OUCH! THAT HURTS! (HAIKU)

If pussies could fly,
sanitary pads wouldn't
need adhesive wings.

Only Eight More Days Until January 2nd!


I've got an idea for a song. Actually it's a medley of two songs - Silent Night and White Christmas - and it's called Silent Christmas. Get my drift?

And I wrote a couple of Yuletide poems:

A CHRISTMAS POEM

Those fucking chipmunks!
And what's worse is
all the carols
have four verses.



REVENGE OF THE NON - BELIEVERS


A different kind of Christmas
A topsy-turvy day
Santa's in the manger
Jesus drives a sleigh
The toys are in the chimney
And there, for all to see
Rudolph's screwing Mommy
Underneath the tree

My New Year's Resolutions:

1) Lose weight.
2) Find the right old man.
3) Stop posting about Ken.

That's the list --- not necessarily in that order. The easiest by far would be #3. If Kenneth H. Brown refrains from posting about me, I'll stop posting about his sorry ass. I'm as tired of all this as he is. How about it, Ken? Had enough?

Just posted this on myspace.com. Only ten more days left until 2006. Forget the holidays. Fuck shopping. I type, therefore I am. Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.


Hopelessly Devoted To You, Kenneth H. Brown Current mood: resolute Category: Romance and Relationships



Timing is everything. I didn't know you wanted to be humiliated when I met you online in 2003. Dammit, Ken! You should have told me upfront that any woman who offers you love, adoration, money and pussy scares the hell out of you. I would have been disappointed, but I would have understood - and I wouldn't have waited till 2005 to trash you. I'm playing catch-up here, but now that I know what you really want, I'm typing as fast as I can - and soon there will be thousands of mocking, belittling posts popping up on all the search engines whenever anyone googles Ken Brown. Or Kenneth H. Brown. Or Kenneth Howard Brown. Or "play". Or playwrightnovelist.

I just read Ken's latest post on Delicious Demon. He says he "likes" Paris in the winter when it drizzles, but wonders where he would get the plane fare and who would deliver his pizzas. Cole Porter LOVED Paris. Ken has trouble with the "L" word. It's all so problematic.



DARE TO DREAM* (HAIKU)


You can have it all!
Move to France and deliver
pizzas in Paris.



* You don't have to choose between delivering pies in Brooklyn and living in Paris. Do what you love, old man, and the money will follow - unless typing is involved.

STOPPING BY THE MOTEL ON A SNOWY EVENING*

I used to want to sleep with Ken
but now I've met some other men.
The winter nights are cold, and I
have love to make before I die.



*With apologies to Robert Frost

The following email exchange is heartbreaking. I won't be able to sit down for a couple of days. This young man has me in a tizzy. He's gorgeous, smart, sexy, lives only an hour away .... but he's forty years my junior. It's a God Damn shame, isn't it?

From: ANONYMOUS
Date: Dec 4, 2005 12:53 PM

There is something about your sexual literalism that is even more exciting to me..... The idea that you are always wet, always sexually aware of your body is what i love--that image of sexual self knowledge.....good. As for my penis--i will leave it for another day.....agreed it must be the owner--as it were--not the equipment. I have never been with a woman your age sexually, but you make me want to experience you......so bright, so forceful, such intellectual power is arousing. I want to inhale and taste you......I want to talk, and fuck, I want to take you in and have you take me inside. I want you to wonder about me sexually. I want to imagine, then take you. I am hard thinking about you.......I want to experience your orgasm, under me, on me, I want to hear your response to, talk to me, and, to, fuck me.


My Reply:

Ah, Anonymous! If only I could find an old man who lusts for me the way you do ..... who will also scrub my back in the shower, go food shopping with me, help me shovel our driveway (and let me do my share - I love to shovel snow), get those pesky leaves out of the gutter, put air in the tires, fix things around the house and watch TV in bed with me late at night. That's bliss, in my book. Without that, sex - even great sex - goes only so far.


From: Anonymous

that i cant help you with.........we will talk though



My Response:

Thanks for letting me down gently. I will return the Black & Decker drill and work overalls to Sears tomorrow. Shit.

One of my many friends on Primesingles emailed me this poem, posted by Mariposa, aka "weather balloon", aka "Jabba The Hut", along with the following comment:

She is still the most terrible troublemaker and totally insane!


What Do Women Want?

by Kim Addonizio


I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
Until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
This dress, so no one has to guess
What's underneath.
I want to walk down
The street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
With all those keys glittering in the window,
Past Mr. And Mrs. Wong selling day-old
Donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
Slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
Hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
Woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
Your worst fears about me,
To show you how little I care about you
Or anything except whatI want.
When I find it, I'll pull that garment
From its hanger like I'm choosing a body
To carry me into this world, through
The birth-cries and the love-cries too,
And I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
It'll be the goddamned
Dress they bury me in.

Here is my reply. Listen up, Ken.

How wonderfully ironic that the little whale, who probably hasn't had an orgasm since Nixon was president, would post a balls-out poem, celebrating the pleasures of the flesh. I've seen that poem before. It's kind of been there, done that for most of us, but Mari is soooo conflicted. Men sense that - and they run for the hills. She probably wonders why her even more unattractive sister gets all the action.

Re myspace.com: Please consider joining. As I said, it's free, and has the prized IM feature for idiots like me who have problems getting Yahoo Messenger and Norton Anti-Virus to co-exist peacefully on their PC. I am on myspace mainly to post my Ken blogs, but I have met a couple of interesting peeps, as they say. BTW, the reason I continue to post about the swine is that he first posted about me here on his blog, which I found by chance googling the phrase "Belle and Play", which is the tentative title of my next book. Ken's fictionalized "Belle and Play" story blends elements of truth and falsehood. No surprise there. He once told me in an email, "I am the master of the psychological ploy". Indeed he is. According to Ken, I have multiple personality disorder, which is why I kept appearing as different "personas". Not so. Ken orchestrated a campaign to oust me and I was booted for having two profiles. Since I could no longer access the site as bellecurve, who was banned, I came back as a whole fucking string of alter egos who were, one after another, found out - causing me to be booted over and over again. I was always found out because I had to make my identity known to Ken. Otherwise, why come back at all? Once Ken "discovered" me back on Prime, I'd be booted - only to return as someone else. Pretty funny when you think about it. But let's face it, I was madly in love with him. I'd go so far as to say insanely in love. That's why I came back again and again and again, once he stopped calling and he refused to respond to my emails because he then believed I was several different women simultaneously. Funny thing, it never stopped Ken from engaging me in conversation for hours almost every night in the chat room. I guess there is safety in numbers. But that was our only form of communication. Another puzzling thing: Ken always knew about Vibrissa, because I told him. He laughed about it, and we talked on the phone for weeks afterward. But eventually his paranoia (fueled by alcohol and manic depression?) got the best of him and he started to believe everyone was me. He still does, and that's why he still writes and posts about it two years later. I'll send you a copy of his "story". Also, my response.


Let me know how your things are going, and what is new with your son and his very naughty girlfriend in New York.


Talk Soon,

Connie


FROM MY BLOG, JUST ANOTHER POV

Ken! How wonderful to find you on myspace.com, still spinning your tatty web of deceit! It must get harder and harder as time goes by. Selfish as I am, I love that you devote so much time and energy to writing about moi. Most of it isn't true, but it’s the thought that counts. I could go through your long-ass post and pick out the self-serving "embellishments", but you are, after all, a fiction writer. Do your thing. I'll just make a couple of corrections: I am one year younger, not one year older than you. My family did come over on the Mayflower - not that I give a hoot. I look pretty good, especially naked, and the men I am with all seem to enjoy my company. In every way. And Ken? You didn't lose interest in me. You lost face when I volunteered the fact that I had bested you at your own game. My intention was to elude being recognized - not to entrap you, but you felt cuckolded, and you came up with an ingenious and bizarre cover story about my having "played you". Partly true, but not in the manner and not for the reasons you stated. You had been sharing very personal information about me and my family in the chatroom. I created another profile, went into chat as Vibrissa, and caught you doing it. No big deal. I didn't post about it, or tell anyone what you had done. Why would I? But you flipped the script and posted about it on the message board, attacking me and casting yourself in the role of victim. And two years later you are still playing the victim and obsessively posting all over the internet about something that no reasonably sane person could believe ever happened. Your rants about Belle, filled with rage and self-pity, reveal a lot about you. You are a miserably unhappy man. A recluse. A self-defined " has-been", whose life "stinks" and whose only remaining pleasures (other than his vices) are reliving, embellishing, and (when he thinks he can get away with it) fabricating his accomplishments from forty years ago (ouch!); lecturing the great unwashed from the privacy, safety and comfort of his Brooklyn hermitage about everything from art to politics, and endlessly rewriting and publicly posting a libelously fictionalized version of Belle and Play's brief internet relationship. Too late for damage control, Ken. The cat is out of the bag. And you of all people should know that. If I may be permitted to mix my metaphors, you can't unring a Belle.

Re your last post on deliciousdemon.com: When a playwright rebukes his critics, a misquoted line of Shakespeare should not be his weapon of choice. The line you mangled is from "The Tempest", where Prospero says, We are the stuff that dreams are made on. Note that it is We are, Ken -- not We're. And the preposition makes a world of difference. Shakespeare is saying that dreams are made on us the way cloth is woven on a loom. He does not say, or mean, that we are "made of dreams". My God, Ken. You taught at the Yale University School of Drama. Have you forgotten even this? Stop lecturing the great unwashed and renew your library card.


(Deeplip)