Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Student SomsubhraMale/India Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 3 Deviations 9 Comments 1,515 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
A day in the sea
Something special is in the air today.
The canopy of the sky is lit with a thousand lights, each held by invisible silk strings. I call them paperlights. The sky is enraptured; emotions stir into motion even as colors swim in heaven.
I'm just a little man in my little boat, wading past water colored lilac and blue. I spend my day, fishing and musing. The fishes, long dead are my constant companions. Then there are my thoughts which have the flavors of gin and melancholy. My musings reach as far as those dead fish can see. Today is special because my thoughts are not confined to the cage of my heart, or my often empty stomach, or my little boat. Today my thoughts have wings, they have flown to the sky, today my thoughts have fins, they have made the sea their home.
I am not a man today, no creature of blood and bones, flesh sewn together by unpracticed hands. My scars are not scars today, but lines drawn by nature, by the wind, the sun, the rain. My eyes are lit like stars, charting a p
:iconDevilTamer:DevilTamer
:icondeviltamer:DevilTamer 4 4
Literature
Here as you fall
I stand here watching you cry
As light falls in little patches
Roving over you like a soothing hand.
The bones in your legs ache, machinery crumbling
As you fall down, on all fours now
The dog has a new reason to feel proud.
You're not a fist now, but twisted fingers
Gripping the dust in hope of better days to come.
Your heart left a hollow in its stead
The freed veins mesh into one to dull the pain
You wish.
I am fascinated as you break down
Even the Desiree disintegrates,
Bites the dust and the dust clouds my conscious.
I'm but a speck on your canvas.
I've never seen beyond the skylight
And your consciousness stems from the star itself.
My legs rooted as you fall.
Gravity has a new reason to bind.
My heart is a ping pong ball,
In a game it hasn't learnt to play.
I hated the way you made me feel inferior,
Looking into my eyes like you knew it all.
Now I'll be the painter and you the child.
I'll bring the sky down to my canvas
And you will have stars set in your eyes.
:iconDevilTamer:DevilTamer
:icondeviltamer:DevilTamer 10 2
Literature
A night of silk-flower, ember
The fickle, grizzled memories; when I bottled you up in the jars of time
You poured me, licked me, tore me into the petals...
and called me up as I sank into the Satan's rhyme
You filled me with your liquor,
and left me within the grooves of the night.
That night...
When I had touched tranquility within a forest's very spine
where the shadows innumerate tiraded with the Palm and the Pine
The tunes long-forgotten, sweeter than those Orpheus could sing
limed the air, as his mournings had once caressed the ocean's brine.
The lilliend's lyre sounded from the foothill to the hilltop's ever-misty pane,
where the thickets had sprung up and meshed into the nature's twine.
There the firelight danced with its fiery mane
as the Phoenix had once risen from the regal, flaming den.
The night moulded me with the velvet, and sorrows filled my chest
as the silver moon slowly crept up to its sky-bound nest.
In the forest, in the winterlake and in my own teardrops
shone the opal moon with its marvelous s
:iconDevilTamer:DevilTamer
:icondeviltamer:DevilTamer 4 5

Favourites

Literature
Master of Ravens
Master of Ravens
1
My little brother is nine years old the first time I decide to kill him.
During the night, snow fell over the jagged wreckage of our land. In the morning I realize he will follow me outside if I call to him. Like an awkward-limbed colt he'll stumble through the snowdrifts, and I can leave him to the ice and wind in the shadow of a three-walled building. No one will see me. Our father will think he has gotten lost on his own. I too will cry when they find his body. When the mourning is done, however, I will be my father's true and only son. 'Cam,' he will call to me, and I'll kneel down before him.
My father. Master of Ravens. Crow-Runner. The Blackbird King.
I pull on my winter boots, knot the coarse laces.
My little brother asks, 'Cam. Where are you going?'
'Out,' I tell him.
'To play in the snow?'
'To look at it.'
When he was born, my little brother was named Taliesin. His is a world without myths, of course. Such things perished in the great f
:iconladyjaida:ladyjaida
:iconladyjaida:ladyjaida 2,680 566
Literature
why didn't you say goodbye?
Love wasn’t in the air the night you unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my skin. No, love definitely wasn’t in the air the night we spent in heat of moments, sweating and tumbling and fumbling on your father’s bed.
It was anywhere but there. Does love go on vacation? I ponder and make fleshy butterflies from my outstretched fingers. Probably.
I can’t remember much but I can remember the beginning. The burn of acid bleeding and gushing past my tongue and down my throat. The noises and then your silence. The clumsiness and then the awkward kisses.
You had a garden of dark hair growing from your scalp and dirt eyes. You had a protruding belly button and clown feet. You smelt like my grandfather in his coffin.
You didn’t ask me if you could take my virginity. You just assumed I wouldn’t mind giving it to you. I always wonder where you put it, if you take good care of it and how it is doing. I imagine you put it in a shiny jar with a sticky label reading ‘Lore
:iconPretty-As-A-Picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture
:iconpretty-as-a-picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture 520 186
Madam Red by MariannaInsomnia Madam Red :iconmariannainsomnia:MariannaInsomnia 3,083 180
Literature
never grow up.
I have a monster living underneath my bed.
He’s made up of burnt frog skin, white-red cobweb veined eyes and a collection of missing pebble teeth. Sometimes we play scrabble.
(The first time he was just a mechanical hum beneath the bowing wooden planks, he was just a faint smell of green and he was just a hot cloud of fog around my lips. It’s the wind, it’s the wind, I breathed. Then he breathed back, heavy and loud and monster-like; AM NOT.)
He always spoke in capitals; MONSTERS ARE MUCH TOO SCARY FOR LOWER-CASED LETTERS, he informed me one night under pink covers. I shined the flashlight into his eyes until they changed colour and he bared his teeth.
He sometimes visits my dreams. The grass turns sickly where he trudges and the woodland creatures whimper and scramble in his wake. WHERE’S MY HUG? He holds his warm monster limbs out, palms snatching me from my happy-ever-after and grins gap-toothily. I manage a chuckle as I buckle in his embrace.
He used to keep me
:iconPretty-As-A-Picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture
:iconpretty-as-a-picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture 2,227 446
Literature
a conversation
i welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seaweed washes over my broad and open feet, i condescendingly believed he would give me straight answers-
"all languages we speak are diligent and binding, we bite our tongues against society, and she is just trying to say hello."
silence like a trainwreck passes on four feet and i wait, breathing, for the hour to come and announce itself to me in a rain-l
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks 188 71
Literature
Eight Kisses
Eight Kisses
One
You can call
it emptiness, breath, epithet, or oblivion
or love, or the thing we can't
touch, while in motion.  
      The rush
of your mouth in me like icemelt water,
innocent, surging
like a creek,
touching,
   stopped.
                                                          Second Kiss
                                                         
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 943 427
Literature
Love Poem
..
last night I made a man
out of pillows and forgotten
fragments of clothes
we'd pushed into my drawers.
I held my pillow-man's hand
and made sure he wasn't too warm
because it is summer;
I'm on the second floor;
and that was always your
biggest complaint.
this morning I tried to shower
but would turn off the water and run
like a soapy dog, complete with
loyal tail wagging, to the door
thinking you'd come knocking.
You hadn't.
tomorrow will taste like
the food of a week ago
and I'll wear sunglasses,
which, if you know me,
(and you do)
will seem out of context
and like a little girl
playing dress up.
I know there are supposed to be
thunderstorms, perfect
radio love songs, movies with Meg
Ryan and wondering when we'll meet
again,
but God
doesn't budge on the details.
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 1,907 501
MoonGlow by minhtrimatrix MoonGlow :iconminhtrimatrix:minhtrimatrix 1,177 273
Literature
owl boy
Light spills like milk from the window. It drips bright upon his face. He is naked, he is the milk spilt from the window to the floor. He is sleeping now.
Sun whistles her breeze in the trees this late August and the birds are drunk with birdsong. He sleeps on through the sound. A quiet, dreaming boy. She kneels and kisses his fingers, soft.
Sun dances, warm and alight, across the sky until she is weary, disappearing with sleep herself. Calling, ‘Moon! Moon! I’m so tired my love, I will fall a moment and sleep’ And he will become her in the sky, following after her until sleep becomes of he, too. And the chase will continue into ‘morrow.
But sun and moon are none, because he wakes. He wakes and he breathes slow like the beach when there is only you to watch. He wakes and the colour leaks behind half-open eyes and he is naked, so very naked this cold now-night.
A clock hand whispers the fleetingness of each moment from the wall and a cat drinks from a fish bowl. The
:iconPretty-As-A-Picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture
:iconpretty-as-a-picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture 327 59
Literature
vacant.
Look at her; she’s a porcelain doll with never-ending milk legs all stapled to the bed, thirteen years young with forty-eight years suffocating her figure. He’s right up to her baby lips, offering cigarette breath and grinding his stubble on her cheeks, it reminds her of gravel and she closes her eyelids as it falls across her neck, inhaling the cloud of dust.
The curtains are draped across the sky, dried blood red casting shadows she can’t tell the ends of. A dim flicker of a light and maybe a filter of moonshine illuminate the crevasses of his eyelids, forehead and awry mouth. His skin tastes of sweat and earth.
She was with her father in the afternoon, sharing his eyes and wearing the yellow dress he bought her. He was a quaint man who studied birds and told her she looked like a canary; he bought a voluminous cage (from the very same balding man he sold her to) and kept her in there at nighttime.
And now, three oh clock in the morn, the balding man has her; he’s
:iconPretty-As-A-Picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture
:iconpretty-as-a-picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture 1,437 393
Literature
there is no middle name
you make me violent and electric, tipping my head back and opening my mouth with yours - oh, god - against the front door, you made my knees buckle, my toes ache and stretch and my teeth hurt with the beauty of your kiss.
you make me quake and tremble, working your hands over my shoulders and turning me to your chest, sliding me against the countertop and working my lips with your tongue, breathing my air like it's all you need to live.
you make me small and quiet, ripping through me like a storm, my own guardian angel come to avenge me and hoping i'm worth it, your nails digging into my hips, feeling the arch of my back and wetness of tears capsized.
you are wild and stern, and i am clay between your fingers, molten and unable to resist, moth-flames drawn like your bedroom curtains. if i am your sin then you are my salvation and the afterlife will be glorious, if it is not black and white.
:iconLlywenlla:Llywenlla
:iconllywenlla:Llywenlla 3 1

Activity


deviantID

DevilTamer
Somsubhra
Artist | Student | Literature
India
Current Residence: Bangalore, India
Operating System: Windows 7
Skin of choice: Elune
Personal Quote: Deviously yours
Interests

Journal

No journal entries yet.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconrollingtomorrow:
RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Sep 24, 2012   General Artist
:la: Welcome to :iconwriters--club:! :la:

:typerhappy: We're glad to have you as a member and look forward to seeing your contributions! :typerhappy:

:iconlaspinplz: We also hold a lot of contests with great prizes, so keep your eye out for them! :iconlaspinplz:
Reply
:icondeviltamer:
DevilTamer Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2012  Student Writer
Sure thing. Thank you for accepting me.
Reply
:iconrollingtomorrow:
RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2012   General Artist
You're welcome! :iconlachoirplz:
Reply