From Home Kick the dandelion-ed verges Gate creaks Swing Hands grip chain The rush of air The tips of my toes The poplar trees My heart soaring, falling, soaring Now that’s not my Home And they cut down the poplar trees And I forget to look for dandelions But sometimes, I think about swinging
Skin is white this strange-light morning
Body-tangled sheets and silence
Holy holy holy
I reach for you and I'm absolved
Your touch, I bloom a violent rose
Holy holy holy
The sun hangs like a communion wafer in the mist
Nothing makes sense sometimes
Everything is brick and stone
In a city you don't know
Dry mouths and wet eyes, your body soft in a hotel mirror
The cranes, limp arms at sunrise
Bear no testament to our passing
Ships: Night
Breathe
Nothing makes sense sometimes
Curry-laden breath
Sits in his terraced house and sweats
Same chair of 3-piece suite
Carpet worn from sagging frame to piss stained bowl and back again
Ceiling flicker; blue-blue-green
The walls are grey with smoke
With canned laughter
To which he falls asleep
Curry-laden breath
The microwave
The TV screen
An inescapable box
A terraced house
The telephone doesn't ring
Some things have no name by xSwEetxBlAsPheMyx, literature
Literature
Some things have no name
Dear boy
I will not use your name anymore.
Decades ago, in the small hours,
I had a monopoly on it,
Flaunted it jealously to the moonlight that blared
Through the crack in the curtains
To the low murmur of far-away cars
And
I will not use your name anymore
Dear boy
I will not think of you anymore.
Even of the lazy overhang of your lip when you're sleeping
For if I imagined you speaking everyday
You would say
'If you were better, you'd be here by now'
I will not twist the knife with my own hand
And
I will not think of you anymore
Dear boy
I will not write a book like the ones you love so well.
Where the could-be and the
I find you in the night again.
The clashes of the dishes in the sink that
Ring through the house are cymbals at the Halle
And you are just a child
Playing in a sandpit
At the sound of my footsteps, cautious approach
Your eyes flicker under soft pink lids and from somewhere
Deep within your sleep you mutter
"I-just-wanted-to-make-it-better"
I lead you to your bed,
Your soapy-wet hands fumbling themselves dry
On striped cotton sleeves.
You are guilt wracked, Lady Macbeth
You are a field of gold where one hundred
black birds crow overhead
You are possessed, and perfect
Collapsing into bed with a heavy sigh
Your lips smile brief
From Home Kick the dandelion-ed verges Gate creaks Swing Hands grip chain The rush of air The tips of my toes The poplar trees My heart soaring, falling, soaring Now that’s not my Home And they cut down the poplar trees And I forget to look for dandelions But sometimes, I think about swinging
Skin is white this strange-light morning
Body-tangled sheets and silence
Holy holy holy
I reach for you and I'm absolved
Your touch, I bloom a violent rose
Holy holy holy
The sun hangs like a communion wafer in the mist
Nothing makes sense sometimes
Everything is brick and stone
In a city you don't know
Dry mouths and wet eyes, your body soft in a hotel mirror
The cranes, limp arms at sunrise
Bear no testament to our passing
Ships: Night
Breathe
Nothing makes sense sometimes
Curry-laden breath
Sits in his terraced house and sweats
Same chair of 3-piece suite
Carpet worn from sagging frame to piss stained bowl and back again
Ceiling flicker; blue-blue-green
The walls are grey with smoke
With canned laughter
To which he falls asleep
Curry-laden breath
The microwave
The TV screen
An inescapable box
A terraced house
The telephone doesn't ring
Some things have no name by xSwEetxBlAsPheMyx, literature
Literature
Some things have no name
Dear boy
I will not use your name anymore.
Decades ago, in the small hours,
I had a monopoly on it,
Flaunted it jealously to the moonlight that blared
Through the crack in the curtains
To the low murmur of far-away cars
And
I will not use your name anymore
Dear boy
I will not think of you anymore.
Even of the lazy overhang of your lip when you're sleeping
For if I imagined you speaking everyday
You would say
'If you were better, you'd be here by now'
I will not twist the knife with my own hand
And
I will not think of you anymore
Dear boy
I will not write a book like the ones you love so well.
Where the could-be and the
I find you in the night again.
The clashes of the dishes in the sink that
Ring through the house are cymbals at the Halle
And you are just a child
Playing in a sandpit
At the sound of my footsteps, cautious approach
Your eyes flicker under soft pink lids and from somewhere
Deep within your sleep you mutter
"I-just-wanted-to-make-it-better"
I lead you to your bed,
Your soapy-wet hands fumbling themselves dry
On striped cotton sleeves.
You are guilt wracked, Lady Macbeth
You are a field of gold where one hundred
black birds crow overhead
You are possessed, and perfect
Collapsing into bed with a heavy sigh
Your lips smile brief
Ode to Sylvia Plath by AzizrianDaoXrak, literature
Literature
Ode to Sylvia Plath
the smell of the kitchen floor.
six days ago you left a note,
and promised the world you would die.
your eyes are destiny,
i can see the patterns aligning
in the stars. there is
consecration in the grief.
coins flashing last-day sighs,
your lips pink and pink
against chalky exhaustion.
your mind was truth.
you left textures in the darkness
and the candle flames. linoleum and dried milk
and gasoline. beautiful, you thought.
And I wondered why you didn't curl your lips up
in distate,
when I lit up as you sat down beside me.
You with the trendy blonde hair, eye makeup
and peach coloured skin.
Oh a quick betrayal of everything I had you
pinned as,
like a moth to a display board,
you were just another office girl.
So surprised when the ring of words,
you slipped so sensuously between your lips,
read the same as my addiction's fuel.
Of course you smoke the golds,
the one's for girls.
I smoke the reds,
for those of us who just wish death,
slightly quicker than the rest.
You sat beside me, as we confided silently,
two addicts and an easy way out
on
-a fuck load of mirrors- by xSwEetxBlAsPheMyx, literature
Literature
-a fuck load of mirrors-
Intoxication played in my veins but fell victim to self destructed as soon as you started the engine. this is the most delicious side of suicide I could ever have imagined. Collision is already licking his lips in anticipation while the god of tragedy looks to the skies. The wheel screams ' Dance with me' Tonight. and the street lights illuminate our pupils, tunnels bored right into our minds. Nothing to discover but. Blue havoc and Eccentricity. We're about to stop becoming in its tracks.
Road side recovery don't care for corpses, hospital beds don't appreciate blooded masses and we're not big fans of life – infection is the last of our wor
Hey guys,
If anyone is actually out there that is...i think i have been neglecting dA somewhat and now it seems to be neglecting me! I've been having a bit of trouble writing recently, mainly because i have a tendency to compare everything i write to anything from Beckett to Placebo and always find it to be lacking...
But i do love to write and so im going to start putting up some new stuff, slowly so as not to flood your inboxes too much!
Please please take a peek and say something positive/ constructive if you have time.
Much love
Emily
xxxxx
wowowowowowowowowow
i think i may be one of the happiest people in the whole world...
just a few words from him make me feel the summer right to my core
how disgustingly mushy
hope all is well with my favourite deviants
much love
X