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.
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.
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.
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
"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.
These things are not true: by poshlost, literature
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.
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
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 fistsnow
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
"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.
These things are not true: by poshlost, literature
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.
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
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 fistsnow
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.
"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.
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