Cornelius P. Dogg

Dude acts like he has a stick up his ass.

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Betimes my morning movement


Oh sweet pressure.

Oh heavenly bulk.

In there. All built up. Yea.

Collected. By agents in the night.

And deposited in me bowels.

And let stew. Until.

The dawn comes. And I wake.

To the rumbles. To the signs.

To the call of the bowl.

Come to me, it says.

Come to me and lay waste.

Open me up and put whatever you have inside.

Pile it on.

Logs.

Sludge.

Sweet greasy goo.

There is no prejudice.

Just.

Fill me up.

To the tip top tippity top.

Of my porcelain mouth.

Release. Release. Release.

Until, you are vacated.

So now,

The vagrants inside have moved on.

Out to sea. And beyond.

And thus, I find myself now lighter and prepared

I say, howdo day, nice t’meetcha.

Chaw’n Chew as the World Burns Brown

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Flo stuck another plug of that sweet brown shred into her mouth, nestling it on home between her gums and cheek. She gave it nice couple chews to get the juices flowing. That sharp and sugary tough-guy raisin taste spilled out from the wad and soothed over her tongue. Mmm. Beautiful liquid brown. The nicotine entered her tongue and gums and made its way into her brain. Jacked, soothed, amazed. As always. Oh, tobacco. How beautiful it made her feel. So zoetic. Taste and sensation and experience and texture all one united inside her mouth and soul. If only there was a way to share it. Perhaps, she wondered, she could make chew stew. Blending the essence of the miracle that was this perfect plant into a ochre broth of savoury magical delights. She could serve it to the gimps in the enclave on soup night. Wouldn’t that be a special treat for everyone. It would definitely boost her standing amongst the uprights. She gobbed a wad of spit onto the dry earth. It glued itself into a glob of dirt and mucus like it was some form of new gorgeous life. She stared at it. It reminded her of the sky. So brown and alive since the war. When the bombs tanned the vault of heaven and the children became angels. She horked another gob. A tear slipped down her cheek. It had been quite a week.

Kid be frusterated, y’all!

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Aww, man, I tell ya it ain’t but tuff out there for a kid like me. Seriously, whether it’s granpa belly-bitchin’ ’bout them cornhogs he calls feet or that bacon-faced teach’s twisted ideas on the sex, I gotta tell ya, it’s hard for a guy like me. I mean, lookit, I get it awright and all that the world ain’t no smaller and less comlicated than a mechaniacal goose is. I seen one of them up at the circus before and I couln’t start to tell you what all them gears and greases and electric honkers was for. And that ain’t even close to the whole world and all at all. But still, c’mon, just for one second couln’t these wrinkled gut-buckets who says they’s in charge of things just for one second lookit from my ‘spective for even one second? Yeah, sure, priorities or whatever the frick they’re called. I get that. Things are important. Uh huh. I know ’cause I got them importants too y’know. Like strokin’ Mary Peters. That’s what I’m thinking ’bout most of the time. And Thurby Newter’s go-cart. Them rides don’t wrangle themelfs and that takes up a lotta my brainspace, right? I could give a sticky nugget ’bout the price of frickin’ lotion. If I could I’d rub them on, y’know, make them their own frickin’ lotion. How’d they like that? I ain’t own no stocks and I don’t care bought the politics and the behaviours and the stuff like that. I pick my nose ’cause it needs to be picked is all. So get off my back. Whatdya expect me to quit the kid business and get a job sipping tea and spanking babies? Get real, mango, I wouldn’t wanna if I even knew how. All I’m about is getting under Mary Peters’s pink unders and go carting and nose turds and putting crud on dead gunk. Is all. Whatdya think? I was the high king of the special guys or something. Geesh. Get real.

Blob. Lust. Cube.

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I am a blob. I am hot for a cube. Lines excite me. Corners move my fluids to the untamed ever shifting boundaries of my existence. Angles take me and make me. My form is one of no form, but the cube, it is strict, real, and exact. That floods my spume fires with sexual fuel. Inside my glubulous being it is like a free wheeling flow of hot erotic moisture that pushes against my intumescent innards and outtards as I stare longingly at that perfect three-dimensional shape. All sides exactly the same. Whoa nelly, if that cube don’t stop being so straight and angular I’m gonna pop. I’m a swollen blister full of sex puss. Yeah, baby, yeah, cube, that’s what I am. That’s what you do to me. I’m a super protuberant sac because of you, cube. Excessive nodulation has my shapeless soul bursting at the membranes. Not a curve on you and I’m spuming. Rigid. Straight. Hard. That’s you. Not me. I’m a blob. I ain’t go not form. Not in a regulatr way, no. I’m a sexual salient being, yo. Let me check you out. Blob all over you, baby, cube. Oh yeah yeah yeah. Ooooo. Mmmm. Uhhhhh. Damn. Busted that lump. I love you, cube.

When Nature Swabs my Body

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I get up
And I stand
in the mud mud mud
And I stare up
into the Sun Sun Sun
And when the rain
Tinkles down
It is fun fun fun
and the bees come tickle
my nose nose nose
And then the dirty hippy reeking of patchouli slopes up for sure high on the drugs and loafing around, jobless, like a peace-niking, nose-picking slug and does the damnedest thing. He freaking rips me in half, and sticks my bloody torso behind his goddamn oily ear with my entrails getting all tangled up in his stinky dreads that are hanging down his back half-way to his ass and then he says, “Wow, man.”

Soup v. Salad: The Day the Universe Cried

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There was fury in her eyes. The eyes that had seen it all, and more, and beyond. And well, it had made her mad as a Milwaukee mudflap. Looking through the chowder into the soup and taking in all that was to behold there. Which wasn’t much. Mostly a cream based sauce and chunks of what only could be described as fecal. She knew this wasn’t what she had ordered. She had implicitly said salad. French dressing. Hold the croutons. None of that could be construed for soup or chowder or stew or whatever the hell it was the waiter had brought. Maybe they were out of salad? When do you run out of salad. You run out of soup. That’s generally understood, that the soup du jour was of a finite amount, but the salad. The house salad too mind you! Just take a head of iceberg and chop a tomato and cucumber in with it and it’s boom boom boom. So what in the Devil’s dung heap had happened. Had they got the order wrong? Or was it something more sinister than that. As in, a conspiracy. A conspiracy of sides. Maybe The Deep Soup had somehow managed to infiltrate the Side Salad Consortium? And what did it mean? Would dressings be next? No more ranch. No more 1000 Island. There was no way she was going to put Minestrone on her Caesar. No way. This was one lady who was not going to let it go down without a fight. SALAD! FREEDOM! WAR