He Loves Me

Once we were young
You came into the store and asked me where the milk was
I hoped you didn’t hear or see
The quaking in my heart
The shaking in my hands
I thought I loved you

Time passed
I didn’t work at the store anymore
You asked me another question
(I said yes)
It was warm outside, but there was
A quaking in your kiss
A shaking in your touch
I knew I loved you

Years have passed
Now we are old
As you walk to warm the milk for me
I notice
A quaking in your step
A shaking in your voice
I still love you

He Loves Me Not

Didn’t I swim down by the river
With joyous abandon and your hand in mine?

Didn’t you kiss me on the side of the road
With my arms full of apples and your soul bound with mine?

Didn’t we vow on the train at the station
“This is just for a little while, you’ll always be mine”?

Why are you so far from me?
Why are you apart from me?

You’ve left me with a heart that is no longer mine.

I've Always Found This Car Wash Breathtakingly Beautiful

New Wine Into Old Wineskins

You're stomping on the grapes of my heart.

Growing Up

If my calculations are correct, I was 14 when I started this blog. That makes me 21 today, for you mathletes out there. That makes me feel a little bit better about some of the laughable things that I've skimmed from my past. I wish I had written more? But at the same time, it's probably better to leave things as they are. Maybe I should have written less! I've deleted legions of my written material off the internet and my computer before. It's all too embarrassing, too incriminating, too darn silly. But something draws me back here. Maybe I just want to see my 10 year anniversary with this little hole of cyberspace - my little hole of cyberspace. And how can I forget? I love writing. Do you hear that, Chelsea?
I LOVE WRITING!
YOU LOVE WRITING.
Don't forget.


I've busted out my Essay Writing Chair, the one I steal from my sister when I absolutely must get to business. It's that time, folks. I absolutely must get to business.

Oi Lienda
Bella che fa?
Bonita, bonita que tal?
But belle
Je ne comprends
pas français
So you'll have to
speak to me
Some other way

Hidden Treasure

A 'found' poem using cut up pieces of The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo.

Aftermath

There is snow upon the trees
Bloody branches in the night
And fallen warriors on their knees

Death spread through them like disease
Comrades met with sudden plight
There is snow upon the trees

With rasping breath their lives did cease
Nothing here but waning light
And fallen warriors on their knees

Returning home filled with unease
Remembering that awful sight
There is snow upon the trees

You hear their voices in the breeze
You see their faces filled with fright
And fallen warriors on their knees

Memories of their desperate pleas
There will be no sleep tonight
There is snow upon the trees
And fallen warriors on their knees

Sonnet

Come flower maid, reside under my shade
You need a quiet place to meet your lad
A hunger for his lips that will not fade
To be your place of meeting, I am glad

Under my canopy you can act coy
The lad is charming, true, make no mistake
I’ll never breathe a word about this boy
Glowing with the secrets you soon shall make

Your fingers around his now tightly curl
The sultry air stirs more than leaves and dew
Budding passions now threaten to unfurl
The thirst that parts your lips is fresh and new

Twist my branches ‘round your pretty waist
And bend into the river for a taste

the difference between me and you

new york
i see filth
fragility
waste and
wickedness
i like the subways though

new york
you see riches
glittering in the city lights
youth
glimmering in the night
alluring saffron scented opportunities

san diego
i see salty skin and sandy hair
a tangle of bodies and boards
sparkling in the ocean
suntanned skin and matted hair
a tangle of live wires
sparking in the sun

san diego
you see today’s weather forecast
as a cloud mass of predictability
scattered showers
with a slight chance of suffocation

this is a stalemate with no way out, mate
well, maybe one way out --

australia
the promised land?

australia
the promised land?

memories

buried under the ashes
charred
unable to get up
they are begging me to stay

i want to stay among the coals
they whisper to me
they tickle the ears

i want to sleep upon the cinders
this is where my life is

one smoky asp murmurs in my ear
come to me
i will refresh you
i will eat you alive

i raise a fragile limb through the ashes
i am no phoenix

a strong hand grabs me
i gasp for breath
my bones glow
the ashes stir

pulled from the wreckage
a warm wind blows
i can see stars

the ashes stir
a strong hand rests on my shoulder

it’s time to go

i grasp a handful of ashes
i let them go
a strong hand takes mine

there will be new memories
i can see stars

kiss

my breath hastens when you kiss me
my eyes shut when you kiss me
and i shut them tight
my hands shake when you kiss me
my lips tingle when you kiss me

my skin crawls when you kiss me
because there is suspicion
crawling all over me

cat

you eat the same thing every day
and you comfort me
(the same thing every day)

it's because i feed you
you do it, don't you

it's because you comfort me
i do it, right

maybe i do it because
you sit on my lap
when i have no lap to sit upon

or perhaps it is because
you are warm
and i can be

a cold woman

Revival!

I've got to be honest. Even though I've taken a...four year hiatus, I am more than a little thrilled to find this little beast floating around on the internet. Oh, how I've neglected you. I'm still smitten. Just...with different things.

Congratulations to me, for reaching and surpassing my 2nd anniversary with...myself. I can't believe I started this sporadic chronicle of my adventures over two years ago.

In celebration, I plan to take myself out to a fine supper complete with supple cheeses and delicate wines that dance upon my palate like an inebriated wood nymph.
I will adorn myself in silk, velvet and other luxurious fabrics and gorgeous dresses flown in from the fashion houses of Paris.
Actually that last part is what P. Diddy put on his birthday party invitations as the dress code. I, personally, would like see Daddy Puff cloaked in a gorgeous dress flown in from the fashion houses of Paris. But maybe I'm just bitter because I didn't vote, and P. Diddy didn't kill me.

Let's not complain about trivial things.
When people complain, let's respond with one of these:

a) Well, I'm sorry. This is the way we do things on planet Earth.
b) I'm going to punch you in the ovaries.
c) BALLOON PARADE!!
Anything of these will silence, frighten, or otherwise shut up the offending party.

I've moved my moniter to my nightstand and my keyboard to my bed. My cordless mouse rubs up and down my thigh, shooting wireless toxic rays into my leg. This is the life.

And just in case you forgot:
The lion of love trembled before the python of forgetfulness.

I love you.

LET'S TALK ABOUT SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR.
On a grassy knoll.
In La Jolla.
It probably wasn't a knoll, but that sounds good, doesn't it?
You must read it very rhythmically, outloud.
For that is how it was composed.

BUT FIRST, LOOK AT MY CAT.



crash into the grass
skin your skin on the skin
of mother earth
crash into the grass, crash on the grass
let the women with their
blue hair
wheelchairs
wooly blankets
brittle fingers
let them stare
let them stare at us sleep, sleep,
let them sleep
then them stare at
the grass, at the sleepers,
at the sleeping people and papers
while we slumber
awakened by the
wild whomping wumpus
of a wheezing
weed whacker
I shift down against my comfortable companion,
comforted by this warm human
electric blanket
my circuits are peaceful

starry-eyed limpets desperately clinging to the last vessel of their own self worth
departing marginally
deadly machinations of twisted vines that creep down one's throat and throttle the vocal chords
until the eyes start to talk
speaking water instead of words

speaking volumes

these human leeches
they'd rather wrap themselves in the drapes,
ugly curtains
a shade of melancholy mustard
they'd rather hide in the curtains than touch the truth

she's really only missing a few knobs and handles
makes it difficult to hang on to her, she's so slippery and those talking eyes, lubricious.

the drapes smell like estate sale and
bodies or vegetables that have been in the sun too long
sprouting mummified limbs, and their arms - sticks with transparent wings.

they are magnetically pulled under the current
and she is lacking the reason to climb out and unfold their eyelids

dearest,
shambala.
i have removed all the light bulbs.
illuminated is the place i hate to visit, where the green corduroy carpet veils the past
life: reduced, shoved delicately into a box.
a stolen box, from the closet of a kinsmen.

there are two pictures:

one. we are in a pool, our teeth sinking into the same brownie.
someone took a picture. you were red, i was white. i needn't note the color of the brownie.
our bodies looked bulbous and ethereal under the water. later, someone would steal the picture and give it to another as a gift.
we would then be black and white and impervious to pain.

two. we are at a table. a gaudy, wrought-iron table.
i probably bought the brownie because it was soft and indubitably, i would touch anything that was soft. although i intended to prey upon this decadent creation, our attention was ensnared by the photograph being taken. or at least, yours was.
your ingrained film-conciousness told you to look happy, and you failed to bite down.
you always smile when you shouldn’t. it’s as if you’re only capable of joy, and who am i curse it?
i, however, finish my thought and bite down. hard. that photograph crouches in a landmine of remembrance. i refuse to tread carefully, which explains my missing limbs.

do you remember those times?
for i remember how to bake.

what if i found you in my bed?

i remain,
devotedly yours,
chelsea sexton

Running didn't work, I got caught. Now I just trip, because of my own blindness.

avarice

I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot rain slide down my body
reflections of a Tuesday afternoon
Tuesday rolls down the grass and breaks her fall in your hands

we bake memories in an unconventional oven
ones that are hidden in boxes in the closet, pressed inbetween pages of a childhood book,
and occasionally, they lurk in threadbare sheets that smell faintly of your skin.
I can trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where I now sleep

then,
Thursday night blinked and turned blue
that day feasted on fiercely guarded hopes
passion stumbled on the steps of prudence
and the kitchen was closed indefinitely,
condemned by unforeseen occurrence

now,
I can barely trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where you will never be again

tomorrow is an intangible treasure
a luminescent assurance held aloft and kissed softly every evening
to justify a peaceable sleep
until you run out of tomorrows
and are left with the remains of yesterday

now,
I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot tears slide down my face