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About Literature / Hobbyist EloiseFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
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Mature content
Fever :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Mature content
Queen of Cups :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 1 0
Mature content
A Prayer for the Hungry :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Mature content
Spring :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
homecoming
nearly home. nearly home. a space and time away from where you want to be: belonging to yourself. there is a midnight garden somewhere inside my lungs, black and tarry from the darkness i am siphoning from your lips to mine, trying to let the light in, trying to stop the hurt becoming a euphemism for two vertical red lines drawn in a bathtub. you have turned me inside out. raw, vulnerable; the silence is an agony.  
you have wormed your way inside and I have agreed to be your golem, a clay replacement for the affections of the woman who bedded herself beneath your skin and rearranged your spine. even so, let me give til i am a dry husk, let me pour what’s in my veins over you to wash you back to shore
no lion has eyes like yours, cut from the very fabric of the ocean, you are between dawns and you are limitless in dusk. you are too much a night creature to be good for those who dwell in the day, sitting in the cave of your bed, waiting for the foolish wanderings of curious b
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:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Threads and fibres
Prologue
hold back the screams
the low wail of pain, the wounded howl.  
The agony of tattered, muddled hearts  
falling in shadows, dappled on skin.  
decision's gristle don't go down easy
my womb weeping scarlet:  
slow  
shedding  
of self.  
movement aching
the fascia wound taut.
Pt. 1
invaded and altered  
I stand in a wilderness,  
savaging myself with thoughts of you.  
count the last times the way I once counted the firsts
hourglass dwindling
walls splintering.  
suddenly comprised of  
hairline fractures  
scared of moving these brittle bones.  
armchair demon
shotgun destruction  
fallen sword.  
Pt. 2
still haunted by the word 'go'
knowing you are so much better off.  
chanting a failed spell
jar of salt in hand
ready to part the sea  
to change my heart  
but it is wild and stubborn  
I don't understand the tongues it whispers in:
soul divided by a common language  
all
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Swish-swimming
Honesty never decides to arrive on time.
1. Without fail, drinking alcohol robs me of the ability to feel gratitude for waking up the next day.
2. My apathy will probably kill me, if the shadow doesn’t first.
3. I’m afraid.
4. I like to read for too long in the bathtub, thinking I might be able to dissolve and emerge in the pages of a story better than my own.
5. Sometimes the daydreams are asphyxiating.
6. Farmer’s markets are a source of unending joy.
7. The effect coffee has on my mood is unholy.
8. I often think about being run over.
9. Confession terrifies me.
10. I’ve never been in a fight but I think I’d really, really enjoy it.
11. The good days in Edinburgh were some of the best.
12. Corsica left a hole I’ve not managed to fill. A fabulous ‘could have been better’.
13. Manipulation is me, synonymous with breathing.
14. There’s foundation that says ‘I am good’. I don’t know where mine went.
15. I’m go
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Hideous Kinky
Give me something more to go on,
lying spread-eagled on the floor and
loving the bump and grind that’s
so at odds with the midnight queen playlist.
The promise of the two-hour-orgasm,
pouring wine from my mouth to yours.
More than the sunset tattoos of bruises,
red hand marks on my flesh.
A different delineation.
A new kind of thrill.
Give me something more to go on:
more than my own desires.
The curling of my toes, held fast on the edge,
blood-basted and sticky.
Slick with the urge to eviscerate my essence
shark-circles slow like southern paddle fans.
And then you say something
along the same vibrating lines
promise me desire and delight
formerly found in the pages of my novels.
Give me something more to go on,
better than my own battered heart.
The streets of Dublin and the armour-piercing
beauty of your hope combine
to undo me, standing in black lace
feeling like a weathervane.
Whilst you smooth yourself over my callouses
embracing the darkest parts
of my tangled salty soul.
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 2 0
Mature content
Public Speaking :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 1 0
Literature
Horns
If I was a better person I’d probably not
fantasise
about my boss being dispatched
by the four
horsemen of the apocalypse, Sam Hill
come to claim his due.
Stirred by the sacrifice
of my white teeth:
coffee stained and looking a little used.
If I was a better person I’d probably not
write
about my wants, twist the knife only to
snatch back the words
before they fall out
of my mouth, cosmetics collecting
in the corners
of my lips,
wine-lined and feeling a little empty.
If I was a better person I’d probably not
cry
to try and make things better. Fix you breakfast and
scramble my sense of normalcy.
Tiptoeing Janus-like through life
hating my shadows and my scars
The loathsome parts of me,
soulless and tasting a little bitter.
If I was a better person I’d probably
let you go.
Sentence myself to solitary.
And deal with my demons
Alone.
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 1
Mature content
Baby, come with me to New Orleans. :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Locust Princess
There is power here.
I feel it coursing through my veins, pooling in my joints.
Embroidering my irises with its frozen fire.
Violin strings and Gregorian hymns lift the potential in this mane of hair,
the cello is a lullaby resounding.
Music is sometimes the only way for me to articulate the butterflies valiantly flapping in my throat.
Something about the endless heartbeat of the drum
the pulse of the world and of my mothers
and my sisters
and those who came before me.
Endless.
It is the rhythm of our feet, one dogged step after another.
When I walked the desert, dust in my ears, in my mouth and in my eyes I knew this drumbeat, I knew this rhythm.
When the nomads banished me from the camp for bleeding, I knew this rhythm.
When I rose against the walls of Jericho, I knew this rhythm.
When I pulled down Babel, I knew this rhythm.
When I was cast from Eden, I knew this rhythm.
Do not stand there in the face of my flesh and deny me goddess.
Do not stand before me and be unable to bear my b
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 4
Mature content
Sugar :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 0
Literature
Corduroy
If hope is a quantifiable, tangible thing, then I think it would be measured in specific coffee-cups. The vessels vary. Most days I find my hope at the bottom of brown cardboard corduroy cups. Other times I partake of it via osmosis, sipping kāfēi with Maggie Cheung from the milk-glass lip, or from turquoise glazed stoneware in nineties sitcoms whose wardrobes I still aspire to (looking at you, Willow Rosenberg. Season 5!)
Today is a corduroy-coffee kind of day, punctuated with two croissants in the morning, like a colon: a pause before the frenzy of nothing begins. Monotony in the sounds of the keyboard clacking pebbles on a stony beach tickled by waves. It soothes as much as it suffocates, Gibran gently reminding me that the lust for comfort murders the passions of my soul.
So maybe I measure my soul in coffee cups, too. Searching for things hidden in caffeine-stimulated creativity and the soft veils that swathe whatever truths I try to write here. Passion. Hope. Noble caus
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Buzz
Shakespeare devils sit high-cheekboned in the corner of campus, leering and laughing, loud. Too loud, for some, for some not enough to drown the sound of grief. He died at ten forty-five, that’s a quarter before eleven, a quarter minute to make the call and a half second to realise that someone’s left the world. I’ve been waiting for it all weekend.
Insidious the cancer shivered, weaved itself into a tapestry of life and lung and liver. Riddled, not pleasantly, with it - and also questions why it happened and why it wouldn’t stop. But even the best intentions pave the way, so Milton said: there was a path to hell, even from the gates of heaven. He never partook of unleavened bread so according to the Mighty One on High there can be no resurrection.
He went to the office until the day he died. Retired at eighty three, from all he’d ever been. Range-rover lover, fan of corned beef and sardine eggs, beach walks and silver smoke cigarillos. He taught me how to
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Literature
Forty five
Herein soaked the tears I cried over my Grandfathers’ deaths.
When the lions left the pride I laced my face in carpet, rough and needing hoovered.
Spilled salt water on the occasional furniture.
I lost my virginity in that bedroom.
on that floor.
With a guy who had soft hands and rough skin.
And shouted so loud the evangelicals came over to ask if I’d finally found God.
I rubbed that little spot on my coccyx raw with a new bad habit.
Let the red wine stain my teeth
and that one spot on the walls where my fingers slipped.
Setting myself on fire in the kitchen
letting the flames lick my soul
like I’m kindling.
Burning candles and midnight oil,
threw up three times:
no mean feat for an emetophobe.
It’s just four walls,
just bricks and dust, ashes and insects.
A shrine and a temple and a cage and a hovel and
at the heart of it,
was home.
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 1 5

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Tangled, salty, unpleasant, primitive and shadowy, a longing for sunshine and split-plum pleasure. I want the last drop from the bottle, rubbed into my bottom lip, with someone else’s thumb. Let there be fire and thunderstorms, let my velvet side feel like she’s all over me, we’re the same whole, not two halves locked in a Catholic entente cordiale.  

I want to wear summer dresses, shoved up around my hips on the counter top, silver ore weeping whilst the pasta boils. I want to know what your sheets look like when they’re tucked around the harbour of your spine, bedroom on fire. I want to meet the woman whose heartbeat you heard from the inside. I want to learn the complexity of your taste, kiss the crook of your elbow, press my mouth against the pulse inside your wrist, breathe in the bonfire and burning cloves you keep in your clavicle.  

Washed away in a tide that tastes of you. Saltwater and coffee. A fragility that turns my skin to gooseflesh and simply doesn’t let go. The angles of my body protrude, yearning outwards – the very marrow of my being aching to be touched outside of the confines that hold me close, aching to dance beyond the situations that are woven under the dermis.  

I want to roll my hips up, up and over you, sanguine, languid. You make my legs shake and they haven’t slid over your bones yet. Godiva on her motorcycle, body rippling with its potency. Seize both my hands, give me something to hold on, something that tastes like Corsican margaritas, beignets, mint leaves chewed and unctuous luomo. I want to ride you wreathed in talismans, braceleted wrists providing the music I move to, head arched so that my hair licks my waist. There is a shiver in every woman’s hips if you look close enough.  

Would you trace the lumps of my spine? The hollows in the cavities I carry? Know the lyrical angst of my teenage heart? I am a twenty-six-year-old woman with the longings of a wild girl, the on-the-cusp-frustration a forest fire that wants to burn down this carefully constructed goddamned house of cards. The girl who revels in your shadow, the dark possession, the deep inner knowing that comes with ready provision of climax. The secrets you store between your bottom teeth and your lower lip are a siren song I want to gently push my tongue against, to learn the shape of the thorns you carry.  

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There is a keenness to the memories I have. Trembling before you even touched me, pinned butterfly wings in the searing heat of your gaze. Eyes like knives and swords and blades I ran headlong towards you, convinced the circus act was something to applaud.  

I fell in love with you when you told me that the expression I had when I spoke about my family was the most beautiful thing. You understood the labyrinthine workings of my tangled soul in a heartbeat, you became a second skin, slipping under my dermis. Rearranging walls, barriers to your whim, you left me defenceless.  

Who steals from a house with an open door?  

You told me I was velvet, not dark, you held a space for me that made me something sacred, you didn't turn away when my armchair demons settled in for the afternoon. Instead you lit the fire and asked if I was hungry.  

My hunger was for empathic understanding, the poetry of simplicity, the sound of your smile, the soft press of your body against my spine in sleep, and most of all, for respect.

Who lacerates an already vulnerable heart?  

It should have been bliss, it should have been coffee, conversation, the slow slide between my legs before dawn, it should have been your mouth on mine, kissing me like the oxygen was secondary. I bled to love you, spilling all my pain and heartbreak into a dam to help you find your way back home.

You unwove parts of my soul I feared too tightly bound, you made me wanton, you put pink in my cheeks and toast in my belly and your kind of love was everything I wanted until you turned it into possession.

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Some of the most precious moments of my life are interwoven into a diadem of satisfied solitude, only doled out on occasion.  

Tostada con tomate, café con leche, narañja Valenciana. There are novels, there are books, there’s so much sunshine. There’s no need to report in to someone. There’s a glorying in it, diamonds of memory that grace my forehead.

Wine and linguine redolent with garlic, chilli and The Good Olive Oil, eaten alone, without apology, in a heady, heated London night. A memory of prosciutto, its puce blanket draped over wet wedges of melon, the saline-sweet solution a juxtaposition that makes your eyes roll.  

There’s the orgasm that hits you so hard your head is thrown back with the pleasure, your teeth clack together, the sheets wet with it. The Turkish delight rose flush works its way down from your cheekbones to your chest, lower still, if anyone cares to look for it. There may even be the prickle of sweat between your breasts, the crease of your thigh, if the covers are warm enough.  

Sink to the chin in a bathtub nigh-overflowing with water, steam rising through the candlelight, skin glowing, book in one hand, nothing strenuous. It’s sitting in a gallery, watching the dappling across the old masters, the oil paints glowing just by themselves. No need to be seen, no need to be validated.

It’s the scent of le bon café, the scent that carried itself up the Corsican mountains, the first glass of Muscat I ever tasted, punctuated with hot, salty fries rolled in herbes du maquis. It’s kissing for the exquisite pleasure of it, and nothing more. Sopapillas, honey, honey butter. Piñon coffee. Seduction via spoken poetry.

To the future, then. There must be bunches of green herbs; coriander, mint, basil, sage, rosemary, pungent, stirred thickly into yoghurt (the way he might stir himself in you), eaten with something charred on the grill. There must be worn Persian rugs, fires, incense, nothing but candles and smoke.

Chocolate and candied petals. Lemon cake, generously sliced. Lavender and honey ice cream. Glass biscuits. Sea salt on everything, especially your lover. Green pears, verdant, under-ripe, the chilliest champagne in hand, a breath from frozen. That heart of winter, 30th of December kind of cold.  

There must be excursions to buy freesia, peonies, ranunculi, anemones. New books, old books, arms full of flowers and ink on paper. Let there be red wine and slut’s spaghetti, black olives refusing to be anything other than they are: forcing you to shudder with their intensity.

Let me weave the ten thousand years of crushing ancestral guilt into challah that tastes of redemption, let me feed the hungers in your soul with your mouth on mine. Your home should smell, in autumn, of chipotle, bonfire smoke, the human sex scent of cumin, the sweet fleeting fancy of cinnamon.  

There ought to be coffee, of course, but coffee is, literally, in the bloodstream. Your veins tango with it, the body bears the aftershocks. What of smoked salmon, schmear, toasted bagels? Eaten in bed, of course, preferably where the sheets are still warm. You should know by now that Negronis taste better naked.

And, when the holy days of your heart come knocking, reply with an upturned thimble of tequila. Life smells of fresh lime, squeezed onto your waiting tongue.  

Trust no one who tells you they don’t like food. Educate them, instead, pull the luscious skin of a fig apart, push your tongue into its tender heart and smile whilst you do it. Crush the seeds between your teeth. Eve knows how you feel.  

I don’t write with meaning in mind, rather, meaning is the mind my words take on. I write because this is how I love: I describe, I announce, I reframe. Food, and by extension, life, is my muse.

What is the meaning to be found in the ripest peach, the peanut satay, the perfect avocado?  

Why, nothing more than this: that life itself, the winds and tides, the salt and the soil, the sun and the moon, have shone into the things that sustain us: consciousness in costume. We are held up, rising rooted, dancing with the satellites that nourish this world. Human lyricism comes from the alchemy of choice.

To play or to appreciate? To question or to revere? A hymn to simplicity or a chant to change?  

My prayer? That your appetite for life never be sated.  

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Spring.

Persephone was lucky that Hades made her excuses for her. Perhaps the Lord of Darkness found himself startled by his wee wife, lusting for a girl-child made of lemon light and rewarded with a woman who swallowed twelve pomegranate arils whole. Demeter, with that endless summer of love, suffocated her daughter. A daughter made of the dark earth of spring, who knew the cold lips of winter, heard the laughter of the magpies as they plucked the iridescent growth from the cold, damp bed it’d slept in, choking on the August dust.

Persephone, instead, is an enervated snarl of a woman. Tempered to be temperate, educated against excess, everything about her simmers like caramel, an in-breath away from burning, before she’s softened and blended with French butter and fleur de sel. Raincloud-coloured saline blooms, she’s every totem to fantasy a man could hope for. She’s spent so long cultivating her chameleonic pointed tongue that she hasn’t got a fucking clue who she is any more.

Moulded by her mother. Ransomed by her husband. The dark paths of her soul are locked in a winter of their own, separate to that stasis in the underworld. Loved because of her nature, not despite it (is that better, truly?), did Hades fall for the idea of a May maiden, rather than the flesh-and-blood woman, the body and divinity, the very soul?  

Persephone is synonymous with hunger. Chapped lips and skinned knees, sunburned shoulders and tangled hair. The resistance, then the yielding of an apple of mozzarella as it submits to your teeth (everyone should do this, at least once). Demeter, goddess of crops, the other coin of hunger, the Harvest. Did she question the pleasure of satisfaction her daughter sought?  

Was Persephone dark before she fell? Was she as one-dimensional as some prefer to believe – a conversant, bright creature, elegant and witty, delightful to those she wished to delight? Delightful to those who sought just that from her, placing her upon a pedestal, desires left at her feet, endless beseeching from those who never asked her if she was OK. I think she made it easy for them. I think she let it be easy.  

Where does she recharge that sense of self? Does she give endlessly? Maybe it is more accurate to say that she ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes. Did Persephone question her nature? Or, like the sun, did she simply burn and shine without apology?  

Did Persephone regret falling into the chasm? Did she regret rushing towards the darkness? Or did she open her arms, wide-wide-wide, and swan dive, heart-first, into it? I can only wonder.  
justdelighted.blogspot.com/

eloise

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Llywenlla
Eloise
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
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:iconnawkaman:
nawkaman Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave! :heart:
Reply
:iconllywenlla:
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You are very, very welcome. Gorgeous piece. 

Poem wasn't bad either. 
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:iconnawkaman:
nawkaman Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
:D
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:iconwilliamfdevault:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner May 7, 2013  Professional Writer
Happiest of birthdays! :blackrose:
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:iconthekemper:
TheKemper Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2010  Professional General Artist
Thanks for the fav!
Reply
:iconllywenlla:
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
No problem.
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:iconnefarious-fox:
Nefarious-Fox Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2010
Thanks for all the DA kindnesses!
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:iconllywenlla:
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
Not at all. Don't mind doing 'em if it's worth it.
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:iconrobot23:
robot23 Featured By Owner Aug 30, 2010
thanks for the fav!
a parade will be starting in your honour in 10 minutes!
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