Forgot to mention this.
Newest & best book with poems about my wife, influenced by Lyotard about intensities & Deleuze & Guattari about desire.
Here are two new pieces from our forthcoming The Philosophy of Extremism III – co-written with Jennifer S. Chesler.
Oh, little Jennifer
In the differend, something asks to be put into phrases, and suffers from the wrong of not being put into phrases right away.
Daddy, my pussy burns from the cheap medicine.
It’s called “inexpensive”, and you need to get Daddy off faster to deserve the good stuff.
(What makes demands upon us is not the child as such, it is the words expressing themselves into a sense; she is the referent, the burning pussy is the referent, but there exists as given a disparity in power, an imbalance, where some are used. It is this that is the essence of which every haecceity can be seen to be a fraction. That about which the child remains silent is her desire, is the slow passage of time and her becoming. Daddy is never silent about nothing.)
Oh Daddy, where are the answers to my test?
Which text, little Jennifer? Look around my balls, ruffle the sac with your little tongue.
My pussy burns, I just peed again in the bed.
Oh, little Jennifer, I love it when you are special and hold your wrists all twisted and palsied.
I know, Daddy, it’s sexy. I’m a big girl and I am sexy and I know joined-up writing too.
Ice cream comes after come
When I went to school today, I told Sally how I drank Daddy’s pee from his big willy. She said that the last family that owned her would loan her out to their friends. One time they rubbed sick in her hair.
Daddy! Here was Daddy, in his brand new shiny red Silverado. He looked so handsome.
Is that your Daddy? Sally asked me.
He sure is, i said.
I went running up to the truck. He opened the door, slid over on the seat, and put me in the truck with him. I felt proud. I have the best Daddy in the world.
Jennifer, you know when we get home we can’t eat dinner without some white stuff first.
From your hard thing? I asked.
Yes, my rod. You can swallow as much as you like, if you’re very good.
As a reward, Daddy?
Yes, little Jennifer.
I can’t wait to get home.
Can I get an ice cream before we go home, Daddy?
You drink the white stuff first, and then we’ll see. It’s a waste if you get sick from gobbling my big rod and lose all the ice cream, isn’t it?
We got home very quickly, and sat on the couch. I was on Daddy’s lap. He put his arms around me and squeezed me around the waist.
No, Daddy, I said, and giggled.
He picked me up and put me on the wood floor facing his willy in his big pants. I knew what to do and started sucking like it was a popsicle. I was really in the mood for ice cream. He made some noises like he was dying and a poopy smell with a big fart too.
I had puked in my mouth, and swallowed it when his white stuff came out. I wanted to sit next to him but didn’t want him to smell it because he had warned me about it before, and I really wanted that ice cream.
Well, little Jennifer, wanna go to Dairy Queen?
I sure was happy. What a great daddy I have.
Written with Jennifer S. Chesler.
Little Jennifer’s Perverse Preferences
In all honesty, little Jennifer admitted to herself that she enjoyed vanilla incest. She loved it when Daddy rolled his gross body over hers in bed, grunting and farting, and drove his stiff rod straight up into her tight little pie. She wished he weighed much more, since it felt so good when he pinned her down, smothering her and mumbling that she would always be sleeping here now, she could forget both Mommy and Tammy: they were no longer welcome in Daddy’s big bed. His sweat would mingle with hers as she whimpered in ecstasy. “I don’t care about mommy”, she said, “I want you in me, Daddy.”
I don’t know what vanilla incest is, but Daddy says it’s the opposite of what comes out of our bottoms. I think that’s kind of gross and not at all like chocolate, because it’s poopy. But if Daddy says I like vanilla incest, I want to know what kind of bug tastes like vanilla. He says he doesn’t mean insect, but he doesn’t tell me what he really means. He just takes his big willy, puts it between my legs, and squirts some kind of jelly in me and sticks himself up me. Lately he has been doing the insect thing every night. He is so heavy I can’t breathe but this makes him get more excited so that he sticks his tongue in my ear. He says I prefer when he gets on top and lies flat but his breath is so bad I have to turn my head to the side and think about flowers.
Jennifer is growing older and sometimes dreams of freedom, but she forgets to mention her whimpering groans, she forgets to mention the prison she cherishes, weighted down by Daddy’s brutal flesh and impaled on his length. She dreams that Daddy will eat so much that he weighs four hundred pounds so she can sleep under his pendulous tits, and call him Nan. He would dress like whores did, centuries ago, in a nasty ancient tunic with a rosette trim at the top, and there would be more orgasms, more torture.
Daddy, I’m cold again.
Oh my god, little Jennifer, you’re blue!
What’s wrong with me, Daddy?
Quick, let me stick it in you. I like it chilled and I’ll lie flat on you so you get warmed up. The pee in my willy comes out very warm too, and I can pee some over you if you’re very good.
Really, Daddy, will you do that for me? Is that a golden shower? Are you going to make me pay?
Oh, little Jennifer, my golden showers are always free to my daughter. You’re such a good little girl.
But Daddy, why am I blue?
Let’s not worry about that right now. Take your nightgown off.
But I’m cold and blue.
I’ll make you warm. Be a good girl now.
Here’s a new piece from our next & third volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, Fisting Fiesta.Until then, gentle reader, you are free to purchase the first two volumes of TPoE, Fragments, the masterpiece first novel by Jennifer S. Chesler, as well as various tomes of poems about her by scumbag scrivener McLean. They can be found at this link. Fragments is also available here at Amazon.
Not being dead yet
Chesler and I would assume the forms of flapping skin, night a pizza and Tammy, the sound of Daddy running his fingers over little Jennifer’s skin sleeping as she squirmed waking up and asking who mommy was and why she was dead forever and Jennifer sleeping every night in her bed.
“Daddy, she asked me, why is it big and swollen and makes my tummy slosh around inside me like it was sad?”
She would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer that it was because she would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer.
These pieces are both drawn from Fragments, her book linked here from Nickle Hole Press. This is also available at this link from Amazon.
The book can also be seen in part via Google Books.
I have written three different posts about various aspects of the book further back in this blog.
Though I had decided to stop writing, when I met Jennifer S. Chesler I changed my mind a little & decided to write, roughly, a trilogy of books of poems about her. Here is the third & last of these from Nickel Hole Press.
In the future I shall devote any time I have to promoting her career, since I regard her work as of greater significance than my own. I do, however, feel that these last three books, especially this last one, Poems for Jennifer III, are easily my best work to date.