saltwaterlungs - Hobbyist, Writer

Villain, I have DONE thy mother

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washington square by saltwaterlungs, literature

washington square

The moon, half faceless, dangles delicately from a hook, line, sinker, and coaxes people from postage stamp apartments. They gather on park benches and lawn arrangements, lovers and friends and strangers alike. The crackles of conversation melt like chocolate into warm palms, and it all swirls upwards and blends into an incoherent, vocal cocktail. Spurts of laughter burst between teeth like tangerine slices, the juice dripping from upturned lips, and this carries upwards too, the still, summer air now colored with oranges. Two saxophones pour their musicians’ souls out their open mouths. Their swan songs rise and collide lik

incuriosity by saltwaterlungs, literature

incuriosity

a brass paperweight drops into my stomach and bears no name; it may be from a gentle stirring of the strings in this song, it may be a deep regret lodged in my throat, unsettled until now, and still it may be an iceberg realization I cannot yet admit to myself. I seek no titles for this paperweight because what is the use of naming something when the weight will remain unchanged after its identity is placed upon its head? tell me, what is the use?

surburbian nights by saltwaterlungs, literature

surburbian nights

disengage those suburbia induced daydreams, those ideas of a new-town genesis and a fresh start, evergreen and crisp, because time unravels like molasses here, sweet and slow, and before you will realize this, you will turn forty and still be a busboy. destiny dictates all, adamant about how we stay where we are and do not push past the mud to the surface and ripple, a lotus amongst lily pads. it is easier for her this way.

red decisions by saltwaterlungs, literature

red decisions

being fifteen is a lot like being stuck at a red with no one at the intersection except for you. you know that if you apply enough pressure to the pedal underfoot, you will propel across the intersection and carry onwards uninhibited, but all your life, (the brief flicker it has been) they have told you red means stop, green means go, and you need to wait your turn like everyone else, it is the way things work, and you shouldn’t ask why. still, you fear that, when the light finally switches over to green, it will be too late to do all of the things you were waiting for in the first place.

The Fox and the Funeral by saltwaterlungs, literature

The Fox and the Funeral

My green Jeep hurtles down the dirt road. It’s the same road I learned to drive on, the same road my brothers learned to drive on, the same road my father learned to drive on. The sun is starting to set. It gives off an orange glow I associate with cherry pits soaring out of car windows and the feeling of immortality. I don’t feel immortal today. It might be Mom’s funeral that’s making me feel this way. Nothing sobers you like death does, but, as far as funerals go, it was nice. Mom’s favorite flowers, the priest who christened my brothers and me, enough light-hearted memories and jokes to lift the mood but no

tempest temptress by saltwaterlungs, literature

tempest temptress

The first woman was Promethean punishment, a way for the King to ruin mankind with beauty and grace. It has always been this way, and it continues because man believes it: woman is their punishment and her power too strong, so she must be contained and owned by a stronger figure who can control and tame the tempest she is. Pandora is given to a man to be owned, a possession, but she possesses her own jar, it is hers, and she opens it because it is the only thing she has been allowed in this world, the opportunity to open, and she does. All sorrows and sins sweep the world, and the story goes that it was because her husband wasn’t watc

carpet stains by saltwaterlungs, literature

carpet stains

My history teacher flicks through slides of dead Jews stacked like corkboard, their xylophone ribcages, trench stomachs, and mouth hanging open like drawbridges. I feel pinholes poked into my chest; my soul pours out and out and out. I look towards the others, and their moon faces reflect my own like thirty mirrors staring back at me: emptying and sorrowful. Our thoughts are the same: these bodies are people, and people killed them, and other people let them kill and be killed. People and people and people. The bell rings, and we shuffle papers and click pens. It is done, but our souls have stained the carpet.

graveguardian by saltwaterlungs, literature

lemonade limbo by saltwaterlungs, literature

memorpede by saltwaterlungs, literature

memorpede

A snippet of timestring unravels from my sweater head and dangles in front of Mind’s Eye, 100 legs crawling & clambering over the retina and Eye surrenders! looks, curious, but now unfocused / refocused on some crippling event where Past Self let words fall without review she saidIAMBETTERNOW! Eye readjusts, the timestring a microspeck, insignificant until it will crawl out again; it always crawls out again.

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adolescence by saltwaterlungs, literature

adolescence

We look up into the sky and see the stars as millions of possibilities for us to wrap our hands around and try, picking and choosing our favorite constellations like apples in the fruit aisle of a grocery store. We talk about our dreams of leaving this town far behind and far away, but we don’t talk about how leaving home means leaving each other and each constellation we wrap our hands around propels us into completely different directions. We want to hold on to each other as much as we want to let go of this dustbowl, but we can’t have both, and that scares us. We look up into the sky and see how big the galaxy is even when we

wake up slow by saltwaterlungs, literature

wake up slow

The Universe and I are in love. She led me to the lavender clouds outside my window, and in her palms, they blossomed like morning glories. She poured me a cup of coffee and showed me how the cream creates a supernova until the teaspoon turns and everything settles into an even tan. She showed me the people beside us and said, for just a moment, we were a part of their lives as we all sat at the red light, headlights burning a hole in the fog. I can never stop writing poems for her.

Turntable Tales: Isaac Leslie Young by saltwaterlungs, literature

Turntable Tales: Isaac Leslie Young

cl um ps of daddy’s h air sealed in a Zip loc Mama kept the baggies in a cardboard bo x beneath photos of him laughing he loved laughing big black work boots stillat the door top three holes not looped up with shoe laces I wore them to school and they called me a clown but daddy wasn’t no clown he was a hero I cried every night. his casket was hickory hickc

scarlet begonias by saltwaterlungs, literature

spring street by saltwaterlungs, literature

spring street

the world catches its breath between traffic lights’ red and green, the gutter sips yesterday’s rain like five am coffee and cream, the smog curls its tail round brick-dusted buildings. it is quiet on spring street. a woman drinks a syrah on the fire escape, her lipstick lingering on the styrofoam cup. a man across town wakes to find her lace tangled in his sheets. he wishes she was too. it is quiet on spring street.

aubrey by saltwaterlungs, literature

aubrey

You are a three-day lightning storm that leaves only plastic bags and stray dogs flitting through the river runway streets. You are dark purple and blue cacophonies, searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils, and seams bursting from blistering electricity— I am not afraid of you. My father has whirling weatherveins too, but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails; typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser. She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshine clenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, and more importantly, she will make you feel okay. You deserve okay.

Pop Rocks by saltwaterlungs, literature

red blood cells by saltwaterlungs, literature

red blood cells

I. Andy He drove in a straight line until his benzine droughted at 300; license plate numbers tattoo his eyelids cornflower blue, and the soles of his feet itch for places he’s never crossed— he insists they’re his home. II. Ophelia The girl with the sunflower pupils said we truly live 120 days, and every tick tock in between is ice in a soft drink; she called herself a pessimistic optimist, and I still don’t know what that means exactly. III. Benjamin He feels each inhale drawn out on a string and each exhale twisted tightly round his finger; he tries hand off his oh-two to the drowning friends he meet

Elder Sadler by saltwaterlungs, literature

Elder Sadler

A man with cheeks falling down his face like an avalanche wears a name card reading Elder Sadler. (He wears brown socks with purple spots because his loafers are boring. He loves his wife even though she burns the pot roast every time.) He slouches in a lobby chair, his gut spilling over his belt loops. Mr. Sadler works in a red folder with a yellow highlighter because someone once told him those colors have been scientifically proven to help people focus. Though he can’t cite his sources, he believes it. The boy with dark brown eyes and sharpened features to his right distracts him. The boy’s right shoe has the anarchy symbol

jackal grin by saltwaterlungs, literature

lit insp

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knocking on rotten wood by ghostinafog, literature

knocking on rotten wood

i dream just come alight, let your smile be static bristling across the bearded sky/ a sparrow bumps into my bulletproof glass, a fly is trapped in-between. the tree cracked and was removed by the morning like this you wake up groggy with an amputated limb no recollection of the present; dumbly watch the crests of folded sheet gyri pass and settle like the lead they put in our water, like the ticking of taxes, the pointless tests at a monthly check-up; we were once ripe bumblebees, we were be

one winter, imagined by nawkaman, literature

on falling in love with ghosts by successwithhonor, literature

on falling in love with ghosts

so maybe this can be more than its ending. or inevitability. call it something so long that it eventually becomes it, something to be called. say special or forever and maybe we’ll believe it, or ourselves. or forget everything we once knew in the process. call every sunset just another sunset, just another dead day what is this but the death of reason. or, of reasons. say something like goodbye or i love you but, what can we say but words? what can we do but try to remind ourselves? is this not the dream: the awkward sparkle of strangers at a bus stop, who come and go but never stay quite long enough who always leave before t

strabismus by thesquareroot, literature

strabismus

a mis-alignment of eyes sunrise broke the entropy but only for an instant melliferous and five percent obsession kind of like a liberal arts degree or the laws of retrogression and everybody’s moving to the places they should never be shifting phase and space condition with versions of themselves conceived to be a well-dressed serpentine or creature comfort concubines but still exactly like the misaligned eyes that follow me

AyePoWriMo, l) by AyeAye12, literature

AyePoWriMo, l)

i: Jerome broken bag spills few groceries ii: Adrian hurrying to the third one iii: Susan perhaps 300 lipsticks aren't enough iv: Benjamin wishing to grow up v: Andrew he just failed his exam vi: Andre spanish vii: Mary could fly with the happiness of her newborn viii: Henry heart of gold. empty ix: Nash off to a gig x: Samuel praying xi: Iona car; house; can't think what else xii: Mohammed off the life-changing boat xiii: Jane lost her marbles to the drain xiv: Geoff please come back xv: Sally wants shoes xvi: David the gang, lions, put him in debt xvii: Owen coming out today xviii: Quinn going inside

It's been four years by comatose-comet, literature

It's been four years

When you died, the world did not end. the tectonics did not collide and crumple upwards leaving the continents a messy patchwork with mountain ranges for crooked spines. The oceans did not evaporate swelling in a heavy July sky, bursting in the wildest of summer storms, hurricanes ripping through seaside towns like howling ghosts, looking for someone no longer there. The winds did not mourn in a wailing chorus, the lightning did not keep striking your grave, pounding down with angry fists and a desperation that if it hits hard enough, you will open the ground up and beat back with thunderclap hands. Plagues did not fester and wars did not r

The Third Death by AyeAye12, literature

The Third Death

For Ron The first death turns your body into the grass and trees, every breath of air you had sent sprinting like children across the blue-sky meadow. The second death is when the laughter and champagne-gold connections quiet into sparks. Illuminating our cities for as long as us. The third death is when your actions stop having impact. It is never, it is when post-heat velvet bursts into a new cosmic flower. Breathtaking anicca. Every kiss, every laugh, all those tears- they turn the Sun. Every laugh of ink that bursts from our pens- that is the immortal part of us. Life, this ball of beauty-chaos, it is to be cherished. You gave us

aro.asex by Seilf, literature

aro.asex

i. i used to think that lone geese in october skies were mistakes; an error of wingbeats, miscalculations of the wind raw cries and heavy feathers swept upwards, on beyond Autumn the matchmaker’s deft fingers. ii. but here we are, people. linked with golden chains and paper wishes, popcorn and licorice, forgetfulness and condoms marching two by two. iii. sugar/semen stains on tawdry velvet-- i see no need for so many

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adolescence by saltwaterlungs, literature

adolescence

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About saltwaterlungs

Artist // Hobbyist // Literature

July 7
United States
Deviant for 8 years
She / Her

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My Bio

I'm Hannah, a sixteen-year-old, sarcastic aesthete from California. I am passionate about breakfast burritos, record stores, puns, big cities, music, peppermint tea, theatre, other people, and, of course, reading and writing. The world grasps me in such a way, I cannot tell it "no". There has never been a time where the world has shown me something beautiful and I have been able to resist. Thus I am always scribbling on napkins with half crayons because my heart is weak for the beautiful, and I am afraid they will be lost forever if I do not write it all down.

(ID by HappyHS)

Favourite Visual Artist

Joaquin Sorolla, Greg "Craola" Simkins, Claude Monet, Norman Rockwell, Anders Zorn, Jerome Witkin

Favourite Movies

Hot Rod, Nacho Libre, Napolean Dynamite, The Breakfast Club, Pirates of the Carribean, Elf, Sieben Zwerge, Cloud Atlas, Gravity

Favourite TV Shows

Doctor Who, Bob's Burgers, Sherlock Holmes, Freaks and Geeks, The Office, Parks and Recreation, Arrested Development

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

The Airborne Toxic Event, Pink Floyd, Cage the Elephant, Metallica, Death Cab for Cutie, Led Zeppelin, The Mowgli's, Margot & The Nuclear So and So's

Favourite Books

Fahrenheit 451, Feed, Slaughterhouse-five, Tell the Wolves I'm Home, The Book Thief, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Favourite Writers

Charles Bukowski, William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, William Carlos Williams, Markus Zusak, David Mitchell, Kurt Vonnegut

Tools of the Trade

A writing utensil and something I can write on

Other Interests

Theatre, music, movies, concerts, reading, photography, shopping, art museums

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ShawnPikulJan 25, 2017

Your thoughts are entertaining!!!

Namco-NintendoFan-88Edited Jul 8, 2016

HAPPY 17th BIRTHDAY, but once again, Hannah, a.k.a. "saltwaterlungs," dear artist 'n literaturist friend!

Only one more year left to turn the big 1-8 and become a grown adult!

Good luck once again, and I hope you'll have a great b-day today!
Also wishing you keep up the good work on all awesome art 'n literature writings; I love 'em! ;) (Wink)

Comments by:
Nelson C.,
"N.N.F.88"
12:40 P.M.
Los Angeles, CA ;) (Wink)

Since I wouldn't have been able to do some birthday muro drawings, I got you five extra drawings, so...
SURPRISE;
Believe it or not, five birthday muro drawing copies I made, of the three feet
drawings, chibi Haruhi Suzumiya, and Mikuru Asahina wishing you one, so,
wishes 'n' luck!
Click on them:
fc00.deviantart.net/fs71/z/201…
pre03.deviantart.net/0b78/th/p…
pre14.deviantart.net/5ed8/th/p…
orig07.deviantart.net/00d4/f/2…
fc02.deviantart.net/fs70/z/201…