Category: Crimson Writ

Where my words give lie to the wolf under the skin.

correspondence

I wrote you letters.

They were sturdy and delicate, drawn out in long-form, drafted in my mind and recited over and over and again until the cadence of each word synchronized into a pulse louder than the ones running through my veins.

I would repeat them to myself, marvel at how well the characters of my thoughts wore the garments of my imagination, and then cast them out to populate the blank page before me.

I wrote you letters.

They were intimate portraits of my state of mind, a view through the looking glass; did you see much of yourself in me? Did you think my words might be your own but for the distance of our years? 

I wrote you letters.

They were an invitation into the brothel of my soul. Here, everything has a price and I sold each word to you for a cost too little to be noticed.

Until it was too late. 

I wrote you letters. 

Will you write me in return?

rain-drenched and disheveled

For Magdelana.

— 

rain-drenched and disheveled
i will be guided by your grace
place my feet in the mist-kissed pattern of your own

and dance

swifter than disillusionment,
no time for shame
or self-rot,
or self-not,
i devolved into the sound
of rain
and i sang to you
of rivers and oceans
salt-touched mornings    
and dark blue nights    

until I lay against your breasts
wet beads of perspiration,        
the scars of your dance,
one and the same. 

good girls go to heaven

I first learned the intricacies of sex through the written word. Voice followed text, and I became a disciple of language.

If I can bring you to your knees with my voice alone, imagine what is possible when I have you in front of me.

I don't need to touch you to make you wet.

I just need your faith.

—

The last of my three recently recorded audio pieces, this one is best experienced while alone.

[audio:Djaevle_Wicked.mp3]
D'jaevle, Wicked

last few steps

The last few steps are the hardest to take.

With patience and cruelty I have guided you to this point and left you teetering on the edge.

This next step is hard, because it is done alone. You are not cajoled or teased. The taunting words that drove you here are mere echoes against your own thoughts and growing desperation. The hands that were so firmly wrapped around your wrists and throat await you on the other side of a widening abyss.

It is meant to be hard; more than a mere decision, this step is an acknowledgment and destroyer of conceits. To make this step is to shatter the illusion that you have no responsibility in the process.

You are being asked to be a willing participant in your own ruination. Your hands will be dirtied, your purity sullied, and your ideals blurred.

Will it be done with hesitation, or will you throw yourself over blindly, embracing the inevitable fall?

Will you take the next step?

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

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.