London    1994 -   
An old soul dwelling on the edge of the present and the past. Creative melancholic, idealist, lonely romantic.

Tumblr: http://shedealtherprettywordslikeblades.tumblr.com/
All works copyrighted S.H. (C) 2014, unless otherwise stated.
An old soul dwelling on the edge of the present and the past. Creative melancholic, idealist, lonely romantic.

Tumblr: http://shedealtherprettywordslikeblades.tumblr.com/
All works copyrighted S.H. (C) 2014, unless otherwise stated.
Elaenor Aisling
Elaenor Aisling
3 days ago

There is something divine, of light through clouds,
in that cantabile,
the plaintive, golden chords, minor falls,
radiating from the deepest recess of the soul
a tugging lilt of melody.
To think these might be the lowest harmonies of heaven
the simplest of notes in Gabriel's voice
the sweetest, must be so,
It is a wonder
the heart does not break with beauty.

#god   #music   #song   #harmony   #chopin  
Elaenor Aisling
Elaenor Aisling
5 days ago

Apollo pursues me.
The want, unwanted, advance.
Let the zephyrs carry my voice to Olympus,
till my nails split, sprouting
the tendrils of newly birthed leaves.
The First blood he would have spilled
turns to sap, heavy, leaded, golden--pure.
Bones and bark and marrow the wick,
Lock me in chamber unreachable
the coffin, or resting place, peace, quiet
ring upon ring of aged silence.
Fingers, fulfill yourself to branches,
as you might have been in another life.
Feet, still, take root.
Let the toes feel deeper than mud between them,
drive the pulses into the ground,
to the earth from whence we came,
dust to dust.
Limbs, twine round my waist,
hide the breasts he so covets,
make them rough,
fuse the legs, the lips, he sought to part.
Shall my name now be Laurus nobilis
noble, sexless, untouched,
evergreen.
He shall not have me.

Inspiration from a Sculpture. Not Bernini, don't recall the artist.
#love   #life   #tree   #sex   #body   #apollo   #myth   #greece   #scorned   #daphne  
Elaenor Aisling
Elaenor Aisling
6 days ago

The red scarf looks best on me.
It's the first time I've gone somewhere alone
here, in months.
It's growing bitterly cold,
I understand why the wind
might hate the human race,
having blown us about for the past million odd years
and finding that we rarely end up in the right direction.
He tugs at my hair, and the clouds
as I troop down the sidewalk,
the cat who walked by herself
I think.
Something like an independent streak
that rarely rears its head.
Might as well make the most of it
while I have the courage.

Sing in the greyness, the darkness.
Twine it round your fingers
round the staff lines
you carved into your legs.
Black white and red
what have we anymore?
Dame Misfortune Madam
of whorish time,
who waits for no man.
Which came first?
See who lit the cigarette last,
see, he puts his trousers on
one at a time.
Eternity in a nutshell,
the universe in an eggshell,
and we brewed beer in them
to get rid of the changeling thoughts,
though mother heated the shovel
iron hot, it glowed
black white and red.
Flicker, dance-- does it live?
Do we live?
Even when we can see the end?
Blindfolded fortune, justice,
says no,
twisting ribbons round her fingers
black, white and red.

This just tumbled out.
#poetry   #life   #death   #time   #thoughts   #red   #fortune  

I.
First hand.
First kiss.
First forbidden.
First returned.
Broken, shattered
like the shrapnel that nearly killed him.
Bone splinters, suicides, whiskey bottles.
I kissed the Crucible scar
and forgot how to doubt.
He was laughter
where there should have been rain,
the stubborn plant
that grows in spite of concrete.
Kisses on the bridge, under trees,
secrets kept, secrets told.
Cold winds blow.
The laughter left with the shaking of sticks
and the snapping of necks,
broken brain stems.
Behind glass doors,
ironic song lyrics, garish green, tattered blue,
They took his bootlaces
so he couldn't choke the dreams out of himself.
Memories too dark to bear,
looks, stares, something missing in
the VJ-day New-York-Times-Square kiss
that made the nurses cry.
Left--not eternally, yet. (Please never)
My sister said my sobs
were the saddest thing she'd ever heard,
sounded like a wounded animal.
I sent the dogtags back,
refused them back.
Kept the blue flannel, and his ghost haunted me for years.
He's clawing his way back out from hell again.
They regrouped. Charged again.
My hands grasp
at his memory-perfected ghost,
And my words fall
hope, hopeless on his ears.

II.
Change, fate, longing, sad smiles.
Warm breath in the hopeful ghost of an ideal.
Something like the tiniest touches
of leaves against skin, of life, in a mind numbing death,
but never feeling the branch.
Strange love story
born from too much hope and loneliness
a ghost story
Of insomniac nights and guitar chords.
Bound to love but never touch.
Whispering flowers blooming, vanishing,
the hollow spaces were filled for a time.
The heart jumped--the mind pulled her back down.
We loved the idea, golden, bright,
pinning so much
to so fragile a thing-- wish against wish.
I'm sorry
I dropped it.
(Shattered like a glass Christmas ball)
I laughed and cried at the same time--I thought I was mad.
Dreams make sorry lovers.
Lovers have sorry dreams--I woke up.
Hopeless to hope for the impossible, yet.
I was, am, so afraid to try and love, now.
But please, darling, live, love.
Something in you still lives.
I hope.

III.
I will write "lesson"
Though it will read like "apology."
He was the sort of man
who would squeeze a glass in his hand
till it broke,
and blame the shards for cutting him.
So much passion,
streaked, comet lover, bright, blinding.
Caught in some net I didn't know I'd cast,
and you asked me to take you home
with so many overstepped touches.
I don't know where I was.
I lost myself in my head with you.
(Was I hiding?)
A few beautiful thoughts, nights, fleeting,
slightly drunk and singing
through London's streets.
Smashed together in the back of the car
nights in the garden, pretending we weren't
stealing kisses when they found us.
Too much, all at once, too fast, I cringe
though I opened, then, to wide, to far.
But still not over the edge. Still unbroken.
7, 9, 8? One 10.
Brutal honesty-- you were not brutal enough-- I was too much.
We made each other into what we were not.
I am sorry for telling you I wanted to die.  
Icarus and the Sun-- an ill fated love story,
that horrid heat growing stronger between my breasts,
till the wax dripped over my ribs,
and oh, how we crashed,
terribly, dramatically, screaming, nothing beautiful
in our plummeting bodies.
Sobs in hotel rooms
and the back of cars, tail lights, headlights, accusation.
Sorry for being so fucked up.
I'm not what your first love
was supposed to feel like.
Christ, I'm sorry.
I hold the grudge for the both of us.
Resolve for better-- fear it all at once.
I deserve nothing,
and I deserve it all.
Your memory is a knife
I keep cutting myself with.
Masochistic or self-broken heart-- I'm still not sure.
But there's still a freedom
tucked in with the guilt.
I finally flew away.
When you weren't looking.

Deeply Personal work. Thought I might as well put them together all in once place. Endless well of inspiration, apparently. Do you all get tired of me writing about it?
#love   #end   #relationships   #lovers   #gone   #personal  

Her smile stands like a porcelain lock,
lips closed like the red doors
to the Forbidden city.
Those blood-washed memories
will never dry in closed rooms.
Rust grows under her fingernails
smelling of iron and salt,
destroying the magic.
Her mixed drinks, peroxide and pain killers,
sleeping pills
stand on the nightstand,
after her one night stands,
leave the door standing open.
The cat knocked the glass over,
stained the carpet.
She locks the door again,
blotting the stain with her hair,
she chokes on the dust.
Swallows down the myrrh
to make her breath sweet,
wash the blood from her teeth.
The plastic wrap party dress
clings to the bruises,
and she paints it black with old mascara stains
and phone bills,
taping the pieces of herself together
with promises of old lovers.
The door opens
The lips lock,
porcelain smile.

Inspired by Prompt "Behind Closed Doors"
#pain   #dark   #hurt   #doors   #blood   #magdelene  

I loved you
as gently as I knew how.
Looked at you with Solomon's Song behind my neck
and the forbidden fruit between
my lips.
Your haunted eyes stared back at me
and I kissed them closed as
Blooms of an unknown flower
unfurled in my stomach.
Softly, silently, I christened your
forehead, cheekbone, jaw, lips.
Featherless birds, your hands
nested at my waist, drawing in their wings,
as their songs floated out on your breath.
Your scarred hands, beautiful in their strength
shoulders bearing Atlas's weight
the gentility tucked deep in your chest.
Breath to breath, song to song,
Poetry of the strangest beauty,
written on the sky, on your palms
in the sunlit room,
effortless, nameless, you named me
yours.

#love   #kiss   #poetry   #heart   #memories   #lovers   #gone   #song   #valentinesday   #makingout  
 
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