Author: D'jaevle

faith of the masses

Looking back at this poem, now, I see it as more cynical than I really I am.  

—

Christ paid twice for daily pain,
      delving deeper in thorns than questions might imply.
my hands were brown with martyr’s blood.
      soon wrapped in the leather-skin of long-dead animals

I watched faith’s bloody kisses sweep the masses
      like butterflies landing on their cheeks,
eating their teeth from the hollow spaces inside their heads.

Not faint their callous touch,
      it lurched through the humbled spaces
and perched on withered limbs.

A select few were gathered and allotted time in their master’s arms.

never look behind

We all like to be scared. Whispered tales told when the lights have gone out. Ghost stories shared by candlelight. Movies that have the pretty girl clutching at your arm at appropriate musical queues and jumping into your lap at the appearance of the crazed hatchet-wielding menace.

When your frightened, your pulse races, adrenaline rushes through your veins, your senses are heightened. Your focus narrows to the source of your terror.

It's what you feel when caught under the gaze of a predator, when meeting the stare of someone who sees the truth of you. It is the knowledge he will exploit it ruthlessly.

There are moments that are built with intention.

Sprawled in the front seat of a car, blindfolded, skirt half-way up your waist while a hand presses between your legs, fingernails dragging across your inner thigh. It is feeling the car slow at a stoplight, the unseen gazes of those in the cars around you.

Pinned to the wall, his teeth sharpened against your skin and his whispered threats made into the curve of your neck.

Placed on all fours and taken so hard from behind it *hurts*. A brutal fucking that leaves you raw and emptied.

Held under him, his hand wrapped tightly around your throat, dictating each breath you take in.

Bound to the bed and laid open. The sounds of strangers, or worse, people you know. Unfamiliar hands on your skin while a gentle voice tells you to be still, to give in, to obey.

There are moments built with intention, and what you have to fear the most isn't the hands that hold you, isn't the ties that bind you, isn't the voice that commands you.

It is what happens next.

His unspoken promise to make you bleed, one way or another. 

—

No prayer this time.

This is a dictate, meant to be listened to in the dark. 

[audio:Djaevle_Afraid.mp3]
D'jaevle, Afraid

the Poor Kingdom

Control is a funny thing.

If you stop taking chances.
If you avoid situations that may lead to mistakes
If you minimize your exposure to the dangerous parts of life.

…you will have more control over your world.

But your world will become much smaller.

You've made yourself the ruler of a poor kingdom, and while you may be the master of your domain, you are no longer master of your fate.

How Not To Get Work Done

With the amount of abuse my desk takes, I need to consider replacing it with something sturdier. It has stood me in good stead for the last seven or eight years but I have been putting it under a great deal of stress of late.

Like last night, when I had you kneeling on all fours on top of it.

I placed you with your upper half pressed to the cool faux-redwood surface and your ass raised. Your skirt was bunched about your waist and you were positioned so that I could sit in my black leather chair and have you within easy reach, should I want you.

I did.

I had to tilt my head upwards to run my tongue from the edge of your ass inward, dragging it along the length of your plump lips until it settled just under your clit. My hands wrapped around your thighs, sliding you closer, leaving my left hand positioned to find your clit, fingers closing in on its sides in a firm but gentle stroke.

You pressed back against me, lowering your center gravity to open yourself further. I knew you could feel my smile, concealed against your wet thighs and slick heat. I wrote my next poem in the moist folds of your sex, and my tongue traced letters in a deft composition on human desire, pressing in and out of you quickly, then slow, then fast again, fucking you to the rise and fall of a love sonnet.

I felt the tremors; they started in your thighs and then moved through your arched, twisting, hips. You were close, so close.

I stopped.

I leaned back in my chair, drew out a clove, lit it, and watched your ass sway in front of me. The smoke from my clove slid along your curves before passing out through the open window; you moaned impatiently, moving your ass back and forth, an invitation and demand.

Too bad for you, I was taking my time.  

 

slivers of attention

In the course of the last couple weeks, I have pared down the number of people I play with. I am becoming more discriminating, less tolerant of excuses, and increasingly demanding in what I expect.

And yet, the hunt, as always, remains a primary joy for me.

I dream of flesh, of curves and silk. Of slow seductive dinners and frenzied fucking on the hardwood floor of my living room.

I dream, but hold back.

Waiting.

The Sound of a Prayer

We all have saints we pray to.

They are the family we come from, the friends we lean on, the lovers we lose ourselves in.

They are the dreams we live for, the laughter we are lost to, the pain we suffer under.

But not all prayers are answered.

And not all saints are to be trusted.

— 

This is my prayer. 

Listen. 

[audio:Djaevle_PayingTheDevil.mp3]
D'jaevle, Paying the Devil

between her thighs

tickle
words 

drink dreams from between her thighs
let her moisture press patterns in the symptoms
of your illness finding cure
somewhere between her lips and tongue.
until you can ride her laughter without remorse

corners turn evolutions around curves, paying homage to the
painted shadow plays layered like tattoos draped across her skin
and left in memory of dreamt landscapes that melted under
the heat of her lemon-dropped shop of salt beaches
I crawled into yesterday and found too delicious to leave.

crinkles pretend smoothness underneath
which is why I prefer hard liquor to gold
lacquered skin passed in dreamt serenity
finding once more the eloquence of skin made alive with a whisper
or wept in rivers down eager slopes.

and you thought I was sweet.

in words

If you don't watch it, does it make it less real?

Or more?

—

D’jaevle leaned slowly in, rolling the moistened nipple between his fingers, "It makes you burn, to be like this, knowing I can do what I want, doesn't it?"

Lori closed her eyes even tighter, lip caught between her teeth as she nodded, but said nothing.

D’jaevle twisted the nipple slowly, then…harder, "No. In words."

Lori was forced to release her lip, letting out a litany of whimpers, amongst which is a mumbled yes.

D’jaevle twisted harder still, "Yes what?"

Lori gasped and somehow managed to draw her eyes tighter shut as she cried, "Yes, yes it does…"