Wednesday, January 05, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, October 18, 2004
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
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
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
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
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
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
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
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
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Running didn't work, I got caught. Now I just trip, because of my own blindness.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
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
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
Friday, November 14, 2003
The absolute illest-named food at Denny's:
Brace yourself.
Moons Over My Hammy
I know what you're thinking. "What. What! What?"
I feel the same way. It's horrid.
In other news...Thongs are SANDALOUS!
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
I had this enormous revelation in the shower.
Instead of saying "I don't know," we should say, "Ben Hur." Isn't frightening how much sense that makes?
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, Ben Hur. I wish that you try it just once today. Of course, Ben Hur if you do, Ben Hur if you don't.
Instead of saying "I don't know," we should say, "Ben Hur." Isn't frightening how much sense that makes?
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, Ben Hur. I wish that you try it just once today. Of course, Ben Hur if you do, Ben Hur if you don't.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
All good things happen on the floor!
Yes, friends and neighbors, I used an exclaimation point.
Today, I was laying on Katrina's floor denouncing something, or someone, and I was trying to talk about drowning someone in the ocean, less commonly known as "Davy Jones' Locker". I...failed.
Yes, friends and neighbors, I used an exclaimation point.
Today, I was laying on Katrina's floor denouncing something, or someone, and I was trying to talk about drowning someone in the ocean, less commonly known as "Davy Jones' Locker". I...failed.
Chelsea: "...And I sent him down to Davy Crockett's Tomb....Wait....Crockett? Davy... Davy..."
Katrina: "Davy Jones Locker."
Chelsea: "Wait. that doesnt make sense. Davy Jones - Wasn't he a Partridge?"
Katrina: "No, that was David Cassidy."
Chelsea: "Wait, Davy Jones was a Monkee then."
Katrina: "No."
Foolish, no? Yet...it turns out Davy Jones WAS a Monkee! Score, Sexton.
Katrina: [rebuttal] "Never mind....Apparently he was."
Other great things happen on the floor: Impromptu Nose Fights.
Apparently, I smell like soap.
Eh, it could be worse.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
My latest song obsession: The Thompson Twins - If You Were Here
I've always thought it was a beautiful love anthem, until I looked up the lyrics.
I've always thought it was a beautiful love anthem, until I looked up the lyrics.
if you were here
I could deceive you
and if you were here
you would believe
but would you suspect
my emotion wandering, yeah
do not want a part of this anymore
Sounds like people have had enough of silly love songs. I better not tell Molly Ringwald.
In a world riddled with terrorism, this is comforting.
