poshlost

Odi et amo.

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Harvest Moon by poshlost, literature

Knotted Sky by poshlost, literature

Understory by poshlost, literature

The Snow Globe by poshlost, literature

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

Songs for my father by poshlost, literature

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.

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.

Stop by poshlost, literature

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

Acid by poshlost, literature

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.

The Prostitute by poshlost, literature

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Harvest Moon by poshlost, literature

Knotted Sky by poshlost, literature

Understory by poshlost, literature

The Snow Globe by poshlost, literature

Literature

The Snow Globe

Songs for my father by poshlost, literature

Literature

Songs for my father

These things are not true: by poshlost, literature

Literature

These things are not true:

Stop by poshlost, literature

Literature

Stop

Acid by poshlost, literature

Literature

Acid

The Prostitute by poshlost, literature

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Songs for my father by poshlost, literature

Literature

Songs for my father

poshlost

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About poshlost

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Artist // Hobbyist // Literature

United States
Deviant for 16 years
www.jasvercek.com
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Eugenides, Heinlein, Bradbury, Ellison, Baldwin, Hempel, Wilbur, A. Gibson, Chekhov, Shaffer, Keats

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poshlost

Jan 4, 2011

Let's talk about the literature on this site.

0 min read

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