MusingsInspire me with something more than icing sugar and ink, Gethsemane, bird bones and vintage baubles sushi on a winter's day do not coalesceMusings
into easy listening. Rainbow shots of booze and bottles staring at the stars
are comfort when sleep takes off and Russian faerie tales and hello-kitty coasters are the brazen companions I have left
whilst the whole world sleeps on. I'd be a God, a charcoal skeleton, if you'd just let me be. Inspire me more with ecclesiastical trappings and
stained glass, Cathedrals and sugared skulls, Cold cloudy nights Ros
Seekersso maybe i'm a little drunk a little far gone on cheap white wine mexican soup and tortillas, chip-faced and pissed and there's this longing for heat beneath the sheets, small utterances in my "night time" inside voice and feeling at home at home for goodness' sake.Seekers
i'll say all kinds of things i'm shy to mean, like how i know i'll fit you, and that rain is cathartic and love fucks me up. running in the storm made my thighs pinker than a summer afternoon and the adrenaline rush made it all worthwhile. the rhythm is always slow until i make
coffee in the afte
Winter Prayerswhen our home is crackle cold the coffee percolated,Winter Prayers
i set to my little stove to create worlds unformulated; the cupboards groan like father frost who bustles brittle outside the door we are blissful-content in fantasies, lying upon the kitchen floor, as steam strokes the walls the snow skydives at last, you consider watching al capone reruns (and having me for breakfast) for sugarplum skies are rolling slow and we watch from deep within, as mother winter lets out her breath and all the stars begin to spin. for autumn decays and sleep is born, &nb
When October Comes Againautumn is an older woman,When October Comes Again
whose hair shimmers flaming, glowing brighter in her last bloom of youth,
her decay is gently transparent, silver tree roots bared.
her expression is pinched and cold
(despite the apple-red in her cheeks) more paradoxical for her airs and graces, laughter like crow's callings,
shivering up her throat.
her skirts somewhat torn, somewhat stained, she allows us mystery, secrets suddenly almost-perceptible in the twilight,
for
dusk is not as easily penetrated
as dawn.
yet melancholy is her s
| My name is Eloise and I write poetry. I drink tea out of charity-shop tea-cups, I adore sunny days, freckles and storm-coloured eyes. I over hypenate my writing, love being read to, and take the greatest pleasure in the simple good things in life. I'd love to meet you. |
BLOG AND ARTICLES, AWWW YEEEEAH!
Cheerful
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There are a million in the Church tonight.
THANK YOU!
(Estimated Comment Completion Time: 31:43:17)
I don't actually know what time I was trying to type. That looks like some sort of code. 4 and 1 are in between the 3's, so maybe that's 5? And then the 4 and a 3 are between two 1's. So maybe that's 7? Oh - but then there're 3's around the 5, so maybe that's 15? What's 15 and 7? 22? I'm pretty sure. But then what does the extra 7 at the end mean?
This is a terrible code.
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You're no scarlet prim proper rose
Sing me your pretty prose
Lips pressed nose to nose
Legs entwined with twenty toes.
--
An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
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Damn you non-conformist conformists!
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There are a million in the Church tonight.
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There are a million in the Church tonight.
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~Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black and the dark street winds and bends...
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There are a million in the Church tonight.
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