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About Literature / Professional joseph deckerMale/United States Groups :iconrote: rote
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Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
Bullets, Flowers, Leaves
I have drawers for bullets
and flowers
and leaves.
The rain sometimes comes
more sometimes than other
times.
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.
Bullets,
Flowers and
Leaves.
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 104 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
Literature
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,
searching.
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 14 11
Literature
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
interrogations.
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
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 10 27
Literature
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
sig
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 5 11
Literature
Some Dessert
It happens every decade
somewhere people have had
enough.
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
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 3 8
Literature
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
silent
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
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 8 9
Literature
Highway 14
There are pebbles underfoot
I've been kicking them for an hour now.
The sun, like a diamond,
burrowing
burrowing
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
anything.
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:
nothing.
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
feelin
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 9 12
Literature
Untitled
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
:iconhell-on-a-stick:hell-on-a-stick 10 24

Random Favourites

Literature
I Make A Decent Potholder
For some, trust is just a  tattered scrap,
a rag, a remnant of tapestry torn from
an old footstool, a moth-eaten bit of
homespun cloth with loose strings on
the verge of unraveling, barely worth
bothering to launder, pin, watch swing
on the breeze, hang limp, a dead thing,
a birdless wing, edges worn feathered.
The swatches I have gathered, these fat
quarters and bright patches, the bottom
halves of  jeans destined for Daisy Duke-
dom have been scrubbed to a sheen
with lye, wiped,  blotted, dipped in dye,
but it's no use. The stains persist. In
certain light, they are quite visible,
and I still can't bring myself to toss them out
convinced I might need them someday. You, tired
of tripping on bins and boxes, suggest a project,
say I ought to get creative, use my imagination,
sort through the scraps, arrange them in patterns
to resemble cathedral windows, picket fences, sew
them together and bind the edges. I make an effort
but my scissors are rusty, my thread weak, pins
and needles make
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 4 2
Literature
Femme Fatale
Green-eyed monster's  dye
dipped, heroin-skinned, starving
amphetamine freak
I am insecure-
your death mask disgusts me, but
why then does he stare?
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 1 3
Slumpkin II by Sssorry Slumpkin II :iconsssorry:Sssorry 2 2 in progress by snakerivercanyon in progress :iconsnakerivercanyon:snakerivercanyon 8 3
Literature
Tired hands
My tired hands cling to broken shards of what was everything-
It's a kind of atonement, what I'm doing now;
I'm making up for the time I spent refusing,
the time I spent abusing and the time I spent using
others for my own selfish ends.
Reality, the hardest kick in the chest
when you're nowhere near where you ought to be
and there's a long way to go to get there
I've sat and counted countless stars
and dreamed of things I wanted
I got nothin' but the dark.
Don't for a moment feel sorry for me
or think that I'm a poor wretched sot
I earned this, I realise now.
Too long spent dreaming not doing
and wasting time, chasing ideals
chasing fantasies, being unreal.
I've smoked out time ill-spent,
wasted days, hopeless days.
Used to be careless, free with a smile,
easy to laugh, easy to please...
Since replaced with concern, dark rings
a raised eyebrow- Jaded.
Tired, my feet twisted like roots,
I stand, sit, concern, converse.
I do, now, for others
what none would ever do for me.
I don't fix, I
:iconCaptainOzz:CaptainOzz
:iconcaptainozz:CaptainOzz 3 3
Literature
Opportunity Costs
My world is difficult to describe, partly because difficulty
delights me, but also because descriptions are difficult
to manipulate in general. I mean, think of terms
of stresses we place,  options and possibilities
involved in solving  puzzles of communicating
seemingly simple concepts from one person
to another, struggling with words, terms,
what is said, what is heard,  and all with
no insurance  our words won't be misheard,
abused, misconstrued,  lose their meaning
or be used against us in a court of law, when
definitions, by definition are unique to each
based on experience,  and although it's not
terribly confusing, I've not got the time to try
explaining things  to you. I'm missing much. Everything
changes, every second, every day,  
in a never-ending, incessantly
consistent way. That never changes
So you see, the problem isn't me, my
issues with weirdly worldly word use
or ability to express  impressions based
on my experiences,
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 1 0
Literature
9:45/For I
It was 9:45 when I crawled into bed, alone,
for the last time.
I am not ready, and any man who would have me
should not,
but the hole you left is worse, for now, than the shame
of needing contact
and needing to be needed.
Your love is not in absence.
It is a galaxy imploding,
it is a sun gone super nova,
it is the blackest hole in the space of my being.
I wanted to be strong for you,
to show you that I didn’t need you,
so maybe I could be the woman you wanted
again,
but,
I am built of hay,
not timber nor bricks
and my foundation rocks easy with the wind.
I’m sorry for the sadness that blows through your soul,
I know my carelessness is what sent it there,
but the winds threaten me at every turn and I hope that you will not think less of me
for caving in.
:iconAnnikaAstra:AnnikaAstra
:iconannikaastra:AnnikaAstra 2 0
Literature
Bones
Love
is less about flowers
than it is
about Monday mornings,
when all the world
dreads the commute,
yet I
am eager
to share a space with you.
Some dream
of serenades and starlight,
and yet
I often find myself
lost
inside of mundane fantasies,
the simplicity
of your shower wet hair,
your sleepy-eyed
gaze.
Fingers fit
so snugly together
in dashboard light
like lips and hips
in the blue glow
of
satellite stereo screens,
where I
long to take you
again.
So many men
seek the perfection
of
wakeless dreams
that have no basis
in reality,
while I,
unlike most,
want to dive head first
into your
muddy waters
and become
tangled up in every complication
that is us.
My love --
you are the everything
I desire,
flaws and highlights,
every good
and all of your bad,
the sum
of a lifetime spent longing
for that
which only you possess,
and I
am not -ever-
going to give up on
Monday mornings,
or you,
or us.
:icondreamsinstatic:dreamsinstatic
:icondreamsinstatic:dreamsinstatic 46 21
Creator by kris-wilson Creator :iconkris-wilson:kris-wilson 3,751 345 Shadow  Notes by Sssorry Shadow Notes :iconsssorry:Sssorry 1 5 apocalypse soon by Jedfire apocalypse soon :iconjedfire:Jedfire 5 5 The Archivist by TheBrassGlass The Archivist :iconthebrassglass:TheBrassGlass 106 28 Destination Unknown by creativemikey Destination Unknown :iconcreativemikey:creativemikey 74 30
Journal
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I have renounced my errant ways
and written some bullshit for 
napowhinemore
(whoremore?)
this year. 
Find me and my bullshit here:
doomcupboard.blogspot.com/2016…

and here:

josephdecker0.wordpress.com

one day,
i might upload something to the ol' Devshart, 
but...
agh.
no. 
  • 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.

deviantID

hell-on-a-stick
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.
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:iconsnow-machine:
Snow-Machine Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2018
Hey, I'm still alive. Add me on Twitter? twitter.com/teachrobotslove
Reply
:iconsalshep:
salshep Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2017
Boo.
Reply
:iconhell-on-a-stick:
hell-on-a-stick Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2017  Professional Writer
Boo. Hows the summer down under?
Reply
:iconsalshep:
salshep Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2017
rainy!! hey, i (finally) wrote stuff. how bout you? drop me some links?
Reply
:iconthelma1:
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:
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