Spammers have reached a whole new low. One would have thought that lower than a snake’s balls in a wagon rut would be the lowest but no.
This AM, I received an email from a friend who died from brain cancer two years ago.
Fuck you Hackers and may the fleas of a 1000 gorillas infest your hairy bits.

While I’m on that…

Ladies, you aren’t going to get anywhere with me if your email subject line begins with “Desperate For..”, “Hungry For…” or “I’ll Keep U Up All Night”.
I really like a woman who can spell if we’re going to get up to some Pat-A-Cake and if you’re desperate… there are apps for that.

Just sayin’…

~ kei
5 September 2016

Meanwhile, Back At The Internet Café

I wrote this at the height of the “Gaslighting” phase of my two-year relationship with a Narcissist Predator. It’s really strange to go back and read my poetry and short stories from the period. Such highs! Such lows… So much love and romance but also black despair and suicidal tendencies. Scrolling through my journals, I found this draft and smiled a little. It is a sarcastic satirical and black-humoured piece. I was trying to cope with the assemblage of hoydens he’d gathered by writing about them the way he talked about them – never could figure why they just kept on lurking despite his insistence that “they were stalkers, knew he was engaged, were jealous of me”… Anyywaayy…
What I see now is the inkling of my comprehension of the pattern, how Apaths of varying degrees fit in to my story, lending credence, alibis or window-dressing as he required. Truly amazing, the effort he expended to keep me fooled or manipulate me to do certain things (my favourite was “Baby, would you comment more on my blog? People love to see us as a real couple, not just our books”) The funniest part is that “The Ladies” written about here are indeed real people, unlike some of the ones he created. Bruce Jenner had nothing on my poet! And I can actually smile, if ruefully at that today.


When I look back on how it all went down, I see it as if I was in a horror movie, a very bad, B-grade horror movie.

You know the ones, where you’re in a normal place, doing regular things and you look up to see that everything has gone to black and white. What you thought were people have all morphed into scary doll creatures or zombies and they’ve all turned to stare at you. Meanwhile, bit players drop in and out, talking to the zombie vampire people, buying their coffees, talking and laughing and totally oblivious to the fact that we are now all in a Hammer Film production. You look at this and wonder, like I still do; how can they not see the evil intent? How can they not know that those smiling mouths are full of lies and those pious old gals, gardening grannies and wholesome looking farmers’ daughter types are all bent on messing with lives out of unbridled jealousy and hatred and for their own twisted amusement? You want to yell, “Don’t open the door!” to the protagonist but… it’s you.

All of that came later though. When I first stumbled across it, the cafe was a fun place to be, good eats, good coffee and the owner had a smile and a poem for everyone. It was easy to see that the regulars at the banquette table at the back were indulging in some pretty serious geriatric flirting with the Café owner. He took it good naturedly, and it was nice to see that even those who could barely spell; always received a kind word of encouragement. There were no signs of the undercurrents of crazy when everyone connected to this story first met. Actually, in a Stepford Wives way, the regulars welcomed newcomers in.
That’s how I first became acquainted with them. The Ladies. Or as I later came to think of them: The Post Menopausal & Poseur Poetaster Club, of the Internet Poetry Café.
I like alliteration. Deal with it.

You remember how it was, right? Lots of laughs, inspiration and folks coming and going at all hours, The Ladies gathered at their table; Hist’mina Munchhausen Fibthorne – “Wheezy” to her friends, Maia Witless Artesian, Guerensy Rime Mooerson and Cheri Del’Usional Aprils. All chatting it up with the cafe owner, smiles, moues, coy glances and “What do you think of my stories?” “Can you help me with this sonnet?”

Who ever would have guessed that such ordinary looking grannies, could harbour thoughts worthy of “Arsenic and Old Lace”, not to mention a healthy dose of “Fatal Attraction?” Fitting analogy that. A tale of sinister plots, deceptive old dolls and a plot twist: married and attached gals who would lie, cheat and write their own men out of the script for a chance to get into the handsome Café owner’s pants.

I never would have guessed, naive I suppose. I saw a nice place to stop in to, my battered journals in hand and to share some thoughts with the regulars, The Ladies of the Banquette. Mentors, right? That’s what I was thinking at first.

Monsters, more like.

More like indeed! Like attracts like doesn’t it? As the Café grew in popularity, newcomers joined the original self-appointed harem.  Des DoubledipmyBunn and Anglésa BlueWindyChapeau decided to write themselves in. Fortunately, the Café owner was more a fan of Albert Camus than Archie comics.

Then there was me. Quietly observing, scribbling away as I always had . How could I know that the Café owner would take an interest in my stories? Who ever would have thought that this would so stir the ire of The Ladies and later, their minions? Not me. That’s for damn sure. I walked in there like a lamb to slaughter, they had their poisoned pens aimed and the hot flashes got hotter.

But that’s another story for another day…

~ kei
2013 sometime…

Dear John


This week’s challenge from the WDBWP Blog:

This week, I would like you to write a letter – THAT letter you always meant to but you never did; it can be written for yourself or for someone else. In it, I want you to write down all the things that you always wanted to say to those people, or yourself, you wish someone told you when you were younger or in a specific situation. If you are writing to someone else, let them know whats going on, have you changed, what is new from the most mundane to the most deep.

I would like you to write this letter in verse, verse that rhymes.


Let’s have a go then, shall we? Follows is my letter. In rhyme and Elton John’s “Dear John” for good measure.

Dear Perley, Dear Perley
You old mangy dog
If you were able to read
This would leave you agog

You were gunnin’ fer to kill me
Your lyin’ left me with the blues
But I’m still alive and kickin’
And you’re yesterday’s news

Hey Perley, you should have learned
That it don’t pay to be a liar
Did you fart again, what’s with that smoke?
Oh! it’s just your pants on fire

So I’m sending you this letter
Hope it reaches you in Hell
Just to say to you Ole Perley
I’m alive and doing well

I took the nothing that you left behind
And turned it round to victory
I got myself a real man
And that boy sure does love me

The home you stole I can’t get back
But I’ve a new one built on dreams
A place that ain’t been tainted
With all your bullshit schemes

Say Perley, did I mention?
My guy’s ten years younger ‘n you
He can go all night, Canada’s red and white
Oorah Baby! Salutes her red, white and blue

Poor Perley, I heard ’bout your problem
Dead kinda bites, don’t it now
Better that than to keep on fakin’
With that nasty, old desperate cow

So just wanted you to know Ole Perley
I’m right as rain and happy too
So let’s call this for a Dear John letter
From happy me to shithead you

~ kei
16 June 2014

Radio 666 BSFU – The Scud

So. Here’s the funny.

If all of us got together to compare notes
And put together a playlist from your playbook
Would our fans here at 666 BSFU – The Scud
Be listening to that same one trite ballad 24/7?

Or would it be a greatest hits collection?

Just wondering…

Relinquished Muse

For sale or rent:

One slightly damaged Muse
Has very few qualifications for the title really
Misrepresented credentials under the guise of a smile

Rather lazy
Lounges around Sundays, napping, watching hockey or writing haiku rather than Musing for you
Well of course. They’re so easy to write. Properly. Leafs suck.

Unlikely to inspire passionate prose
Will slip into one of your button downs scented with the night before
Far more often than Victoria’s unmentionables and scarlet spandex… whatever that shit is

Aggravating and artsy
Might show up for dinner in a 1950’s gown and Converse high tops
Can’t decide between Monet exhibits and Mötley Crüe

Always wanting sex at the most inconvenient times
Knocking over typewriters, glasses, totally distracting you from your opus

Very unprofessional
Prone to fits of giggling during home office hours
Often writes poetry with purple and turquoise markers and prose with a dinosaur-topped pencil

Not to be trusted in a stationery shop
Spends grocery money on pretty writing journals and… eww… lined copy books
Has been caught nibbling erasers

Not as moneyed as other pudgy, frowsy, menopausal Muses
But not yet overdrawn on inspiration and dreams. She’s banked a million
Far too proud of the fact she can’t be bought

Willful and spiteful
See reference above to the doughy, ham-fisted, so called competition, hack
Damn it! She did it again… See? Spiteful…

Way too alpha for the average poet or writer
Don’t even think of consulting with another Muse! Ask me, I know
A) She’ll have your balls for bookends B) See reference above… again

Broke as dirt. Won’t be able to keep you in palatial oceanside abodes
Better tales are written though, in the warmth of a cozy boÎte
And of eating mac ‘n cheese cooked in a fondue pot

Use of adjectives, alliteration and allegory will drive you apeshit
Literary taste runs from Dostoyevsky to Nancy Drew
Curses like a lumberjack during episodes of writer’s block

Who the hell does she think she is anyway?
You can see how much I’ve had to put up with!

No references available
Was a huge disappointment to previous poetical patron
Too much temper, fire and passion. Not enough… sock darning or something

Easily fixed with cut and paste, find and replace
Substitute a Muse that’s more to your taste
Never to shake the indelible bruises of longing she’ll leave on your brain

Gotta kijiji this before I change my mind
She’s a fey and fanciful muse, cantankerous, contrary and flawed
But oh! The stories she has for you

~ kei
14 October 2013

How Do You Like Me Now?

~ Of bearded Bards and mustachioed Muses ~

Would you still think you loved me if I changed my look?
Is my cover the only way that you’re judging this book?

Would you still follow me around the way that you do?
If you could see the real me, if you really knew?

It’s said seeing is believing, so you might want to crack wise
This is the internet sweetie and we here are all in disguise


~ This was a bit of random, tongue-in-cheek, thought from a year or so ago on female v. male writers and how perceptions often equal popularity on the internet as well as in real life ~