Necro-Ophelia

by sean kemble

I haunted this house ten years before I died. After my handsome former face dissolved into cookie dough, and my asocial self quelled anymore ambition. I began pacing the halls and rooms yammering incoherently. A wilted waif. The glamour, the exotic candy I saw in the mirrors no longer frenzied me. Gone. Abandoned like a used up chassis. A meal of me. The reason left. My shallow shell protected me from the ugly. It was the armor that separated me from this vainglorious culture.

The body matters. It weeds out the plain, the weak, and homely. The physique, the figure, must be noticed with envy. It must visually assault the misshapen neighbors. Squeeze the esteem away, makes them doubt and acquiesce to your intentions. Ego is fleshy and meaty, full of pheromones and odor. The beast is willful, wanton, without guilt, craven, and mean. A sodomizing bull, be it male or female. A bottom feeding, cruel, hungry, nailing cock. There is no shame. The monster is you.

When it began, the shrinking, the wrinkling, I denied the finality of youth and prayed, and cursed God for repossessing my beauty. The war, the conflict shredded my last shards of humaneness and bartered any chances of renewal. The worst horrors do not come with gore and a bang. It’s servile and looks like you.

I used to dream about a piggy bank full of silver dollars. Years, I did. From age nine up. Never did I understand until later. Waking up soaked in sweat and urine. Blind and coughing. Although full, the swine squealed for more and shattered. I am the pig. A snorting razorback. Vile and filthy. Stinking, screeching sow am I. Will you eat me? Or shall I pork you. Don’t pretend to be repulsed. You do like that talk secretly. You’re all the same within. I know the tongues you speak. You’re devils, really. Itty, bitty liars. The thoughts, the same. Doctors, priests, retards, and ivy league professors. All ass wiping, lecherous actors. Toothy smirks. Teary pleads. Trolling for bites, strolling in white dresses stiff and tight. Hog monkeys. Not one is better. Only the dichotomous young.

Death is fiction. A momentary alteration. I steeped hemlock tea and sipped like Socrates. A mistake. The visions still remain. My house, wood, glass and stone is now my body. Sequestered without pleasure, tensile touch lost. My sarcophagus home holds on hard. Magnetized to this lot, my estate with a view. To have sun on the skin. Swim in icy lakes. Caress boys, copulate brutally. Oh, to have five minutes with my animal being again. Breathing those carnal smells.

My vagina was strong, it had moxie. A woman’s soul is stronger. I savored the world and swallowed. The power was tasty and toxic. The sport of coitus is unhygienic and coarse. Naked and virulent. A skill for gods and toads. Still, I detect movement and play the room. My brass bed is occupied by others. A mist in ether, I hover and drink the nectar. My ectoplasmic assault completed, I sulk. No pardons for a bygone debutante. The jiggling breasts are missed. No sleep, no sleep, ceaseless reminding. The awareness comes with a rhythmic pain, a concave circle. Linear and sequential. Ticklish almost. I want to stop, dissipate, leave the thoughts to the breeze.

Take the warning. Do not desert the body without preparation. Never coerce the transmogrification. You are not as supple as you think. You are not as clever as you think. See me and hear. Water does not need a cup.

This story is meant to be read after the former post Menial Bones, Dig Here. As before, I continue the rhythm in the same style. This is the counterpoint perspective of the story below. About two doomed lovers who have similar fates. I wanted it to seem timeless without modern references. However, there may be a couple if you look for them.

The picture at the top is a painting of Ophelia by Ernest Hebert. There's no correlation to that story or character. Although, I was thinking about her loosely as I wrote.  A subtle influence, I suppose.

Copyright ( c) 2003 Sean Kemble  All rights reserved.

 -let music begin, scroll down slowly-

The Reaper Only Rings Once

by sean kemble

     

    

"Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched." Mark 9:48

THE END

I'm a fan of film noir. I wrote this awhile back. I only excerpted parts to make an outline of the story here. It's partly a parody of the lurid pulp fiction of the mid twentieth century. The title is a variation on the classic film "The Postman Always Rings Twice." The girl is an artist named Alli... I altered four of her photos to fit into the context of my prose. The background music is Phillip Glass with Buddhist monks, from his album Kundun. I love his minimalist style... It's to die for... ha.

Dedicated to Heather, my favorite femme fatale...je t'aime, my sexy sociopath.

Copyright (c) 2005 Sean Kemble  All rights reserved..

Bee-Cause of Big Lips

by sean kemble

No, I don't have big lips or small lips, they're normal lips. The bee stung my upper lip. An experiment. As if hot needles were stabbing in up through my skull. My eyes screamed from tears. I get whims. Based on logic and impulsivity. However insane it may seem. Certainly one can't always act on an idea. Madness makes a better lover for poets and priests. I like to go in directions few will tread. The bee was an idea after reading something about cosmetic lip enhancement. How doctors inject fat from ones ass to fill out an anorexic upper lip. My adolescent theory was that perhaps the bee venom could be used as a kind of temporary beauty aid. Later to be marketed for profit.

Botox is made from the highly toxic food poisoning bacterium that causes botulism. Used successfully for years in the treatment of wrinkles. Injected right into the affected area. It has been accepted as common practice. There's millions to be made in vanity.

Bee stung lips. We've heard this expression to describe sensual, full lips. " You have sexy, big-ass, juicy lips,"  I say to her. Lips are obsessed about through media, songs and literature. "Kiss me you fool" she said. Guys will talk about 'blow job lips' when looking at certain nubiles.

 Recently in a survey taken at colleges, it was found that 57% of girls would cheat on their boyfriends to have sex with Angelina Jolie. Those lips are pornographic.There should be a NC17 rating on her pictures based on her lips alone.

The idea was to temporarily cause a swelling where my lips would be slightly swollen. The effect lasting a couple days. I see it being marketed as a kind of disposable lips. Perhaps used in the modeling industry for models who have smaller lips. The venom would be harvested and injected later into the area using a syringe. Bees have been used to treat certain auto-immune illnesses. Where people purposely sting themselves for treatment. I saw this on a science channel before. So the concept itself seemed somewhat sane. haha.

 My friends know I'll do such things. Perhaps their encouragment was motivated by malt liquor and sunshine by the pool. Nevertheless, I'm a fire eater when the mood strikes. I'll cross safe lines. I caught two bees on a rose bush with a jar and brought them inside.

Murdering a bee is easy. Once they sting, their guts rip out. I held it by its wings, took some quick breaths, and held it to my upper lip. My friends eyes were wide. "Ahhhhh!! Shit!!!...Jesus!!!.." I reeled back. The pain was like a hot needle shooting through my face up through my skull. I quickly removed the stinger, not wanting more venom to pump into me. My threshhold to pain is high. I'm no masochist. But the little devil hit me harder than expected. "FUCK!! Oh God..What the FUUUCK!!!" My "be-a-mad-genius-or-die" philosophy was fucking my ass.

Being that the lips are a very sensitive part of the anatomy. Much like genitals, I felt one minute of pure agony. And the whole experience wasn't really necessary. I have nice, well formed lips. It was about science and being an inconoclast. Taking the narrow path where few tread. For humanity?

After the shock wore off, the swelling began. No redness though. This was a pleasant surprise. Within thirty minutes it had already approached the fullness i wanted. It seemed to improve the appearance. Yep, it did. Only temporarily though before the growing horror.

It must have been an allergic reaction.The swelling would not stop. Soon I had Steven Tyler's mouth. A bit later I was a character on The Simpsons. My lip hanging over a bit. Still no redness. And surprisingly the lip ballooned as if made to do so with no pain. This was more than a fat lip though. I would have to hide out for days. My girlfriend freaked and laughed mercilessly like cute, bitchy girls will do. I never went to the doctor.

The next morning in the mirror I was stunned. The lip was enormous. An inch or more wide. Like something I saw on the old Twilight Zone before. My profile was freakish. A grotesquerie. Hysterically laughing, my friend tried to take my picture. I wouldn't allow any images of the deformity. I wish I had pictures now. It was traumatizing and i didn't want to see myself immortalized that way.

 The swelling seemed to reach the apex, and gradually went back to normal within three days.

Recently a guy received the Nobel Prize for discovering that bacteria caused stomach ulcers, not stress like previously believed. He used himself as a guinea pig to prove his theory.

Yeah, that's right, I want a fucking Nobel Prize. Because even though seemingly my test went awry, it really did not. There was a temporary enhancement to my lip. And used conservatively by a trained person, I believe it could be used with success and profit. 

Maybe lips aren't that important comparitively to other issues. So I wouldn't get the prize. But if it's implemented without much pain by a doctor and sold as 'Temporary Jolie Lips' , it may turn some profit. Because vanity is paramount, and girls who want to change their look on certain occasions are in legions.  For all the vacuous world loves sexy, big-ass lips. A pair of big lips for a few days. You know you want it, bitches.

EDIT// This happened a few years ago when I was 16. I wouldn't have done it now. Alcohol and friends encouragement go a long way when you are hanging at that age. I liked to disprove the doubters who had no balls to risk themselves. I'm still like that. Now slightly older,  still young,  I'm succeeding in life where some of them are not. I guess, I'm more rambunctious, but I'm driven as well. And i still think it's a workable idea.

Diurnal Quoteth:

The dissenter is every human being at those moments of his life when he resigns momentarily from the herd and thinks for himself.   -Archibald Macleish

Copyright (c) 2005 Sean Kemble  All rights reserved.