http://joyleftowsblog.blog
Thursday, August 06, 2009
My pussy poem tribute to margaret cho
Have any of you seen Margaret Cho? Not many comedians make me laugh but she does. Usually with comedians everyone around me laughs and I'm like - you're so not funny. At one point I was hysterical. You've got to watch her My Puss on you tube.
I wrote my own My Puss poem. Not quite Margaret Cho's masterpiece yet but it will entertain.
My puss is pretty and pink
Your puss is ugly and stink
My puss is sweet like a flower
Your puss is dirty and sour
My puss is nice and tight
Your puss is loose and a fright
My puss is clean and shaved
Your puss should be hidden in a cave
My puss smells spectacular
There’s no vernacular to describe your ugly puss
Your puss is gaseous and has typhus,
My puss is a precious goddess
My puss smells like a fragrant honey bun
Your puss’s clit is like a Cuban cigar
It’s so bizarre, it chases men from the boudoir
My clits like a binary star
Your puss is funky with zits,
My clit makes men want to submit
My puss is clever with wit
Your puss is like a streetcar
You never know who’s on it
My puss is like wordstar
Made to savoir and fear like a jaguar
My pussy’s like a fresh breath of air
Like a green sweet pear
My puss promotes world peace
Your puss is like dirty used up grease
No sense to compare
My fragrant puss with your
Despairing brown bear
My puss is rare
It’s unfair warfare
I wrote my own My Puss poem. Not quite Margaret Cho's masterpiece yet but it will entertain.
My puss is pretty and pink
Your puss is ugly and stink
My puss is sweet like a flower
Your puss is dirty and sour
My puss is nice and tight
Your puss is loose and a fright
My puss is clean and shaved
Your puss should be hidden in a cave
My puss smells spectacular
There’s no vernacular to describe your ugly puss
Your puss is gaseous and has typhus,
My puss is a precious goddess
My puss smells like a fragrant honey bun
Your puss’s clit is like a Cuban cigar
It’s so bizarre, it chases men from the boudoir
My clits like a binary star
Your puss is funky with zits,
My clit makes men want to submit
My puss is clever with wit
Your puss is like a streetcar
You never know who’s on it
My puss is like wordstar
Made to savoir and fear like a jaguar
My pussy’s like a fresh breath of air
Like a green sweet pear
My puss promotes world peace
Your puss is like dirty used up grease
No sense to compare
My fragrant puss with your
Despairing brown bear
My puss is rare
It’s unfair warfare
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Billie's Blues Dog Rescue #VIII
Billie’s blues on my mind tonight
I’ve morphed into Billie singing my blues to her blues we are one
Your protestations sink into my instrumentals
Everything’s easy to get on the Internet; you can get whatever you want to.
I’m a fool to want you, for heaven’s sake why am I in love, here’s a chance fall in love.
I race up the stairs to face closing doors #1 train, elevated, a second too late. For God’s sake, my breath jagged, voice barely whispers on exhale. A golden red-nosed puppy stands before me, jumps on the bench next to DubbleX. Eye to eye, dilemmas & sadness everywhere.
Dubblex says forget the train roars up the watches drama ensues. The dog shaking, wet & wary furry pretty fur seeking solace and warmth. Train pulls in dog runs for the open doors, crevice between the platform & train. I see him go under. I grab him by the flesh on his neck; pull him away from the closing door. Another moment stolen from death. The pup whines, returns to the bench. My heart skips a Billie holiday beat.
This revolution will not be televised it will not put the shine back on your teeth. How bout the belt from my bag - I greedily grab it. Pup accepts collar attempts to climb into my arms again.
Kneel down Johnny, heel, his haunches pressed to my thighs, crouched beside him, clinches the blended holiness of earth and sky. Pressed to my chest, his tongue sweeps my neck. Paws bleeding raw - ice & sleet on the pavement.
Let’s agree to be in love like a melody. Wet white snow falling huge flakes drop on my face. I can’t go where I want to.
Money you’ve got lots of friends crowding right your door,
but when you’re gone and nothing’s left, they don’t come round no more.
I want to go back when things were changing. Now things are suspended or turning backwards. I don't understand. Race for faith, blood bath, Kent State massacre, more prejudice now then before.
Baby pit follows me whining. I bend to examine torn ragged paws, bloodied from standing in deep salted snow, blizzards outside the station. He covers me with kisses, dutifully remains still a second then jumps on my chest. Here, boy, Here. I crouch down he throws himself in my arms shaking.
Downstairs the token booth clerk says cops are on their way. My heart booms, a gut reaction, not my future. I hold red nose with my make shift collar. He pulls me he’s strong, his attention span like a child’s eye caught by mischief, his shaking visible to everyone. Cops show up, act afraid even when they see him sucking my face. The sgt arrives & doesn’t know what to do. Finally a cage from the station arrives. I take charge, tell them how to put him in there away from my caring arms.
I’m a fool to want you. A red nosed pit bull with tail & ears intact. Will they find a home for him? My heart sings collateral let freedom ring, life on a hinge.
I’ve morphed into Billie singing my blues to her blues we are one
Your protestations sink into my instrumentals
Everything’s easy to get on the Internet; you can get whatever you want to.
I’m a fool to want you, for heaven’s sake why am I in love, here’s a chance fall in love.
I race up the stairs to face closing doors #1 train, elevated, a second too late. For God’s sake, my breath jagged, voice barely whispers on exhale. A golden red-nosed puppy stands before me, jumps on the bench next to DubbleX. Eye to eye, dilemmas & sadness everywhere.
Dubblex says forget the train roars up the watches drama ensues. The dog shaking, wet & wary furry pretty fur seeking solace and warmth. Train pulls in dog runs for the open doors, crevice between the platform & train. I see him go under. I grab him by the flesh on his neck; pull him away from the closing door. Another moment stolen from death. The pup whines, returns to the bench. My heart skips a Billie holiday beat.
This revolution will not be televised it will not put the shine back on your teeth. How bout the belt from my bag - I greedily grab it. Pup accepts collar attempts to climb into my arms again.
Kneel down Johnny, heel, his haunches pressed to my thighs, crouched beside him, clinches the blended holiness of earth and sky. Pressed to my chest, his tongue sweeps my neck. Paws bleeding raw - ice & sleet on the pavement.
Let’s agree to be in love like a melody. Wet white snow falling huge flakes drop on my face. I can’t go where I want to.
Money you’ve got lots of friends crowding right your door,
but when you’re gone and nothing’s left, they don’t come round no more.
I want to go back when things were changing. Now things are suspended or turning backwards. I don't understand. Race for faith, blood bath, Kent State massacre, more prejudice now then before.
Baby pit follows me whining. I bend to examine torn ragged paws, bloodied from standing in deep salted snow, blizzards outside the station. He covers me with kisses, dutifully remains still a second then jumps on my chest. Here, boy, Here. I crouch down he throws himself in my arms shaking.
Downstairs the token booth clerk says cops are on their way. My heart booms, a gut reaction, not my future. I hold red nose with my make shift collar. He pulls me he’s strong, his attention span like a child’s eye caught by mischief, his shaking visible to everyone. Cops show up, act afraid even when they see him sucking my face. The sgt arrives & doesn’t know what to do. Finally a cage from the station arrives. I take charge, tell them how to put him in there away from my caring arms.
I’m a fool to want you. A red nosed pit bull with tail & ears intact. Will they find a home for him? My heart sings collateral let freedom ring, life on a hinge.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Blogging in Washington Heights
It's very pleasing and rewarding to be appreciated artistically. Thank you Carla Zanoni for featuring both of our blogs in your blogwatch. I have been reading Zanoni's Blogwatch since it's inception in Manhattan Times. Her blog, The Streets Where We Live is also enlightening.
I was featured on February 5th blogwatch and didn't even know it until a few weeks ago.
Here's the link to my feature. I'm on page 2.
The Cartier Street Review and Joy Leftow's Blog
A visit to The Cartier Street Review, a nonprofit online literary journal that features poetry, short prose, articles about and reviews of poetry, led to the discovery of the self-proclaimed “Poet Laureate of Washington Heights,” Joy Leftow.
Her poem “Blues Part II” was featured in February’s edition, but this Northern Manhattan resident’s canon and random thoughts about living in the city can be further explored through her home grown blog.
Make sure to dedicate some time to the reading: Leftow’s sometimes philosophical meanderings can be deliciously thought consuming.
http://thecartierstreetreview.blogspot .
com/2009/02/february-2009-page-2_01.html
http://joyleftowsblog.blogspot.com
And now DubbleX is featured in this weeks blogwatch by Carla Zanoni. Yay - hooray for me - I'm a good publicist! And Hooray for Dubblex. He's so tickled to be featured.
I was featured on February 5th blogwatch and didn't even know it until a few weeks ago.
Here's the link to my feature. I'm on page 2.
The Cartier Street Review and Joy Leftow's Blog
A visit to The Cartier Street Review, a nonprofit online literary journal that features poetry, short prose, articles about and reviews of poetry, led to the discovery of the self-proclaimed “Poet Laureate of Washington Heights,” Joy Leftow.
Her poem “Blues Part II” was featured in February’s edition, but this Northern Manhattan resident’s canon and random thoughts about living in the city can be further explored through her home grown blog.
Make sure to dedicate some time to the reading: Leftow’s sometimes philosophical meanderings can be deliciously thought consuming.
http://thecartierstreetrev
com/2009/02/february-2009-
http://joyleftowsblog.blog
And now DubbleX is featured in this weeks blogwatch by Carla Zanoni. Yay - hooray for me - I'm a good publicist! And Hooray for Dubblex. He's so tickled to be featured.
DubblexDiaries
Poetry Prose & Photos with GCast Player
Not sure what a GCast player is, but it’s certain that DubbleX, the author of this site, is a talented poet with an ear for deep rhythm and rhyme. A prolific writer, DubbleX has a steady stream of poetry at the ready and posted on his blog. A Northern Manhattanite, the author lives with his partner Joy Leftow, whose work has been featured in this column before. They also co-edit The Cartier Street Review, an online literary magazine. DubbleX’s work has a definite sensuality and eroticism in unexpected places, with lines like “the island of Manhattan/ is a body of land/ surrounded by water Inwood is her head/ tracing down to a Washington Heights meringue nights neck/ sloping to strong Harlem shoulders.” Sizzling.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
my first paid poem Is it Love or Excuses

Back in the mid 90's I got paid $50 for a slam out on Long Island at some place called butterflies & oops - can't recall the second part of the name. Another time I got paid $100 to be on a cable t.v. show called words and images (Damn is this the name?) hosted by Willard Gellis.
Anyway for your delight, my first paid poem~ also available in mp3
IS IT LOVE OR EXCUSES
You avoid me because
you know I know
your secrets
the thoughts that make you ill
I know how you feel
Sometimes you utter nothing
at all & the tv gets louder
to drown out the sound
of my words, my voice
a discarded memory
of what’s left unsaid
We don’t discuss
what I think is wrong
as I record the trail you forge
with the sound of your voice
hollow in my veins
while I follow you room
to room echoing your thoughts
fill the room’s silence
Thunder claps in the distance
You say the echo is loud, too clear
you turn up the volume, cover your ears
while I bisect & categorize
the entrails of your thoughts
My unsaid words follow
the curve of your hips
As you move to and fro worrying
I’ll disparage what you say
I listen, record the flow
of your words, you want me
to share my observations
I do; for you they only personify
my excellent clinical skills
your firm lips cover my unspoken words
a poor excuse, a moment frozen in time
I like the way I feel about me
when I see myself in your eyes
Your eyes hold back tears;
you stare at me & hide your soul;
why should you share to recreate the pain
I don’t exist for myself or you
Your mind’s eye a reflection in glass
None of it real
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Busy as busy bee me...
The latest issue of the Cartier Street Review is out after some delay and setbacks. Bernard's computer was down for a while as was his server so ...
The July issue is up and everyone is saying it's the best yet. All the poetry and short stories are only short of phenomenal plus there are reviews to read too. You have got to check out this edition. The art is popping too. I'm still seeking someone to do layout and also seeking another editor /reader with some experience. If you're interested please contact me at Violetwrites@nyc.rr.com.
The Cartier Street Review will cut back to quarterly. It was too much work to get it out every 2 months so we have cut back. We still have lives to live and writing to do, not just reading and compiling. Check out my new bluetry here, Money. I'm calling it to me and so far landed one edit job (paid cash) and have two possibilities for paid writing for September. Wish me luck as I'm tired of being poor.
Thanks go out to Thomas Hubbard, new editor on board and Dubblex as editor too. Thomas came on board as we were doing the last few final edits for this edition but I expect his expertise will come in handy in future editions.
Going forward, we are considering doing an annual print edition as well. We have to see how it all goes...
Thanks for stopping by and I'll have some new bluetry up soon.
The July issue is up and everyone is saying it's the best yet. All the poetry and short stories are only short of phenomenal plus there are reviews to read too. You have got to check out this edition. The art is popping too. I'm still seeking someone to do layout and also seeking another editor /reader with some experience. If you're interested please contact me at Violetwrites@nyc.rr.com.
The Cartier Street Review will cut back to quarterly. It was too much work to get it out every 2 months so we have cut back. We still have lives to live and writing to do, not just reading and compiling. Check out my new bluetry here, Money. I'm calling it to me and so far landed one edit job (paid cash) and have two possibilities for paid writing for September. Wish me luck as I'm tired of being poor.
Thanks go out to Thomas Hubbard, new editor on board and Dubblex as editor too. Thomas came on board as we were doing the last few final edits for this edition but I expect his expertise will come in handy in future editions.
Going forward, we are considering doing an annual print edition as well. We have to see how it all goes...
Thanks for stopping by and I'll have some new bluetry up soon.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Getting My Fiduciary Groove On ~ Bluetry #15
Get that moolah!
I hear the blues blaring in my head keeping time with the rhythmic beating of my heart
He says, you hammer away like a woodpecker at a tree I say why would I have to be
Mr. and Mrs. Perfect writing off into the sunset
Beset with other concerns can't keep up with the jet set; let me get a taste of java wet from the shower – like frost you turn the sweetest flower to dust
I live on a different planet ~ the moon of the desert sun
Pull out your clarinet and riff me some of them blues baby
Forget about fretting no sweat baby no job
you ain’t likely to get that little corvette
It’s money that’s what I want
They keep telling me the best things in life are free
But you can save that shit for the birds and bees
Throw me some money that’s what I want, a lotta money
Show me some affirmation for my saturation in my individuation; my infatuation is my collusion with occlusion the entire scenario’s a big illusion, stop your accusations, I’m into sanitation – clean this shit up I say!
Give me some antibiotic to cure me from my anti-bureaucratic ways ~ Your antagonistic acidic mean way is what made me leave you in the first plays – your acerbic reaction, you live in a theater play – you don’t give a fuck as you stay stuck in cliché mode lost in dismay -
your figure outlined in the doorway – you think my souls a fucking driveway, I’m familiar with your dossier
I sit and crochet another dread cap dreaming about that chalet made from stone and glass
Rolling meadows and sassafras – leave your morose ass behind while you seek a bypass
I could have it all if I only had some money
Did you hear what I said? That’s what I want Gimmee money
Your loving never gave me much of a thrill but it was useful to help pay my bills
I want some money that’s what I want, I know that money don’t get you everything it’s true
What it don’t get I can’t use that’s part of why I got these woodpecker blues
Now give me money that’s what I want
My life’s gone astray, I try to stay blasé’ hooray for me I’m gonna make some headway and it’s not all heresy – give me a little leeway I’ll show you some mayday
A floodway filled to the brim with resentment, I’m searching for a little contentment
a presentment that money’s the answer to my emancipation proclamation
your abasement antedated my abandonment, it’s no accident, I created a new precedence
and returned to my former craziness
I sing my money blues to you today; share the brilliant broadcast that money’s on its way
Money can’t buy you everything it’s true but what it can’t buy I can’t use
So give me money it’s what I want, Gimmee money – lots of money
Gimmee some money to cure these woodpecker blues
I’m not being greedy Gimmee money, that’s what I want
Notes & Credits:
The original Money that's what I want was recorded in 1959 by Barrett Strong for the Tamla label, distributed by Anna Records. The song was written by Tamla founder, Berry Gordy and Janie Bradford, and became the first hit record for Gordy's Motown flagship label. This version is written by me and is not the same as the original except for the refrain, money that's what I want. Other parts are similar but not the same.
I hear the blues blaring in my head keeping time with the rhythmic beating of my heart
He says, you hammer away like a woodpecker at a tree I say why would I have to be
Mr. and Mrs. Perfect writing off into the sunset
Beset with other concerns can't keep up with the jet set; let me get a taste of java wet from the shower – like frost you turn the sweetest flower to dust
I live on a different planet ~ the moon of the desert sun
Pull out your clarinet and riff me some of them blues baby
Forget about fretting no sweat baby no job
you ain’t likely to get that little corvette
It’s money that’s what I want
They keep telling me the best things in life are free
But you can save that shit for the birds and bees
Throw me some money that’s what I want, a lotta money
Show me some affirmation for my saturation in my individuation; my infatuation is my collusion with occlusion the entire scenario’s a big illusion, stop your accusations, I’m into sanitation – clean this shit up I say!
Give me some antibiotic to cure me from my anti-bureaucratic ways ~ Your antagonistic acidic mean way is what made me leave you in the first plays – your acerbic reaction, you live in a theater play – you don’t give a fuck as you stay stuck in cliché mode lost in dismay -
your figure outlined in the doorway – you think my souls a fucking driveway, I’m familiar with your dossier
I sit and crochet another dread cap dreaming about that chalet made from stone and glass
Rolling meadows and sassafras – leave your morose ass behind while you seek a bypass
I could have it all if I only had some money
Did you hear what I said? That’s what I want Gimmee money
Your loving never gave me much of a thrill but it was useful to help pay my bills
I want some money that’s what I want, I know that money don’t get you everything it’s true
What it don’t get I can’t use that’s part of why I got these woodpecker blues
Now give me money that’s what I want
My life’s gone astray, I try to stay blasé’ hooray for me I’m gonna make some headway and it’s not all heresy – give me a little leeway I’ll show you some mayday
A floodway filled to the brim with resentment, I’m searching for a little contentment
a presentment that money’s the answer to my emancipation proclamation
your abasement antedated my abandonment, it’s no accident, I created a new precedence
and returned to my former craziness
I sing my money blues to you today; share the brilliant broadcast that money’s on its way
Money can’t buy you everything it’s true but what it can’t buy I can’t use
So give me money it’s what I want, Gimmee money – lots of money
Gimmee some money to cure these woodpecker blues
I’m not being greedy Gimmee money, that’s what I want
Notes & Credits:
The original Money that's what I want was recorded in 1959 by Barrett Strong for the Tamla label, distributed by Anna Records. The song was written by Tamla founder, Berry Gordy and Janie Bradford, and became the first hit record for Gordy's Motown flagship label. This version is written by me and is not the same as the original except for the refrain, money that's what I want. Other parts are similar but not the same.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Scrambling to keep up with the joneses - Bluetry #13
I never fit in with them anyway
A misfit, a bad fit perfect sit gimmee some tit, I never had any I just want someone to love is all I need
some nurturing spell my lungs a little tongue hung by a thread keep treading shredding papers there’s no end to trend starters
Call me one anyone someone no relief in sight
You’re right it’s so trite, frightened stay on the side of the good fight, I’m tight
You tried that elevator before - broken down on the ground floor
They keep telling me you’re a loser, I know you’re a poser and a lover not a chooser
I keep writing poetry
My life loves the word, worships the word is my shepherd I shall step lightly trip the light
The word leads me to lush pastures, maintains my poverty, my soul aglow
I want to be cured of the word
Word assuages my misery, my destiny lost and re-found
Refined this new york city landscape triggers my sensitivity
A wilderness of avarice device – my honesty misfired desensitized
I am woman warrior I warned you off the stuff again and again
Each card turns, Mount Everest - show and tell
Let me go home
Take me back to earth solid gold sold lust to trust dust me off cure me of this malady – it’s a fallacy – living in a helix galaxy
I didn’t want to do it … I didn’t want to do it
Thunder strokes the sky lightening cracks open mimicking my life
Reflected in images of why you do me this way
Pray stay a while ‘honey chile’ time’s a wasten' no more haten'
Hat’s off to Danny Kaye not too many know he worked for UNICEF
for three years under a one point five million dollar contract
Fifty years ago – what would that be today?
I’ll get out the calculator
Wow today in 2009, that's one billion ninety one million
Siften' cash through sand papered hands
hard cold cash stayen' in fashion
my heart’s with Danny Kaye
Bought a house sold it a second before foreclosure
Got some tequila to wash down the seizure
Ommmm shanti talliwacker zoom zoom to the moon
I want some poon-tang some boom boom in the poom poom
poetry in the poor house
I’m dancing with Danny Kaye
Moving on up
Lay lady lay lay upon this big brass bed
A misfit, a bad fit perfect sit gimmee some tit, I never had any I just want someone to love is all I need
some nurturing spell my lungs a little tongue hung by a thread keep treading shredding papers there’s no end to trend starters
Call me one anyone someone no relief in sight
You’re right it’s so trite, frightened stay on the side of the good fight, I’m tight
You tried that elevator before - broken down on the ground floor
They keep telling me you’re a loser, I know you’re a poser and a lover not a chooser
I keep writing poetry
My life loves the word, worships the word is my shepherd I shall step lightly trip the light
The word leads me to lush pastures, maintains my poverty, my soul aglow
I want to be cured of the word
Word assuages my misery, my destiny lost and re-found
Refined this new york city landscape triggers my sensitivity
A wilderness of avarice device – my honesty misfired desensitized
I am woman warrior I warned you off the stuff again and again
Each card turns, Mount Everest - show and tell
Let me go home
Take me back to earth solid gold sold lust to trust dust me off cure me of this malady – it’s a fallacy – living in a helix galaxy
I didn’t want to do it … I didn’t want to do it
Thunder strokes the sky lightening cracks open mimicking my life
Reflected in images of why you do me this way
Pray stay a while ‘honey chile’ time’s a wasten' no more haten'
Hat’s off to Danny Kaye not too many know he worked for UNICEF
for three years under a one point five million dollar contract
Fifty years ago – what would that be today?
I’ll get out the calculator
Wow today in 2009, that's one billion ninety one million
Siften' cash through sand papered hands
hard cold cash stayen' in fashion
my heart’s with Danny Kaye
Bought a house sold it a second before foreclosure
Got some tequila to wash down the seizure
Ommmm shanti talliwacker zoom zoom to the moon
I want some poon-tang some boom boom in the poom poom
poetry in the poor house
I’m dancing with Danny Kaye
Moving on up
Lay lady lay lay upon this big brass bed
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Family Illness
Kendra was depressed about her life. Not that it had been great before; it had always been a struggle. But now, the son-of-a-bitch was getting off scott-free as far as she was concerned. And after all the shit he’d pulled.
She looked over to where her son was on the bed and patted his hair falling in moist ringlets over his creamy caramel color face. He turned in his sleep reaching for her. Overcome with melancholy feelings, she lay down beside Kaora, kicking off her slippers. Kaora snuggled closer to her bosom, his face buried in her scent mixed with lavender. How he loved her scent. Still mostly asleep, he lifted her shirt. Kendra moved closer to oblige. This was her one pleasure. The sucking began. The soft wet feel of his mouth pulling and elongating her nipple. There was hardly any letdown but a sensation of bliss passed over her and she began to relax. Her uterus contracted lightly and her son’s hands caressed her pechos.
My poor baby she mused looking down and his moist face, his mouth working vigorously. He tugged slightly, moving his head further away pulling at her nipple, while his hand touched her other breast. He moved his jaw languorously. That bastard, she said again for the upteenth time, abandoning us for that little chippy with big boobs, her fake ass boobs.
She settled back into the pillows, the sensation moving from her breasts to her uterus. She felt her uterus contracting with the gentle tweaking of her nipple occurring simultaneously and in rhythm with the movement of his jaw. His eyes were closed and she felt very protective and loving. No one would take this from her. It was the only pleasure she had that no one could interfere with. God help them if they tried. She’d attack with her entire being.
Kendra’s anger dissipated and her thoughts began to slow down. How dare that bastard Lyle question her motives and tell her anything when he had abandoned them. How dare he say anything about her choices, as if he had any right to say anything about anything – that sick son of a bitch, she’d spit on his grave if she had a chance.
Kendra’s thoughts stopped racing and she reviewed the recent calendar of events while her son continued nursing. Kaora’s eyes remained closed and he brought his head backwards without opening his eyes, her nipple stretching, the sensation a delightful security.
Yes, she stuck by her choices, and she’d written Lyle an email telling him so, like the ass-hole needed it explained. You’d have thought he would’ve learned something during the thirteen years they’d shared. He’d always been difficult though. He’d pretend to know and then play stupid. Kendra had written succinctly, savoring her knowledge of every word on how she’d educate him, his lawyer and everyone else too.
Later she regretted giving him this sentence but she followed up by copying and sending him an entire series of articles in support of her case on prolonged nursing, natural healing and everything else she stood for. It was enough articles to spin anyone’s head so let him try and get in her way. Just let him try…
Kaora’s sucking subsided and she put on her slippers and returned to her computer. She was so angry at his attempts to divide and intrude on their lives this way. She was still angry at the court fiasco too. From two thousand a month to nine hundred, she’d lost a lot. And so what that he’s only a salaried man. It wasn’t her fault he left with that stupid bitch cunt who he had told her he had no interest in. That bitch with her implants that he’d laughed about.
She remembered when she had jealously smacked him in the back of the head, accusingly said, “Husband, you’re paying too much attention to Sandra.”
He’d laughed and pulled her into the hallway kissing her, “you’re jealous!” Lyle said surprised. Lyle slipped his hand under her sweater and Kendra angrily pushed him away.
“That’s not yours,” she said, “they’re his.”
“He’s five and a half, for Christ’s sake! When are we ever going to have some sex?”
“We do have sex,” Kendra remembered saying, “You like to eat my pussy, don’t you?”
“Of course I love your pussy,” he said, “I just would like to have sex with my wife without my five and a half year old child waking up and you nursing him back to sleep. It’s hard to maintain excitement in that situation. It makes me uptight. I’m not comfortable with sex in the bed and my five and a half year old son waking up while we we’re in the middle of it.
The Native Americans do it and a lot of cultures do it,” she defended.
“I am not a lot of cultures,” Lyle said, “I’d like the option of going in the other room and we can’t do that because your mother lives with us.”
“You’re too uptight. He’s our son. It’s natural.”
“I’m sorry, it bothers me to have sex with him here. It inhibits me. I think that’s natural too. I don’t feel free with him waking up like that.”
“Get used to it Lyle, it’s the family bed. I made my choice.”
“Don’t I have any choices?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kendra told him. “Imagine we’re Native Americans sleeping together in the teepee. You always like to say you’ve got Indian blood.”
Now, two and half years later, that big titty gal he’d left her for had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere asking for Lyle’s phone number. This after the dumb skinny-ass addict bitch had reported him to administration after the piece of shit and he'd had a bad break up and Lyle hadn’t returned to her. Told admin that he’d harassed her. Why would I give you his number or be your friend, when you tried to take my bread and butter’s job? What the fuck kind of crazy women does Lyle attract anyway, always a bunch of stupid ass bitches. Boy was he lucky with me Kendra mused.
Kendra returned to her computer desktop, Lyle’s email insult still open,
That fucking sick bastard with his stupid bitches and hoes, adding insult to injury. Kendra had written back,
Kendra had followed this up by sending him several articles supporting the family bed extended breastfeeding and nudity. She knew how to prove her point and it would stand in any court of law. She added her reminder again to her email, let this hate fest go.
How dare him, immoral piece of shit that he was, question her motives. Lyle never appreciated how she had care taken all of them, had always done all the paperwork plus supported him emotionally. She was the one who had care taken all of them. Kendra had always told him what to say and do, since she always knew the right thing to say and do. And this was her thanks, that he'd left her for a stupid skinny ass bitch with big fake-assed tits, and she, Kendra, the mother of his only son, got only a measly nine hundred dollars a month from his thirty six hundred dollar paycheck. She should get it all! How dare him criticize anything she chose to do; she’d make him pay in the end. She’d make him pay out the kazoo, with his fucking ever-present erection and his porno. Kendra had it with him anyway. She read his email asking if he could stop by Kaora’s birthday party she was holding in the park. “Sure,” she wrote, “sign over your two thousand dollar IRA to me and you can.”
Sick bastard! Later compulsively she returned to the computer again seeking any response from him. There was none. She wrote more anyway, unable to control herself. I want your psychiatric records. You are seriously sick in your mind. At least she had Kaora and she and Kaora were not alone; they had each other. Bastard Lyle would not destroy or invade the closeness between her and her son, try though he would
Then she went to youtube and found the video she was looking for, Money, that’s what I want, the English version from way back by a woman and she sent that along too with another note, “Honey, is this what’s bothering you?” She laughed aloud feeling vindicated and pressed the send button. Then she decided to resend it to his current lover too. Kendra laughed again. She walked away but was drawn back a third time to write one more note,
This story is taken from a variety of internet posts and includes other sources regarding various types abuse. Infantilizing children has many bad effects including teaching them that they don't need to learn to deal with frustration. It also encourages over dependency and stunts emotional growth. An eight year old child shouldn't be sucking a bottle or wearing a diaper either. An 8 year old should be learning how to act appropriately in society, and should be getting ready for adulthood ... which does NOT include sucking on your mother's breast whenever you need comfort.
Parents may want to assuage a child's fears about a parent who has left the marital home, and although offering the breast is a temporary feel good solution, talking would work better. For example, a mother could say, I know you're sad or worried that Daddy isn't here now, but you see him weekends and I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere.
There is a case going on right now where a judge ordered a woman to stop breast feeding her 8 year old boy, the same age as this boy in this story. Eight years old is the beginning of puberty, when stronger sexual feelings emerge so you can see how many more problems this open behavior will create ...
Where do you draw the line if you follow the protocol that you stop when the child wants to stop? Then when the child goes away to college and returns on holiday, do you offer the breast for old times sake or give it to them if they want it? If you do you may be faced with the situation below.
For a little
levity check out what this can lead to ...
or this
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
She looked over to where her son was on the bed and patted his hair falling in moist ringlets over his creamy caramel color face. He turned in his sleep reaching for her. Overcome with melancholy feelings, she lay down beside Kaora, kicking off her slippers. Kaora snuggled closer to her bosom, his face buried in her scent mixed with lavender. How he loved her scent. Still mostly asleep, he lifted her shirt. Kendra moved closer to oblige. This was her one pleasure. The sucking began. The soft wet feel of his mouth pulling and elongating her nipple. There was hardly any letdown but a sensation of bliss passed over her and she began to relax. Her uterus contracted lightly and her son’s hands caressed her pechos.
My poor baby she mused looking down and his moist face, his mouth working vigorously. He tugged slightly, moving his head further away pulling at her nipple, while his hand touched her other breast. He moved his jaw languorously. That bastard, she said again for the upteenth time, abandoning us for that little chippy with big boobs, her fake ass boobs.
She settled back into the pillows, the sensation moving from her breasts to her uterus. She felt her uterus contracting with the gentle tweaking of her nipple occurring simultaneously and in rhythm with the movement of his jaw. His eyes were closed and she felt very protective and loving. No one would take this from her. It was the only pleasure she had that no one could interfere with. God help them if they tried. She’d attack with her entire being.
Kendra’s anger dissipated and her thoughts began to slow down. How dare that bastard Lyle question her motives and tell her anything when he had abandoned them. How dare he say anything about her choices, as if he had any right to say anything about anything – that sick son of a bitch, she’d spit on his grave if she had a chance.
Kendra’s thoughts stopped racing and she reviewed the recent calendar of events while her son continued nursing. Kaora’s eyes remained closed and he brought his head backwards without opening his eyes, her nipple stretching, the sensation a delightful security.
Yes, she stuck by her choices, and she’d written Lyle an email telling him so, like the ass-hole needed it explained. You’d have thought he would’ve learned something during the thirteen years they’d shared. He’d always been difficult though. He’d pretend to know and then play stupid. Kendra had written succinctly, savoring her knowledge of every word on how she’d educate him, his lawyer and everyone else too.
Parenting practices include not only prolonged nursing, but also the family bed, nudity, non-vaccination, alternative health care treatment, and even home schooling, which I am already doing enough of all this (except the home schooling) while you can’t do anything right! You are the sick one and I want to see your psychiatric records now.Kendra then impulsively threw in the last sentence.
Sexual issues can definitely complicate a situation and send off alarms in a caseworker's mind.
Later she regretted giving him this sentence but she followed up by copying and sending him an entire series of articles in support of her case on prolonged nursing, natural healing and everything else she stood for. It was enough articles to spin anyone’s head so let him try and get in her way. Just let him try…
Kaora’s sucking subsided and she put on her slippers and returned to her computer. She was so angry at his attempts to divide and intrude on their lives this way. She was still angry at the court fiasco too. From two thousand a month to nine hundred, she’d lost a lot. And so what that he’s only a salaried man. It wasn’t her fault he left with that stupid bitch cunt who he had told her he had no interest in. That bitch with her implants that he’d laughed about.
She remembered when she had jealously smacked him in the back of the head, accusingly said, “Husband, you’re paying too much attention to Sandra.”
He’d laughed and pulled her into the hallway kissing her, “you’re jealous!” Lyle said surprised. Lyle slipped his hand under her sweater and Kendra angrily pushed him away.
“That’s not yours,” she said, “they’re his.”
“He’s five and a half, for Christ’s sake! When are we ever going to have some sex?”
“We do have sex,” Kendra remembered saying, “You like to eat my pussy, don’t you?”
“Of course I love your pussy,” he said, “I just would like to have sex with my wife without my five and a half year old child waking up and you nursing him back to sleep. It’s hard to maintain excitement in that situation. It makes me uptight. I’m not comfortable with sex in the bed and my five and a half year old son waking up while we we’re in the middle of it.
The Native Americans do it and a lot of cultures do it,” she defended.
“I am not a lot of cultures,” Lyle said, “I’d like the option of going in the other room and we can’t do that because your mother lives with us.”
“You’re too uptight. He’s our son. It’s natural.”
“I’m sorry, it bothers me to have sex with him here. It inhibits me. I think that’s natural too. I don’t feel free with him waking up like that.”
“Get used to it Lyle, it’s the family bed. I made my choice.”
“Don’t I have any choices?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kendra told him. “Imagine we’re Native Americans sleeping together in the teepee. You always like to say you’ve got Indian blood.”
Now, two and half years later, that big titty gal he’d left her for had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere asking for Lyle’s phone number. This after the dumb skinny-ass addict bitch had reported him to administration after the piece of shit and he'd had a bad break up and Lyle hadn’t returned to her. Told admin that he’d harassed her. Why would I give you his number or be your friend, when you tried to take my bread and butter’s job? What the fuck kind of crazy women does Lyle attract anyway, always a bunch of stupid ass bitches. Boy was he lucky with me Kendra mused.
Kendra returned to her computer desktop, Lyle’s email insult still open,
Kendra I think it is time that you stop sleeping with Kaora, stop showering with him and stop letting him nurse your breasts. He will be eight years old in April and such behavior is not good for his development. Let him sleep in his own room in his own bed by himself and stop nursing him. Let him shower and clean himself because he is not a baby any more.
That fucking sick bastard with his stupid bitches and hoes, adding insult to injury. Kendra had written back,
It is unclear exactly what your mother did to you that caused you to be emotionally disturbed. I have serious concerns about your abusing children in your past. Your admissions caused me to break up with you and later I let you convince me it was silly to break up with you about something that had happened so long ago when you were a child. Unlike you, I have NEVER abused a child, sexually or physically. You show me your psychiatric records or I will visit my lawyer and tell him about your history. Let this insult fest go, or you will end in dire straits. And then who will take care of Kaora. Let this insult fest go –thank god – you are my soon to be ex-husband. Let it go. You are one seriously -sick in the head man! You are the devil incarnate with a dirty mind!
Kendra had followed this up by sending him several articles supporting the family bed extended breastfeeding and nudity. She knew how to prove her point and it would stand in any court of law. She added her reminder again to her email, let this hate fest go.
How dare him, immoral piece of shit that he was, question her motives. Lyle never appreciated how she had care taken all of them, had always done all the paperwork plus supported him emotionally. She was the one who had care taken all of them. Kendra had always told him what to say and do, since she always knew the right thing to say and do. And this was her thanks, that he'd left her for a stupid skinny ass bitch with big fake-assed tits, and she, Kendra, the mother of his only son, got only a measly nine hundred dollars a month from his thirty six hundred dollar paycheck. She should get it all! How dare him criticize anything she chose to do; she’d make him pay in the end. She’d make him pay out the kazoo, with his fucking ever-present erection and his porno. Kendra had it with him anyway. She read his email asking if he could stop by Kaora’s birthday party she was holding in the park. “Sure,” she wrote, “sign over your two thousand dollar IRA to me and you can.”
Sick bastard! Later compulsively she returned to the computer again seeking any response from him. There was none. She wrote more anyway, unable to control herself. I want your psychiatric records. You are seriously sick in your mind. At least she had Kaora and she and Kaora were not alone; they had each other. Bastard Lyle would not destroy or invade the closeness between her and her son, try though he would
Then she went to youtube and found the video she was looking for, Money, that’s what I want, the English version from way back by a woman and she sent that along too with another note, “Honey, is this what’s bothering you?” She laughed aloud feeling vindicated and pressed the send button. Then she decided to resend it to his current lover too. Kendra laughed again. She walked away but was drawn back a third time to write one more note,
It seems to me that you are begging the universe for a phenomenal, industrial strength kick in the behind. You just don't learn. How about you stop right here, and I'll do the same! Learn from me, because it will go very well for you if you do.Kendra added her name in cursive font and pressed send. She wondered if he’d ever learn that she was the smart one, she was the one in control and she always would be!
This story is taken from a variety of internet posts and includes other sources regarding various types abuse. Infantilizing children has many bad effects including teaching them that they don't need to learn to deal with frustration. It also encourages over dependency and stunts emotional growth. An eight year old child shouldn't be sucking a bottle or wearing a diaper either. An 8 year old should be learning how to act appropriately in society, and should be getting ready for adulthood ... which does NOT include sucking on your mother's breast whenever you need comfort.
Parents may want to assuage a child's fears about a parent who has left the marital home, and although offering the breast is a temporary feel good solution, talking would work better. For example, a mother could say, I know you're sad or worried that Daddy isn't here now, but you see him weekends and I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere.
There is a case going on right now where a judge ordered a woman to stop breast feeding her 8 year old boy, the same age as this boy in this story. Eight years old is the beginning of puberty, when stronger sexual feelings emerge so you can see how many more problems this open behavior will create ...
Where do you draw the line if you follow the protocol that you stop when the child wants to stop? Then when the child goes away to college and returns on holiday, do you offer the breast for old times sake or give it to them if they want it? If you do you may be faced with the situation below.
For a little
levity check out what this can lead to ...
or this
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A Flash of Sass #14 Bluetry
Static in my heart sings a ring so strong
like an episode of sesame street gone wrong,
the world gone awry in a single cry awoke
evoked clouds linger in the pre reminiscent pregnant air
five seconds ago on web, I watched
Yellow red purple smoke rings cascade up from Cape Canaveral
Choked on enzymes fumes
in absence of love invades hate on the abyss a trend in fate,
an alias to convert a feather stroke to an abuse with lavender candle invoked
Skyrocket in sight with a socket in my cap.
Didn’t say it wasn’t love
The rhythm of the music moves my hands
Heros dead in a flash of smoke one last glare
Great curls of white smoke rise eyes tear
Life throws so many darts no way to know
Step smack middle in the midst watch them go
Lost glares silence stares me in the eye,
life isn’t fair you cry,
I never told you it was
an old theme renewed reneged turn your back,
go away little girl though that cunt tastes so sweet to eat
keep it away from me,
cause I’m dangerous.
I lie, cheat and go to war to get to eat what I want.
I’m so aware, King of the State of affairs between me and Britain.
Jews are lucky, we have a soul with an afterlife, not a hell.
Eat your sins for the glory shall be mine.
Got the fine for double parking, ate that too, mighty tasty lugubrious morsel of time,
paid only one dime, was worth every cent, a one of kind find
white, pure, shiny granules of hope runs
Gotta meet fate at the corner of Doomston and Outta control genetic traits boulevard
The station gate at eight don’t be late, I set my heart on this chart.
I’m the bait. Worth the wait, good rate, not hatin’ I’m chillin.
A breath of fresh mint, double-mint peppermint gum
Repressed a breeze in Iceland emigrated to USA,
reject from Liverpool, traded in Halvah for a day,
lost in the fleshiness of the moment I give my life away
like an episode of sesame street gone wrong,
the world gone awry in a single cry awoke
evoked clouds linger in the pre reminiscent pregnant air
five seconds ago on web, I watched
Yellow red purple smoke rings cascade up from Cape Canaveral
Choked on enzymes fumes
in absence of love invades hate on the abyss a trend in fate,
an alias to convert a feather stroke to an abuse with lavender candle invoked
Skyrocket in sight with a socket in my cap.
Didn’t say it wasn’t love
The rhythm of the music moves my hands
Heros dead in a flash of smoke one last glare
Great curls of white smoke rise eyes tear
Life throws so many darts no way to know
Step smack middle in the midst watch them go
Lost glares silence stares me in the eye,
life isn’t fair you cry,
I never told you it was
an old theme renewed reneged turn your back,
go away little girl though that cunt tastes so sweet to eat
keep it away from me,
cause I’m dangerous.
I lie, cheat and go to war to get to eat what I want.
I’m so aware, King of the State of affairs between me and Britain.
Jews are lucky, we have a soul with an afterlife, not a hell.
Eat your sins for the glory shall be mine.
Got the fine for double parking, ate that too, mighty tasty lugubrious morsel of time,
paid only one dime, was worth every cent, a one of kind find
white, pure, shiny granules of hope runs
Gotta meet fate at the corner of Doomston and Outta control genetic traits boulevard
The station gate at eight don’t be late, I set my heart on this chart.
I’m the bait. Worth the wait, good rate, not hatin’ I’m chillin.
A breath of fresh mint, double-mint peppermint gum
Repressed a breeze in Iceland emigrated to USA,
reject from Liverpool, traded in Halvah for a day,
lost in the fleshiness of the moment I give my life away
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