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About Literature / Artist Senior Member mohawk menaceUnknown Group :icontransliterations: transliterations
from one world to another
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Deviant for 9 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from Inspire.

Literature
Starlight
Manik pulled up to the curb, powered down the engine and looked across the dusty roadway at the diner.
As if on command, the neon sign over the doorway sputtered to life, strobing weakly at first before coming on strong, 'Starlight' in deep blue over 'Restaurant' in brilliant orange, with a sky-blue arrow underlining both before turning up toward the night sky.
Reflexively he looked up and down the roadway before crossing, a precaution hardwired from youth, wasted for more years than he cared to count.
The door put up a little resistance, the detritus of neglect drifting against it over time, but once he pulled it clear he was able to step inside, and the door closed easily behind him.
Inside it never changed.
The long low diner counter down the left side, stools topped in polished vinyl, the laminate surface trimmed in chrome, screwed neatly along the edge at regular intervals. Behind the counter, several dozen bottles filled a small, tiered back-bar, a black bottle of Hendricks Gin f
:iconSRSmith:SRSmith
:iconsrsmith:SRSmith 4 26
memory by Cestica memory :iconcestica:Cestica 1,197 56
Literature
LV4
Yosun blinked in the afternoon sun, the viewport on her hazmat suit filtering the harsh UV rays but doing little to reduce the glare.
Her shuttle had settled a few hundred meters from the blast site, the ground compressed into a large bowl almost thirty meters across. Ignition had been seconds before impact, the containment shell having been detonated above the ground to maximize its effect.
Nothing would have survived this.
The damage near ground zero was complete, there were no structures, no bodies, no signs of life. As Yosun walked away from what had been the center of the settlement, signs of what had been a self-sustaining research colony slowly began to appear. Shrapnel from the prefab structures the crew had been sent here with, vehicle debris, fragments of the familiar blue and yellow supply containers from what would have been the landing zone, the remains larger and more defined the further she went.
It was nearly twenty minutes walk before there was any biological detritus.
:iconSRSmith:SRSmith
:iconsrsmith:SRSmith 7 16
Cyberghetto by burningmonk Cyberghetto :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 406 43 Kiss of the Sun by TobiasRoetsch Kiss of the Sun :icontobiasroetsch:TobiasRoetsch 307 16 Bosa 2 by INVIV0 Bosa 2 :iconinviv0:INVIV0 198 9 Over the mountains and the horizon by m-eralp Over the mountains and the horizon :iconm-eralp:m-eralp 544 28
Literature
Brittle
sparrow: wings half-extended
head back, beak open
encased in clay, a snapshot
sudden as a nuclear shadow
sparrow trembles inside
:iconakrasiel:akrasiel
:iconakrasiel:akrasiel 23 19
Dahlia by IngeVandormael Dahlia :iconingevandormael:IngeVandormael 102 5 Rain World by burningmonk Rain World :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 286 39 Allos Lake by FlorentCourty Allos Lake :iconflorentcourty:FlorentCourty 207 8 Distant Metropolis by burningmonk Distant Metropolis :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 238 16
Literature
My Lucky Number's One
Chase peeled off her evening attire slowly, the fabric offering some resistance in the numerous places it was still actively staunching blood flow. The garments dropped haphazardly to the bathroom floor. The time for precision and planning was behind her, she'd clean up the mess once she'd slept.
Climbing the steps around the tub, she lowered herself gingerly to sit on the cool tile. Swinging her legs into the steaming liquid first, she gripped opposite sides of the tub and lowered herself slowly, not stopping until her head slipped beneath the surface, a crimson cloud blossoming around her like a rose.
She barely flinched as the fluid filled her lungs, oxygenating her as it cleaned the evening's toxins from her insides. The bioagent surrounded her, slipping through her skin to permeate her deep tissue like smoke through cheesecloth, picking away at the scar tissue that was already starting to form, dissolving the deep hematomas, coercing the open wounds to knit from their depths out t
:iconSRSmith:SRSmith
:iconsrsmith:SRSmith 9 35
Alpe di Siusi by TobiasRoetsch Alpe di Siusi :icontobiasroetsch:TobiasRoetsch 341 15 Yellow Line by burningmonk Yellow Line :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 280 20 Faces by burningmonk Faces :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 124 35

Random from DDs I Featured

Literature
The Beckett Colcannon
CIAN, bowler hat, medium gray trench coat, old-fashioned sunglasses, a cane.
BEAG, bowler hat, light grey trench coat.
SET: Front center, a rectangular table, around 8 feet long. To its right, as seen by the audience, an oven/stove. On the stove, a pot with steam coming from it, and on the floor to its right, a small garbage bin. To the table's left, a simple armless chair, facing the audience. On the table, one pound of ham, in one piece. The set is lit in medium light, and the remainder of the stage is left in darkness.
Curtains rise. CIAN sits at the chair. He stares directly forward. Five seconds.
CIAN: Ready, yes, they must be ready.
CIAN knocks his cane twice on the floor. BEAG enters from the right immediately, looks into the pot. He makes to leave.
CIAN: Are they ready?
BEAG stops and faces CIAN.
BEAG: Almost.
CIAN: Good. How long have they been steaming for?
BEAG: Almost long enough.
CIAN: Good. (Pause.) And the ham?
BEAG: Sitting on the table.
CIAN
:iconShedSimas:ShedSimas
:iconshedsimas:ShedSimas 50 23
Literature
2.28.12
today, i deposited the
contents of my stomach
into an open, wanting
porcelain mouth.
i, a liquid solid
am readily taken down
its esophagus,
into its belly
where i decompose.
my throat is a raw
flesh-tube
i use to
sing off key
and vomit.
i have a fever.
my temples are
solar panels
and my skull
aluminum foil,
trapping the heat
inside.
it's like i have cysts
between my bones,
calcium build-ups
in my veins.
i lost my legs along the way
down into the abyss.
but i don't mind.
their muscles ached
so terribly
i'd often thought of
self-amputating.
still, i am left with
206 bones,
and they all creak,
and clamor,
and they won't shut up
and let me sleep
that must be why i never
dream;
because unconsciousness
can never be deep enough
to submerge me.
tonight, i'll sweat
myself out through
my pores and
endure nightmare
layered over
nightmare,
always about the
same bones &
bodies.
:iconartistic-foolishness:artistic-foolishness
:iconartistic-foolishness:artistic-foolishness 217 159
Literature
Hello Now
Hello.
I don't know how to greet you
I only know that I have always thought of you as something
I could hold in my hands
unnaturally as
a fistful of minnows before
they die
puncture their own bones
against me
and secrete the abalone glaze of their eyes
into a film on the dock
Until now I have since kept you as
a flighted likeness
of my mind
knowing too the cold of a multiplied sunset
ending in frost and space between rivers
the fragrance of a sweetly decomposing
salmonberry, telling time for reddening chinook to end
sweeping like a wind in the parts between birches
or of it's stain that I would palm and carry
thinking also of endings and beginnings
in such order
when gulls eat the cartilidge and fur
from animals put on the silted banks
of the knik
a place where the sun can fall deeply
and I
build fires
as I am no longer alone,
and we hear the chickadees being the trees
and the loons wanting to make night
could it be appropriate now,
while twilight is flaming
to finally know your name?
:iconsupersunshineagent:supersunshineagent
:iconsupersunshineagent:supersunshineagent 182 25
Literature
Ms. Fox
rummaging through the night;
I find her buried in a handsome coat.
the darkness softens her
trash-strewn make up
to lay bags under her eyes.
I have always thought to chase
a beauty like that; blow my
hunting-horn like kisses
as I saddle up.
I would wear her around my arm and
discuss the big-game
and the beasts at bay
with boys that brandish
scorecards into the hundreds.
but,
she hid from the canines
lapping her neck with a head
buried in all fours.
I skinned her like a poacher
bearing my ivory smile
for her to unfurl
flushed and screaming
like a new born baby.
caught in my hooves the wrong way.
:iconIchors:Ichors
:iconichors:Ichors 141 31
Literature
The Door of Our Cottage in the Western Night
They began on the beach, and a fire was raging upon the waters.  A fire on one side of the world and one around the other.  The earth had been unbruised, like an apple on a string, and then two stones had struck within a month, and everything had burned, slagged by deep space arrows. The wind was terrible.  Everywhere was a howl with no direction.
*
There were a few lichen-like communities in damp places, where the sky had steamed by but seared little, lifted ravines and streams from the land, unwrinkled it, dragon braille revealed only in fire.  There were a few who had been underground, and a few in the inland seas and lakes, a few in the deeper rivers, a few on the moon, watching it go.
The moon was hit four weeks later, and there were no lunatic survivors.
*
Once again, we were alone.  The world had been smoked and there was a smell of it everywhere, and we walked on the remains of the crater's basin lake.  It was involute
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 84 11
Literature
Flying
We swam through the sky
and when we landed
we felt higher
than when we almost reached the
Sun.
You kissed my neck and your lips
still burned
and the fire in my hair went out
and you sighed.
I hate this part of the song where I can't hear you anymore.
When you woke me up
I remembered why I used to love you;
why the ash on your tongue
used to taste so sweet.
:iconkingmule:kingmule
:iconkingmule:kingmule 146 33
Literature
I HEAR THE COSMOS COLLAPSING...
I hear the cosmos collapsing against my soul.
Black space exploding, my imperfect face imploding
into a million skinless Stars, screaming into the
palpable Silence that has been touched less often
than even I have, into the abyss and the blackness
that beckoned me forward I stared, shapes realigned
the perimeters of my reality into a new glaze.
I felt the gravity slip away from under my feet.
Do you remember the time you poured liquor into my
virgin glass and made cocktails from the universes
spinning under my skin? I said "cherish me, please,
this gift that was mine" you said "why" and laughed,
you didn't see the tears I cried, multi-faceted like
the memories imprinted on my little piece of Forever.
I saw a familiar metaphor storming your eyes.
Do you remember when you traced constellations over
my spine? Andromeda role-playing her virgin unrest
and Astraea crying for Purity's sake, that's when
you extinguished your joint on my skin, I pretended
not to feel the sting-but I did, the sc
:iconHeather-Chrysalis:Heather-Chrysalis
:iconheather-chrysalis:Heather-Chrysalis 238 115
Literature
Into a Congo
Shocks rippled south
realmed a loss and screened a track
stacks strung low and around again
She wanted the feeling of mica between her teeth
like lashes on a chiseled tree
totaled through and ruffled down
up and around again
Court and run south and
sandalwood
wrecked a home, she sat still
her knees knit together
unraveled over and into raw skin, over and into
she bloomed her hair into a Congo
It peeled like rose petals beneath her feet
a sheet strung high and low and around again
She said tell me why, but her fingers curled
around your head, around your neck, slowly
and then her shoulders
                        loosened
                                 like twine
:iconNefiret:Nefiret
:iconnefiret:Nefiret 76 13
Literature
Riding Bikes
Going off medication is like riding a bike.
The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.
"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.
I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration. I am an exaggeration.
I like to compare mental illnesses to mundane physical activities. Also you should know that I am sick but trying to get better.
Sometimes I relapse and then write poems about it.
It's not even the kind of sick where people bring you soup in bed and soothe your fevered brow. It's the kind of sick where I'm late to work because
:iconestallidos:estallidos
:iconestallidos:estallidos 715 397
Literature
Splinter helix
EMBRYO
a derelict building shifts its swollen form
wire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallows
nestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibres
the child of paint and pastel colours stirs
searching blindly for that energetic outside world
it stretches its delicate arms like an earthquake
SAPLING
Tell me where you come from, what you remember
of the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kind
understands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.
You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, and
you stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,
longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.
GENERATION
the twisting flesh of the whistling tree
blankets the screaming mud with salt
in a lush park tended by arthritic backs
an old man sits with a young girl
as devils arc their spines within smiles
they discuss the taste of snow
ANCIENT
They know the end grows high, grows nigh,
outgrows the star dome like parasite patchwork.
The invaders never came, they were the ground stones,
what
:iconneonxaos:neonxaos
:iconneonxaos:neonxaos 100 65
Literature
My Other Name
My Other Name
Sometimes it is to set out forks
           beside each plate,
                                       or folding shirts first,
                         dryer hot in the A.M.
                                half-dark.
Less often, thirsty from cutting trees
    back away from the roof edge,
                       
:iconb1gfan:b1gfan
:iconb1gfan:b1gfan 166 95
Literature
Levitation
Observe.
This is how women walk away.
In broken heels
and secondhand jackets,
cigarette smoke in their hair
and no kiss goodbye.
Do not mock.
It is what it should be.
A girl in a car,
hanging a u-turn
on a glistening, empty street.
Her body is a road to be traveled.
A shipwreck to be plundered.
She does not know how she got here,
and she does not care.
And it does not matter.
This is how women smile.
Knowing, secretive,
though her cheeks are sore.
Though the wind
is blowing right through her clothes.
Though there is no good music
on the radio, and no food
in the refrigerator.
This is just an impression.
An idea of nirvana.
A slice of real, live ecstasy.
But do not give it a name.
Just show it, wear it like
designer jeans.
Tight against the skin.
She is ivory, she is easy,
and it is not love.
It is something better,
fermenting at the
backs of her knees.
Flooring her.
Bleeding from her fingerprints.
It is a devastation,
seven ways from Sunday,
but that is how she likes it.
It cannot hurt
:iconBlood-Lace:Blood-Lace
:iconblood-lace:Blood-Lace 348 166
Literature
l'hiver.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
:iconnighttimebeautiful:nighttimebeautiful
:iconnighttimebeautiful:nighttimebeautiful 190 89
Literature
a memory
I remembered the afternoon I called you,
curled on my bed with someone's good book
in my palm, nestled softly in the waning light
and under my gently roaming fingers
the baby moved – not to my hand-touch,
but inside, an insistent flutter,
not like the swiftly beating heart
on the doctor's monitor, not like the slow
appearance of a plus-sign on a drugstore test.
I called you, my gently rolling daughter's
mother's mother. I called you like the woman
standing at my back while I held the kite string
on a pushy spring day, the diagonal shape so
far above us I could only feel the jerk of the
cord around my fingers, holding us to earth.
:iconsunshinegypsy:sunshinegypsy
:iconsunshinegypsy:sunshinegypsy 210 96
Literature
I Guess We'll Live To See It
You should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,
and wanting
is not enough.
The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.
Instead,
instead;
No,
There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open
your hands
and let the thirst out.
Build. We will stand
until the dawn breaks- and you do not believe
in ecstasy, so we will know,
at the end.
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident 198 65
Daily Deviations I featured during my time as a volunteer and staff member.

52nd Street

Sun Apr 22, 2018, 10:58 PM

Listening to:


Toshiki Kadomatsu - 52nd Street

Skin by ginkgografix


22 days in...
I've been keeping up with NaPo just fine so far, but I think the ultimate reality that I'm coming to is that I still don't miss poetry, basically at all. I definitely feel like what I've written this month by and large isn't great compared to what I used to write when it comes to poetry, but also I'm not invested in it. The only thing really keeping me writing more poems at this stage is the fact I said that I was going to do NaPo this year. When I write stories, I want to write them, I want to put more effort into them, and I want to make them as good as possible, but I feel pretty passive about poetry, even now.

I guess the bright side is that having done this should make writing stories more fun, but it's weird becoming aware that you don't have passion for something that used to be routine. Someone asked me a few days ago if I missed playing clarinet, and the honest answer was that no, I don't miss it at all. I never enjoyed performing, I always found it stressful, even when I was as prepared as I could have been. 

It's really been a month for recognizing what I want and what I don't, I suppose. Outside of here on DA, there have been some unusual personal developments in my life, but I think things have finally started to settle down some, which is good. The two job thing has finally started to pay off in a big way, so even though I went a long while with horrible sleep habits, financially I am finally, officially afloat, at least for now.

How are we all doing?

Music corner:


deviantID

ikazon
mohawk menace
Artist | Literature
Hi there! I'm a storyteller of sorts. Here on DA, I was a gallery moderator from 2010 to 2011, a community volunteer from 2011 to 2012, and a staff member from 2012 to 2015. Feel free to say hi, I don't bite!

Deviousness Award

Deviousness Award
A deviant for nine years, ikazon is a monumentally influential member of DeviantArt. A champion of DeviantArt’s literature community, he’s contributed his own writing and journal skins to the community since he first joined DeviantArt. In 2011, ikazon became a Community Volunteer, shining a light on undiscovered pieces in both the DeviantArt related and literature galleries. His dedication to the community quickly made him a beloved figure on DeviantArt. Soon after, in 2012, he was hired as a full-time staff member, where he ran multiple community projects, such as the 2014 and 2015 Valentine’s Day Exchange!

However, ikazon’s contributions to the community extended past his time as a community volunteer and a staff member. From contributing journal skins to the CalendarProject to leaving encouraging comments for his fellow community members, ikazon’s supporting presence has been felt all across DeviantArt.

We’re proud to name ikazon as the Deviousness Award recipient for March 2016!
-awarded March 2016

Comments


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:iconjdrainville:
jdrainville Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
It's been ages!  Hope you are well. :hug:
Reply
:iconspecialized666:
specialized666 Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Professional General Artist
Hi, have a very nice day :D
Reply
:iconteague-drydan:
Teague-Drydan Featured By Owner May 31, 2018  Student Writer
Thanks for the watch!
Reply
:iconqueen-kitty:
Queen-Kitty Featured By Owner May 14, 2018   Photographer
Thanks for giving my account a watch, looking forward to seeing you around :wave:
Reply
:icontentonparasol:
TenTonParasol Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2018  Student Filmographer
Hey! It's Gena, the former itzjusdrama. Wow, I've been AWOL for a long time, six years, and sometimes just made me want to log back in and take a look around. Things look very different these days, and I'm not overly sure where one hangs out here, but it's nice to see someone from the old days still around. And with a familiar icon, no less!
Reply
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