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About Literature / Student Emily May26/Female/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
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Cold Flowers
I looked back; the city stretched and
pulled me under. I’ve lost my mind
in its jewellery stores and rat-holes,
eyes rolled seasick across its floors.
Angels and murderers ride the trains
mutely and cough when they cover
their mouths, flash their knives,
bare their teeth.
I’ll still walk a broken tunnel
long after I am gone
when the place has been picked clean
and the sun has passed out in her party
dress, the fairs all rolled away and
electric lights dying –
when I’ve made it to the edges
    crying and muddy on the banks of the river
    where God and the water meet
she’ll still be spread there, the sleeping
body of Ra, drunk cheeks for the
earth to warm its hands upon,
between the cold flowers
      of the morning after.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 19 22
Stars and Flies
Like a moth I've made pilgrimages
and battered my face
against the rays of stars
to feel their grace,
their language of silence
that my tongue cannot break.
I've found expanses
too far for wings
or fingers to touch.
I've bent and scraped my hands
tearing down the walls
for angels, seen the giant disappear
laughing over the mountain;
stood dumbly at the broken cross
of a light I do not understand.
One day like flies
the words will crawl
and maybe
then I will be
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 13 7
Mature content
Bath House :iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 12 3
Your throat will
be that wet well
where their pills fall
like stone-pits falling
into ink with
ripples and spoils,
the crumbs of moss
rock in a pool,
only to sink
silent and forgotten
to the bottom of
a place where the
air is so dark and thick
it sits in your mouth
like a dank Bible
but offers not a
single word of
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 17 5
how can women
house these winter thorns
in their chests
without becoming
beasts? the soft and
heavy black stretch
of wanting, the bluebells
that grew in the warmth
of his sleeping breath, a dark
million miles of silence
how can a woman
bear it? that ache
for light
against wilderness
as he burns and
strikes fires in the dark
the ache to sit and be
warm in his spit and
his glow, his warm
body, his warm mouth
as the wet of the
woods falls quiet
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 26 9
Give You Poems
I want to give you poems
like jewels and candied peaches,
call you Hans, Darling,
Husband – plant poems
that push, cry, smile
in the dirt of our home.
I want to give you poems
to put a storm in your mouth,
ones that are savage
and golden and cry
like gods on train platforms,
their eyes wet with silence.
I want to give you poems
that can breathe into
yours, the slow green
kisses; our wild palms
touching, smoking,
at damp silk.
Poems that can make
faces in the bath,
cook your eggs,
be your ruby,
be your dark star,
feathered bellies and
black spots. I want to
write a poem
that can stand before you
proud and bright, make swells
in your throat and heart,
take slow and final steps –
that can ache with poetry,
with freckles, with teeth,
that turn smiling
to bite, wear the words
like a bride.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 15 5
With Hunger
I like your teeth, two
strips of stars - the haze
of the smile that
found me, crying
in a belly of ivy
with longing, with
hunger, with palpitation.
I like your teeth. They
suit you. The lazy
stretch of speech,
drifting smoke-hearts
in the night air,
the languid prince.
I like your teeth. I want
them in my neck, my
breasts, my heart, drawing
blood and poetry out of
cathedral doors. I want
to go down with you,
through that valley of hands
and skin, the dirty hotels,
beds, deserts,
your mouth drags me.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 9 1
To fall down together,
crying out loud
with hands that bite
in our backs, hands
that twist teeth
in hair, howl oh
I like you,
I like you
to fall down with
him - his feathered
smiles, busy fingers,
my sore lilac
to breathe fearlessly, cry
fearlessly, kiss
to lie down
with the man I
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 5 1
Whole Lot Of Nothing
The newspapers are dead
today, blank and proud
there is no news except
love, that which lights
the houses behind our
eyelids, kisses our clothes
in the dryer, pulls
us from our beds like
kings dancing and howling
Wake up lover!
its your ceremony, your
ferocity, your pages
standing empty
love will stand laughing
with yellow hair and
pull your hands
before you, pull the
dirt from your eyes
with a touch as clean
and bright as
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 12 5
Nice Enough
Nausea fills me,
such tiny waves
that break against
my insides, so
quiet, that old
wet sermon
and I'm wearing
jewels, such big
silly things and they
cast dull shadows
of blue on my skin
like sleeping fishes -
the water lapping,
and these walls
hate me, these men
hate me, the pages,
papers, parties
but your mother doesn't
hate me, and perhaps
that is enough
for now.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 8 1
This morning, I woke
gasping, sticky-limbed, crying
to an angel on the
that eclipsed the sun that had hid
from me, my whole life,
the spilled eyes of glasses,
my shy and foolish utterings
that struggled to suffice
under the weight of its
wings, a smooth moon of
white, the earnest
bowl of roses that cut like
jewels, bright stoppers in the
mouth - I lay there
legs open to the ceiling
mouthing my sincerities, tongue
startled by my angel, lips
hitching at silk, thumbing
for a ride
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 16 12
Otherwise Good Condition
I have worn the same dress
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
sick --
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
she coughed
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
blow kisses
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 109 28
Run it in terms of this;
that one day
she will fill you
with what you didn't ask for -
The dirty nose,
the catfish skin
that held you sadly.
You didn't know
how to keep the lights on
and he touched you like he
was Frieda
clutching colour between his teeth.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 15 8
And she returns
to wear your face,
that ragged claw of smallness,
that pride in principle,
that badness
that keeps you well.
You don't know
the doctor knows.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 13 8
For three nights the sun
goes down without you,
red mouths
dry out,
the sheets remain sad
and unchanged. Soon,
a giantess will put down
her glass to identify
your body, so carelessly
from a photograph
taken too late. And then
you will be claimed.
The altar
did not forget you,
girl, your little teeth
like candy,
or your sticky deer
in the cola dip
of the day
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 20 8
White Flowers
The doctor was old
and had thin old braids
for skin, hard
red fingernails. She said,
it's not that you are a bad woman
but more that you cannot leave
things be. She looked sad
and fabulous, liver-spots
and lipstick, teeth
like dull old stars,
like the weeping boys
who used to love me
and steal my dresses. She said
you are not bad,
are you listening?
and I swallowed, turned
the rock in my hands, said
There are these teeth stuck
in the back of my head
that tell me
I am not good,
I am not good
at all, get 'em out,
and we cried,
thinking about
their white-flower
saliva trickling
into my hair.
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 19 7


Jazz Fragment (Bird) II
“Even the birds make it.”
       – Henry Miller
I think after
       the two of us pass
       I'd like to come back
               just for one more go 'round
               this time as birds flyin' 'round
               loving you and cooing
               in the early morning sun –
                       singing a lovely song …
:iconjohnfinch:johnfinch 4 0
tree house
i dug your grave in the silhouette
of an aspen tree and cradled your dead branches
in my arms. i don't believe in heaven, i told you once
in the afterglow of winter,
only hell, the endless stillborn beat of
the mothership, and where we go when we leave it.
i   am satisfied just to float with you like driftwood
love me for each limb you said, because
you needed more time so i bought you a book
about elephants. you left it at my house and borrowed
Dante's Inferno. left the shelves in my bedroom loose like
baby teeth and left a silence so loud it took december just to try and fill it
planting birdseed in the frozen topsoil like
hollow bones i
guess i could have loved you for
your leaves but instead i said baby, be an evergreen
on a mountainside so i can always find you you said
baby, wait a little longer, i can't promise you a future
cause i can't promise one for myself but let's
bury our lovers beneath grocery bags and
talk until daybreak.
i dreamed your eyelids were hills
:iconaquarius-claire:Aquarius-Claire 27 23
not a 12 part poem
the man on the bench had a laugh
like an empty can of paint falling down the stairs.
that means i liked him. i liked a lot of people then,
it kept me warm. that november i was awake
if only inside of my own head. my friends and i had a candle
made out of an altoids tin and it kept us warm.
i kept it in my pocket even though it got so hot it almost
burned. i kept it in my pocket even still. everyone
wanted to see the tunnels we had found behind the buildings.
we took them to the tunnels. the can of paint rattled around
inside of my head, the man was laughing over and over again,
we found a tunnel behind a building, and a candle to keep us
warm and awake inside of our heads--
I was you much more often than you were ever me.
I’ll become you, if only like a fish, stretch amphibious legs through the water
listen to me, i’m writing a twelve part jam
to the tune of your fingernails on the pavement and your breath in a coffin.
shut, up, shut, up, the world beats on and on,
:iconaquarius-claire:Aquarius-Claire 10 0
virginity is like an envelope
my mother said her mother knew.
i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,
fifteen and beer-loose
tied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lips
and i wrote a story about disaster,
a quiet two sleds long.
a box full of beads, i swallowed
fifteen needles, mommy. don’t
tell me i’m not sorry.
don’t call me a whore you bag of bones
you lock-loose suitcase do you even
recognize me look at my face my toothache skin
i am not the one with the knife.
my mother never slept with a boy
who didn’t love her never let a boy
sleep on her while she lay awake beneath
the shroud of his skin breathing only
when her voice-box gathered too much dust.
you have to know i didn’t do
it on purpose. he slid beers down my throat
till i felt like a landfill.
i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-
you couldn’t tell. i got home
with my legs full of nightmare.
the doctor said xanax.
i said i am a ruin like the ones
we saw in peru.
a balloon in a funeral poem.
:iconaquarius-claire:Aquarius-Claire 79 34
winter song
I paid for you in silver dollars,
rabbit bones, and snail shells.
Beneath the flannel crush,
a twining of lash fingers,
I weight you with catamount claws,
I bury you in firewarmed stone
You are mine,
and I eat you with moth mouth
and spin you to silk.
When the winter stripped aspen bark
and the elk starved til their hooves
were too light to keep them tethered-
I carved the shape of a palm beneath the doorwood
and you tied three husk dolls to the tallest sapling.
We were a bowl, carved hollow and narrow
as pine needles and pressed against coals
and dog fur, leaning like lightning away
from blistered earth, taut with freeze,
away from wood, shrunk and sap-sticky-
dove tails untied and ribboned and bare.
Your spine is a naked rope and I climb you
to clouds rippled like sea-sand, my eyes
are bottle glass green.
I seize waves and swallow them to smoke.
You pad my throat with ash and
settle my bones with sandstone
and sink me to mud, coffined in ice.
You sell my teeth for cornmeal and
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 75 33
New Year, New Book
Howdy everyone,
It has been a little while since I have posted any sort of update, but today that changes, and today I get to announce some exciting news:
Flowers and Jazz, my second collection of poetry is out today. You can currently purchase a copy here: Flowers and Jazz and very soon copies will also be available to order on Amazon (if not later today, then in the next couple of days).
I am really excited to bring this new collection to poetry to you all. Flowers features over one hundred poems written in 2013, most of which were previously unpublished. I hope you enjoy.
I hope the New Year has found you all well, and I look forward to new things coming in the year 2015.
:iconjohnfinch:johnfinch 1 0
I believe in myself,
my love, God, and flowers,
       in no particular order,
       for I love myself as she loves me
       and I love her as she loves herself
       she is a flower, dew-dropped,
       she holds my hands and wears flower-prints
       as we walk through holy gardens
       and God is all around and in,
       and the flowers let me feel it,
       like her skin pressed to my palm,
       like her soul, holy, inwoven into mine,
       like God, holy, inwoven to the all
       our love, holy, inwoven into all …
:iconjohnfinch:johnfinch 6 0
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
Your light,
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet.
:iconglossolalias:glossolalias 30 24
#164 Friday the 13th by Picolo-kun #164 Friday the 13th :iconpicolo-kun:Picolo-kun 4,467 121
Bowlesian Sonnet
-en if this paper in your hand was once
an Aspen, thick with sunny leaves; around
the base of wet and living wood, a ground
that reeks of life and death at once, then conc-
-entrate, and know at least in brief the grand
machine you sleep in, twitching fingers, won-
-dering just how one feels a texture, sun
lights warmth, bare prickled skin, bare feet in sand.
Oh this body. How I will tend to it
seventy-five or eighty. How I will
bend arthritic knees, by five windows, still,
the summers passing. Faithful friend! Now, bit
by bit, you close each window to its clasp.
This paper in your hand was once an Asp-
:iconbobibillius:Bobibillius 74 35
Mature content
Touch II :iconjohnfinch:johnfinch 10 3
I want to be your undress
I want to be your coffee breath
I want to be your breakfast
comes down the hall
with squeaky shoes all arms and
smiles and slipping suit
I want to be your clam-bake
I want to be your lemon cake
Let me be your dinner plate
is around
is your neighbor
is at your window
I want to be your doorway
I want to be your shadow play
I want to be the moon rays
on the cool patio
feet kicked against
the cool railing
I want to be your crayon
I want to be your fan
I’m a fan
knows your hands like
the bones at the back of the
closet and
I want to be your kneepads
I want to be your church slacks
I want to be no take-backs
might have curly black
brown straight blonde hair
might have those lips
I want to be your ecstasy
I want to be sobriety
I want to be treated properly
crudelem illam hastam
I want to be your property
arrow of the heart's
ink writes
the body ransom
:iconformaniac:formaniac 5 9
Mature content
And I Keep Looking In Things That Aren't Real :iconglossolalias:glossolalias 32 11



emilygolightly's Profile Picture
Emily May
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
“Woman’s role in creation should be parallel to her role in life. I don’t mean the good earth. I mean the bad earth too, the demon, the instincts, the storms of nature. Tragedies, conflicts, mysteries are personal. Man fabricated a detachment which became fatal. Woman must not fabricate. She must descend into the real womb and expose its secrets and its labyrinths. She must describe it as the city of Fez, with its Arabian Nights gentleness, tranquility and mystery. She must describe the voracious moods, the desires, the worlds contained in each cell of it. For the womb has dreams. It is not as simple as the good earth. I believe at times that man created art out of fear of exploring woman. I believe woman stuttered about herself out of fear of what she had to say. She covered herself with taboos and veils. Man invented a woman to suit his needs. He disposed of her by identifying her with nature and then paraded his contemptuous domination of nature. But woman is not nature only. She is the mermaid with her fish-tail dipped in the unconscious.”

-Anaïs Nin

She who makes a beast of herself gets rid of the pain of being a woman.
"Every day I say I cannot love him more, and every day I find more love in me for him.

Heinrich, another beautiful day with you is finished, always too early. And I am not empty of love yet. I loved you as you sat yesterday with the light on your gray-blond hair, the warm blood showing through your Nordic skin. Your mouth open, so sensual. Your shirt open. In your stocky hands you held your father's letter. I think of your childhood in the streets, your serious adolescence - but always sensual - many books. You know how tailors sit like Arabs over their work. You learned to cut out a pair of pants when you were five years old. You wrote your first book during a two weeks' vacation. You played jazz on the piano for the grownups to dance to. You were sometimes sent to your father, who was drinking in a bar. You could slip under the swinging doors, you were so small. You tugged at his coat. You drank beer.

You abhor kissing a woman's hand. You laugh at it. You look so fine in all your cast-off suits, shabby clothes. I know your body now. I know what devilries you are capable of. You are something to me that I never read in your writings or heard about from June or your friends. Everybody thinks of the noise and the power of you. There are words in other tongues I must use when I talk about you. In my own, I think of: ardiente, salvaje, hombre.

I want to be there wherever you are. Lying next to you even if you are asleep. Henry, kiss my eyelashes, put your fingers on my eyelids. Bite my ear. Push back my hair. I have learned to unbutton you so swiftly. All, in my mouth, sucking. Your fingers. The hotness. The frenzy. Our cries of satisfaction. One for each impact of your body against mine. Each blow a sting of joy. Driving in a spiral. The core touched. The womb sucks, back and forth, open, closed. Lips flicking, snake tongues flicking. Ah, the rupture - a blood cell burst with joy. Dissolution."

- Anais Nin, Henry and June.

I don't understand how anyone can place their words so finely and articulately as Anais. She was a queen. I've read this book countless times and it makes me drunk. The Bible of Woman.
  • Listening to: scout nibblett
  • Reading: henry and june


Add a Comment:
tonepainter Featured By Owner May 9, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! I hope you are doing well :heart:
alapip Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Congratulations on the DLR feature, Emily.
Now, I'll watch you for a couple of reasons:
- you write beautifully 
- as they used to say decades ago -
'you're cuter than a bug's ear'
:) pip
ikazon Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2015   Writer
I hope you're well, Emily. I still come back and read your poems on a regular basis, but I hope that the world you are in is treating you wonderfully.
jamboe89 Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2015   Writer
We need more poetry! :eager: by darkmoon3636 :)
WilliamDallwitz Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2014  Student General Artist
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, trembling with cold and hunger - a very picture of sorrow. The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. "Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
BreeBree135 Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday!! :hug: :cake:
tonepainter Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! :D
TotallyUncreativeMe Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Very happy birthday! :)
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner May 9, 2014   General Artist
happy birthday, hon! :heart:
WilliamDallwitz Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Student General Artist
A most happy birthday I wish, my friend! :)
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