Showing posts with label David C. McLean. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David C. McLean. Show all posts

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Emond Strauss

Emond Strauss
Jennifer S. Chesler

The earth was soft the day Emond Strauss spit twice, but only one spit hit the dirt, the other time it landed on his shoe. I’ve sold shoes long enough. But you don’t sell shoes, you dig graves. They wear the shoes I put them in, my job is more than one. Special shoes for burial, with laces that withstand the worms, and soles fit for a king. You can imagine my surprise that the families pay so much attention to these details. I lined one pair of boots with aluminum, a soldier who walked with the dead. His name was like mine, but he hadn’t killed anyone. Once he pretended to when no one would have known the difference. And I would have done the same, pretended to kill the bodies already dead, kill the ones that are dead, shoot yourself and shoot them back.
Now I am certain there is nothing more still than the water, he says. There is a feast of flies on the window, fat lazy ones who don’t buzz. I get the broom and sweep them off the glass. At the warehouse next door there is a warehouse next door that has the strongest scent of vinegar. It wafts through the air. That’s the smell of cacao seeds, he says. Anticipation of the odor made me quicken my step when I walked past the brick walls. Next to me is an upside-down seahorse made of wood. Every once in a while two flies whiz past me. I cross my legs, and there is my root right to the left of me. Each word I speak estranges me even more.
They said the sky was blue this afternoon, and that it stayed light until midnight. Some simple sentence structures say more than epigrams. Click click outside as someone tests the lock on my door. A bag of bottles bangs against alternate sides of the hallway. It is possible to imagine the noises as thoughts themselves, moments of silence interrupted by substitutions for speech. I know where I am, but the sounds come and go. The closer I get to the violence, the more I am convinced it is drawn to me, almost to display with pride the jewels of the world, pearls chucked toward my mouth like candy, as if to say, taste this punch.

This piece is in Fragments, which is one sale from Amazon at this link.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism III on Google Books

Now The Philosophy of Extremism III by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself has reached Google Books. Here it is at this link

Apart from the standard filth, it contains a series of articles/essays by myself about nihilism, teratology, & the writings of Chesler.

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Extremism III Reaches Barnes & Noble

The Philosophy of Extremism III, aka Fisting Fiesta, by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself, should reach Amazon in a day or two. Here it is on Barnes & Noble.

This books contains filth & teratology, plus all my reviews of Jennifer's writing so far, except the one I just wrote. We are hugely gratified by the unchristian foulness that is this book. It is our best collaborative to date.

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Mrs. Ed

Mrs. Ed

Neighbors, non-neighbors, neighbors of neighbors, neighborless non-neighbors, people who ain't my neighbor, people not near a neighbor of mine, neighbors far from my neighborhood, don't ya' think "nay" and "boar" relate to animals more than to where one lives? "Nay," says a horse. That's a whinny, you know. But the boar and the horse are neighbors, in stalls, adjoining one another, not far from the goats. These goats though, they're not real goats. Nah, they ain't the type of goat birthed from other goats. These are cardboard goats, goats painted to perfection on the cardboard, their heads with horns like the devil. Nah, I ain't believin' in any horn-headed evil goats painted on brown board. They ain't no neighbors of mine. "Nay," says a horse. The horse knows too. The horse says she ain't seen no goat neighbors. "They just Mr. Talking Eds," she says, "not like me. I ain't no Mr. Ed. I ain't even talkin'. You's puttin' words into my mouth when I, uh, wanted carrots." But instead of carrot she says "garrote." "You've got to mean 'carrots,'" I say. "Nay," she responds, "'garrote,' … they gonna slaughter me."

by Jennifer S. Chesler

Tuesday, September 4, 2018



My name is Julius. I'm 5-years-old. My dad died a few years ago. He got run over by a car. Last night someone from the Army came over. He told us that my brother got killed in some country. His face was blown off, he said, so we couldn't look at him. That made me sad, about his face being destroyed, probably because we looked alike, and now we don't anymore. I thought it was stupid for him to join the Army. I told him to play Army video games instead, but he wanted to fight in battles, he said, and couldn't do it on a computer screen.

So now I don't have a father or a brother. I have a mom and step-dad. My step-dad is nice, except for when he wants me to clean or take medicine. He told me to go to college instead of joining the military. He said, "Now you see your face can be blown to bits," and shook his head side to side. "But they won't let me look," I told him. "Yeah, good," he said. Then he went upstairs and cried. Sometimes at night he wakes me up because of his screaming. One of his feet had to be cut off during a war in Asia, and, when he dreams about it, he says it's like his foot is being amputated all over again.

Current Sample from Poems for Jennifer III

Much better than the previous, as Jennifer S. Chesler points out, are these poems from my latest Poems for Jennifer III. Here it is on Amazon too.

things like resurrection

Freud said, marvelously: the death drive works in silence in the uproar of Eros.

we have never expected things like resurrection, the slow dive insecurity nipples we are memory wakeful, the esurient apple, the grotesque ghost slow & homeless. in me, Jennifer, is unsubtle answer we are burning. this is emo night, instead of poetry, here is thin skin a night on fire.

memory is pea protein a grotesque, cats made of the absurdity of words & the blood the skull. we have forgotten things like resurrection a memory is, we never knew what vinyl was absences.

under the god the great grotesque, you know it is you i carry like a wait inside me, here i am burning for you flesh & innocent we wear skin like an embarrassing omission like a silence a nighttime, it is only you & me make this relevant make memory skin & a murderer. night waits here for us to live it warm we lie together wrapped in expectation an anxious, your blood is time all of the loving.

mourning comes every corpse that means nothing the empty & the skeleton, fatuous Cadaver & ghost the homely; we have torture to wear it is exciting like night is & you are pinned under me writhing this nighttime i like to hit you & so do you, here is where the dead we are nipples & a slow suicide, nipples & all the rest of the night everywhere, cock is words.

here, Jennifer, i have loved you until time returns it is a dreadful imposition, a posit & a pointless, nipples & proper position, the appropriate optimist a corpse is murder & world there, Gus walks night an insolent cat all the gods forgotten the marauders maundering, nausea & the idiot American sentimental makes us want to vomit improbable makes us dust & monsters are hiding in closets forgotten there are gods within us where truth conceals itself to protect like pain & fingernails.

here is this one answer you, Jennifer, the smoke is rising timeless like there were battlefields here already, like there was resurrection, it is just us living again, happiness coincidental is breasts & the silence of knives; i love you, Jennifer, forever, & it is time.

there was cat

there was cat a night to becoming absence we are words on a table a face impossible & the cat walking his tiny pain implacable it was growing a body to fail the abject debility carried like a tail untold, a homeward.

there is these things today it is not a project a prospectus just possible worlds & a little cat he is so fragile trotting through them to see what the best of them might be, being or not being stoic freedom;

it is not a better void to sleep in unreason just what there might be a burgeoning torture there & better not to touch nothing more, not to be being. Rex walks walls a slow mouse, a reflexive ritual listen. there is speech a sidewalk we are to answer apparent, here the cat is not much living left him to fall a kidney failure a lifetime is expenditure, a light like Fafner is flying his glowing wake over the sky night a memory a stretching in us to fiction or to forcing words to breathe again a meaning nothing to explain.

nor is this for this quieting cat he has nightmare to explicate for smaller beasts who do not remember the pathways to where being lives her clearing. the claw is suffering like the fang of a wolf the flesh is not hospitable the victim.

Rex tells me i woke at one a.m. i am changing water too early cleaning the obvious he says that here is cash the unsubtle answer brains here is not the biggest ever & everything really should be judged differentially & with extraordinary strictness some of us are better at things like thinking or deserving to exist. they do not do that here or elsewhere really except where there might be a tower on a mountain an ancient temple in a clearing in a forest where the mad goddess remembers Ethiopia she is gray as once was a memory a cocoon to fallout of happy is our madness & Rex said nothing matters much he had noticed we belong together & world one Clorox resurrection left yet, ants might live where sinks is & Rex felt he said that there was nothing to be different, nothing he needed to forget & love is not some sort of contract, it has no objection to finality to death – it is memory flesh, blood a claw a sort of temporary red.

frankly not happening

If there is a secret, it is this, its own: how does the impossible juxtaposition of intense singularities give way to the register, the recording? (Lyotard)

here it happens we are wrapped in flesh sexless, probably impossible bodies like bumble bees fighting lighttime, here we fall words a murder, a place we have written in. here, Jennifer, incessantly world.

how does the feeling i am poised over you pressing a weight into oblivion the burden borne to squash a night out of thighs timeless? satin staining a skin is blood & lips mistress my material, my matrix, memory is bitch a blood in us touch it my lips is your cunt a mouth a murderer stains & faceless, cunt & cum this coma is, listless is this little living, children, Jennifer victorious we tie us up in our skins outside us, nipples a sufficient love, bands above us bondage love us, time a maybe lover drugs.
it is not happening here patent this reverse, a letter written is, time a thing to live us in we have worlds a coil copious, perfect a referral drugged like memory a nipple mother a loveless i cum a time to touch us, look.

what we have forgotten nothing is constructed from hairy zero, not this exigency being is, nowhere is there a more originary zero world; the wait here is seed a paper sweaty semantics madness above us lover – memory their amphetamine highway maybe we are burning here, memory a world. i need you this meaning, Jennifer superior, i have forgotten it, medium idiot fishes is & inside you only meat a me a freedom, being & to be, memory a meaning a motherfucker here world where socks to fit us better forgotten, foggy a probable freedom maybe, world & the turning, it is freaks & their freedom blunt is an innocence to feed us, the dealer he is staring innocent wide an eye is his fridge he stands there a word - he means to empty the whole fucking thing.

here is this, bitch, cats & everything missing, the kids all dressed in tactical absences & everything is insistent as clitoris it is sister mistress we are nipples here live.

it is voluminous a body: "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" rating is a memory incredible here we are dancers are. "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" there is never this much room yet, love much forever, nothing here left us, lover, to forget, death forever, maybe sex. 

nobody wants to go to heaven

Here's four poems from nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die, released by Oneiros Books at this link. Here it is on Amazon too for a mere $10

for the children

the children need drugs and satanism
and new and sharper scissors to run with,
so that all the glass jumps to their feet
on each summer's running beaches;

they certainly do not need vocational
training or stupid psychologists
who know nothing, since they do not feel
anything themselves other than complacency

and bovine contentment. teachers
should be shot in the face as a general
and slightly brutal rule of thumb; the children
just need drugs so they can get shit done

the banality of goodness

Hindley and Brady would light cigarettes
like everybody else, wished their mothers dead
like everybody else does, petted small animals
or tortured them, or whatever.

they were very friendly, says Genesis P,
and i see no reason to disagree with him;
for mourning is a capricious torment,
and it was Hindley's mother in a photo

who supervised their murders.
there was a television too, apparently,
and special things, children. there was pain
in a squalid British house, nasty habits,

sweat and death, dust and devils
and absolutely no evidence
of resurrection. there were children –
they thought there were too many

children living, German wine and knives.
there was Myra's love for Ian, and an ax,
there was the banality of goodness
and the meaningless of life,

the poverty of time

Genet in Andalusia

i might have wanted to be Genet in Andalusia
in 1934, though i never saw love like a spun ray
of light fall between two friends, just the utility
they raped from each other, like the terrible black
prick with which Genet consoled his self,

his dusty identity shrugged over his humble
shoulders like an old man’s lonely coat.
i might have dreamed like him though men are nothing
to me, and the tattered flags he draped over them
are clumsy as the abandoned bodies of children

no souls ever lived in. but i admire his decisiveness –
the choice to isolate his tired heart in his young
nothing, to drag despite over him cozy
as a cloak. and love them as revenge
forever. his corruption he swam in

as a chosen lake of conspicuous innocence
and deviance. and the old hags wagging fingers,
he loved them and would have dribbled
his spit as absolution over his sluttish
mother. all the pussy he never pounded

though passion was possibly more violent
in the arms of some more ambitious
murderer. i can almost remember the beaches
and the long dead sailors, misery in their
fingers. they must have sung once, i suppose,

and between people all he could see was love
for decay smells sweeter in the next grave;
and the dusty young man unwholesome
under the wholesome Spanish hills –
his legacy remains 

another truth the dead know
(for Anne Sexton)

and what of them then? they need no blessing
but bless. stone lies long so lost and cold,
and their stone boats row better than our dinghy
against ingrown night. the dead are never old

but one day of love preserved in hopeful children's
vinegar. bone fingers groping for the muddy sky
under an absent wonderland where life might renew
its lease, lands where even fearless death may die.

we touch, we too, as you did, and so many men and women
you knew. their voices echo through your words
from the body's vicinity, bruised and complete and perfect
your lovers' voices whisper like the dead i always heard

earlier. and what of them? my dead generations
tardy time misplaced? their faceless stones
lie at the bottom of this lunar sea, dusty as me.
so i bless them again in their graves' cold homes.

unknown and so alone

Here's the cover by Michael Mc Aloran too.

Saturday, September 1, 2018

"too much human"

Here are three poems from my antinatalist manifesto, the Black Editions chapbook too much human. & here it is at Lulu. You can also find it on Amazon.

nowhere enough 

nowhere enough is memory eternity not the genuine retention; we have confabulated days & slow torture, world is what we put there a greasy smudge over the innocence earth is, tiny animals & everything living

nowhere enough is the flesh absent, or adequately present. it is a great gray wall, world is, written over it is lies & gibberish, ideologies where the dead pretend to live

words weak 

memory is just words & weak its ineffectual not even forever. here was recollection ineffective they confabulated their baby it was sexless their heaven was, blood & dust & things forbidden or permissible, a duty not to be

& memory lives their last idiot religion in case it mattered much – the last believer will crawl an idiot face-fucked fish into his oblivion, their everyday sexless heaven does not matter much; they are cripples with nothing left to touch or love

on the balcony  

on the balcony is no big Louise & no angels. there are no more ashtrays, no faces, sweat & a memory

here expands land around us it is a green wait the expectant grass the absent dead that grow the soil like a tiny orgasm

under us could be anything as long as it is possible, logically or metaphysically, but nothing where we are looking for meanings

on the balcony extension & a minuscule dose of being


Here is the blurb by A.D. Hitchin:

A beautiful hand grenade of a book that would probably serve as effective population control for the hysterically reactive and weak of heart. Throw into a crowd of SJWs and watch them die.
A.D. Hitchin, author of CONSENSUAL

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Pussy Mushrooms

An old one by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. It's in a book, no idea which though. I think in II.
Pussy Mushrooms
Daddy raped me last night. I’m not sure what rape is though. He just said, there’s your rape soda. Here’s your ginger ale. It’s a rape soda for my darling Jennifer. I get so many rape sodas now that I’ve gained a pound in a week, and these are diet ginger ales. I can’t see the screen right now.  Daddy is standing in front of me with his thing out. It’s all big and scary. It’s getting bigger. Please, Daddy, I’m typing a story, I said. I’m going to make you earn that soda tonight, he says. 
Filthy salacious little whore, all these protests written with a sick grin all over her face, I don’t pin her hands down to hold her in place, but to stop her frenetic rubbing of her clit. I make the little slut come, when and if I choose - Daddy, if you don’t want to rape me again you can rape my mouth so you get big and then put it in my bottom, I need to do a poo anyway. Can I have two sodas then? I want it in my womb, Daddy, I want it harder, I want you to fill me. We can watch My 600 lb. Life if you need to, Daddy, see all the big ladies cultivating pussy mushrooms, Daddy, please hurt me.
Daddy, isn’t that called a fat fetish? I ask him. Are you a lard-licker, Daddy, huh? Little girl, he says, I only love you. You like the show as much as I do, especially when the feet are cloven. I start drooling, but I don’t know why. My little button starts to get all big. Daddy says it’s like a grape and starts to press it into my special place. I feel all tingly inside. Why are we watching this show? I am so big now.
Poor girl doesn’t know she drools the mouth lube because she’s retarded, my palsied little angel. I put on the YouTube video of Judge Adams and another retarded little whore and unbuckle my belt. Now she really starts gushing as I thrash her all over her sexy little crippled body. Her clit is big but my dick is its full nine inches, I throw her down, slap her face, ands tell her to take it like a grown woman, as I pull my engorged cock out a few minutes later her pussy really does look like a grown woman’s, the cum pouring out of it. She gets her two sodas, as she had asked. Jennifer, I am most pleased with you, I tell her.
I don’t care, Daddy. I didn’t want it in me tonight, not while the TV is on especially. You wish Brenda, the last patient, was your daughter, don’t you? I start to cry. Brenda means nothing to me, Daddy says, but he gets massively erect, maybe because I’m crying like last night. I’ve got to make the white stuff come out, he says. No, Daddy, not more white stuff.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Daddy's Icky Thing

Due soon on Amazon, this is in Philosophy of Extremism III. Until then it's on sale at this link.

Daddy's Icky Thing
Daddy makes me do one bad and icky thing that i really don't like. He does lots of bad things and they hurt sometimes, but they all make my special place tingle and get all warm. But sometimes he cooks me special food that he calls "Tammy food for mommies". It's all black beans, black-eyed peas, red lentils, onions, garlic, and other things that make poopy in my tummy.

Then he calls me into the room with his big bed he says is mine too now, and he's lying on the brown quilt all naked and it's standing straight up. I start crying and he says, "You know what Daddy wants, Jennifer".

I have to squat down over him and he says "Let it come now, let the noises come, grunt that poopy out of you, little girl" and I scrunch up my face and close my eyes and feel a big stinky poopy come, first with lots of noises of gas so Daddy smiles and licks his lips grinning, while his willy jerks up harder and a glistening drop of daddy's love juice comes out of the head. It looks so tasty, even though I hate the poopy game; it's so disrespectful to Daddy, who has a big willy and a shiny red Silverado.

Tonight he gave me something called Smooth Move herbal tea. It made me have diarrhea all over Daddy's chest. He almost vomited while he was shooting out his white stuff. Poor Daddy. Maybe it's worse for him than for me. He says mommies have milk and daddies have white stuff, but that daddies always have white stuff, and even if mommy were still alive, her milk would have dried up.

Daddy has some extra weight on him that gives him little fat puffs on his chest. Some of the diarrhea pooled in his inverted nipples like yellow soup.

"Drink from my nipples, little girl," Daddy said.

"Daddy, I need to wipe," I said.

"Stop whining and slurp," he said.

"Oh, I guess so," I said, knowing I had no choice.

I sucked up the soup and then I vomited like Daddy had.

"That's my girl," he said, rubbing the hair on my head, and getting it slightly damp with the liquid poopy.

"Can I shower now?" I asked him.

"Run off to bed now," he said, "you can't sleep with wet hair now, can you?"

I love my Daddy. He's so thoughtful. We'll be washing the pillow case this Sunday, anyway.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Family Fun

This is available in our latest, The Philosophy of Extremism III, at this link.

Family Fun

I love my little girl. She doesn't know what fisting is. She's lying on the bed, her lithe legs spread, and I slip my index finger into her little vagina, move it in and out, around and around, then slipping in my middle finger and going in the same motions as before, until she feels all sloshy inside with her female fluids. I add my ring finger and make one thick finger out of the three, in and out, up and down, around and around.

"Daddy, what are you doing? I'm cold," she says.

"You're always cold my dear," I say, with no break in the motion of my fingers.

I slip in my pinky.

"Ow," she ejaculates.

"Shh," I say, same movements, a bit faster.

I'm ready for my thumb. I've got to work her up a little better though. She's drying up a bit and crying so I give her some lube. I put it on my hand and let it slide in.

After the thumb goes in, I clench my hand into a fist and push into her vagina.

"No, Daddy, no!" she says.

I slow clench and unclench my fist in her tight hole. There's a little blood. As I said, I love my little girl. But nothing is going to stop me.

Daddy put his hand in me to see if there was anything up inside me, he said. But it hurt so much that I started to feel all tingly and funny after a few minutes and something odd happened, I felt very tingly and his face got all wet and there was some bloody juice on his clean shirt. He slapped me so it felt good but then stuck his big willy straight up my poopy hole to punish me. He was only trying to find bad things in my little pussy, after all, so I deserved the willy in my bottom I suppose. I'm sorry about the shirt but I promise I'll make it up to him. He's such a good daddy.

The teacher at her school had alerted me to possible drug use, I remembered. Any respectable father would do a body cavity search. I decide to examine her asshole again.

"Roll back over now, and stop crying. I've got to see what's up there. You always feel sorry for yourself. You're always the victim. You know whose fault this is," I say.

"I know, Daddy. You're doing the right thing. Please don't search my bottom. I'll take the drugs out for you," she says.

The little girl crawls backwards on the bed and pulls some gummy bears out of her asshole, albeit slightly melted and shitty ones.

"Oh, darling," I say. "Daddy loves you. Come give Daddy a kiss." I always tell her that sweets are drugs, and lead to cavities, which is why the searches are called body cavity searches. I snapped a few pictures of the cum farting. They really look good in the family album.

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Further Considerations on Nihilism and Teratology in Chesler's Fragments

Dread reveals no-thing.

We are "suspended" in dread. More clearly, dread leaves us hanging because it brings on the slipping away of being. So it is that we actual human beings slip away from ourselves in the midst of being. For at bottom this is not uncanny to you or me, but rather "it" is like that. In the shuddering of this suspense, where one can hold on to nothing, only pure Dasein remains.

Heidegger points out that a thing can be worth nothing by being "null and nothing" itself. Nihilism, however, is thought of as a decline and a devaluation of values. In this sense, Chesler, in "Down & Out in Muncie, Indiana", writes "I know nothing. I am nothing. I am the inevitable consequence of my actions" & this relates both to the ontological nullity & the sense of devaluation. In a sense, nihilism is a general preoccupation for Chesler. Her books narrate a series of interactions with a world that is trashy and relations with humans who are stupid, no better than trash.

Nihilism is "the uncanniest of guests", says Nietzsche.  Heidegger feels that the essence of nihilism might rest in not taking the nihil, the nothing, seriously, seeing it as an illusion created by negation. The tiger that is not in the room is not a negative tiger, as it were. The heart of nihilism is a not thinking of the nothing, and Nietzsche became a nihilist himself since he could not see nihilism as anything other than axiological.

"Down and Out" - man is homeless as regards his essence, there is no unconcealment of Being, but exploitation. Being is need, and man has become needless. This needlessness is a great lack, itself a terrible need, a shortcoming so monstrous that it populates the teratology of Fragments. Pathetic unthinking freaks like the characters described in the book are not aware of Being, they do not think, they exist in a world populated by beings that they exploit. The freaks of this teratology are also devalued, nothings in the Nietzschean sense

Chesler, in Fragments, sought love in a needless world populated by freaks. The word "love" is scarcely used in the book in its usual sense, since the freaks and monsters that inhabit that sordid landscape cannot love in any meaningful sense. They do not know the need of Being, though they are sometimes needy, in the colloquial sense, but they are de trop, they are a futility. This shows a double nihilism, an axiological nihilism as well as a Heideggerean nihilism where Chesler is aware of the terrible question of thrownness in the brute facticity of the world, but nobody else is, where she, the only thinker among her alleged friends, all worthless scum, is seen as the freak.

Thursday, August 23, 2018

Free Read of Poems for Jennifer III on Google Books

A free sample of Poems for Jennifer III is now on Google books at this link. The book is also on Amazon at this link.

This is IMO the best work I ever did. Predominantly prose love poetry with a fairly large dose of Lyotard, Deleuze and BDSM. Nipples everywhere, as usual.

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism III

Here is the description of The Philosophy of Extremism, Vol. III, by myself & Jennifer S. Chesler. It is on sale here at Lulu, and forthcoming from Amazon etc. It is our best and most extreme collaborative book, the working title was Fisting Fiesta.

This concludes the trilogy The Philosophy of Extremism by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLean. It describes various scumbags, child-rearing methods, precautions against juvenile hypothermia, and more. It gives more delightful details about backsplash and the smarmy fascism of religious shrinks. Some parts of this book are fictional.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Daddy Takes Me and Sally for a Ride in His Shiny Red Silverado

This is by myself & Jennifer S. Chesler

Daddy Takes Me and Sally for a Ride in His Shiny Red Silverado 
Daddy takes me and Sally for a ride in his shiny red Silverado. Sally’s ginger curls are tied back in a blue ribbon. She has on the blue gingham dress I gave her for her birthday. She sits on the bench seat between me and Daddy.

"Penny for a smile," Daddy says to Sally, chuckling.

She giggles. I step on her white shoe a little and pretend to slide away from her on the seat.

"Watch it, Jennifer," Daddy says, "I’m trying to drive. There will be no more white stuff for you if you cause me to crash our big red Silverado, you know."

"Oh, no, Daddy, no!", I say.

I look at Sally. She’s smiling.

"Look, Mr. McLean, here’s your smile," she says.

I press on her foot again.

"Ow, Jennifer," she says.

"That’s a beautiful smile, Sally," Daddy says.  He puts his hand on her bare knee.

"Where’s my penny?" Sally asks.

"Oh, you’ll be getting a lot more than that later," he says to her.

"Really?" Sally says. She’s clearly excited. I become enraged and start crying uncontrollably, banging my head against the dashboard.

"Jennifer, watch out. You’ll ruin your hair and the car! I won’t give you the white stuff if you do that either." Daddy says.

"Jennifer, what’s wrong?" Sally asks me. I spit on her face. She wipes it off and starts to cry. Daddy gets excited when little girls cry so he’s about to shoot the white stuff in his pants I guess, and I really won’t get it. I grab hold of one of her ringlets and pull so hard it comes out of her head. She’s hysterical and Daddy’s pants are drenched. He pulls over at a highway rest stop to use the bathroom. When he’s out of sight I get out of the Silverado and tell Sally to get out. I kick her in the knees so that she falls down.

"You’re not getting my white stuff!" I say to her.

I start kicking Sally underneath the SUV next to Daddy’s truck. He comes back, refreshed.

"Where’s Sally?" he says.

"Sorry, Daddy, it happened again now."

"Oh, Jennifer, not again! I really wanted to stretch Sally out too. That's too bad. It'll be the hard punishment for you."

"No, Dad, no" I cried, feeling my Hello Kitty underpants grow soaking wet.

Daddy looked so manly as he climbed out of the car again and fetched the shovel from the back. I could see his huge rod swell in his wet pants as he dug the hole later in the woods. Sally always liked the woods, so I guess that little bitch will be happy there. Nobody rides Daddy's pole but me.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Clap-Along Shirley

Here is a piece by Jennifer S. Chesler from Fragments, which is available at this Amazon link.

Clap-Along Shirley, that's who we are; you want more of M: -- she's such a ham. Well, here she is, looking in the mirror doing a jig. Maybe you see her; maybe you don't: try to remember, this isn't a joke. One day we left her, calm as can be, sifting through shells in a sand-sieve clocle. “Clocle” isn't a word; we tell you that now. But it looks like “clock,” and here that's what counts. (We're making this easy so you can see what we said; maybe you won't read this until after we're dead.) The vowels were long; no diphthongs would do. Maybe you think these phonics aren't for you. Phonics aren't for everyone, but that doesn't mean they go away. We wanted a rhyme to follow the house, something snazzy to wear with our blouse. But sometimes fashion isn't what you make of it; it makes something of you. Sure, most people would say it's a two-way street, but not when you want a hasty retreat! Cuts and stumps -- they took all of who I am. Who? The characters Fortune sent our way. No surrey bob, our carriage came a tappin'. We spotted a waiter bringing some bread: “Leave it in the basket, or we'll tie you up dead.” M: got the rope and looped some simple knots. That sure got him; he was off in a flash. Next time we saw him he was paying us the cash. There was my mirror, glinting with gold, reflecting my features, not leaving me cold. But someone who wrote this doesn't live anymore. I took her away and put her to rest, gave her something to read, which was not her only request. The pills didn't take long, one hour tops; then, nothing, a word like “so” at best.

Sunday, August 5, 2018

Lyotard says

The wisdom of nations is not only their skepticism, but also the “free life” of phrases and genres.

Lyotard says that maybe prose is impossible. He points out that it is “tempted on one side by despotism, and on the other by anarchy”. The despotism is achieved by trying to become the genre of all genres (“the prose of popular Empire”), the anarchy by becoming an attempt to produce a disparate blob, an “unregulated assemblage of all phrases”, like a vagabond or, maybe, like Gertrude Stein.

Now I wholeheartedly agree. I hope that this applies to prose poetry, and in fact the only canonical influences I now have are Lyotard himself and Ms. Stein herself. I regard her pieces as basically poetry, revealing the glorious repetitive variability of phrases. Coffee and everything.

Every time I am polysemic I want to say every possible want-to-say. Language should be tested to destruction, on a semantic level. Syntax can go fuck itself.

Prose, Lyotard says, cannot become the unity of all genres, like despotism wants. Nor can it become their zero degree. Prose needs to try to be, he says, the multitude of genres and the multiplicity of their differends. I say that this applies to prose poetry, not just the trashy prose poetry of Baudelaire, but real prose poetry too.

Still, the zero degree is cool too. (He goes on to mention narratives, of course.) Ultimately, prose proper itself should tend to the “deritualized short story” where differends are not dissipated but neutralized. They persist in their contradiction. For (this) “prose is the people of anecdotes”, & thus the oppressor – everything from the cockwombles who produce television shows to the cockwombles who produce psychiatry, nationalism, and religion - will always come up against the free life of phrases and genres in the prose that is the people. The oppressor will come up against revolutionary and innovative prose like that of Jennifer S. Chesler.

Language is not a unity, nor should it be.

Sunday, July 29, 2018

Jesus and His Huge Willy

Jennifer S. Chesler & I have produced this paper about some theological conundrums.

Jesus and His Huge Willy

Daddy, who's Jesus?

He's a man who was the perfect man.

Did he have a big hard willy like yours then, Daddy?

Yes, Jennifer, it was fucking huge. The veins along the side of his throbbing cock were as thick as your fingers. Maybe as thick as Daddy's thumbs. When he came there was so much white stuff that little sluts would drown.

Did he take away our sins, Daddy?

Yes, he sucked us off and swallowed all our thick creamy sins. Always think "What would Jesus do?", Jennifer. Because that old queer would suck on any cock he saw, take it right down his throat and swallow the sins of man. When he used to gargle with his Daddy's cum, then that's how rainbows and angels were born. If you don't suck Daddy good, then Jesus rapes and kills a kitten.

No, Daddy, really?

Have I ever lied to you?

Well ...

Shut your mouth, you little whore. Don't you judge me! Don't you fucking judge me.

No, Dad! Not the poopy pie hole! No!!

Take off your pants, and get on all fours.

[crying] Why are you being so mean, Daddy?

[pulls cock through zipper of pants, pulls Jennifer's pants down, rubs some petroleum jelly on his cock]

Ow, Daddy, Ow.

See if Jesus helps you now. What would Jesus do?

[David grins and pulls his dick out of Jennifer's ass. Jennifer assumes a crucified posture, drops to her knees, and opens her mouth as wide as possible. A mixture of shit and semen fall from his cock down her throat. She turns her head to the side, spits it out]

Daddy, that was gross.

[He slaps her hard across the face]

[Crying] Why did you do that to me, Daddy?

You're sleeping in your own bed tonight. A good Christian never spits out anything that comes from a cock. OK, you can sleep with me but keep your bottom lubed out nicely.

[smiling bravely] OK, Daddy. 

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Another Bam-Bam

Another by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. This will be in Fisting Fiesta. Note for the retarded reader: We aren't actually into "footing".

Another Bam-Bam

Today Daddy was so angry. When I did the last bam-bam I told to you in this diary, he washed the special protective sheet Tammy had before she died. The special sheet was drying so we had to borrow a dog from next door to lick the mattress a little, but the dog got sick, Daddy says it was a shit bull. Anyway, now he flipped the mattress over and got all sweaty. Then he sat me on his lap to yell at me and he was so angry he was really big and the big knob wouldn't go in my little pie, not until he hit me round the head a few times and it felt nice and wet and I slid down his big fat rod. Then he liked it but I almost fell off he was jumping round so much.

Tammy was such a good sister to me and such a good mother to Jennifer, that it pained me when she died from swallowing her dentures during a nice face-fuck. We were able to retrieve the dentures from her lower intestines, but they were so eaten away by stomach acid that they were more yellow than when she had her morning cups of coffee. Yes, it's true. i had wanted her to get up to 800 lbs., but only to save her life. I knew that the only way to get Tammy the weight loss surgery she needed to save her life was to get her on the TV show My 600 lb. Life. Jennifer and I always have fun watching that show, and Tammy would rest her back on a foam cushion to be able to masturbate to each episode. I sure do miss my first wife and sister, but my wife and daughter is way tighter.

Daddy is bored with all the fisting, so today we did footing. He even changed his socks afterwards. He's such a good Daddy. I couldn't remember the fisting, and nor could he, but it happened anyway.