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About Literature / Hobbyist poshlostMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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Literature
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.
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 163 43
Literature
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.
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 7 10
Literature
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.
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:iconposhlost:poshlost 4 8
To be awake by poshlost To be awake :iconposhlost:poshlost 5 0
Literature
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 her the ticket.
She barely glances at it. "Sorry, sir. We are boarding first class passengers only at this time." She smiles and gives it back and does not touch his hand. "Please wait for economy class boarding with the other passengers. It won't take long now."
The man turns to the businessman and opens his mouth. But the moment passes, and he only
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 1 2
Literature
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.
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:iconposhlost:poshlost 15 8
Literature
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.
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:iconposhlost:poshlost 4 13
Literature
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 dreaming of me.
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 13 5
Literature
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.
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 291 82
Mature content
The Prostitute :iconposhlost:poshlost 14 5
Literature
Your Mother's Heartbeat
Wistfully taunting, it echoes your pulse—like so,
tinnitus stretches walls solid as drums, and you
bury your laughter with lilies on frost-bit toes.
Drawing her likeness on old mugs does naught in lieu
of glass jars holding it pressed on your blue cheek and
would that these ribbons and paper could hold it too.
So I am hanging her scarves like a Neverland
circling the tree, faint with eggnog and cinnamon,
hoping warm carols remember her clapping hands.
Scattering sugar on counters, I tap the thump-
thump
of her twinkling eyes, and inside it is
snowing, bright white like her hair in a make-shift bun.
The box is empty but, love, lift it, hugging this
warmth to your heart like a conch pulls her ocean near,
beating in rhythm with every smile. Do not miss
Her voice against your closed eyelids stealing your tears—
Holiday memories always weather the years.
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 22 18
Literature
Two dreamers on a barge
i.
encrusted with salt
and hair stiff with
the sea, we searched
for endless horizons
but failed to find even ourselves.
night chanced upon us pressed
against opposite ends of the
deck, obstinately shivering
as if the damp was enough
of a substitute.
ii.
the sunset glows blue
up north, breaking into
a million pieces like snowflakes,
and if your silhouette spells
anything, it is that lines are not
forever, nor light, which soaks
into the edges of the earth.
we are sitting balanced against
stone oars in see-saw motion,
eyes clutching like shoulders against
arms, and hands folded against
our backs, balled into fists.
iii.
brittle bones join
the slow creak of the sea.
the wind is an augmented fourth
against you, and the way you
pull up your collar makes me think
you’re trying not to listen.
something spans
the space between us -
stretched and tendrilled
like egg-white or elastic,
and I daren’t move.
iv.
our barge has frozen into the
sea, but we are drifting,
and I only imagine tha
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 21 6
Literature
Raskol
Our son and his wife sleep in separate rooms. They are painted the same colour and bear identical scars but are separated by a hall so long that by the time I walk from one end to the other, I am too tired to compare and know what is different.
That is the convenience of an oversized house, I think, that we did not have in our small one-room apartment—they never have to see each other’s faces. You remember the nights when we were given no choice but to lie next to each other, against the hard corner, when we were seething in each other’s anger. How wonderful it might have been to stare at a blank wall, letting the heat of our hands seep into the plaster until we forgot each other, and how to be angry.
I never told you the fear I had inside my heart every time we tore apart and came back together again, that we would forget how closely we fit, or that in the short intervals when we were apart, a piece of the puzzle would come loose against us like a grain of sand, until w
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 251 221

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Literature
half turtles.
without you
   i wake up
during
the late
afternoon
   heat hours.
  crawl out
of bed.
consider
  the pool
        but
  end up on
the back
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  is the
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    just before
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   of a bird,  
      waking.
        i
     do
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  do you)
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  you -
    you
  are not
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  my love,
     you
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(shells
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    turtles
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shells
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Literature
Every Fanfic Ever Written
THE EXPLANATORY FIC
(CHARACTERS do something interesting. CAMERA fades to black in the middle of it.)
CAMERA: Well, I'm done here.
AUTHOR: Like hell you are.
THE BACKSTORY FIC
CHARACTER: Alas, I do not have much of a backstory.
AUTHOR: Now you do!
CHARACTER: ... hooray?
THE BACKSTORY FIC, PART 2
EXTREMELY MINOR CHARACTER: I have no backstory, no personality, and perhaps three lines of dialogue.
AUTHOR: Well, we can't have that.
THE MARY SUE
CHARACTER: I'm OOC.
MARY SUE: I'm stereotypical.
(Awkward moment.)
CHARACTER: I love you.
MARY SUE: I love you too, snookie-ookie-wookums.
THE SELF-INSERT
CHARACTER: Something is wrong.
SELF-INSERT: I can fix it!
(She does.)
CHARACTER: You're very strong.
SELF-INSERT: I can beat you all up!
CHARACTER: You're fourteen.
SELF-INSERT: And I can solve all your problems!
CHARACTER: That's wonderful! We trust you utterly!
THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT FIC
CHARACTER: We won! It's over!
AUTHOR: Like hell it is.
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Literature
The Salt Thief
My fields stretched, long and narrow
and yawned on humid afternoons
as I scratched the backs
of my old marshes.
My currents ran clear;
my only dream was to sweep the tops of seas,
to have always sunshine in my nostrils
and salt on my tongue.
You washed up into the may of my life
from some musky badlands.
Mother warned you were nothing
but common salt
not up to the standards
of my fleur de sel pedigree.
I thought to cure you,
to shake the blandness
from your desert eyes,
for you to be the vessel
to hold my deposits,
brackish and raw.
Your love came in small packages
but I stored them
to become my concentrated hoard;
a mine of bitterness.
I cannot name any one deception;
they are infinite, like grains of salt,
held close under my tongue.
I cannot return to my daily grind
All things taste of you
laced in bitterness
You have taken it all, my salt;
not even a grain
to rub this old wound.
You stole
and keep it in the cellar
of your heart
that extra
special ingredient
the seasoning of love.
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