poshlost's avatar
Odi et amo.
165 Watchers19.4K Page Views14 Deviations
H
Harvest Moon
You remind me of the harvest moon tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets till spring, of catching every breath in crystals on the same forgotten docks, Where gravity knots my tendons into rope, my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes into searchlights scanning the horizon for the first ship that leads to you.
43
164
K
Knotted Sky
Dreaming of knotted sky in the cold autumn night, I sit fences, cathartic as the morning light that stirs the marigold I call home when winter climbs aboard. These fields are no substitute for your apartment floor, clamouring breathless against the morning sun, the city's eyes, the last hurrah before the train home, or elsewhere.
10
7
U
Understory
This crosswalk is the record store's canopy, as surely as that patio is under- story, home to the horny simians of civilization (pause for ironic effect). Today, their ears curve around another transient mating call: observe elbows and knees and lips locking into a new beast, as simple as biology and complex as song. I watch from the crosswalk, and trip.
8
4
To be awake
0
5
T
The Snow Globe
At the boarding gate, the man appears almost lost in a crowd of passengers, periodically bumping into a shawled grandmother or a businessman on the phone and apologizing profusely. As the queue thins, he reaches into a tattered jacket pocket, pulls out a torn ticket, and begins folding and unfolding it along a familiar crease. The last two passengers cross the gate, and he stops to stare at the flight attendant, all red nail polish and shine and starch like a wax statue carved out of the sky. "Your ticket?" But her voice is nervous, almost girlish. It makes him feel more at ease among the strangers pressing in. Still, he scrambles to give
2
1
S
Songs for my father
"Don't close that car door," she says, but he is islands away and cannot see the shore, does not know that walking means running means The world is never the same when you return. He forgets porch lights sometimes burn out, and whether they are hot or cold depends on when the world decides to turn on your side of the sun, on summer heat, on When you come back fighting, or if at all.
8
15
T
These things are not true:
You are arched and white like wishbone. Your eyes cloud like marble at the sound of silence. You often lose your voice in the hurricane of where you left off and who you should be. Life gave you a helmet, and you called it a holy thing, somewhere between a father and a coffin. When discouraged, you hold hands with strangers and bake soufflés. Reminding you to breathe is the hardest thing.
13
4
S
Stop
I don't want to stop, the way I don't want to stop scraping sunsets into my pockets, or taping airplanes in your alarm clock so you can fly instead of dreaming of me. And I've been wearing the same pants till my fingers fall through, poking the last hole in the constellation over your bed, manning control centers for your safe return. Tell me every distant star stays blinking like eyes across a prairie road waiting for home. Tell me home is filled with all of your laughs in clay jars with cracks in their sides. Tell me you need me more than my pockets full of quartz for your Sandman, and, every time you're flying, you're really
5
13
A
Acid
I stopped writing when I turned 20 degrees Celsius, and the acid evaporated from my veins. No more stormy seas or dreams that I can feel the erythrocytes crashing against my eyelids and fists—now My heartbeat is like the hollow canals of Venice drowning in air, drains overflowing into drains, Like abandoned gardens hanging between bricked up dreams, built six stories higher than I would ever need.
82
287
See all
H
Harvest Moon
You remind me of the harvest moon tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets till spring, of catching every breath in crystals on the same forgotten docks, Where gravity knots my tendons into rope, my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes into searchlights scanning the horizon for the first ship that leads to you.
43
164
K
Knotted Sky
Dreaming of knotted sky in the cold autumn night, I sit fences, cathartic as the morning light that stirs the marigold I call home when winter climbs aboard. These fields are no substitute for your apartment floor, clamouring breathless against the morning sun, the city's eyes, the last hurrah before the train home, or elsewhere.
10
7
U
Understory
This crosswalk is the record store's canopy, as surely as that patio is under- story, home to the horny simians of civilization (pause for ironic effect). Today, their ears curve around another transient mating call: observe elbows and knees and lips locking into a new beast, as simple as biology and complex as song. I watch from the crosswalk, and trip.
8
4
To be awake
0
5
T
The Snow Globe
At the boarding gate, the man appears almost lost in a crowd of passengers, periodically bumping into a shawled grandmother or a businessman on the phone and apologizing profusely. As the queue thins, he reaches into a tattered jacket pocket, pulls out a torn ticket, and begins folding and unfolding it along a familiar crease. The last two passengers cross the gate, and he stops to stare at the flight attendant, all red nail polish and shine and starch like a wax statue carved out of the sky. "Your ticket?" But her voice is nervous, almost girlish. It makes him feel more at ease among the strangers pressing in. Still, he scrambles to give
2
1
S
Songs for my father
"Don't close that car door," she says, but he is islands away and cannot see the shore, does not know that walking means running means The world is never the same when you return. He forgets porch lights sometimes burn out, and whether they are hot or cold depends on when the world decides to turn on your side of the sun, on summer heat, on When you come back fighting, or if at all.
8
15
T
These things are not true:
You are arched and white like wishbone. Your eyes cloud like marble at the sound of silence. You often lose your voice in the hurricane of where you left off and who you should be. Life gave you a helmet, and you called it a holy thing, somewhere between a father and a coffin. When discouraged, you hold hands with strangers and bake soufflés. Reminding you to breathe is the hardest thing.
13
4
S
Stop
I don't want to stop, the way I don't want to stop scraping sunsets into my pockets, or taping airplanes in your alarm clock so you can fly instead of dreaming of me. And I've been wearing the same pants till my fingers fall through, poking the last hole in the constellation over your bed, manning control centers for your safe return. Tell me every distant star stays blinking like eyes across a prairie road waiting for home. Tell me home is filled with all of your laughs in clay jars with cracks in their sides. Tell me you need me more than my pockets full of quartz for your Sandman, and, every time you're flying, you're really
5
13
A
Acid
I stopped writing when I turned 20 degrees Celsius, and the acid evaporated from my veins. No more stormy seas or dreams that I can feel the erythrocytes crashing against my eyelids and fists—now My heartbeat is like the hollow canals of Venice drowning in air, drains overflowing into drains, Like abandoned gardens hanging between bricked up dreams, built six stories higher than I would ever need.
82
287
Filigree ginkgo leaf pendant
13
81
Battle
15
432
You can (not) Replay
1.4K
25K
Frosty Path
29
982
Lonely Musings
21
820
41
1.2K
10
602
Memento Mori
865
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18
649
Between Infinity
521
22.1K

Spotlight

S
Songs for my father
"Don't close that car door," she says, but he is islands away and cannot see the shore, does not know that walking means running means The world is never the same when you return. He forgets porch lights sometimes burn out, and whether they are hot or cold depends on when the world decides to turn on your side of the sun, on summer heat, on When you come back fighting, or if at all.
8
15
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Let's talk about the literature on this site.
I recently joined dALinkSystem (https://www.deviantart.com/dalinksystem), which is an awesome endeavour that I wish were easier to accomplish. I have to wade through literally hundreds of deviations at a time to avoid sending you towards total garbage. Maybe 5 percent of the literature here is decent; less than half of 1 percent is actually good. The majority of the work on this site falls into the following categories: The Journal I am so upset about something trivial. Here is a good place to have a line break. Wait, I am writing a poem! Unnecessary exclamation mark! Let's have more of these! Time for a sudden topic or tense change. I really like Unfortunate Love Interes
30
0
I prefer to read novels in: (please explain in a commen...
  |  44 votes
  • first person
  • third person
  • second person
  • no preference
  • BOOKS ARE FOR NERDS
21
What's the maximum length for a survey before you say, ...
  |  48 votes
  • 5 or fewer questions
  • 10 questions
  • 20 questions
  • 50 questions
  • 100 questions
  • I would take the never-ending survey.
  • I don't take surveys.
1

Comments247

anonymous's avatar
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aeonsonance's avatar
Heh, it's moving...and addicting :)
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aeonsonance's avatar
Love your writing! Looking forward to more :)
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poshlost's avatar
poshlost|Hobbyist Writer
Cheers
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YouInventedMe's avatar
happy birthday! :cake:
Reply  ·  
poshlost's avatar
poshlost|Hobbyist Writer
thank you
Reply  ·  
indiana-w's avatar
indiana-w|Student General Artist
How is Austin?
I miss it so.
Reply  ·  
poshlost's avatar
poshlost|Hobbyist Writer
Austin's quite good. Do I know you?
Reply  ·