Den of Crimson Desire

24 Oct


Hello beautiful Tribe of the Crimson Moon, this is me looking at you…;-)

Because it’s probably not evident to most reading my prose,’Den of Crimson Desire,’ I wrote this based on my experiences as a member of several blood dens, including my own Vampyre Court (The Dark Court) from the 1990’s and early 21st century. I was a member of a den in Louisiana and Florida. Yes, they really exist. Many blood dens, at least before the onset of the OVC/VC, quite often employed burlesque dancers as entertainment. It’s not like you can ask directions or Google Map them. You HAVE to be invited. Again, a part of the real world of living vampires. So, maybe my prose might make more sense to some of you. As always, thank you for taking a few minutes out of your cyber life to read my hard won words of experience. I do very much appreciate it.

One last thing…while this is prose, I am, like aI do all of my prose, writinfg grom my actual experiences. Some prose that I write is more metaphorical and some is heavily coded, while there are still some of my works that are written pretty straight forward. If you have questions, or do not understand what I have written, please don’t hesitate to ask me. I do not need anymore people reading my work and jumping to unfounded conclusions without first even bothering to ask me about what I have written. Again, thank you.
Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2013
By Julia DarkRose Ray

Den of Crimson Desire

Sublime pale buttocks
Veiled in sparkling beads,
Enticing the compelling hazy rub.
Of colliding eyes…No concealing here:
The night tribes one brazen, sweating declaration.
And while stocking clad legs waken potpourri in the brain
You pick your raven-tressed
Goddess out adeptly through the smoke.
Always you wait for someone else though, always-
(Then rush the nearest exit through the crimson vapor).

Always and last, before the final sanguine union
When all the scarlet passion drumfires,
Begins a thundering scrimmage
With a somewhere violin,
Some deepest, bloodied echo of them all-begins.

And shall we call her whiter than snow?
Sprayed first with ruby, then with emerald sheen-
Least tearful and least glad
(Who knows her smile?)
An entangled crouch reveals her raw between.

Her eyes exist in the swelling of her breasts,
Blood-soaked beads whip her hips,
A drench of whirling strands.
Her snake rings begin to mount,
Conquering each other-
Silver delusion on tinseled hands.

We cease that writhing red lagoon,
Her glittering beads unstrung,
–All but her belly
buried in the floor;
And the libertine thrash
Of a final muted beat!
We feel her spasm through a fleshless door…

Yet to the empty trapeze of her flesh,
O, bleeding creature, each comes back to die alone.

Then you, the burlesque of our lust–and faith,
Deliver us back lifeward–
Bone by infant bone.

~Julia DarkRose Ray


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