skelestones's Xanga

Saturday, January 07, 2006

Sat, 07 Jan 2006 21:37:39 GMT

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.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Sun, 20 Nov 2005 19:57:40 GMT

Menial Bones, Dig Here

by sean kemble

In the off, awful, awfulness of here, lives the it boy of its. In the rock the blood retains heat. The throb, the swelling begets the undertow via the wet arteries gripping my mineralized muscles with mercury. Cursed and trapped unto the earth. A fossil for archaeologists and beastly diggers of tomorrow. The wicked, the evil that tempted me set me snugly deep. The face was childlike and she smells like cinnamon. Ticklish and giggly. A tonic of safety, of ever afters and faith. Ebullient girl, pallor of cream. A windy voice, chilly and clean. Perfect like Christmas.

Suspended here between two histories. Do not bemoan my fate. Perhaps I deserve my encasement. My trapped consciousness forever locked. The loins are demon driven and adore the earth. The semen has a mind. Stony solitude thwarts in off key dissonance, like unformed melodies tittering between thoughts. Wistful whispers from outside places. Within, without, above, below, beyond, the perimeter. In mercurial shapes, evolving colors. This former foppish physique I rode is locked in the lime, the peat bog earth. The cravings have washed into the sand and taken my tasteful lineage. I hear rain, loud horses without hooves, shaking my bunker with ferocity. The pitter patter on crunchy leaves. The veil separates, my cell vibrates. No absolution comes. A mawkish many headed dragon guards the doors.

Her skin was fresh, frosty and the synthesis of heat. The lurid ballerina, nimble and lithe. A contortionistic tongue, well practiced and shifty. Corrupted and black. Infected by her tears. The tales of beatings by father. His fingers. An orphan at ten. A gifted wastrel. The web was sticky with sugars. Seeping in pores like godly goo, a glue refuge to sanctify my she-wolf. The juices gushed.

The aching hostility persists, the cells, the tissues swelter with vehemence. My salted hands, the limbs are impliable, imploding in stiff shivers. The game, stalemate, or is it my move. My god, Ophelia, loosen this sepulchral embrace. Answer me. You necromantic bitch. My romantic fix. The remedy. Release and defile me once again!

This was written as a companion to another short story I wrote. The rhythm is important. You see how it flows in prose, a bit of rhyme, in a unique, almost choppy way. I wanted it to seem timeless in style and place. Like old stories by Poe and others. Melodramatic and bold. Kind of over written. I will post its partner story, Necro-Ophelia, next time. Showing Ophelia's voice. Both are to be read together. A point/counter-point perspective from the dead.

The story is of a sexy witch who seduces a handsome, dorian gray-like young man. And then curses him into the state of consciousness he finds himself in here. Later, Ophelia becoming trapped by her own karmic rebuttal.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 19:26:01 GMT

-let music begin, scroll down slowly-

The Reaper Only Rings Once

by sean kemble

It was midnight on Lovers Lane

and Bobbi Jo had just killed someone

With her daddy's Chevy convertible.

It made her tingle.

It made her giggle

because she knew she'd gotten away with it.

She lit a cigarette

and started to crave chocolate.

Bobbi had been stopped nineteen times

for traffic infractions and

not once incurred a ticket.

Babydolls and money

own the world and

Bobbi Jo was possessed by both.

I drew her

black and white

no color

simple yet cunning

More real

Visceral and brusque

A liar

An expert

Laughing like old movie

glamour girls

A slow dance with red nails

down my back

Playing a dog

Dying for free

shot

On Sunday I was dead

Under an oak tree

In three pieces I lie

Above me, a plywood cross

Marking each body part:

Super ego ego id

Torso and arms pelvis and legs head

I saw it coming, alas, I couldn't hear.

Because...

"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.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Fri, 21 Oct 2005 02:21:15 GMT

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

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Thu, 29 Sep 2005 18:07:38 GMT

Happy Birthday to me.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Tue, 17 May 2005 01:37:47 GMT

Something Wicked This Way Comes

by sean kemble

At five, I witnessed an accident at the fair on the roller coaster. One of the carts fell off and crashed to the ground. I only saw the aftermath of the event when I ran towards the screaming. Chaos permeated the air. My parents chased after me and led me to our car. But as we walked away, I saw the paramedics loading two bloody bodies onto gurneys into the ambulance. Moments earlier I'd been laughing and giddy on cotton candy, snow cones and life. Colors blinking in the summer night air. Pretty girls and loud, gorgeous noises. Now after, all the different faces looked grotesque and gripped and frozen. Death was new. There in the dark light to the side, I saw a mean looking man staring at me as I walked. A scary, toothless carny, who smiled at me while frowning in the shadows.

At fourteen, my friends and I would punch the mummies head everytime we rode through the funhouse. This carnival was in Oregon.We caved his face in from repeated punching. We laughed insanely. We weren't high either. A carny chased us out after he saw the damage and said he would kill us and cut our heads off if we came back. Haha. He meant that too.

I've hated carnies. A lowly lot of scurrilous characters. Miscreant motherfuckers. Stereotyping is true here. There must be a good one somewhere. They con you when you play the games. Even on little amounts of money. I asked for change for a dollar when I was a kid and he counted eight dimes back as ten. I've always felt something ominous as I walk amongst the pleasant concession smells and lights. With their loud, gruff voices barking out towards you.

Nevertheless, I'm strangely drawn back to re-experience these sensations. Last summer I took my girlfriend Pita to a carnival during a festival in town at night. I decided to go in cliche white-trash attire. Wearing holey jeans, a black T shirt and baseball cap with a scorpion on the front. It was really an inside joke for me to dress that way. Certainly not the wardrobe my preppy girlfriend likes me to be seen in. She said I looked all"naco."

As we walked in, shit got weird. The carnies were staring pretty hard at me. Maybe because Pita's a hot, fashionably dressed latina girl, walking with a longish haired, apparent scumbag. Ha.

However, even if they think you may be one of them, they still hate you, get jealous and want you dead. It's the carny code. After we played a couple games, I see a rarity, a black carny. And he said he's seen me before. He contrasts most carnies in that he speaks eloquently. He asks if I've been to Arizona, because he swears he's seen me. "Yes," I say. "But not recently." I mosey off, he calls to me, still trying to get more information and play the game.

Fifteen minutes later, as we walk down a different side, a young girl carny takes my picture and runs away. I didn't see this happen. There were a lot of people, and I was turned towards a motorcycle act in a spherical cage. Pita says, "What the fuck! A girl just took your picture."

I wanted to leave then. Pita said, "She probably just takes pictures of cute guys or something." All my carny paranoia was coming up, like maybe they've mistaken me for someone and have to kill me now.

I took Pita's hand and started walking fast towards the front gate. Careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I glance and notice a large metal sign in front of a ride called The Octopus. It was a height requirement sign for the ride. It was written by an illiterate. Worded by an idiot. I impulsively tell the carny that I want to buy the sign. "Why?" He said dryly. I half laugh, "Because it's funny." He doesn't get it, even when I explain, which makes it funnier to me. I slip him a twenty, and he said, "crazy" and pulled it off the fence. It wasn't his to sell, I'm sure. Pita was laughing quietly. We walked out of the carnival and drove home.

Heed these words. Never trust a carny. Be wary. They're sly, shifty and duplicitous. The backwater bastards will con or kill your ass. When dealing with them carry a big stick.

The sign below hangs on my wall:

haha

EDIT// The title "Something Wicked This Way Comes" is a line in Macbeth by Shakespeare that was later used by Ray Bradbury as the title of his novel and subsequent movie of the same name. The theme of his story was a traveling carnival run by satan.

Diurnal Quoteth:

Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind, don't matter, and those who matter, don't mind. -- Theodore Geisel ( Dr. Seuss )

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Wed, 04 May 2005 23:43:02 GMT

Hallow's Eve on a Spring Day

by sean kemble

Once you've grown up, a long ago memory may seem odd, when at the time it was just another day. On a drizzly spring afternoon, I was arriving home on the school bus. From the bus in a vacant grassy field 10 yards from the road, I saw a muddy coffin. We all did. All us kids were freaked.

When you're 10 this is one of the cooler events. Being that there was no graveyard around for miles made it seem extra bizarre. When we got off at our stop, we formed a group of kids to walk over to investigate the anomaly.

It was a cold, overcast day, gray and sullen, which added to our nervousness. A cute blond girl I liked, Tracy, was clinging to me as we walked. One of the boys was describing the graphic possibilities inside the casket.

My friend Steven was shaking uncontrollably as we walked up close to the coffin. Part of it was the weather exacerbating his fear. His voice was shaky. I teased him.

Up close the coffin seemed older and was dirty, covered in mud. It was one of those two door models. I motioned to tiny Victor to open it. "No way!" He was frozen. "It's just a big box." I said. "Then you open it." He shot back. "Sure dude." I said calmly. Although I was just as afraid inside. I walked over, standing right next to it. Looking back at my friends stunned, bug-eyed expressions.

I reached down and picked up the bottom door gradually leaning back preparing to dart away if necessary. A younger kid was crying, "Shut it, leave it alone!" he yelled. I started evil laughing:"mmmwaahhaha." Continuing to open the door, and then throwing the door up and back. As the door flew, I jumped away. The girls and a gay boy screamed in that moment. I laughed hard. As I walked up to peer in, I saw that there was nothing inside, but it was dirty, like there had been. I opened up the bottom door as well without the drama of before. My friends still held back. I said, "Dude, it's fine, nothing is..." And then I acted like I was being pulled into the coffin. They screamed again.

After telling them that it was empty, they all came forward. "Sean look." Steven pointed at a jumbled dried something. "It's a piece of brain." He said. It did look like that, but our minds were all creeped out by the entire event. So everything had that ghost story feel.

There was a coin in the corner of the box. I told Stevie to get it. He looked at me like "Fuck no." "What a pussy." I said. I jumped in to grab the quarter. The boys shut the doors down on me as a joke when I was inside. It was something I would have done if they were inside. I decided not to come out for a minute to freak them out, thinking something happened to me.

Then the weirdest thing happened. When I started to come out a hand grabbed me. It was a pissed off man yelling at me to get "the hell out of there!" My friends were gone. He clenched my arm tight. I screamed, "LET GO!" And kicked his leg, twisted free and ran.

The next day the coffin was gone. No explanation from the adults. We mentioned it, but the incident was soon forgotten. I've spoken recently to Steve about this history we share. We now think it may have been like a college prank or something, leaving it in the field after using it. Or, then again, maybe a serial killer, satanist, necrophiliac. haha

I still have the coin.

EDIT// The story is a true account of what happened to me. I think a few people in comments thought it to be a short story. It is non fiction, and I really have the coin. -sean

Diurnal Quoteth:

Beauty is a short-lived tyranny. -Socrates

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Tue, 26 Apr 2005 17:50:43 GMT

( turn up volume )

on't go

dead Poe...

or go Van Gogh...

don't go dodo..

gotta go YoYo

gotta bang Go Go...

Be a pimp Moe...

Be a big show...

Han Solo...

Don't hear no no...

be a mofo

Run the path.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Tue, 19 Apr 2005 05:32:58 GMT

The Monk Who Would Be Pimp

by sean kemble

Grigory Rasputin deserves recognition as one of the most brilliant con men in history. The bastard was pimp before it was fashionable. During the early part of the twentieth century he formed his reputation as a self-proclaimed healer and mystic in Russia, seducing the public with his grandiose abilities. His legend spread until the Imperial Family heard and consulted him about their son's hemophilia. By some hypnotic effect he was able to help with Alexis' condition. Believing Rasputin was guided to her by God, the czarina invited him into her social structure. Soon he became a favorite dinner guest amongst the ladies. With a rock stars magnetism, he easily got anything he wanted from the women.

Chillin with his bitches

Pimped out monk style

Rasputin preached that having sex was the way one gets closer to God. Careful to maintain his pretence of being a humble if mystically talented peasant while in the royal couple's presence, Rasputin however lost no time in quenching his sexual appetite outside the court. He discovered shortly afterwards that sexual contact with his own body imbued an orgasmic healing effect upon women. Rasputin then proceeded to bang many of the noble women, possibly including the Empress.

The Imperial Family, the Romanov's.

At the end of 1916, a group of aristocrats decided that Rasputin’s influence had grown too great and that he had to be killed in order to save Russia. The men most likely were jealous of his enormous appeal to the women. They lured him to the palace of one of the princes, fed him poisoned cakes and wine, shot him and then threw him into the river.

Later his body was found frozen on the bank of the river. His penis was severed and placed into a jar of formaldehyde, and still is exhibited in museums today. Scientists estimate it was 11 inches erect, thus proving that size really does matter. Just ask any lady who tells the truth.

Rasputin's penis exhibited in the russian museum of erotica in St. Petersburg. Note womans hypnotized gaze.

EDIT// As it turns out, Rasputin's penis has had a rather colorful history since its separation from his body. Here are some of the highlights. In 1916 Rasputin and his penis parted ways due to the machinations of a murdering gang of angry nobles. But, according to rumor, a maid found the bodiless member at the crime scene and saved it. During the 1920s a group of Russian women living in Paris acquired it (or acquired something that they believed to be his penis) and worshipped it as a kind of holy relic, while keeping it inside a wooden casket. Rasputin's daughter, Marie, didn't like the idea of her Dad's penis hanging out with these women, so she demanded the thing back. And it presumably stayed with her until she died in California in 1977. It then disappeared for a while until it came into the possession of Michael Augustine, who found it tucked away in a velvet pouch along with some of Marie Rasputin's manuscripts that he bought at a lot sale. Augustine sold the well-travelled penis to Bonham's auction house who then discovered that what they had bought was not a penis, but instead a sea cucumber. --The Periscope

Diurnal Quoteth:

Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life. Aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something. -- Henry David Thoreau

Monday, April 18, 2005

Mon, 18 Apr 2005 11:28:23 GMT

( Turn up volume )

site alli

They only want you when you're seventeen
When you're twenty-one
You're no fun
They take a polaroid and let you go
Say they'll let you know
So come on

-- Seventeen by Ladytron

EDIT// This is a commentary on the sexualization and obsession with youth in media and society, fitting into the theme of the song Seventeen by Ladytron playing in the background....To the retards who don't get that already.