spic names but she had trunks squeezed
of Ulysses cud, Josemba, Yoquinto.  I cannot remainder this goddamn sale,
we're holding earrings from the Duke on Bertrelles. 
Do you want buy these urcherins or no?

Easy on eagles, wonders tipped with the misfit man,
don't cry to me, oh, baby, I don’t know what was in your power,
and Hazlitt still saying I may fit the "mere strolling poet"
in his summation of Coleridge. 

You porked a number with a shaking mane
and had teased nothing up to get no blame. 
So ride the fallow train, leave the reeds with bubbly
draining swamps and cures from a levee preacher's hangman.
  None will do good under moonish erasures,
deal what croons as well as cant from prayer books,
don't heed a revelation that inspires goatishness. 
June comes in an instant of hobbled jaws, wishing for crops,
this is miles distant from a woman's pyre that burns you
when you drop.  Her vegetation crawls on somewhat
meaner kin: allocations that will zap your grin.
  Take a number and sit, alas the formal feeling comes...

Sequoyah determined what was possible
and what hasn't been tapped by races
of any happenstance in this land.  Inflate
new language to talk.  Jigsaw heritage,
Qualla Boundary.

O I'm dialing the ghost of the perfumed rootball,
Lord Wind obliterates a pollen queen.

The king is where his hymnal is not?  Spooning the dust
of his body's own star microbes?  Scaffolding a fear show?

Take what I'll not forget.

Shitfire.  I'll gear a cheese pump in about forty minutes!
  When them people quit burning we can deliver
some sort of gravitas, gravel, or some pallets
built happy by sub-humid climes.  A palm frond
for fucky you box face.  Sunsigns.  Keep it.

Seek a pre-quim and suck that ghost fish out. 
She caint feel it cause she lead weight, gooey. 
Sic a man on the left, enticed by some nuggets,
          give him a slap for he lax. 
Chains purloined by some playing card noise manifold,
these pale fuckpods roll South and have no knowing
          what they ship.  Our land is traits.
Grease is only injected by Brillcreme for my underlucking hair
whose sheen do take a fine moonbeam, yes.  Snack that shit black.

Game for you idiot teasers:  two monkey got cheese wins
on hitting Chinese flipbook at 4 A-Yayem.

Moons on where you the beast, but where can be you is?

Gertcha, Innna Hosnu. I am a blapclop cloaked shudder
in this quadrant and venture only to the brooks and the sea.
  Buildings in those places sop me.  They signify
where lasses might live and with freedom a bonfire
for the tanneries, shit-caked hands, stacks full of clanging smoke,
black coughs, dollies on lawns.  Paper mills never taper. 
Technofactors freeze the land.  A steel gauge pole
is the dildo I shove to see the light of my bunghole. 
Police come to check me windglands and me gills. 
Hoses beat me into roots and I grow grapevine. 
The Bacchus we knew ain't the shit.  Dig on some
Appalachian whisper, the road leading over the mountain
up sheepbacks, across torn glacial bottoms, the sinking feats
of endeavor.  We jump to dig a bite to eat.

  Tab it off for some red wine and drink faucet water:
piggy, looky your yeast, they polish goons when they be call.
  I be rolling wooden wheels and spitting chicory.  Word.

Granted is not a granule so it hurts the mouth.
  I can't get furry with your vice and I ain't got polyps til they yap.
  You shooting that baby's cream with tequila does draw
a ramification for Amon Ra, however.  Charred E-O,
Lannis Quarrangs!  I am the stippled prigger, boop. 
Vain me out on your next bus stop.  I'm a chunky Cheroquan,
or what the natives like to call a "reservation." 
The limpidly unclear, the proclamation of guilt
typified when one rolls their car through town,
an ungoverned tomb.  I do will scarf some nachos, Lolly!
  And not boff in your cup.  I drink the map.

I is a popped melon, yep, and no hard-shoe I ain't worn.
  Take the laughing on the butcher's butterfly swing,
I'm hear with you to sink down in seats and ride around the farm.
  "To-get-her" is a number on a bell, ringing it every once in a weekend
heaps me with weakness.  I spent my own dimes in jail. 
She still cups her lips in a young way, the old folds
on her body are Ayler's shotgun-blown-peaches-saxophone.
  Mountains is all I am, friend, but I miss them in the hotplate.

  I need the seize and burn and ping best wishes to you and yours. 
All on some steak smell,

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