The Business of Revenge: Chapter 4 by watsisface on DeviantArt

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watsisface

Published: Feb 12, 2014

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Literature

Dog

America is an overly purebred dog, With rheumy eyes, Arthritic knees, And a coat designed to be pretty, But was ruined along the way. The dog is ferocious, A good hunter, But with eyes so filled with overactive tear glands, That it can scarcely tell the difference between The decadent flesh of prosperity And the rotting flesh of a broken society Until it’s digesting it. Its arthritic knees Are twisted so strangely that it runs absurdly fast, But, although it can tell that it’s going down the wrong road, It can’t turn off of it. America’s coat may be beautiful at first glance, Convincing the onlooker that it is he

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Ceteris Paribus

In an eon You and I will greet the choate moon Surrounded by her fairy dogs warrior wolves and magnetic fox tails who howl some foretelling tune decoded only by the whistling winds within my once listless room I nip your Adam's apple by my Cupid's bow we are a perfect art, a Sistine Michelangelo We are stomata of the umpteen, swimming in each other's dulcet drippings of halved and pitted French tongues and ears Let the years pass in this gentle deaf-muteness where Ceteris Paribus In this, Hallowed and His Seraphims know how in the glow of one night tide the firmament of all folded into my limitless room You and I part in sweet sorrow t

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Heliolatry

Yesterday i attempted to find the means to express my feelings to you, to describe the way it feels when your hair curls round your head like thorns thatching itself upon sleeping beauty's castle, how when your eyes lock onto mine i wish i could throw the key away. And your voice is mellifluous, like birds chirping at sunrise, my day hasn't started until i've heard your call, and you're the sun; the world tipping and singing to your every rise and fall- But despite the million sentiments and more i send to you, none define the faultless paradigm you are or my nonsensical rapture towards your spirit, but there's no need for any explanation

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Deer

You came back in the fall and I told you you could go — already almost gone like the deer I came upon one day, slow breathing beside me before it leaped. You stayed and stayed and now the air is crisp with lack of you.

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sepulcher

your body is jerusalem, he’ll tell you coveted first, then plundered. – you’re my backwater bedroom martyr, he’ll tell you as he nails your wrists to bedposts, seizes your tongue like a white flag, pulls stones from your parapets – little sister, i’ll tell you the children’s crusade is lost: and you’ll kneel at his sword and know you were always his to take

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written as we look

well, what do the stars say? I dreamed of the world ending in full colour when I was 12 what comes true? stars blink in time

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there is no such thing as a sleeping poet

i know wandering and weeping poets with hardened eyes but gentle souls, and i know happy poets who took the world and gave it a heart, some broken poets who healed up well, some who don't want me to write their definition for them, but you can only hold on to so many words with two hands. my fingers swear i would never be sleeping; i am dreaming, remembering, or seeming to play dead. the poets who have healed sometimes check on their beds back in hell, the ones who always smile are those who cry the most, and the ones who point a pen at me and mouth don't you tell are dying for someone to speak. i am a math-poet. a science-poet. a pianist-

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Best Friends Forever

There was a time when I performed lunch alone, Physically or mentally separated, My youth was a void best left underrated This depthless pit they threw me in, As any struggling animal would I climbed the slopes, Only to find them digging the pit deeper as I go It becomes hard to see far above, As the abyss turns to all you know- even as hands reach down to help A storm ensues buzzing around me, I rise above my hell only to sometimes fall, Straight down the hole I now helped recall ********** Then comes along a friend who makes you wish you were not dead, You ditch your prison, you throw down some dirt, You run away laughing, you build a

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nuggets

Talent(?) So there's the abyss, and there is me, and there's the staring contest. "Say something", I scowl. I'm trying my best to get it to speak, so I can write it down. I try to tempt it by opening my gown. Sometimes I give it a rest, and then it speaks - when I least expect. Sometimes it seems lost, or it demands the cost in health and reputation, maybe even freedom, but I dread its absence far more than my own. This deep well of ideas is a greater womb than mine: it may give birth to truth, not just my clone. "Say something", I scowl - ever the night owl, listening inward to hear it breathing. It made some things hard, and set me apart,

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My Life Story Isn't A Poem

This is what it feels like to crumble down in a blazing squall. You are muffled gunshots wrecking yourself in high speed collision with his brass armor. You compress every eruption by choking ashes and swallowing shatter glasses because god forbid you are a frostbitten girl with hitched breath and messed up mascara and god forbid you are explosive and god forbid you crumble down because no, you are an inspiration and you are clenched fist and sculpted chest, you are concrete and you are statue, you are the ice cold dusk and YOU DON

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Why Books Suck

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to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.

i. to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub: in the magazine I own that published your story, they blurred out the crime scene photographs, erasing your face and the full curves of your breasts. some part of me wonders if you would have wanted this, or if you would have liked for the public to see you in your final moments, half-soaked in grey-looking water, your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain, eyes closed and mouth gaping, no breath stirring, no bubbles rising. ii. sometimes when I look into the depths of my bathroom sink, I hear your voice (or what I imagine it to be-- after all, we never met). you sit on the edge

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Lokaal lives!

Mature

Comments2

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Lesliewifeofbath

Feb 13, 2014

Good story! I really loved the Sheogorath dream sequence and the way your guy zapped that Orc in the tenders. I'm just not sure why the Orc didn't kill him in the first place (did the Orc know he was in the cave or did he just happen by as Lokaal woke?) Also, I wondered why would the hero want to go and kill more bandits if he was already badly injured. The female Stormcloak was an nice addition. I look forward to reading more stories.

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