Amélie Wright's Author Page
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André Breton (18 February 1896 – 28 September 1966)

My wife whose hair is a brush fire
Whose thoughts are summer lightning
Whose waist is an hourglass
Whose waist is the waist of an otter caught in the teeth of a tiger
Whose mouth is a bright cockade with the fragrance of a star of the first magnitude
Whose teeth leave prints like the tracks of white mice over snow
Whose tongue is made out of amber and polished glass
Whose tongue is a stabbed wafer
The tongue of a doll with eyes that open and shut
Whose tongue is an incredible stone
My wife whose eyelashes are strokes in the handwriting of a child
Whose eyebrows are nests of swallows
My wife whose temples are the slate of greenhouse roofs
With steam on the windows
My wife whose shoulders are champagne
Are fountains that curl from the heads of dolphins over the ice
My wife whose wrists are matches
Whose fingers are raffles holding the ace of hearts
Whose fingers are fresh cut hay
My wife with the armpits of martens and beech fruit
And Midsummer Night
That are hedges of privet and resting places for sea snails
Whose arms are of sea foam and a landlocked sea
And a fusion of wheat and a mill

Whose legs are spindles
In the delicate movements of watches and despair
My wife whose calves are sweet with the sap of elders
Whose feet are carved initials
Keyrings and the feet of steeplejacks
My wife whose neck is fine milled barley
Whose throat contains the Valley of God
And encounters in the bed of the maelstrom
My wife whose breasts are of night

And are undersea molehills
And crucibles of rubies
My wife whose breasts are haunted by the ghosts of dew-moistened roses
Whose belly is a fan unfolded in the sunlight
Is a giant talon

My wife with the back of a bird in vertical flight
With a back of quicksilver

And bright lights
My wife whose nape is of smooth worn stone and white chalk
And of a glass slipped through the fingers of someone who has just drunk
My wife with the thighs of a skiff
That are lustrous and feathered like arrows
Stemmed with the light tailbones of a white peacock
And imperceptible balance
My wife whose rump is sandstone and flax
Whose rump is the back of a swan and the spring
My wife with the sex of an iris
A mine and a platypus
With the sex of an alga and old-fashioned candles
My wife with the sex of a mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes that are purple armour and a magnetized needle
With eyes of savannahs
With eyes full of water to drink in prisons
My wife with eyes that are forests forever under the axe
My wife with eyes that are the equal of water and air and earth and fire

Amélie, Beyond her Heart:

My name is Amélie. As of writing, I am a twenty-two year old trans girl. I'm a lesbian and a leftist. I'm a quiet person. I enjoy books and film over people, and I like cold, quiet, overcast, rainy days. Especially when its snowing, and I have a good cup of tea. I love people too. I work with seniors, and in the future I'm wanting to work in Social Work. I paint, write, and a dream of mine is writing classical music, and film. Not for a while, but I'm confident in saying that I'll happen, someday. Definitely not tomorrow, but definitely someday.

Screenshot_20200430_201246.jpg

God, what a lesbian.

My writing style is influenced by stream of consciousness writing, nihilism, absurdism, and especially magical realism. My favorite authors- Samuel Beckett, Gabriel García Márquez, André Breton, Haruki Murakami, Harlan Ellison, have all been big influences on me. I'm somewhat agnostic, but I also draw a lot from religious settings.

Aside from SCPS, a couple of literary goals for me include writing a play, a collection of short stories, a poetry cycle, and an opera liberetto. All of this is going to be a long time coming, but it's nice having goals, something to work for.

The Works of Man1

http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-4551

This was my first published SCP, and I think it really shows. I'm proud of it from a historical point of view, in that as reading this site was a huge part of my teenage years, and finally being able to post something and have it stick on the wiki was something I never thought I could do back then, and even when I was writing this, I admit, I had my doubts.

This SCP sets into motion a GOI I'm working on, a small Scottish community were the anomalous is used in everyday life. It was something of an excuse for me to practice writing magic realism, one of my favorite genres.

ONE MORE FINAL: I need you.

This is a collection of my photography. They're available to use on site, and released under CC. 3.00 These aren't connected to any SCP, but I had a lot of fun taking these photos.

Weaving a Story

A collection of various poems. Inspired by free-verse, stream of consciousness writing, especially Bréton's Magnetic Fields, in which qoutations are borrowed. Both Bréton's work and mine are in the Public Domain.

Oh, how sweet the fruit is from the Moon's sweet carcass, as if harvested from the giant maw of a bee stung beast
Mandibles dripping wet with honeysuckle
Flung away, far off things, abandoned by the old men, who had watched by the sea shore - as the beast rose to height
Devouring the remains of the flesh to the sun
As the world men watched
Eating honey in the rain.

It was the end of sorrow. The end of lies. Haggard women walked through the deserted carriages shouting, Hath! Hath the emperor laughs! How could he have laughed!

The haggard carriagewomen saw in the half-light, the shadowed corpse of the grey woman; holding her palm up toward the black landscape. Her waist is strongly canted. Her forehead is wrinkled. It looks sullen. Its half-human, half-possessed, posionedbface – mouth half-ocean – has all of the features of the emperor's gun-man, shooting black-fire

On the day, as the nursewoman flee the carriage, laughing in the ashen soot, gunpowder and foggy day-light that came down from the country. Emperors don't admire themselves alone with mirror glass. They admire their troops! The bullets! The more war they enjoy, more that is fought- the more victories they win! The more astride their monstrous formed chariots, the more glorious their trumpets, hawking a victory! Oh, for the end of sorrow- wake the emperor up, and kiss the haggard carriagewomen.

St. Mary clutches her breast, looking down at the blue azure sky, cerulean waves crashing upon her hazel eyes, golden cross, green fringes.Blue fishes, singing the soul of the Lord and god. Mary, her soul a' blaze with eggs of white

Another girl- Mildred, laying her dear, true and jest-like babes, across lost lost hair-worm's nest, singing to her

King, his soul a' lustre-reared to the altar
Floating in his swan's breast
Cried with bewailing and rambling fervour
Jesus, in his expression and name
He stands, for every eye, in every beholder,
For every face in all the world. He stands
And speaks, in eloquent eloquence
That most heavenly doctrine of peace,
That men's hearts should be moved

Says Mary, sweet of the soul
Upon the breast of Mildred rose
Bring new world
Into flesh above
Free from your jaw.

Oh, on the dreary days of blue leaves suckled by the tiger's great breasts, dropped with the soul of honeydew-laden coyote,

Only recalled to me the moving figure — the snow-blue wings, blue eyes. Here was the blades of the grass days

Let me look at the days of grassen-blue and so I can

Talk to you

Feel you

Hug you

Kiss the tiger's maw

Understand you

Cock-a crow, three times in the darkest hour

Singing our song-

As we sung, and danced and sing joy
Clouds of chlorine dioxide flood our lungs
Suffocatingly bright
But that pales in the moments we shared
Together
Right?
As I

Talks to you

Felt you

Hugged you

Kissed the tiger's maw

Understood you

Although I ask, that we could still be together, in health fair, breathing in days of grassen-blue dropped with the soul of honeydew-laden tiger's eye.

The war outside is raging and it is already lost. On to victory!

Yet you with steel guns and roses
Continue the losing fight
As if a thorn-covered beast
Stung with honey and lead
Will not come to the surface,
But still dies at night,
Like summer fires on ancient deserts
And in death, one will find the bullets
Dug out of the rosary-woman's temple
Crushed by the jaws of a great tiger in the heavens
And you will ask to fight again.

A traveler stops,
You've reached out to me
Haven't you
With the carcass of the moonlight
Falling snow into my soul
As the war rages
Across the papers, 'ruined streets of
Sarajevo',
The bomb in Myanmar
The clouds of aqauamarine haze under the disheveled roads of London
The triumphs over the war-men
To create after war
To forget and let old wounds heal
Let there be joy.
So
Join us.
Won't you
Or at least
Remember us.

Thank You all-

WIP! Here be the lovely folks who have helped with my articles:

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