Thursday, January 31, 2019

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Poop Tarts, Continued

This is a continuation of the last by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLean.


Later, maybe 100 years

Daddy:  Thank you. Thank you. We’ve worked hard on converting our words into action. My daughter and I base all of our teachings on the northern ward of the hospital, the sacred teachings of the women with dead babies, not wanting to hurry from the hospital, but rather stay under the strict guidance of a nursemaid.

Jen-Jen: Our daughter, Dorito, is scared and she runs so fast, away from daddy’s throbbing love, as I lurch, drooling and giggling, after. I fart, hoping this angers Daddy. I so want him to drag my insolent ass over his sweaty lap and spank me into submission, cursing as he raises weals over my salacious ass. “I’m covered in poopy, Daddy”, I whimper and I feel him grow harder and drool, where his huge cock presses into my skinny hips. I know he will fuck me brutally soon with his huge rough ramrod. I start to tingle all over and can smell my own sweat and pussy juice.

Daddy:  Darling, Dorito wasn’t born alive. You were in the northern ward.

Jen-Jen: If that’s true, why do I hear her whimper in my throat when you fuck me real good, Daddy? Your screensaver is a picture of poor Jen-Jen eating Doritos I found on the bed after you fucked me in my sleep. It was so gross, I was sitting in a pool of white stuff.

Daddy: I’m hard again.

Jen-Jen:  I get that the shark attack, naked in the ocean, makes you afraid of being nude. I want to lick fruit out of your nipples.

Daddy: Poopy fruit? Sweet poopy fruit out of my nipples? Will I have shitty nipples then? Oh dear. Better go rinse off then, Jen-Jen. Run along and rinse away the stink where I stick things in.

Jen-Jen:  But at the ward, they examine my holes now, Daddy. I get swabs in all of them. Tomorrow I will apply for another day out. I must go now, though. My bus is here.

Daddy: OK, go to hospital.

(He leads her into the bedroom. He leaves and swiftly returns wearing (only) an open lab coat. He strips her, puts her flat on her stomach on a soiled mattress. He says he is taking her temperature, then sodomizes her for twenty minutes while she screams, whimpers, and is then racked by a huge orgasm for a whole minute.)

Daddy: Fuck, I cummed good. Now you need to be spanked sinless, you depraved little slut.

Jen-Jen:  Daddy, I have something to tell you.

Daddy:  Okay.

Jen-Jen:  You might not be the father of Dorito. It’s been weighing on me that I didn’t tell you my doubts about your paternity. Dorito says she’s a chip now.

Daddy: Oh, Jen-Jen. Dorito was aborted. You know that. We stole her and ate her, didn’t we? She was all dried out. She looked like a Dorito, so we called her that. You ate her pussy parts too, like a little lesbian. No carpet, though. Too young, all the crack and smack made her a bit slow, if she’d have been born, I mean.

Jen-Jen:  That’s not true! Daddy, take it back.

Daddy: No. You must remember. We got caught. I slipped away, but you were so slow. If I’d carried you as I ran away, I’d have had to assume an odd position for carrying either of our bodies. You’re in a home for the mentally ill. Instead of sending you to a detention center, the court recommended an institution, you know, for your medication needs and all, as you say. (Laughs and pinches Jen-Jen’s cheek.) I’ll take your clothes off now. Come on. Lie over my lap.

(He pulls his penis out of her and wipes himself off on her skort. He sneaks out into the other room, where the actual Dorito, his daughter and granddaughter, is crying. He grows very erect as he approaches the crib, grinning lasciviously)

Poop Tarts

Apart from my having finished Poems for Jennifer IV, due in March, Jennifer S. Chesler & I have slowly started the Philosophy of Extremism Vol IV. Earlier volumes can be found here by clicking the link. Below is a new story.

Poop Tarts

Today Daddy said that I would get breakfast in bed. I already have had two sodas, and my pussy is itchy and sore. Then he comes in the bedroom dressed as Nan, and he had his horrid Perry Ellis boxers on with his big willy hanging out and it was all hard and horrid. His new underwear look like skorts, the shorts/skirts my friends’ mothers buy them so their parts don’t show.
 

“Here’s your poop tarts, little Jennifer,” he says, “yummy poop tarts”. But it is just pop-tarts where he had cut out a hole to take his morning poopy in. He made me eat it all, and it was nasty so I did a sick. “You eat all this, you goddamn little whore”, he says, then sticks the big thing right down my little throat, roaring and bellowing, and that makes me poopy too, and the last bit looked like white stuff.
 

“Daddy, daddy, Jen-Jen make bam-bam,” I say feeling the brown, white-tipped doody under me.
 

“Daddy loves Jen-Jen’s poop-tart today, tip of come the most. Oh, that white stuff went into you quickly. I’ll have to fix that later, you know, fuck your ass after for a long, long time, until I’m spent, as one says,” Daddy says.
 

“Spent?” I ask.
 

“You’ll learn what that means when you’re older.”
 

“What? The golden rule, Daddy? The golden rule, Daddy? Tell me, pleeeaaase,” I was taught the golden rule in school last week.
 

“Don’t worry yourself, my poopy penny dream. Daddy will explain it all when you are more developed. Why don’t you turn around now, and let me get inside?” Daddy says.
 

“Okay, Daddy,” I turn around on all fours so my ass is facing Daddy’s willy. “Daddy, will you finger my hole first?” I ask.
 

He puts two fingers in me. It’s all squishy.
 

“Oh, oh, Daddy, Daddy,” I say, “isn’t it squishy?”
 

 “Yes, my little girl, squishy your hole is. I know how you like being full,” Daddy says.
 

“But I haven’t eaten,” I say to Daddy.
 

“Don’t you feel it now, sweetie?” he says, slowly edging himself into my hole.
 

“Oh, Daddy, poop-tarts and sticking yourself into me. You’re the best Daddy ever,” I say.

Friday, December 28, 2018

More new work at blog of Jennifer S. Chesler

Some more new work is available at the blog of Jennifer S. Chesler. It should be noted that these pieces are from her brilliant first book, Fragments. This is on Lulu at this link, & Barnes & Noble here. Here is the first edition on Amazon, where the second edition should soon be available. Several pieces that I have written about this marvelous book are available further down in this blog. Here it is on Google Books. Only Amazon have failed to update correctly.

Dream

Pisstone & Bucci

There's a Hole in the Blanket, Dear Liza





Monday, December 24, 2018

New work at blog of Jennifer S. Chesler, etc.


Just to notify, instead of posting them here, that there are two new pieces at the blog of my wonderful wife, Jennifer S. Chesler. These are linked here below:

Rope-Neck,

& The Girl in the Water.

These may appear in a third edition of Fragments, as of now this third edition is on sale here at Barnes & Noble, & coming updated soon on Amazon, though only the price is updated thus far at this link

We are also working on the fourth Philosophy of Extremism, & I am releasing a fourth Poems for Jennifer in 2019. It will be over 200 pages long. All these things can be found at our spotlight on Lulu.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Fragments at B&N

The 2nd edition of Fragments by Jennifer S. Chesler is now at Barnes & Noble at this link. Several pieces are on view at her blog. I edited it and am very pleased with V2.


Sunday, December 2, 2018

Work Presently Available


Jennifer S. Chesler & I have produced quite a few books recently. Her Fragments is now available in a second expanded edition & is on sale at Lulu & also at Amazon. I edited & restored this book, which was left in a deplorable condition by her really moronic former "literary" agent. A number of pieces from the book are available on her blog, Postmodernmortem Fragments. This is the book that we have done via Nickel Hole Press that I would recommend most. I have posted a number of texts discussing Fragments further down in this alleged blog. 

Collaboratively we have produced three volumes in the series The Philosophy of Extremism. These are at Amazon at this link. A fourth volume is under production, rather slowly. The third volume, in particular, includes a few of the pieces I have written discussing Fragments. The rest of the pieces are either rather full of kink, or are discussions of real life scumbags. Generally speaking, they share the teratological impulse behind much of our prior individual work. One of these volumes was produced as an electronic book but banned by Apple (also scumbags) for promoting three of the four things they censor (only three, however, since we do not advocate bestiality).

I have recently produced three volumes of poetry, the majority of which is prose poetry, about Chesler, all unimaginatively titled Poems for Jennifer N, where "N" is naturally a variable. They are languishing here on Amazon. These are the only books of alleged poetry written by me that are at all satisfactory, as far as I am concerned, & represent a considerable improvement on my earlier work. A fourth volume is being written, much longer & better, & this is going to be available on Jennifer's birthday. This will, in part, obviate the necessity of actually purchasing a present. A long book, a sound thrashing, & a vigorous fuck or three should do the trick very nicely.

Apart from the Amazon links above, these books are available direct from our spotlight at Lulu. It would be nice if they were bought from Lulu, since Amazon are scumbag crackheads who pay both very late & fuck all.

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Preview of Fragments v2 on Google Books

Here is the second edition of Fragments, by Jennifer S. Chesler, on Google Books. Here it is at this link.

The book is on Lulu here, and soon due on Amazon, where they seem to still have the 1st edition at this link.

I cannot recommend this book, by my brilliant wife, highly enough.

Sunday, November 18, 2018

2nd Expanded Edition of Fragments

We just finished the new and expanded second edition of Jennifer S. Chesler's Fragments. This is now on sale at Lulu at this link

It will be available from Amazon or as a preview on Google Books as soon as we OK the physical copy.

The book is a great work, and is extensively discussed further back in my blog. 

EDIT: Now approved for Amazon. New version should be available there soon. At present Lulu is still the sure way.





Monday, November 5, 2018

Careful, my Cadaver

Also by Jennifer S. Chesler, this is in the second edition of Fragments. The first version is still here at Amazon.

Careful, My Cadaver 
I am still mad. No one asks about my health because of this. My head is somewhere other than on my neck. It floats away from the shelter. It's been three days since I moved into the squalid apartment I now call home. Garbage bags litter the living room, filled with clothing and shoes that I don't wear. Cockroaches scuttle across the bed, up and down the walls, in and out of the stove burners. I wear the same thing every day. I saw the coat T. had bought for me hanging on a rack in her living room when I went to get my cat, Rex. He is mostly under the blanket. There is a small, light brown cockroach on his gray fur. Sometimes Rex comes out and walks around, but he is traumatized by the month we spent apart. I do not know what to do with myself. There is great pressure to work. How are you going to make money? That's what everyone asks me. I don't know the answer to this question. I continue doing nothing. Running an errand – say, to the bank, is difficult and requires hours of preparatory mental work. I struggle to take a shower. There is nothing in the mail for me yet. I wait for money and gift cards. I live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I am a pauper. I am a charity case who does not receive charity. I had no clue this was going to happen to me. I am at a loss to explain how I ended up here. The only thing that shows strength of character is that I'd rather be homeless than live with T. I admire that about myself. I am supposed to be grateful for every scrap I receive. I am not grateful for anything. I am an ingrate. Let's talk about reality, says my mother when confronted with my goal of being published. Let's talk about reality, she says:  maybe you should be institutionalized. Oh, fuck off, I tell her. I hang up the phone. The same thing over and over again. As though it's an option to get institutionalized willy-nilly nowadays. As though the homeless are not by and large mentally ill. These homeless people live on the street as a direct result of deinstitutionalization. The mental hospitals set them free. Now they live on the street, peddling their pills for scraps of food. I am full of hives without a buffer against reality. I do not know how I am supposed to deal with existence and the slow passage of time, no matter how accelerated it becomes. I am relieved to be out of the shelter. I thought I was going to have to stay at the YWCA. I saw T. the other day to get Rex. It made me sad. She has another woman's cat. I need to get far away from here. I need to flee again. I signed a three month lease. That's it. C'est tout. All in one go. We break right through. I am not the same person I was before. Oh, grow up, Phoebe says. The only sign of immaturity is that I was not wise enough to be successful. I do not wish I was dead now. I only wish that time would grant me a reprieve and that this month could be extended. I don't want to run out of money again. I am lying to everyone about everything. The only truth is that I want to be published. I am deeply disturbed by what you said to your mother, says my father:  you said you just want to write. T. says you sit around reading and writing and not giving her your paychecks. Yes, that's right. I don't care what T. says. I do not know why more homeless people don't die by their own hands. I don't understand how someone maintains a will to live when confronted with the elements blowing upon them. I know I make little sense now. I write anyway. So the YWCA would have told me the day before my time was up at the shelter whether or not they had space for me. I am being ignored by my old friends:  nothing to do with being mentally ill and homeless, the surefire combination to ensure excommunication. Yes. I will them away from me. I am at a loss for words to write down. I don't know what to say. Careful, my cadaver. Do not let your insides become visible. I am going to shop for a new identity as a hermit crab takes a new shell. I am a lover of nothingness. I am the void within me, asserting this as my ego. Nothing can help me but this. Therapy is a joke. My therapist is a spy in the house of a better way. I know that he tells others what he writes on his notepad, if not letting others read the notepad itself. I wanted to cry the other day at T.’s house. I kept up a front. I obscured myself from view. I got Rex into his carry bag after a good hour of following him from one hiding place to the next. There is no end to this. I would like some hiding places for myself. I would like to disappear completely. I am starting over. That's true. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Being crazy is a good way to get people to leave you alone. There is no quicker way to solitude. No one wants to have someone mad in their lives if they can help it. No one wants to get in a fight with you either. They don't know what you are capable of. It's good to keep a stiff gait and shuffle your steps, wear a hospital robe. This is all good. Those fuckheads are asterisks. I am starting to wish I'd been crazy all of my life so that I might have developed unmolested. My father thinks I'm smart enough to work despite my illness. Intelligence only leads one who is mad to know better than to subject him or herself to labor. Labor is the kiss of death, the bell that rings for one to kill oneself. Sex is no longer something I have desire for. It is unappealing in every way. I cannot think of a circumstance in which it would appeal to me to be touched. I want to masturbate though. I want to have one of those quasi-orgasms possible with the medication I take. It's only a contraction of muscles, no pleasure, but it provides relief. I am a mess. I don't even know why I'd want to give myself any pleasure.

Morning in the Trailer Park

This is by Jennifer S. Chesler, it is in the second edition of Fragments, due soon. It's on sale here.

Morning in the Trailer Park 
A man yells from outside, "Uh, hello in there. Hul-l-l-o. Hullo in there," and, as his voice filters through her open bedroom window, Eva slowly gets out of bed.
 

The threadbare curtains, eaten by dust and time, shield little of the day's bright light from the dilapidated trailer. But to look outside is worse, at the twin miniature cars covered in battered sun-bleached tarp, the abandoned pea green caravan, and the dusty propeller plane.
 

Eva takes a cigarette and sits on the porch. Through the slits in the lattice enclosure she sees her landlord, Jim.
 

"Hello, hello. How are you on this just exquisite, beautiful day? What's new now, tell me," he says.
 

"Not much," Eva says, squinting away from the sun.
 

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that," he says, trying to reach her, "things can't be all that bad. Just look at the sky, the sun, that beautiful, beautiful sun. I bet if you took off your clothes and sat for even a half hour in the sun that you'd feel like a whole new woman. At least half an hour though. Whad'ya say?" He smiles cajolingly.
 

"I guess you'd like that, huh, for me to sit out here naked," she says. She hates him but pretends they're friends.
 

"I bet if you smiled - hey, did you know that just smiling can make you smile?"
 

She scowls unwittingly. He smells of the brackish pool in his backyard that he dips in fully clothed.
 

"I'll tell you something new," she says, "it's something I thought up last night:  for months I'd thought the dark blue black," (maybe about the book or the days) ever slightly laughing, punctuating it so that they knew a stretch had been completed, lazily but perfunctorily, rigid and forming, "and when summer arrives in the desert it cleaves to me. On purple days (as though days had a color to them) the heat feels like near flames."
 

"What's that mean," he says, "tell me."
 

Light flickers across the porch; it plays on the willow tree.
 

"It doesn't mean anything," Eva says, "I've got to get ready. My friend's picking me up soon."
 

"Anyone good for pictures," he asks.
 

"No," she says.
 

"No?" he says.
 

"You only like white people," she says.
 

"Oh, yes," he says, losing interest. "You have a good day now. I mean it."
 

He walks down the gravel road that leads to his house. Smiling, he surveys the trailer park without really seeing it. And, as if to draw attention to his unperceptiveness, the wind blows dust in his eyes; they water but he remains unfazed.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Pinkness


From Fragments by Jennifer S. Chesler. Available here at Amazon. More work here at her blog.