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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
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
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
Threads and fibres
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:  
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  
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
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 0 0
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 2 0
Mature content
Public Speaking :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 1 0
If I was a better person I’d probably not
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
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
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
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 1
Mature content
Baby, come with me to New Orleans. :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 0 0
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.
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 3 4
Mature content
Sugar :iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 0
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 0 0
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 0 0
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 1 5

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Llywenlla's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom


Red Ink by DanielaUhlig Red Ink :icondanielauhlig:DanielaUhlig 17,168 756 Lullaby by Kleemass Lullaby :iconkleemass:Kleemass 2,199 172 words of love by oprisco words of love :iconoprisco:oprisco 12,271 696


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Adamoos Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2007  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for watching me and have fun with dA ;)
Yllek Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2007   Writer
Hey, thanks for the add and the comment on Master of Tales! Mad, but appreciated!
FuneraLOfHeartS0 Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2007
good and yourself?
FuneraLOfHeartS0 Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2007
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2007  Hobbyist Writer
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2007  Hobbyist Writer
Arg, well, got an avatar loaded... One small step for womankind....
Llywenlla Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2007  Hobbyist Writer
Eep... deviantart is much strange and confusing... So many techy things I need to figure out...
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