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About Literature / Professional joseph deckerMale/United States Groups :iconrote: rote
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Deviant for 11 Years
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Bullets, Flowers, Leaves
I have drawers for bullets
and flowers
and leaves.
The rain sometimes comes
more sometimes than other
The sun sneaks out and splatters
waves on the wall; trees in the wind.
Bullets, flowers, leaves.
The world here is made of rocks
ground down some
and some leave me to wonder
about the works
of simple men
that do so little,
not even as much as the rocks.
Bullets, flowers, leaves.
Spring in Winter
Winter in Summer
and Fall never,
with the sea angry at your elbow
and the people the people the people
who drive the roads back and forth
howling the pavement to
the next whatever
that cannot ever arrive.
Flowers and
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 105 48
Petrified National Forest by hell-on-a-stick Petrified National Forest :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 9 2 Tampa Bay Sunset by hell-on-a-stick Tampa Bay Sunset :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 7 5 Grand River Fisherman by hell-on-a-stick Grand River Fisherman :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 3 2 La Bella by hell-on-a-stick La Bella :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 8 14 12 Mile Beach Sunset by hell-on-a-stick 12 Mile Beach Sunset :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 4 5 Clearwater Lake, Ocala National forest by hell-on-a-stick Clearwater Lake, Ocala National forest :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 3 3 City by hell-on-a-stick City :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 0 0 Baltimore waterfront by hell-on-a-stick Baltimore waterfront :iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 10 23
Long Night
On the longest night of the year
the sun struggles to rise;
and like a thief, it slides
the hood of night away without
so much as a sparkle.
Dawn sags in, with a blue-gray
pistol-light revealing
the frost-whipped ground.
Through the blackness of this
night, I
shuffle back through houses,
shackles, fields, stars of memory,
dungeon'd in secret years,
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 14 11
You, Never
You have never seen clouds
that float through the air like ribbons;
charmed and magic space between
the plain and lake,
eerie as the sun-set darkens the reeds
and we fly toward home-
down the ribbon of asphalt snake
that had/has no head except
in my dreams.
You have never seen farmers
hock and spit out the windows
of beaten orange pick-ups
against sparkling, startling blue
winter missouri dawn, as the sun-
rise blankets the snow with painful
light and the rutted dirt roads turn
the tires, driving you along
without effort.
You have never run through spring
fields chasing after your first boy-love
bounding from fence-post to fence-post and
stepped into a hole, only to go sliding on
harsh fescue leaving welts of the whip
on your flat abdomen, to gain mother-ly
You have never masturbated out into the
ether of Estes mountains, run wild from the
group, nearly died in crashing river falls
crazed from coke, dehydration, marijuana,
endless denver beers, slept in a porno apartmen
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 10 27
Untie the World
Mad, drunken philosophers,
Untie the world! Make merriment
a daily practice, make
unto the straight, narrow, mind
a calisthenic for the soul!
Rapture! Amazement! Awe!
Dance the night away with your
fingers, lingering (not pause) but
hands! The new might of the
century! Pecking words across
faux-page diaries in blank-white
pixel space!  
Look at the person next to you and
love them with your eyes! It's all going
to hell anyway, oil prices dropping, the
race riots of st. louis cut back to 1933
the horrors of bigotry. Do you play
the game on the train to look at a man's
hands and discover what he may do with them?
Is he a killer, a harbor worker, a farmer, evangelist,
poet or all?
Damn the confusing lying label-white
sticker-shock (shocked by label) society
that created itself!  Damn an ancient 1930's
ku klux world that wrought your present
for you without wrapping! Damn the New York
times that knew! Jews slaughtered in Germany
and Henry Ford lifting not one finger except to
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 5 11
Some Dessert
It happens every decade
somewhere people have had
Living in cockroach
rooms, enough welfare dimes,
enough stop and frisk,
enough heads kicked in, enough
wild drive-by bullets in the night,
crack fiends at the corner,
and never a cop when you need one
but always a cop whenever you happen to
be picking up that friday night dime bag
or out in the city with your girl for a
good time.
And if they're not there in person,
they're in your mind, lurking around,
the back alley where you parked your car
because parking is too expensive, or lurking
around the corner dope-man because
it is important to stop the sale of a plant
in today's inner-city neighborhoods.
They've had enough, so much that they
rip open at the seams and explosively vomit
the contents of their environmental programming
back onto their environment. This can come in
several ways: graffiti, spoken word poetry, film-making
or looting, drug addiction, returned violence, self-violence
and then a short period of justification
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 3 8
Vintner's Dance
I am made of wine, tonight.
Beware! I am made of wine and
unbottled. Poured out upon the land
with the madness ascending
in lush crimson spirals,
spat to the sky in bloody spray;
grape of wrath and raving
as country pond ripples
on slow, cool, spring evenings.
I have danced the vintner's dance
seen my feet and hands bloodied,
stained beyond seeing, purple-d
beyond righting or repair
and chuckled bravely, to myself,
this too, yes, shall...
I have walked the rows with the
cart, weeping to gain the harvest,
and in the heat, watered the ground
with both sweat and tears until
they refused to divide and the whole
body wept as one.
Look, at all I've done.
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 8 9
Highway 14
There are pebbles underfoot
I've been kicking them for an hour now.
The sun, like a diamond,
I shut my eyes and the world goes sideways;
the colors of vomit:
blue against red.
My second skin is running;
I am a candle
dripping into my shadow.
The highway shoulder flexes
leaden corpuscles out
into the sky.
No sign of a car,
nothing but seven miles of heat before
I check my pockets for the 15th time
and come up with the same sweat-soaked square of paper
labeled: Camel.
I squash it so that its mouth leans open:
My face is old.
Seven days of dirt, hate and head creeps;
a headache screams behind my eyes.
My jaws clench against teeth that will never pay for themselves.
Tearing the top from the wet pack in frustration,
something tumbles to the ground.
Two somethings.
I laugh and smile,
I pick up the damned things and smile.
“Sneaky bastards,” I say to them,
“Thought you could avoid me?”
Sticking one of the camels in my mouth
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 9 12
Rainwater in the speckled sun,
dirty tears dried
through sleepless nights
and red eyes' wailing.
The crush of gravity
rings through the trees to blast
at every wound keeping sleepless
in the barely formed winter dawn.
Cold color
and wrenching everything
out of place
is a cure of sorts.
Agony is a pure poem
unclutched, greedless;
basking under blister memory
and silent walls.
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 10 24

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Soundzine Issue #9 Goes Live!

Number 9 and feelin' fine!
Hello to all you literary lovers of the world! Auditory arousal awaits you in the latest edition of Soundzine, the e-zine that appeals to both mind and body through spoken poetry and prose!
In this issue we have the results from our guest editor theme of 'Things I Should Have Said'. You'll find regrets and revelations in a collection of words that speak volumes for the benefits of hindsight. You'll also find the winner of our deviantART epic poetry contest, and a selection of prose if that's what tickles your fancy! Not only that, but every piece is accompanied by a beautiful piece of art to complement the writing. With all this and more, what are you waiting for? Head on over to Soundzine and get your recommended dietary intake of great writing!
Coming attractions
Our next issue, March, 2010, Issue #10, is a milestone for us. Our t
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Writing Exercise-Book Proposal
Writing Activity: Mock Book Proposal
“Everyone wants to publish a novel. Everybody wants to make it big, be a best seller.” This is something you might have heard a lot. One of my English professors said it to me and I often think about it. He was lamenting the fact that a perfectly good short-story writer had abandoned their natural artform to pursue a novel, something they were not good at. It made me wonder, why do people want to write novels? Is it because of the reputation? The opportunity for success? The bedazzlement of potential celebrity in the publishing world? Maybe it’s because all of the big writers we think of when we think “big writers” were novelists.
The reason that most people cite, both inside and outside of the industry, is that novels are marketable. Walk into a chain bookstore and this will become quite obvious. Publishers vie for front table exposure. Their free fliers are filled to the brim with cover copies and reviews fro
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"Disclaimer: Don't associate with humans. The results are quite corrosive."
Chapter 1: "What's this thing you call life?"
Let's start with facts:
It was a fact known to only a handful of earthlings that, despite humans sheer audacity in believing that this entirety of this awe inducing universe was nothing but a mere canvas for them to stare at and consisting of nothing but a number of gaseous celestial objects, was in fact heavily populated by an enormous amount of creatures in all manners of shape and size.
To accurately peg the massiveness of space and it's inhabitants and what humans were in relationship to it, the following test is suggested:
a- Place a coin in a street.
b- Go to a neighbouring skyscraper.
c- Go the roof of the skyscraper.
d- Look at the coin in the street.
Humans were that invisible.
Invisible was not to be noticed by anything.
Despite all arguments made in this topic (and they were plentiful and they were all good), and the multitude of examples to p
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Moonage Daydream by jazzylemonade Moonage Daydream :iconjazzylemonade:jazzylemonade 46 22 Christmas Spirit by janellemckain Christmas Spirit :iconjanellemckain:janellemckain 149 106 waiting for life by otsego-amigo waiting for life :iconotsego-amigo:otsego-amigo 288 106 The First Dance by paddimir The First Dance :iconpaddimir:paddimir 4 3 The Face by TOYIB The Face :icontoyib:TOYIB 861 111
I have renounced my errant ways
and written some bullshit for 
this year. 
Find me and my bullshit here:…

and here:

one day,
i might upload something to the ol' Devshart, 
  • Listening to: Waves
  • Reading: my own crap
  • Watching: the sun move from here to there
  • Playing: write the poem, sleep in the tent.
  • Eating: eggs and sausage
  • Drinking: good ol oregon coffee. Dutch brothers mafia.


joseph decker
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
There's not really too much to say. Read the poems. Look at the work. Comment. Comment. That's all that this is about. I don't have anything else in terms of biography that should need telling, really. Read the damn poems.



Add a Comment:
Thelma1 Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2016
Thank you very much for adding me to your Dev-Watch, I really appreciate your support, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy my work :thanks::love::huggle:
PrudenceWry Featured By Owner Oct 29, 2016
Thank you for sending the clouds, they were glorious yesterday and today :D
Also, thank you for watching Heart 
hell-on-a-stick Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2016  Professional Writer
I'm glad they were worthy. I did not miss them, instead, we finally got some sun! :sun:
PrudenceWry Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2016
Then it was a perfect trade :)
hell-on-a-stick Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2016  Professional Writer
Aye. We'll have to do this more often. But, i see, you've sent them back. The parishioners across the street are shaking their fists at the sky an mumbling about an apocalypse.…
(1 Reply)
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