ODE TO A DEPARTED LOVER AT DAYBREAK


O, my plum! My lump!
Somber stone of
my awakening.

Above the weeping table
your scent hangs
heavy as an iron kettle.

I drown in the chipped bowl
of your laughter, deserted
like the dwarf whores at dawn.



(Deeplip, who

1) makes fun of Pablo Neruda because she can
2) knows she will never get a grant, and
3) doesn't give a shit.)

What Ken's Not Telling You (from MySpace)


Current mood: affectionately combative

Category: Romance and Relationships



Ken and I talked on the phone many times, often for hours, and usually late at night. He always called me, not the other way around. I offered to share the calls because I knew he was living hand to mouth and I was concerned about his phone bill. He, being old school, declined my offer.

I made the first phone call and the last.

First Phone Call:

Subject: Getting to know you, getting to know all about you
Author: bellecurve
Username: bellecurve
Date: 01/13 03:28am

We start out with just words on a screen. Then, for some of us, there's the phone call. For me, that first conversation was a revelation. I'd been in the midst of a huge argument in chat, and was @!#$-bent on confronting my adversary in the real world. I was so angry it took me three tries to dial his number. When he began talking, I was completely undone. Helpless. His voice was like a knife slipping into a ripe melon. I could not believe this voice, this unbelievably sexy voice, could belong to the same infuriating man I'd been doing battle with less than a minute earlier. He sounded nothing like the guy in the chat room. The man on the phone was mellow, relaxed, and affectionate with a world-weary quality to his voice that was breaking my heart. He could have read me the Yellow Pages. Has anyone else been surprised - positively or negatively - by the voice of someone they've met and gotten to know in cyberspace?


Last Phone Call:

The last call lasted about ten seconds. Ken had been accusing someone new in the chat room of being me, and he was flaming her. Several people piled on, and the woman was so upset she left chat*. Shortly after she left, so did Ken. Well, God Damn it, I was upset, too. He had attacked an innocent woman, he had villified me, but worst of all, he had acted like a crazy person who had gone off his medication and I was sick with worry.

It was very late, but I decided to call Ken. When he picked up the phone, he sounded groggy. He had to have been asleep, or drunk. I told him the new woman in chat wasn't me and I begged him to believe me. He said he knew she was me - that he recognized my writing style - my "cadence", as he put it.

His last words were "don't call me".




*She left the website a couple of days later.




(Deeplip)

Sober Is As Sober Does (from MySpace)


Current mood: walking down memory lane

Category: Romance and Relationships



One night, out of the blue, Ken dropped a bombshell in chat. He said - to no one in particular -"Play has been a drunk for fifty years".

That was a remarkable admission. More remarkable, to me, was the fact that no one responded to it. At least, not to his face. But a couple of days later, he posted one of his incendiary rants about Belle. She had been trashing him. Telling people he had a drinking problem.

At the end of his long, self-serving post, he assured his readers that his days of heavy drinking were in the distant past. Nowadays, he said, "I have only a couple of glasses of wine with dinner".

If only that were true.


Here is my posted response:


I have never trashed you, Play, and never would. You outed yourself in chat. I'd be the last person to trash you. It was your public trashing of me - and the resulting lynch mob mentality - that caused me to change my profile. It was impossible to deal with the hostility and contempt you fomented on the board and in chat. You always knew my new identity. And each time I returned, you again made the situation intolerable for me. I never hid from you. We continued to exchange emails and talk on the phone the entire time this was going on. In fact, you laughed about it. There are two reasons why I'd never trash you, although I will confront you every time you post something untrue about me. You're at the mercy of an illness that increasingly compels you to behave atrociously, and for which you refuse treatment. And as everyone who's been around for a while knows, I care for you. Deeply. And if you didn't care for me just as deeply, you'd let this thing go. I represent every woman who's ever hurt you, ever left you, ever scorned you. You obsess about me constantly. Let it go.


Want a little documentation?


Subject: Saturday Night Chat Snafu
Author: playwrightnovelist
Username: playwrightnovelist Date: 01/18 09:08am


I apologize to Tuner, Blondie, Moon, Young and anyone else I might have offended last night in chat. I'd had too much to drink, and old Jack Daniels had me running my mouth with more acid than usual. At my age, this happens sometimes, and I'm not making excuses. Just want you all to know that I'm aware that I misbehaved.



Note that Ken apologized to everyone except me.



(Deeplip)

If I Can't Climb On It*, I'll Rhyme On It

Current mood: guardedly optimistic
Category: Romance and Relationships



SPLENDOR IN GRASS (TANKA)


Confucius say when
man cannot keep up with her
smart woman lie down
and give him chance to catch up.

Then they have Hallmark Moment.




*Ken's you-know-what.



(Deeplip, who likes the missionary position, but is flexible .....)

The Two Little Pigs (from MySpace)


Current mood: allegorical

Category: Life



Once upon a time there were two little pigs. One was named Snobbery, and the other was named Stupidity. They lived in a virtual sty created by Pork Chop, an artist and web designer who had too much time on his hands. He created a place for pigs who were a cut above, shall we say, to congregate and converse - a porcine version of the Algonquin Round Table.

Sad to say, it wasn't long before Snobbery and Stupidity drove away most of the other pigs. Snobbery could not bear to be alone with Stupidity. His posts grew shorter, and he posted less frequently.

Pork Chop continued to provide a forum for Stupidity and two or three remaining pigs. And since Stupidity - like nature - abhors a vacuum, she posted more and more and more and more frequently. When no one responded, she replied to her own posts.

Come to think of it, Stupidity now has an elegant, upscale, free website, hosted and maintained largely for her benefit.

Maybe she's not so stupid after all.



(Deeplip)

Only In America (from MySpace)


Current mood: somber

Category: News and Politics



A drunken off-duty cop walks into a White Castle. A star football player on the NYPD team, he is baby-faced handsome. He is just twenty four years old. He exchanges words with a gang of toughs, after they taunt him and demand that he buy them sodas. He pays for his order at the counter and leaves, but he immediately returns to the store. Again, he leaves - and again, he walks back inside - at which point, he is jumped by six men, who kick and pummel him. Badly hurt, he manages to crawl into the parking lot, where he draws his gun on a man he mistakenly assumes was one of his attackers.

Uniformed police arrive at the scene. The drunken young cop, who now has his gun pointed at the head of a man he believes to be one of his assailants, is commanded four times to drop his weapon. He does not. He is then shot by one of the cops. The arteries in both legs are severed. He loses so much blood, the doctors are forced to amputate one leg below the knee and remove his colon. He lingers in a coma for eleven days before he expires from his wounds.

He receives an inspector's funeral. The local tabloids hail him as a hero. Mayor Bloomberg and Commissioner Kelly eulogize him as an exemplary young man. They praise him for his bravery and his valiant struggle to survive. They tell us he was among the best of New York's Finest.

I fail to see how his behavior was heroic. On the contrary, it was his reckless and unprofessional conduct that provoked the situation. It is illegal for a police officer to carry his weapon when he is intoxicated, and his blood alcohol was twice the legal limit. He re-entered the White Castle twice, which strongly suggests he was not interested in avoiding a confrontation. Indeed, had he left the scene, there would have been no violence. Was he spoiling for a fight? He drew his gun on an innocent bystander, whom he might have killed, had he not been shot first.

This is a tragedy. No doubt about that. But the tragedy is not one of "mistaken identity".

The tragedy is, this cop was smashed. He got into an altercation, got his ass kicked, and when help arrived, he refused, for whatever reason, to drop his weapon.

A man was on the ground with a gun to his head. If he'd been shot and killed, that would have been a greater tragedy.

It's tragic, too, that we cannot mourn the senseless, unnecessary death of this young man without elevating him to "hero" status.

But heroes, especially dead, young, handsome men in uniform, sell newspapers.



(Deeplip)

Back to The Fucking Fifties? (Post from MySpace)


Current mood: outraged

Category: News and Politics


PIERRE, S.D. - The Legislature on Friday approved a ban on nearly all abortions in South Dakota, setting up a direct legal assault on Roe vs. Wade.

Republican Gov. Mike Rounds said he was inclined to sign the bill, which would make it a crime for doctors to perform an abortion unless it was necessary to save the woman's life. The measure would make no exception in cases of rape or incest.

Many opponents and supporters of abortion rights believe the U.S Supreme Court is more likely to overturn its 1973 Roe v. Wade decision legalizing abortion now that Justices John Roberts and Samuel Alito are on the bench.
______________________________________________________

I've had two abortions. The one in 1968 was legal. I had to go out of state and a doctor had to certify that I was nuts. I checked into a hospital in Virginia, had the surgery (under general anesthesia) and left the hospital the next day. The most traumatic part of my stay was the pre-operative soap suds enema.

The illegal abortion was performed in 1953 by a doctor who scraped out the contents of my uterus with a curette, which is essentially a razor on a stick. He gave me no anesthesia of any kind. No shot, no pills. Not even an aspirin. He told me not to scream, because if I did, someone would hear me, and the police would be called. I did not scream.

When he was finished, he forced me to look at the "product" of the procedure (blood and bits of tissue floating in a porcelain basin) and he warned me to stay away from boys. He told me I had a beautiful body, and then he sexually molested me.


I was sixteen years old.




(Deeplip, who hereby volunteers to impale with a wire coat hanger every legislator who supports and every jurist who upholds this barbaric law.)





Boxers Or Briefs? (from MySpace)


Current mood: prurient

Category: Romance and Relationships


Ken's lateral epicondyliitis must be acting up again. He just posted a long, informative essay about his friend Larry Rivers' "working methods" after PS Art, (alias "Carmine") had asked him to tell her what it was like hanging out with Rivers in his studio, watching him work.

After summarizing the artist's approach to his subjects and highlighting several aspects of his technique, Ken concluded by saying, this would have to do for now .... but he'd be happy to answer any further questions.

Someone named "Joe" immediately posted a comment: "Hi Ken, have you ever worn your mother's underwear?"

This "question" is impertinent, childish, cowardly (since "Joe" is hiding behind a a pseudonym) and totally irrelevant.

I would have stayed on topic, and asked if Ken had ever worn Larry River's underwear. Knowing the sexual history of Larry Rivers and the sexual predilections of Ken Brown, I think it's a legitimate question well worth asking.

BTW, as curious as I am, I recognize that "who wears the pants" is a private matter, and none of my business. As they say, it's all good. I just wish I weren't wearing any underwear, and I was with Ken and .......... oh, never mind.

(Deeplip)

Trying On The Emperor's Clothes


Current mood: mirthful

Category: Writing and Poetry



MAMMOGRAM (dedicated to experimental poet Arielle Greenberg)



(Ninety nine bottles of
beer
maybe it was beer

on the wall

Certainly it was a wall


(Ninety nine bottles
of beer or was it wine?
on the wall fence
shelf whatever
If one or more than
one
of those

bottles should happen to fall

but if a tree
falls in the forest and
no one is there to hear it, then what?

(It barely breathes. Certainly we
hear it or maybe not

(Ninety nine when it was dark ninety eight
when I went to my lover ninety seven
when my lover came
Ninety fucking six ……………. Maybe this is boring

(Certainly this is boring

(Maybe I can barely breathe

Anyway ….

(Ninety five …. ninety four ….
When do we stop counting?

(ninety three …. ninety two …..

Whatever ………………..






(Deeplip)

Where's Lorena Bobbitt When You Need Her? (from MySpace)


Current mood: dangerous

Category: Romance and Relationships



Pun was curious to know what I thought of his "sex tips" bulletin:


Date:
Feb 26, 2006 8:32 PM
Subject:
RE: RE: RE: any thoughts on my blog??

Body:

You sound very high maintenance to me, Pun. But I'm sure you're worth all the trouble. Unlike the fellow who drew up "A Contract of Wifely Expectations". If he were my husband, he'd have been castrated a long time ago.

Check it out. It's unbelievable.

www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0217062contract1.html


(Deeplip)

The Facts Of Life (from MySpace)


Current mood: Dr. Ruthian

Category: Romance and Relationships


My young friend Pun sent me a bulletin which listed fifteen "mistakes" girls (sic) make when having sex.

I took exception to many of his complaints, but # 6 was so ridiculous, I had to comment. I hope young women don't buy into this adolescent male fantasy and "mew" in bed, the better to please their inexperienced partners - and by inexperienced, I mean inexperienced at giving and receiving sexual pleasure.


Giving and receiving pleasure is not the same thing as fucking.


Put that at the top of your list of "mistakes", Pun, and you'll be performing a public service.


____________________________________________________________________

Date: Feb 24, 2006 2:35 PM


15 mistakes girls do on sex time! true story!!



6. MOANING LIKE A RUNNER THAT NEEDS AIR - Better moan with style girls cause men love to make fun of girls who can't moan like movie stars. Try not to make much noise when you exhale.

_____________________________________________________________________


You've been watching too much porn, Pun. You need to get out more. Movie stars moan like movie stars because they are faking it.

Real women having real sex make scary faces and and weird noises. The bigger the orgasm, the more contorted a woman's expression and the less "sexy" her vocalizing.

Satisfying a woman is a man's job*. Sometimes, it's a dirty job --- and that's the fun part.

When the sex is good, it looks and sounds like someone is getting hurt. Badly. If you want something that mews and purrs, get a kitten. Leave the pussy for a man who knows the difference between acting and the real thing.




* or a woman's .... but clueless boys need not apply.




(Deeplip)

One Of Thy Hands Doth Wash The Other (from MySpace)


Current mood: unsurprised

Category: News and Politics

February 24, 2006
Billionaire Gives a Big Gift but Still Gets to Invest It
By STEPHANIE STROM

Boone Pickens, the often controversial and always colorful Texas oilman turned investor, took advantage of a temporary tax break to make a gift that propelled him into the ranks of the nation's top philanthropists last year.

But what Mr. Pickens gave away with one hand he continues to control with the other.

At the end of the year, he gave $165 million to a tiny charity set up to benefit the golf program at Oklahoma State University, reaping Mr. Pickens a tax deduction. Records show that the money spent less than an hour on Dec. 30 in the account of the university's charity, O.S.U. Cowboy Golf Inc., before it was invested in a hedge fund controlled by Mr. Pickens, BP Capital Management.

"It's all his money, and he's on the investment committee" of Cowboy Golf, said Mike Holder, the university's athletic director and former golf coach, who is on the board. "If a person's making a gift of that size, he can stipulate what he wants it invested in."
_______________________________________________________________________


I have many versions of the Bible, and I've checked them all: King James, NIV, American Standard, Revised English, Jerusalem, Good News and The Living Bible, among others.

I'm looking at the various translations of the following verse:

(Matt. 6: 3) But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:

Nowhere can I find it translated as "always let thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth".

But Pickens got the rest of it right. He followed Matthew's advice about giving in such a manner that no one will be the wiser - so that your giving may be in secret.

There are so many versions of the Good Book. Maybe there's a Texas Oilman's Bible?



(Deeplip)

Armageddon


Current mood: civilly disobedient

Category: News and Politics



Categorically, this post could be filed under "pets and animals", or under "writing and poetry", but I chose to file it under "news and politics".


We are all being led to the slaughter.


Animals Are Passing From Our Lives

Philip Levine


It's wonderful how I jog
on four honed-down ivory toes
my massive buttocks slipping
like oiled parts with each light step.

I'm to market. I can smell
the sour, grooved block, I can smell
the blade that opens the hole
and the pudgy white fingers

that shake out the intestines
like a hankie. In my dreams
the snouts drool on the marble,
suffering children, suffering flies,

suffering the consumers
who won't meet their steady eyes
for fear they could see. The boy
who drives me along believes

that any moment I'll fall
on my side and drum my toes
like a typewriter or squeal
and shit like a new housewife

discovering television,
or that I'll turn like a beast
cleverly to hook his teeth
with my teeth. No. Not this pig.



(Deeplip)

That's Why They Pay Me The Big Bucks
(from MySpace)

Current mood: smart ass

Category: Life



SCHOOL DAYS



Charlemagne and Charles Martel
Alas, poor Deeplip knew them well!
Sophocles and Pericles
(She crammed for those damned SATs)
Malthus, Mather, Proust, Cezanne,
Galileo, Thomas Mann,
Darwin, Locke and Thomas More,
Louis VII and Eleanor.
Now at last it's payback time.
She knows how to make them rhyme.


(Deeplip, who didn't study for the S.A.T.s, but says she did, because it's her poem and she can lie if she wants to.)

May The Best Man Win (from MySpace)


Current mood: unpatriotic

Category: News and Politics


Olympic Speedskating News

Italy's Fabris wins Olympic gold in 1,500-meter speedskating
By BETH HARRIS, AP Sports Writer


TURIN, Italy (AP) -- Skating in front of a rabid home crowd, Enrico Fabris of Italy won the gold medal in men's 1,500-meter speedskating Tuesday, dropping American rivals Shani Davis and Chad Hedrick to silver and bronze.

Fabris posted a time of 1 minute, 45.97 seconds, then waited anxiously to see if any of the remaining four pairs could better him on the slow ice.

Davis, the former world record holder, went in the final pair, knowing full well the time he had to beat. He finished in 1:46.13.

Hedrick skated in the next-to-last pair, covering 3 3/4 laps in 1:46.22, going much slower on his last lap than Fabris. The Texan, who holds the world record, knew he wasn't going to win when he crossed the line, shaking his head.

The Italian broke up the American hold on gold medals at these games, becoming the first non-U.S. skater to win one in an individual race. It was Fabris' second gold, having helped the Italians win the team pursuit. He also won bronze in the 5,000.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After all the ugly hype leading up to the event, it's fitting that neither American won gold.

Poetic just ice? It was just a race, for crap's sake.

The moral of the story is "don't count your chickens before they come home to roost."


(Deeplip)

The Poetry Police Can Kiss My Rhyming Ass

Current mood: intransigent

Category: Writing and Poetry



GUILTY PLEASURES (Shakespearean Sonnet)


Haiku are fun to write because they're short.
I tend to write them when I'm short on time.
And tanka, I am happy to report,
Are also short – and easier to rhyme.
I don't know a pantoum from a pontoon.
And emulating Petrarch hurts my brain.
I'll stick with Hallmark; moon and June and spoon
And pen a more conventional refrain.
It could be that I'm lacking in resolve.
Or maybe erudition's what I lack.
A ghazal* is a puzzle I can't solve.
It makes my train of thought go off the track.
And I would rather die and go to hell
Than ever try to write a villanelle.



* rhymes with puzzle



(Deeplip)

Love The Sinner, Hate The Sin


Current mood: cynical

Category: News and Politics


From Yahoo News:

AMSTERDAM, Netherlands - There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but occasionally there's a cheap feast for the eyes.

Several topless bars, peep shows and sex show clubs in Amsterdam's famed "Red Light" prostitution district have declared an open house on Feb. 18, hoping to shore up their reputation with local politicians who are calling for a crackdown.

"You can come in, have a free drink, look around," said Bob de Maan, spokesman for the "Banana Bar," which is known for its live sex shows.

"People think that this is something dirty, but now it's an open house. They can see for themselves."
Prostitution in Amsterdam boomed during the city's 17th century Golden Age, when prostitutes catered to sailors on shore leave.

With its lingerie-clad women and red neon lights, the area in the city center became a major tourist draw in the 20th century. The Dutch government legalized prostitution in 2000 with an eye to making it easier to tax and regulate.

But problems have continued as the area acts as a magnet for pimps, drug addicts, petty criminals and human traffickers. A recent study found that despite health rules, about 7 percent of Dutch prostitutes have HIV, the virus that causes AIDS.

The open house came in response to proposals by the head of Amsterdam's largest political party meant to discourage women from marketing themselves in windows.

Several of the best-known institutions are opening their doors, in an idea supported by the Prostitution Information Center, the Sex Museum, and the Salvation Army which helps the district's many downtrodden.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Salvation Army? I wonder if those bell-ringers aren't vicariously getting their rocks off, "helping the downtrodden".

Maybe we should call them the Salivation Army.



(Deeplip)

When Pigs Fly (from MySpace)

Current mood: befuddled

Category: News and Politics


MOSCOW (Reuters) - Russian Defense Minister Sergei Ivanov said on Friday Moscow would supply military hardware to the Palestinians, if only the Israelis agree.

The above headline was posted on Yahoo's home page, as "news". Am I the only one who's confounded by this statement?


(Deeplip)

Methinks Kenneth Doth Protest Too Much (from MySpace)


Current mood: schadenfreude-ish

Category: Life


The trouble with being poor is that it takes up all your time.*
- Willem de Kooning


Ken's latest post reveals his ambivalence about fame. He ridicules P.S. Art for being obsessed with celebrities, yet he drops the names of several famous artists he once hung out with, knowing this will impress her greatly.

Ironically, she values Ken only for his celebrity connections, and he values PS Art only as someone he can impress.



* Not when you have a computer. Just ask Ken.


(Deeplip)

Silk Purses, Sows Ears, and P.S. Art (from Myspace)

Current mood: snarky

Category: Life


Medical epicondylitis, popularly known as "pitcher's elbow", was recently diagnosed in an elderly man who was being treated at a VA hospital for a variety of ailments.

Doctors were baffled by the fact that someone almost seventy years of age* would present with a condition common to Little League players.

When doctors questioned the man, they discovered what was causing the problem. He was spending many hours a day on his computer, casting pearls before swine.



*Ken's birthday is March 9. Ouch! Oink!


(Deeplip)

Anhedonia (from MySpace)


Current mood: compassionate

Category: Romance and Relationships


From Unreqwerty'd Love, a Valentine's Day poem for Ken:



Paper hearts
don't ache.

Hearts of stone
won't break.

Pity the hearts
that cannot feel.


Envy the ones
that love can heal.



Tear Up Your Shopping List (from MySpace)

Current mood: Hallmarkian
Category: Romance and Relationships



I'M EASY

All I want
from my Valentine
is a smile, a kiss
and his hand in mine.



(Deeplip, who knows what it means to love and be loved)





"How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways" (from MySpace)


Current mood: unimpressed

Category: Romance and Relationships


There she is again, naked butt in the air, advertising her wares on her profile. I guess when all you've got is tits and ass, you've gotta work 'em. I had so much more than that - even at nineteen.

But I digress.

Here's the caption to her picture:

Spank Me, Whip Me, Make Me Whine, Make Me Be Your Valentine :)

Not bad .... but I would have come up with something more user friendly, knowing who frequents her site - and why:


How do you measure
a woman's love?
With your fist, some lube,
and a latex glove ((¡))
*

Sorry about that migrating asshole. It's hard to position it so that it stays put after I post it.


(Deeplip)

Oops! My Bad! (from MySpace)

Current mood: 1984-ish

Category: News and Politics


Hunting accidents like Dick Cheney's recent "friendly fire" fiasco will soon be a thing of the past. Thanks to what the government calls "the hottest new technology since the bar code", we'll all be as easy to locate as a lost pet.

Everyone will have a microchip (RFID) implanted in his upper arm - a tiny GPS transponder embedded in the triceps muscle, which constantly broadcasts his exact location.

A new generation of computerized weapons will be able to "read" this information, making it easy for hunters to avoid hitting the wrong target.

Cheney's not a candidate for an implant. It would interfere with his pacemaker. He'd need an external device, capable of broadcasting signals from outside his body. An ankle bracelet is cumbersome, and Cheney has circulatory problems in both legs. How about a suppository with a six-foot cord?
12:14 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos

Comment by "Pun Intended":

GO FOR THE SUPPOSITORY!!!

Posted by Pun Intended on Tuesday, February 14, 2006 at 12:04 AM


Replie to Pun's Comment:

There might not be room for a suppository, since Bush's head is already up there, but maybe with a little patience ..... and a lot of lubrication ..................

Posted by Connie on Tuesday, February 14, 2006 at 12:16 AM

A House Is Not A Home (from MySpace)

Current mood: depraved

Category: Writing and Poetry


Posted by Deeplip last September on the Delicious Demon message board:


Love your polls and definitions and add-a-line features! Would you consider adding another category to the website?

Parodies are fun to read and challenging to write*. If we restrict ourselves to parodying each other's work, we won't run the risk of being sued. May I share one of mine? It was inspired by a poem posted by Judith Schuddeboom.


OUR LITTLE COOKIE (Judith Schuddeboom)

Our little Cookie
so cute and so bright.
She knocks on the porch door
to come home every night.
So loving and comforting,
she's everyone's delight.
When she rolls in the dirt, on the stoop or the rug,
you can't resist picking her up for a hug.
Her comforter and newspapers are favorites.
She purrs like an engine unleashed.
She has so much trustin those huge, round, pretty eyes,
She delights in raw chicken---her "Thanksgiving feast."
She's dainty, and gentle, and silly, and clever.
She is part of our lives
And will remain there Forever.

A HOME WITHOUT A CAT IS JUST A HOUSE



MY LITTLE NOOKY (Deeplip)


My little Nooky so cute and so tight.
She's just what you'd want
to come home to at night.
So loving and comforting,
She'd be your delight.
On the floor, in the tub, on the stoop or the rug,
you can't resist laying her down for a fug.
Her vibrator and The London Review of Books are favorites.
She purrs like an engine unleashed.
No dust, and no rustand to no one's surprise,
She tastes just like chicken---A "Thanksgiving feast."
She's completely rebuilt, so cunning (!) and clever.
She's just what you need
And will remain so Forever.


A HOME WITHOUT A PUSSY IS JUST A HOUSE



*For maximum pleasure, print this post and compare the two poems.



(Deeplip)

Quote Of The Day Of The Day

Current mood: disgusted

Category: News and Politics


Ariel Sharon is being prepared for emergency surgery. It will be his seventh operation since suffering a massive stroke last month which left him in an irreversible coma.
One of his doctors told reporters, on the condition of anonymity, "his life is in danger".

It is not his life that is in danger, it is his death.

Let the man die, motherfuckers.



(Deeplip)

You Crazy Poets Are All Alike (from MySpace)

Current mood: affectionate

Category: Writing and Poetry


The blossoms of the apricot
blow from the east to the west,
And I have tried to keep them from falling.


Ezra Pound (Canto 13)



(Deeplip)

Damaged Goods? (from Myspace)

Current mood: amused

Category: Life


One of Ken's "friends" sometimes posts a provocative picture of herself on a bed, face down, butt slightly elevated. She's wearing lacy, white, see-through panties, and at ground zero, there is an enormous dark circle. I'm hoping it isn't what I think it is, but what else could it be?

When you're only nineteen, if it's big enough to drive a double - wide through, maybe you should opt for black silk panties. Or sit on it.

Nobody wants to throw a hot dog down a hallway.


(Deeplip)

Belle Responds Again To Play's Posts About Her On PrimeSingles (2004).
(from MySpace)

Current mood: suicidally honest

Category: Romance and Relationships


Subject: RE: The Creative Impulse
Author: bellecurve
Username: bellecurve
Date: 01/21 11:35am


Belle isn't real, but I am. You are partly responsible for her bad behavior, because you chose to demonize her on this website, but I created her and set all this in motion. I did my best to outrun and outwit you, but you've been writing for fifty years and I've been at it for less than three months and I'm no match for you when it comes to these marathon posts. This is not a competition. I never wanted to win anything here except your affection and interest, but you see me as Belle, your nemesis. You never see me. I am not Belle any more than I am a song that I write. Can you understand that you have a much more intimate and complicated relationship with your characters? You are living with them in your imaginary world, where you all interact. That's what writers do. Whether what goes on in your head is sane or insane is not the issue. It's how you work. It's why you see me as Belle and not as Connie. And I'm not going to post again about Belle. If this has been a battle of wits, you won before the first post hit the board, because it's not about just the words for me. It never was.


(Deeplip)

He Might Get Published Today, But He'd Never Get A Grant (from MySpace)

Current mood: resigned

Category: Writing and Poetry


The Sorrow of Love

William Butler Yeats


The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.


Isn't this some tired, corny-ass, irrelevant shit? Thank Goodness today's poets reject rhythm and rhyme. And meaning.

As Archibald MacLeish famously said, "A poem should not mean, but be." (Ars Poetica)

He gave high school students permission to not understand poetry, and poets permission to not write it.



As I see it, most poetry today falls into one of the following categories:


1) Crotch-grabbing rants, la Def Jam (performance poetry)
2) Greeting card verse (amateur poetry)
3) Spam with line breaks (academic poetry)
4) Bad Prose (prose poems)



(Deeplip, who always strives to be understood, rhymes because she can, and who, consequently, will never get a grant from The New Jersey Council on the Arts.)

The Clock Is Ticking (From MySpace)

Current mood: horny

Category: Romance and Relationships


Ken says he wants to live in the south of France. So do I.

I get huge royalty checks from France - more than a hundred times what I make in domestic royalties. I get played in America. I just don't get paid in America. That's because in Europe, the performing rights agencies are state-run. They hold composers and lyricists in higher regard - and they distribute what they take in, unlike ASCAP,
and to a lesser extent BMI.

But I digress.

The following poem is from my novella-in-verse, Unreqwerty'd Love: The Story of Belle and Play.


A little background:


Ken (Play) believed I (Belle) was many different people. Most of them were women, but at least two were men. (Wishful thinking?) I was also a fifty foot statue in the desert, but let's not go there.



FROM YOUR WOULD-BE UNCOY MISTRESS


I can give you
South of France-ing.
And a little
Mattress dancing.
What's the point in
Backward glancing?
We both know that
Death's advancing.
Getting in each
Other's pantsing?
God, that would be
Life enhancing!
Do not fear Belle's
Necromancing.
In the nude she's
Quite entrancing.




(Deeplip, with apologies to Andrew Marvell)



Learics, Not Limericks (From MySpace)

Current mood: birthday-ish

Category: Writing and Poetry



From the online poetry list, E-VERSE RADIO:


Limerick of the Week, by Edward Lear:

There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
When he found he grew stiff,
He jumped over the cliff,
Which concluded the Person of Cromer.


Lear always goes off the cliff when he gets to the last line. Writer's block?


There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
Lear gave it a shot,
but a limerick, it's not.
To call it one is a misnomer.



Regards,


Connie



He Might Get Published Today, But He'd Never Get A Grant

Current mood: resigned

Category: Romance and Relationships



The Sorrow of Love William Butler Yeats



The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.


Isn't this some tired, corny-ass, irrelevant shit? Thank Goodness today's poets reject rhythm and rhyme. And meaning.

As Archibald MacLeish famously said, "A poem should not mean, but be." (Ars Poetica)

He gave high school students permission to not understand poetry, and poets permission to not write it.



As I see it, most poetry today falls into one of the following categories:


1) Crotch-grabbing rants, à la Def Jam (performance poetry)
2) Greeting card verse (amateur poetry)
3) Spam with line breaks (academic poetry)
4) Bad Prose (prose poems)



(Deeplip, who always strives to be understood, rhymes because she can, and who, consequently, will never get a grant from The New Jersey Council on the Arts.)

Birthday Wish List (From MySpace)

Current mood: expectant

Category: Life



Tomorrow's my birthday. I'm not asking for much this year. I've listed a few things that would really make my day.

I won't get any of them, but I'm listing them anyway:




Alberto Gonzales' head on a plate.

Dick Cheney's head on a plate.

Karl Rove's head on a plate.

Condoleezza Rice's head on a plate.

George W. Bush's head on a plate.

Ken Brown's head, but not on a plate.

Ken Brown's ass.

Dumb And Dumberer (From MySpace)

Current mood: prickly

Category: Life


I don't post on Delicious Demon, and I'd never post under someone else's name. Not just because I've too much integrity - I'm too vain.

But ...... if I had to post as someone on DD ...... I'd be PS Art. The challenge would be to be smart and stupid at the same time. She's got the stupid part down, and I could tweak her persona just enough to make everybody wonder what the hell was going on.

"The examined life is not worth living". (From PS Art's Little Book Of Quotations)

Ut oh. Can't use that one. Sounds like Deeplip. Coming from PS Art, that observation rings false. Only an introspective person with a mordant sense of humor would say something like that.

PS Art wouldn't say it and probably wouldn't even understand it.

But wait! Today she asked Ken if he'd seen Woody Allen's play, "Writer's Block". She guessed he had, and I quote, because of the title. Ouch!

Is that a deliberate dig, or just a thoughtless remark? I'd never get away with saying that to Ken. If PS Art had a more than room temperature IQ, Ken would tear her a new one. He hates criticism almost as much as he hates competition. Especially from a woman.

The Superbowl Is A Crock (week-end posts from MySpace)


Male Bonding

Current mood: wondering what all the fuss is about

Category: Life


Junk food. Gambling. Alcohol. Loud arguments. Testosterone-fueled violence on and off-screen.

What could be more American than Superbowl Sunday? Let's face it - we need a new national holiday. Thanksgiving is depressing as hell and everybody knows it. Give us bread and circuses, not turkey.

Every year, some poor bastard watching the game ends up getting shot or stabbed by a close friend or relative - usually because of something as trivial as a disputed bag of chips or a bad call by the ref.

It's always men who get shot or stabbed. Women just get the shit kicked out of them after the game, if the wrong team wins.




"When The Moment Is Right, Will You Be Ready?"


Current mood: feeling sorry for men and ashamed for women

Category: Romance and Relationships


That Cialis commercial makes me laugh out loud - something I rarely do when I'm masturbating. As soon as the "slow grind" soundtrack kicks in, I reach under the bed for my Hitachi Magic Wand. By the time the couple are in the meadow, holding hands in their "his" and "hers" hot tubs, I've beaten them to the finish line.

The urologist with the freakishly thick, splayed fingers warns men about erections lasting longer than four hours. I stare at his hands. Is he able to perform surgery? Can he even bend those puppies? Where did they find this guy?


If a man needs thirty six hours to coax his partner into having intercourse, something is very wrong. The problem isn't his penis, it's their relationship.





Superbowl Sunday

Current mood: superior

Category: Life


I cut and pasted below a recent exchange on Delicious Demon. The level of profundity on this message board constantly amazes me. That's why I lurk.

Pork Chop has his very own Think Tank.


Ken Brown
02/04/2006

It may be hard for you to believe with all the hype going on, but I don't care who wins. During the game, if one team is getting killed, I will usually root for a comeback.


she who watches
02/04/2006

sometimes underdogs are underdogs for good reason


Ken Brown
02/04/2006

She Who Watches: Underdogs are always underdogs for a good reason, but sometimes they win anyway.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

We are all underdogs, but most of us don't know it.

A Life Well Lived


Current mood: pensive

Category: News and Politics


Al Lewis and Betty Friedan died within a day of each other.

One of them wrote The Feminine Mystique and co-founded NOW. The other played Grandpa on the hit television show, The Munsters.

Most people don't know Al Lewis was not only an actor, he was a social activist.

Racial justice, free speech, voting rights, prison reform, the anti-war movement were some of the causes he supported throughout his long life.

Unlike so many celebrities, Al Lewis understood it wasn't all about him. He made a difference, and he will be missed.


(From the internet)


In 1988, he accepted the Green Party nomination for governor of New York saying, "We don't inherit the world from our ancestors, we borrow it from our kids."

Although he lost to incumbent Republican Gov. George Pataki, he still managed to collect more than 52,000 votes with his name on the ballot as "Grandpa Al Lewis."

Lewis' first political work was for the Sacco and Vanzetti defense committee. Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, two Italian anarchists, were executed in Massachusetts in 1927 for a double murder and robbery amid doubts about their guilt.

Lewis worked in the 1930s to free the Scottsboro Boys -- nine black teenagers accused of raping two white women in another highly publicized case. All but one were sentenced to death, but eventually they were cleared.

"If anything I consider myself an anarchist," he once said on his weekly radio show on WBAI in New York City.

A Poem For Ken" I Am Fucked" Brown (From MySpace)

Current mood: backslidden
Category: Life


The old man
whistles
when he walks past the graveyard.

He remembers
the name of the tune (Devil May Care)
but he's forgotten the words.

The old man
laughs
as he strolls past the graveyard.

He knows the
melody
is the last thing to go.

Mouthiness Runs In My Family


Current mood: remembering and missing my grandfather

Category: Life


My brother forwarded me this archived article about our grandfather, Lyman Bryson. He (my brother, not my grandfather) recently was released from a federal prison in Houston, where he did two years for selling drugs on the internet. Now he's spending a lot of time surfing, googling and catching up on what he's missed.


I suggested he write a book about his experience. I even gave him the title: "From Yale to Jail". So far, he's resisted my arm-twisting. Maybe he'll start a blog. Blogging is so easy, anyone can do it, and he's got quite a story to tell.



FROM TIME MAGAZINE'S ARCHIVES Jun. 6, 1955


Three men got together in a tiny Manhattan studio this week to discuss a widely unread book. The occasion was CBS's long-run (15 years), longhair radio show Invitation to Learning. The three men: Critic John Mason Brown, Essayist Clifton Fadiman and Moderator Lyman Bryson.
The three quickly dismissed Walter Savage Landor's Imaginary Conversations as "a dead great book," then had a lively conversation about conversation while more than a million people listened. Talk is cheap, the three decided, but conversation has a different price tag on it. "There must be mind in talk to make it conversation," said Moderator Bryson. "Television programs are so much chewing gum for the eyes," said Critic Brown. "A conversation has to be more than just chewing gum or wastage." Essayist Fadiman urged intellectual exercise. "You can cultivate the conversational muscles as you can cultivate the muscles that enable you to play golf or tennis," he suggested.

Dante & Dostoevsky. This week's Invitation to Learning marked the program's 765th week on the air. The first show, on May 26, 1940, began with the U.S. Constitution. Since then, on Sundays from 11:30 to noon, about 550 conversationalists have appeared on the program to discuss more than 750 books. Among them: Historian Arnold Toynbee, Shakespearean Producer Margaret Webster, Socialist Aneurin Bevan, Engineer Herbert Hoover, Philosopher Bertrand Russell, Actress Lillian Gish. The books and authors discussed were and continue to be uncompromisingly first class, from Aeschylus and Aristotle to Balzac and Brillat-Savarin, from Dante and Dostoevsky to Thucydides and Thackeray. Invitation to Learning is the only network program in the U.S. to devote full half-hour discussions consistently to such books as Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, Aquinas' Being and Essence, and Agricola's De Re Metallica.
Turning Points In History. For a while CBS radio advertised the show with modest pride as "our 69th most popular program." The show has never sought and never had a sponsor. Moderator Bryson, a florid, white-thatched Nebraskan, is the animator of the show and knows how to keep the talk lively and the air from going dead. "The goal of the program," he says, "is to get a wider and wider public to read those books out of the history of the world mind which are readable, and also to discuss books that are turning points in history which are not readable, like Einstein's Relativity."

Bryson insists, however, that Invitation to Learning is not a program of information, but one of ideas. He proves it by avoiding experts who spout a limitless stream of facts and by seeking out knowledgeable amateurs who can juggle ideas. The show is spontaneous and, unlike many "ad lib" radio or TV shows, unrehearsed. Its quality varies. At times it is pedestrian, at other times brilliant. As Moderator Bryson knows, a half hour is not enough time to get a conversational ball rolling very far. He depends on his listeners to pick up the ball at the end of the show. Many do. That is part of what keeps them listening.
-------------------------------------
There's a great cover of the June 6, 1955 issue of Time mag, which gets deleted when I try to get rid of all the hotmail code surrounding it. It's a very flattering portrait of Marshal Josip Broz Tito.

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Lose (From MySpace)


Current mood: distainful and amused

Category: Life


A howler from today's Delicious Demon message board:


"Several messages ago somebody used my name...but believe it was just a mistake...though after awhile, you could write to yourself. And, you never know...it could be All of the time."

Yes, it could be All of the time, PS Art. Since you have difficulty recognizing your own posts - even when you post as PS Art - perhaps you should avoid using all those aliases.

Interesting you can't identify your posts, yet you have no trouble identifying "mine" - even though I haven't posted on Delicious Demon in months.

IMO, stupidity (as opposed to ignorance) is innate. You are a stupid woman, PS Art, and your posts reveal your stupidity - indeed, they advertise it.

That's unfortunate ..... and there's more bad news:

Your accusations about me and my phantom posts suggest you also may have a personality disorder. Can paranoia be "caught"? Or "taught"? In your case, it seems likely.

There's an ancient saying, "when the student is ready, the teacher will appear". You're not exactly Eliza Doolittle, but Ken's gotta work with what he can get, and at this stage of his pedagogical career, the pickings are very slim.

You two are quite a pair.

Float Like A Butterfly, Sting Like A Bee-atch (From MySpace)

Current mood: exasperated

Category: Life


I'm so glad I saved this email exchange. Names are changed to protect the guilty:


Date: Nov 20, 2005 8:09 AM

Just wanted to let you know I am removing both you and my grandson as friends. I think my daughter is right, as usual. I might scare off any potential suitors - even casual friends - by displaying just two profiles, one of a twenty five year-old stud flexing and the other of an old guy whose friends are scantily-clad twenty somethings with breast implants and names like Bambi Cumsalot.

The deck is stacked against me as it is.

Have a good day, may all your teams win, and talk soon.


C.


My friend "Jim" responded in a semi-aggrieved tone, saying he was sorry my friends "objected " to him and pointing out that he never worried about what people thought of him. He noted, with mock surprise and ill-disguised pleasure, that my grandson was my only "friend" - and suggested I join a music group on MySpace, where I could meet people with similar interests.



My reply:


Of course, no one would "object" to you. And if they did object, I wouldn't remove you - if only for that reason. But it does send the wrong message to have as my only friend a seventy plus year old guy*, especially one who is a "glamour" photographer, who has a slew of semi-soft porn, escort-type "friends" with their titties hanging out and their asses in the air.

As for meeting people here, that never was my intention or expectation. I'm a neophyte blogger and a serious, successful songwriter. I'm a member of a Yahoo list of music fans that includes composers, lyricists, music journalists, authors, and performers, many of whom are celebrated not only by their peers but by the public. More than a few are famous. This would be the last place I'd look for people who are my peers. Believe me, I've checked out the "groups". Not for me.

I wish you every success on the list, but since we seem to have a major communication problem over this issue, I'll understand completely if I don't hear from you in the future. And furthermore, the fact that you are reluctant to meet me suggests that you may have something to hide, or protect. I really don't care if you are married, since I have absolutely no interest in you - but if you had a "double life", you wouldn't want the little missus to know how much time you spend online and what you do there. Not saying you are married, just saying, for whatever reason, my proposal that we meet raised a red flag - a very big red flag, since we live less than five miles from each other.

I have a very busy, exciting, satisfying life - as I'm sure do you. There is no room or need for fantasy. I am who I am. I like who I am, and I am supremely indifferent to my "likeability" quotient here on myspace.com.

You and I hung out for a while and it was fun.



I wish you all the best.


C.



*He claims to be 61 on his profile. I did the math.



Update:

I restored my grandson's profile about a week later.

A Match Made In Heaven (from MySpace)

Current mood: schoolmarm-ish

Category: Life


Just received a friend request from a 22 year old in Ghana, who lists as his interests "performing on stage, singing, raping, visiting friends, going to picnics and writing my own songs".

I think we can safely assume that spelling is not one of his interests. On the other hand, maybe the guy just believes in full disclosure.

Where are all the old men? I'll gladly proofread their profiles (Ken's needs work) and I'll fine-tune their asses, too, if they live nearby.

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due (from MySpace)

Current mood: awed

Category: Writing and Poetry


I just read Ken's latest essay on Delicious Demon and was almost moved to tears. Almost. Isn't it amazing that some of the greatest writers and artists can communicate the most sublime emotions without experiencing them themselves? Miles Davis, who was a narcissistic, selfish, abusive motherfucker, created music of unparalleled beauty. His tone on the trumpet (an inflexible and unforgiving instrument) was hauntingly lyrical, tender and vulnerable. Where did it come from?

It's so easy to confuse the artist with his art. I should know better, but when Ken writes this beautifully, I want to believe him. And I remember why I fell in love with him.

The sentiments expressed in the essay are only partly true, and the "personal" revelations are false. I know this, because I know Ken's history. The fact that I am still moved is a tribute to Ken's formidible talent as a writer.

Read It And Weep (from MySpace)

Current mood: compassionate

Category: Romance and Relationships



Ken began publicly posting the most outrageous things about me on an internet dating site in 2003. All untrue. All the poisoned fruit of his imagination. The bizarre machinations of (his) own mind. His words, not mine.

He justified his attack by saying that it wasn't personal - just words on a screen. As a fiction writer, he was used to dealing with imaginary characters, and none of us on the site had any reality for him, apart from our posts. He was captivated by me. I was, he said, the heroine of the book he was working on. Somehow, I morphed into a malignant cyberstalker. And yes, again I am saying, no one can make this shit up. I have all the posts - his and mine.

My post below was a response to one of his early attacks. It was written two years ago.



Author: bellecurve
Username: bellecurve
Date: 01/20 01:39pm


Your post eloquently expounds on the conflict between illusion and reality. But it is your conflict, not ours. Alcohol fuels your depression and rage, and many great artists and writers before you have succumbed to it. Loneliness, encroaching old age, loss of friends and family, a precarious income and the frustration of being a writer without readers, a playwright without an audience could drive even the sanest person mad. You say you are toying with us, but your friends see you clearly, even in cyberspace. What we see is a brilliant but tormented man vainly pretending that he's manipulating others for his own purposes. Suicide, depression, bipolar disorders and - of course - alcoholism are much more common among artists in general and writers in particular. Because they are afraid, often with good reason, that medication will make them zombies and interfere with their ability to create, they deliberately avoid treatment. They choose art over life. I hope you can turn away from the edge of the abyss and find your way back