Elisa English

I have nothing deep. Just this. Me. Here. Anxious wreck (as I’ve been all day), spontaneous cry (and “woah, mascara” or possibly “woe” if one prefers) and sheer relief that I can go pick up my 🐈‍⬛ (who’s really a 🐰🐻) in an hour. Admittedly, the hormones haven’t helped (and no that’s not the fucking flow state anyone’s looking for) but I love in that faithful way what is undeniably myself. Even if it is messy—and tender round the edges. Pretty is a complicated sum (or hideously ugly, depending on your perspective). Still, I have it on good authority 📖 that the heart knows and “The only true courage [it has] is to feel everything.” 🖤🌷🐝

In raw light, by marrow let it come. Exposure is our drug of choice, hearts in hand, we don’t subscribe to ceilings anymore. Just hunt the moon—I’ll make you howl to commandeer the bite. Ever as we burn these rays of morning...

There’s no perfection quite like letting the love spill out, coalescence swell as sound. We be... 🐝 All our aching sediment... To remember? May I whisper or, frankly, just release my breath thus? Beating hearts are oui forever. Tunnel past the wrapping... [side glance] Okay, we’re rather naked. Of course... But still as bed to slow rock, peace—le rêve est une seconde vie... Pourquoi? The tap is streaming now...

-John Buckland Wright, To a lady seen for a few moments at Vauxhall (1929)-

There are no cross purposes in the eyes of our becoming. Gravity conveys the very hieroglyphs against your skin, I’ve written there in tongue. All that grasping love undone; storm that somehow reigns itself, helpless to your touch—and parched. Fever me in deserts. Harder... Tipped up to the sky, half-swallowed... Fuck me, here to lie, no other... Living in the more, we reap the vow...

As a curious aside, your invitational desires meet my predilection in the exact same place you said you’d take me—home...

Lips. Honey, jasmine, mist on stone. Salt to tongue, your aching pulse. Muted light, that dampened earth. Alive, ripe, rolling touch. The mine. Inside of me, we share...

It has rained. Finally. The sun now shines and I slot a bit more beautifully into myself. Because plans settle me—and a plan we have. There’s also a lot to be said for presence: ethereal girl anthems, bare feet, those floating skirts that lift for the slightest breeze... Warm skin... Elaboration... Peace is and all my heart. I have nothing else. Except perchance... that not-so-secret fais la danse—I want you...

I am still here in some capacity, and I am all on fire of the heart—the feelings don’t vanish; I just can’t promise that the words will come. At least, not with any regularity. But who knows? I am, after all, still me—and if we roll with anything, we roll with love. See, still me, ma fleur... 🌷🐈‍⬛🍃

We are still, tremors in their dormant phase, for now the flesh is resting, sound. Full-drawn, each other’s arms. My flutter-eyes, the kiss of canyons... And all I think is fine—you have me...

-Domenico Tintoretto, Magdalena Penitente (c.1598-1602)-

If I slip out of one thing and you slip into something else, mythology states electric rules the sky—and when it hits, it burns. Carnal is the better way of doing, fuelling heat unfurled... Let’s raise a little smoke, reciprocation...

I’d like it kindly in the afternoon, if you’d take off all your clothes, convince the helpless ache inside, we’re studying—no limits...

If I versify our love, it’s because I love you. The in’s silent, at least until the violence breaks, my breath against the shore. You’re sure—the fuck and all the want me, yours I am... So sit there, lean back... Good for half a second, yes? Nothing on me but this deliquescent more. Who’s overflowing? Guess... (btw hyperbole at the last exit left... ⬅️) And God, this redline yearning, lips... The oh—that feeling that I’ll die without your heart...

Just thought you should know, I take absolutely full responsibility for what’s about to happen to you...

Is the answer that I do or that I don’t lose track? That I seem to do both simultaneously? That my eyes do what my lips feel? The tip? The prowl? The forth? Pause... Breathe... Come on, these aren’t just words in their fuckable form. You see? “This love of mine is yours—you’ll never slake me...”

Touch binds itself to the body. Your body. My body. There are no prohibiting factors. Time wants in—maybe it’s tired of fucking itself, offers forever not counting us down. Conjure me unafraid. We misbehave, elevate the dark. Love. Love. Love. What arcs, writhes, senses...? Words. Mine for comprehension. Yours the stream, the tide, our confluence... Ride the country miles we’ve ground to dust. That bedrock thirst... Perfection. And simply what am I? Cast in flesh like a fire born, ineluctability. Always here—just waiting on the pour...