Her royal highness of high-brow inspiration, Kate Bush

The young princess squatting behind a bush with a cheeky grin, watching the hapless writer fling himself passionately into the fiery, broiling volcano of feeling…

Or the ghostly apparition floating beside him as he contemplates the ancient, cobweb-riddled closet of memories, secured by the huge padlock of self-doubt.

How about the voluptuous, luminiscent mermaid, who lured Vincent van Gogh from the milky, eternal ocean of undoing, promising him the pearl of art, and drew him back into the ocean once more, her flute-like laughter ringing in his mind like a fickle young maiden?

Or the wide-eyed child who dusts off the rusty switch box with tiny, malleable hands, and innocently flicks the neon switch of EUREKA! in the frustrated inventor’s mind?

And the scrawny fox who dashes across the consciousness of the working man’s brain, leaving an electrifying trail in his mind, neatly colliding with reality as he yells excitedly to his boss, “I’ve got an idea!”

Finally, the merry pied piper, skipping in a dizzy waltz with his broken nose in the air, leading fervent musicians on a Easter Egg-flecked trail of discover for their three minutes of fame on the radio!

(And so, fellow readers…what form does your inspiration take? Or might have yours evaporated?)

© Zelda Reville


Beach House – Space Song (2015)

She abandoned herself to the wilful notions of her heart.

The voice wrapped itself around her tremulous emotions, and kept them tightly burled, unshy only to the bravest of the seekers.

It released them into the spacious atmosphere, lazily curling its luxurious tail around the consonants of the words.

“Who…are you?”

She breathed.

Rapture had never sounded so glorious.

(An older piece I wrote, based on an epiphany I had from this song)

© Zelda Reville


The increasing burden over the years

Gradually became difficult,

So she started peeling off the layers

Watched them fall, and slowly blossom into a myriad of tiny wildflowers,

For the others to pick up, and put in their hair

The day will come when she becomes decidedly naked,

So as of now

She just makes do,

With a thin muslin robe

If we are ever accepting enough

Perhaps, one day

She might just let herself go,

And toss her tattered robe carelessly

Into the welcoming embrace of the blithering sunshine.

(You know, she possessed a beautiful pair of eyes.)

What I’d Like To Look Like (But I Actually Don’t, And Even If I Don’t It’s Still Okay)


Hole – Live Through This (1995)

Pouring diseased wine from the loveliest chalice,

As I laugh wholeheartedly, euphonium in glee

Dressed in tattered satin, laddered fishnets, glitter-encrusted eyeliner

Caked in sweat

Dainty Louboutin-ed feet,

Making its world known

Onto a stinky boy specimen

Boy, hear me roar!

(And now, please excuse me while I make my acquaintance with the album)

Blog post: At The Crossroads

And after having written a little over 10 posts of flowery prose, has the proverbial well run dry yet?

A little, I think. I’m not sure if it’s self-consciousness that’s holding me back, or if it’s the other way round – being aware of where I am in my writing now, and constantly trying to improve. Writing differently. Shaping it up so that it becomes less ornate, and more precise – a balance between abstraction and directness. 

But what’s this? A new beast is in the room now! Apparently Wit is not happy that Beauty is getting all the attention, and wants some of that spotlight for itself. 

I shall try peppering my poetry with humour, and see how it goes. 

Also, Françoise Hardy, Suede and Strangelove have been great for making the juices flow. 

So readers, how was your week? Wrote anything awesome, saw anything nice, or experienced something out of this world? Any Suede fans out there, by the way? 

Signing off,



Pin needle blanched in deceit,

Who are you not, my boy?

Butterflies erupt from his fingertips,

As reality shatters before her eyes.

Peering into an obsidian jar of stars,

She tries desperately to piece them back together.

But the veil of satin slips from her hand,

And is savagely trampled under the horses’ hooves.

© Zelda Reville

Claire de Lune

A luminous face in the darkness,

Snowy skin; sensual reverie,

Moonlit eyes

Dainty feet grazing the silken surface of the foggy lake,

On a wintry November evening

The heart is gladdened not by the sight of her delicate beauty,

But by her swan-like grace.

Another memory unfurls, shy to the gentlest touch;

Enlightened by knowledge, saddened by joy

A sprig of baby’s breath slips into an aged book of Greek sonnets.


© Zelda Reville

Made Flesh

Yugo Kohrogi – “/26” (2014)


The masculinity in her femininity,

With her legs cradled atop him

And the femininity in his masculinity,

As he bore proud witness to the majesty of her writhing, Lilithian form

“Pull me down into your surrender,” he whispered,

Into her trembling ear

Roses blossoming in her animal moan,

His fingers the mark of a satyr on her skin

And down,


Down they spiralled…

Tumbling into their swelling euphoria,

Through the smoky abyss of desire.

© Zelda Reville