(yikes)

hi. hey. i’m moss (they/them), and this is my poem blog. you somehow found it. neat!

[yikes-and-shrikes]

Blegh fine a pinned post. I am Moss (among other names). I use they/them pronouns. I post poems now and then. The poems are mostly titled by date written and edited, which allows me to keep track of my progress with writing. My main blog is @deep-indigo-abyss, where I don’t do anything special or particularly interesting. Feel free to reblog anything here. I think that about covers it.

[yikes-and-shrikes]

2/22/26

here on the steep edge of entropy

will you hold my hand?

it is so cold here on the horizon,

juxtaposition of all the color of life

against its stretching black omission.

braid your fingers with mine,

ward off the lonely long lacuna

that comes at all our ends.

if there is only you to steady me

it could be enough.

[etriva]

from The Memory Palace, by Nate DiMeo

[dogrotpdf]

how’s that house that raised you?

[slowfalter]

Do It Yourself

Lemons fall from trees at my will. Wind

Laps at my boulderous thighs.

And all things seem smaller. But why diminish,

When you can brush up against the world as an equal

Refashion all creation. Ineffable forces tremble

Before this table, this poem. Witness

All that is natural, bent under my weight

In unrelenting tenderness. Part eternity,

Part sweat and a few nails —

I’ve crafted the chariot which will carry my soul.

Moss seeps through the cracks, its antennae drooping

before a beast, fearsome and magnificent,

Slouched in stained leggings.

It’s a fine day for world building.

The atmosphere warps around my bulk.

—————

[two-bees-poetry]

[slowfalter]

[grendel-menz]

no air conditioning optimism summer - a sort of ramble

[grendel-menz]

It’s my birthday again, reblog it as a gift? ;-;<3

[headspace-hotel]

"Dragon," poem assembled using quotations from Wikipedia articles

[yikes-and-shrikes]

{3.24.22}

Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats Still beats intact though it feels like so many ribbons Curled around a kernel of A kernel of steadfast, stubborn Resistance — Multicolored Cold glass marble Smooth from my restless fingers probing Probing to ensure no cracks have formed in this This nonconductive core concealed in my flesh And I pray a whispered terror-filled prayer To a God I'm not quite sure can hear me: “don't let me lose control” — Shards of broken borosilicate slip between unpinned ribbons Fall musically to the floor revealing fault lines Intrinsic to the tense color-covered sphere Held as though it were a power cell and not And not an insulator Barring electricity Keeping me cold And quiet and still And still and still here Patterns unconfined and blooming bright Among shards of glass and ink and blood And a certainty sounding clear as chimes There is something good beyond what’s broken — The heart of a thing lying between us The truth of a thing held in hearts aching for closeness And slow mornings and warm evenings The drowsy contentment rooted in sureness And hearts left open on the kitchen table Whittling at a definition of “home” that breathes Soft as your lips on my cheek

Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats— It does—and the thing on the table sits newborn and clarified Gently peeled and shining fresh—and familiar

[yikes-and-shrikes]

{2.25/26.21}

words rusty—not as in unused, corroded, forgotten in a garage—words rusty like a metal hinge gathering oxidation and slowly clogging, grinding where once the way was smooth. irony, rusting creaking irony of slogging through words to express how they flow, how they come slow and winding; stubbornness of old gates, tilted leaning nearly dust, held by stubborn iron, red and flaking and barely whole; smithing metaphors of metal words sturdier than I am to hold my swinging frame, to put pen in place of steel, to reinforce timber warped from being milled green. words corroded and corrosive, acid red-hot words spilling into my heart, spilling from my brain, my mouth, from the beating hammers loud in the next room. my mental metallurgy, trying desperately to scrape the rust from my words— to be sharp enough to cut through my own bullshit. words rusty—I may not mean what I say—I mean to say anything at all— this creation of cadence soothing, smoothing.

[yikes-and-shrikes]

{12.12/25.21}

the empty space in my ribs where my heart used to be, before it dropped out of my chest, fell to the ground, at your feet. your words and your touch shake me loose of myself—I am entirely yours. I am my own and give myself entirely over to you. your breath on my skin wells up contradictions in me—your love sparks fluidity in me, sets my heart in motion— moving always toward you. my heart on the ground—tread lightly, or don’t.

[yikes-and-shrikes]

{11.9/12.25.21}

Persephone is not so far removed from Icarus—it’s only that gods can touch the face of their beloved without burning. and maybe we are all just trying to live as though our wings were stronger than wax, as though if we simply fly high enough the sun will cease blistering and embrace us, gentle in its warmth, as though the fires of Hades will feel like Hestia’s hearth if god will only love us back. mortals must be content with this plane between two fires—but aren’t the flames alluring?

[abbiemhart]

interlinked

interlink hands and watch the sky.

you took me out into a field to see

what stars really look like when i 

came to new jersey. i am afraid i do

not have much to offer you that i 

have not already given. interlink

hands and look at the sewer. at the smog.

at the concrete structure rising in unison

along the edge of the sky. at my hands.

at your hands. at all of it.

[abbiemhart]

good god

the trees took a collective deep breath before screaming

lungs raised to the wind

a collective chorus of fuck me and

oh it must be noon.

i do not know if it is raining but i can assume that it is not.

[abbiemhart]

a little animation i did of some fun-guys! where are they headed???

[yikes-and-shrikes]

{10.28.21}

love in logistics— the care of “whatever you need, dear” and “not this evening, but tomorrow morning at 9 works,” and “may I kiss your head, just there?” gentle negotiation of lives, easing of inevitable frictions, joining of edges and creases. I did not expect to find love in my calendar, yet it is in scheduling time to spend a night or an evening in dear company that I melt, find myself content.