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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 DDs I Featured

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
Literature
how lilies weep
obstacles
are a kind of faith, 
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock 
covered in 
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.
i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.
i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up
blindfolded
but you can still see
the endless flaws.
i watch the trees break,
embryos shivering,
wolves chewing,
the elastic stretch between moments as
one thing lives and another dies,
as each day i create my chances,
i hold my deck of cards and slice two in half,
i eat one, i rip another,
and i still win the game.
you are the card i never play,
the one i hold on to,
the lucky coin
:iconsilklilies:silklilies
:iconsilklilies:silklilies 193 84
Mature content
Detergent and Deterrence :iconillicit-illusion:Illicit-Illusion 128 24
Literature
for a friend
The sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.
Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.
The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.
He mentions his wife
they'd been married almost 60 years.
She "took sick" and died (at her own hand)
some 15 years ago.
(it is sad what people must do to escape pain)
But he only remembers the little things
she did so often to help him
they are bittersweet candy.
I know he misses her.
I smile as we finish.
He offers to pay me,
but I refuse it.
:icon135711cal:135711cal
:icon135711cal:135711cal 166 33
Literature
Convenience
  Ducky Short usually avoided using 'convenience' stores. The floors were always grimy, the lighting was too dim for his tired veiny eyes, and the cashiers never spoke more than five words of English. But the thing that irked him most was how every one of them put the Ho-Hos on the very bottom shelf, and every time he would have to find a way to maneuver his long body and old rusty joints into a crouch just so he could reach them.
  He had been struck with a Ho-Ho craving as he was walking by, and since the only store nearby was a tiny convience store, he had no choice but to go in and claim his cakes. There was no controlling this sort of thing. 'Happy Ho Ho emergencies', his mother used to call them, God rest her soul.
  But Ducky hadn't expected a different kind of emergency.
  The bell on the door barely had time to jingle before it was drowned out by a frantic holler.
  "Freeze, everybody! I've got a gun, so no messing around!"
:iconcemetarypolka:cemetarypolka
:iconcemetarypolka:cemetarypolka 108 62
Literature
Wyrmling Ghostwrite
new millennium toothache
w feeder hand, aluminum
bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...
   & I rock the Rings, now!
supernova falcon flipper -
was-a-real-boy chicken shitter -
fist-fuck photon vision sifter -
  soullost, anon forgetter -
  so lost, rewind protector -
  dead princess bone collector
-
  hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?
    Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name
   but I've been following the will'o'wisps
    chasin' knowledge, speed & blame
    tryin' to play that Martyr's game
    LOOP/LOOP/LOOP/LOOP/LOOP---FAINT
Inhale, exhale, cause & effect
momentum, inertia, stardust & breath

Sleep becomes Death...
I can only fathom three modes of the Dream:
get fucked; feign sleep; & cheat Doctor King -
the triumvirate stains Red, White, and Green,
all for Tide bleach and Amerik
:iconAPrattle:APrattle
:iconaprattle:APrattle 104 21
Literature
Of Half-Filled Words
She is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
necessary.
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder to catch it.
:iconHugQueen:HugQueen
:iconhugqueen:HugQueen 269 201
Literature
2nd person fiction and You
You like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.
Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.
Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
Fiction written in the second person has invaded your dreams, and what's worse, your sexual fantasies. You'd be picturing a luscious blonde, rubbing her rubbables, yearning for your touch, when suddenly a voice would pop into your head, calmly narrating what you were doing: "You are picturing a luscious blonde," the voice would say, "rubbing her rubbables. Hey
:icondanielzklein:danielzklein
:icondanielzklein:danielzklein 419 128
Literature
You Slept Through The Alarm Again - Little Aubade
If, perhaps, you had turned at that moment
and your hair had caught in your fingers,
the straw being fed into the spindle, struck
by the high, thin light of first waking, the whorl
of a single line descendent from the sun, born
watery from the gap below one velveteen curtain,
all of it staining over gold and dusty and slow,
the edge of your mouth might have met the edge
of my mouth, narrow gaps both without attention
opening—if, perhaps you had turned again,
your hand could have met the curve of my neck,
your canvas rough fingers tying knots of my hair
and I would have sighed, thick spreading in your ear
like the light itself learning to speak in tongues
you might understand—if perhaps you had
opened your eyes, squinting, eyelashes caged
together, it all would have been edgeless and bright.
:iconsarehptar:sarehptar
:iconsarehptar:sarehptar 151 58
Daily Deviations I featured during my time as a volunteer and staff member.

A Veil Of Clouds

Time keeps flying whenever I'm trying to keep track of all the things that I've got going on in my life, and whenever I look away from one thing for more than a few minutes, it's like dozens of other things happen and suddenly days have gone by. This is a long-winded way of saying that stuff's been happening in my life, some good things and some less good things, but I think it's all par for the course for 2018, considering how all over the place this year has been.

I don't have a whole lot to say at the moment, so this will be short, but I've been browsing art a bit more in the wake of Eclipse going to beta, so I wanted to feature a few of the things I've seen and liked in the past month-ish. (Plus, it's an excuse to try the editor again. Feels great to use now that I'm used to it.)

Street

Morning Sea

Surface Breaks

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

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:iconneurotype:
neurotype Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
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:iconikazon:
ikazon Featured By Owner Oct 26, 2018   Writer
Eesh. I get the sentiment behind it, but that has to be a pain in the ass to deal with for the employees. :V
Reply
:iconneurotype:
neurotype Featured By Owner Oct 26, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
I mean, sure, but you'd think people could stop and think about the part where they're basically trying to get millions of people to tromp around in their dearly beloved's remains P:
Reply
:iconikazon:
ikazon Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2018   Writer
I mean, that too, but good luck getting people going to Disneyland to think. :P
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconbrennennn:
brennennn Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2018
Hi! :glomp:
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