curled

Posted in Crimson Writ on September 17th, 2019 by D'jaevle

i set you down
so you may look up.

if I told you
that the way you tilt
your head
back
to meet
my
eyes

is a fist.

fingers entangled in hair
a heart in curled fingers
a punch to the gut

the laughter of gods

Posted in Poetry on September 5th, 2019 by D'jaevle

thunder.

I wait for it, window open, clove between two fingers, whiskey like gasoline at hand.

thunder is a pulse

metallic scent, soft rain, and then –

heartbeat

thunder. Thunder. THUNDER.

unambigous altar

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on August 21st, 2019 by D'jaevle

prey.

one word.

one unambiguous word.

prey.

you, prey.

I. Prey.

one word.

a universe of intentions.

I prey, but entwined with

I desire.

you – prey, but entwined with

fierce, singular, selfhood.

I prey on your raised

selfhood.

(bared ass, all fours, caught, defile, devoured)

you – prey, of a mind, of a moment.

of surrender.

somewhere in the middle.

we prey together.

the way you bruise

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on August 11th, 2019 by D'jaevle

you were a dream I had
more light than thought
more thought than real
more real than waking

you were a dream I had
and you were
poised
placed
positioned

and you

pleaded
promised

part
ed

to
invite
me
in

capsize

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on August 5th, 2019 by D'jaevle

you are my vessel
meant
for drowning

i fill you with
the way your leg looks
hooked over the edge of the tub

the droplets that gather
in concave and curve
tiny mirrors shaped
by your breasts

until
the weight of my regard
tips you over

my darkest fairytale

Posted in Crimson Writ on June 21st, 2019 by D'jaevle

you are lost in the woods

you are lost in the woods and you are alone.

you are lost in the woods and you are most decidely not alone.

you can hear my breathing
feel the tickle of my gaze on the nape of your neck

you pray

I prey

we pray together.

we pray through hands on naked curves
we pray through teeth on lower lips
we pray through fingernails biting into thighs
we pray when I open you
when I grip your throat
when I enter you
when you feel yourself sundered
to the choir and tears of angels
we pray

my favorite myth

Posted in Crimson Writ on April 23rd, 2019 by D'jaevle

you are Andromeda on a cliff
blindfolded, bound
sacramental sacrifice
for the sins of another

you are Persephone caught
harbinger of winter
pomegranate slut
reluctant companion

you are Ophelia drowned
tragedy and beauty
just below the surface

you are Galatea, goddess kissed
carved for my pleasure
(and hungers, too)

I am something else.

I am the rope that binds you to the rock.

I am the seeds you that led to your downfall

I am the water you surrendered to

and I am the chisel that cut until you were free

alone. with a wolf.

Posted in Captured - The Spoken Word, Crimson Writ, General Musings on February 12th, 2019 by D'jaevle

Captured.

You know.

It doesn’t have to be with rope wound around your wrists.

Or hands pinning your hips.

Or a gaze that holds you in place.

It could be with a word.

Or an idea.

It could be this.

You, with your eyes closed, listening to me.

It could be the way my words find their way inside of you. The way they describe the shape of a hunger you are too embarrassed to admit.

You could be captured right now.

Your pulse may be moving a bit faster.

Your skin may be warmer.

Your breath may catch.

It’s perfectly natural to feel that way.

It’s how prey react when caught.

It’s how humans react when they feel danger.

It’s how _you_ react when your base needs are laid bare.

I see you.

I see the parts you are trying to hide.

I see the silhouette of your desire in the tilt of your head.

I see the hungers you can’t admit in the shying of your eyes.

I see you. And I know you.

I know the you that has been down the path through dark woods. You’ve pricked your fingers on the rosebush thorns and tasting blood, swore to avoid those paths again.

And yet they call to you.

And yet the scars on your fingers make you smile.

And yet.

Here you are.

In the dark woods again.

Alone.

No, not alone.

With a wolf.

With me.

And you are captured.

autumn hunts make for winter feasts

Posted in Crimson Writ on November 21st, 2018 by D'jaevle

I told you to come here and you asked why.

I have elegant answers.

And brutal ones.

But my chosen answer is simple, and it is a question of its own.

Which of the inner voices you hear is the loudest?

Your brash and fearless, finding-trouble in the cookie-jar voice?

Your cautious, should-I-maybe-better-not voice?

Your shy, curious, unsure-yet-precocious voice?

Or mine?

It is not mine.

My voice is never loud.

It never shouts. It does not demand. It won’t insist.

It doesn’t have to.

Because my voice is the voice of your unexpressed desires. It is the language of hungers too powerful to admit because voicing them only makes them stronger.

My voice describes the delicate cruelty of  fingernails tracing intimate curves. My voice makes you feel teeth catching nipples with deft intent and hungry succulence. My voice makes you see yourself at my feet, my hand tangled in your hair to focus your gaze upwards.

My voice is a current, a fast-moving river that outraces your patience.

It has found fertile ground in your repressed hunger. It’s roots go deep, finding a home in the subliminal and divine of your unspoken self. It’s vines are strong and they wrap around your limbs like armor. Bound, you are stronger than you’ve ever been. Freer then you let yourself dream to be.

My voice is a doorway. 

A cliff.

And it wants you to fall.

Not a Good Man

Posted in Crimson Writ on October 13th, 2018 by D'jaevle

I am not a good man

I would choose the apple over paradise.

I am careful right onto the point of taking you to the ground.

I do not ask.

I do not persuade.

I act.

A good man would not want to see you suffer.

I crave your agony, even in pleasure.

A good man would not want to see you at your most vulnerable.

I am driven to see your throat exposed and your ass in the air.

A good man would not want to see you plead.

I live for the words that tremble on the precipice of your lips.

I am not good man.

But I make an excellent wolf.