The Green Goose.
Hi, I'm Elise. I'm 17, in Sixth Form and living (I hope) in the UK. I currently study English Literature, Sociology and Maths at A-Level, and I hope to go to university to study English unless I die or something in the meantime which hopefully I won't.

This blog is largely for my original work as well as thoughts (which, to be honest, can be a bit of a mixed bag) and I really hope you enjoy. Most everything here belongs to me, unless its a reblog or stated otherwise. To be fair, though, I'm not sure why I'm saying that, as I can't think who'd want to steal my stuff...

I hope you're doing well today.
  • Walking in Memphis, Copper Eels

    I liked when we went to London
    And all of the advertisements
    Bestival off the train at King’s
    Cross, Greggs, Laura Ashley
    Making jokes together 
    On the balcony at night.

    I was afraid and thought I might die 
    Thought I could die and I wanted 
    I wanted to just…I’m not sure 
    Put under, it put me under

    Rain and London city lights

    Put aside
    From the rest of them, he 
    Gave us a squinting look which I 
    Can’t decide 
    And can’t find out 
    If it meant a thing 

    I wished they’d watched us laugh 

    To put some extra value on it perhaps

    And I hated the food but not really
    And I hated the eating though the hating
    It could have been avoided.

    But i did not avoid it
    Were the lights avoiding me?
    Skyline, deathly
    Eyeline,
    Severed tongue,
    Us, serenity.

    • 4
  • "real" what a hilarious concept

    • 3
  • soredemonao:

    borninconsolable:

    pain needs recognition
    but what if all you do is hurt
    what kind of soil is that
    if you keep reminding something broken
    of its damaged parts
    how will it know how to heal

    would it otherwise not be real
    would you then be running
    towards a hallucination?
    but if you keep looking back,
    how can you even be set in motion?

    I’m easily bored. That’s why.

    (via eliseisaslob)

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  • winter in the western

    hands.
    spindles; what are they? Jazzed,
    Clasped, bread like white halitosis
    Pinkness weeping from the noses
    and the tiredness and our knowinglessness
    and eyes

    Nail varnish
    For the girls
    Put it on 
    And hope it carries on
    and that you payed 

    inside the throat it is diseased
    a voicebox singing, intermittently 
    But doesn’t everybody
    Smothered in…
    Not their weather or work
    Just their own

    We are not substance
    It is not the substance
    We are not the substance
    We are colourful,
    And beyond the light that we can see

    • 5
    • 1
    • 1
  • the-green-goose:

    I can’t remember everything
    so no longer can I check.
    You make me for-get anything
    So bad and all’s a wreck
    I can not double think
    I can not sleep
    but I can sink

    Where is my self security where are my
    pills where is my state to give me bread?
    Where is my mother, make her keep me
    I talk…

    An oldie but a goodie
    (i can tell cos this one got 4+ notes).

    • 10
  • beardelemental:

    a man was watching me take out the trash,
    i had stopped taking my antipsychotics at some point
    due to the ongoing feeling of “being a failure and
    staring at the ceiling”, feeling too sick to live.

    my craziness is very cute, i think,
    cause at the store a girl said
    my tired…

    • 47
  • "I write almost always in the third person, and I don’t think the narrator is male or female anyway. They’re both, and young and old, and wise and silly, and sceptical and credulous, and innocent and experienced, all at once. Narrators are not even human - they’re sprites."
    Philip Pullman (via observando)
    • 586
  • Top Girls by Caryl Churchill; Act Two, Scene Three

    • NELL.: Derek asked me to marry him again.
    • WIN.: He doesn't know when he's beaten.
    • NELL.: I told him I'm not going to play house, not even in Ascot.
    • WIN.: Mind you, you could play house.
    • NELL.: If I chose to play house I would place house ace.
    • WIN.: You could marry him and go on working.
    • NELL.: I could go on working and not marry him.
    • 4
  • It wasn’t that I didn’t…
    I don’t know what it was.
    Is. Will be. Different tenses.
    Different levels of tenseness.

    • 2
  • Awoken

    The calmness you lend;
    A violet sea inside 
    My fragile tummy -
    A trance, a fear love attends -

    A grotesque, a mundane
    Girl to lay and stand;
    Awoken by myself
    Or new spring light
    At the winter’s end

    Tender, tenderly rendered,
    Though through all that pain…
    Perhaps, I am really being shot
    In another life, another plane.

    • 5
  • "I have made mysterious Nature my religion. I do not believe that a man is any nearer to God for being clad in priestly garments, nor that one place in a town is better adapted to meditation than another. When I gaze at a sunset sky and spend hours contemplating its marvelous ever-changing beauty, an extraordinary emotion overwhelms me. Nature in all its vastness is truthfully reflected in my sincere though feeble soul. Around me are the trees stretching up their branches to the skies, the perfumed flowers gladdening the meadow, the gentle grass-carpeted earth, …and my hands unconsciously assume an attitude of adoration. …To feel the supreme and moving beauty of the spectacle to which Nature invites her ephemeral guests! …that is what I call prayer."
    Claude Debussy (via socratic-thinker)

    (Source: liberatingreality, via socratic-thinker)

    • 168
  • kohenari:

    There’s a thoughtful piece about teaching Platonic dialogues to death row inmates in Tennessee that concludes with a powerful statement about how the transformations undergone by death row inmates, if seen, fundamentally undermine the goals of the death penalty system:

    [I]n order to perform the anaesthetic function of soothing public anxieties around both violent crime and the violence of the criminal justice system, the prisoner’s own aesthetic practices must remain invisible. The job of the death row inmate is not to transform himself, but to remain the same throughout an appeals process that can last years or even decades.

    […]

    There are countless prisoners on death row who are working harder than we can imagine to transform themselves and to build a meaningful sense of community. We could learn a lot from these people if we weren’t so determined to kill them.

    The piece sets this argument about the expectations of the public against discussions with the inmates about the trial and execution of Socrates, as well as artwork created by death row inmates. These conversations about philosophy, literature, and art belie the impressions of death row inmates that keep the vast majority of us so apathetic about strapping them down and injecting them full of poison.

    (via socratic-thinker)

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