Lindworm’s Bride

The queen plucked roses, one by one

barren but dreaming of days to come

white for daughters, red for sons

and on a thorn she pricked her thumb.


A bloody drop, a witch appeared

with wizened face and pointed ear

she said before she disappeared

“You’ll bear a child within a year.”


“Eat the whitest rose, a daughter will be

your delight and treasure, beyond compare.”

“Taste the red, red rose,” the crone decreed

“and you’ll bear a prince, both wise and fair.”


“But do not eat both roses, queen

or strange indeed will be your fate.”

Hag gone like mist, the monarch dreamed:

the witch’s warning came too late.


The snow white rose the queen did eat

like sugar it tasted, but more she craved.

The red, red rose was oh so sweet:

foolish, yes, but perhaps brave.


Nine months passed, and like the moon

she swelled until her child was due

but a lindworm was born, its coils askew

beside the prince, to the woods it flew.


The prince became a strapping man

who sought adventure in fabled lands

a wife to win, her marriage hand

to the crossroad his fine steed ran.


Storms brewed above, the lindworm came:

“No wife before me, for I am your twin.”

Beast nearly bit the prince in twain

he barely escaped torn bones and skin.


So princesses came from far and wide

all to be the lindworm’s bride

but the noble girls were sorely tried

by morning each left, mortified.


The monarchs mourned, no princesses came,

the queen consulted her old groundskeeper

and ordered his daughter to have the shame

of marrying the beast, a bride for the Reaper.


The girl, distraught, fled to the woods

and wept of what would be her fate.

But said a crone in robes and blackest hood

“Hush, my dear, for it’s never too late.”


“Do what I say and you will thrive.”

So the girl listened close, dried her eyes

took the witch’s advice, took determined strides

and went to the palace under starry skies.


The wedding was somber, the lindworm hungry

scared and lonely, it flashed its fangs.

It licked the cake, devoured the honey,

dragon trembled as the church bells rang.


The bride asked for seven raven shifts

lye, fresh milk, and seven whips

to the bedchamber, with her gifts

lindworm, nervous, hugged her hips.


It squeezed her tight as twisting vines:

“It’s so cold, share a shift?” it begged.

“Snake, slough a skin until you shine.”

Abaya and skin they both did shed.


Six more times they did these things

til the lindworm was a pile of flesh.

She took seven whips, all dipped in lye

and beat it clean til it was fresh.


It groaned, she doused it in sweet milk

dragged beast to bed, and held it fast

morning lit their sheets of silk

lindworm changed, princess at last.


The wedding guests, titillated, terrified

were shocked to see a scaled girl

sleeping beside the lindworm’s bride

entwined like an oyster and a pearl.


The queen called for a marriage feast

a royal wedding, a union composed

of a lifelong love between girl and beast

and the things that spring

from the whitest rose.


Things the Lapis Exillis Could Be

  1. Samael’s Third Eye, which needs those eye relief drops ASAP.  Red irises aren’t normal, so I’m told.  Neither is seeing the rot that accumulates on souls.
  2. Samael’s heart, if he even has one – all I’ve seen is an empty chest full of black rot and maggots
  3. The Stone on his crown/breastplate (Unlikely)
  4. The Forbidden Fruit
  5. A metaphor (Most Likely)
  6. The Holy Grail
  7. The Philosopher’s Stone
  8. Eve
  9. Cain
  10. The Conspiracy Theory Dragon Bloodline that bibliotecapleyades always goes on about

“There is but one flower that grows in Hell.”

VITRIOL, my friends.  I’m off to go do more armchair occulting…

Middle School Demons, or My First Paranormal Romance

First short story written when I was in my Twilight phase at 13.  I can’t decide if this is too painful to read, the epitome of middle school Allie and thus hilarious, or both?

If reality faded and left only the void, he would be there. There is nothing in Corbin that is not darkness; his midnight eyes and raven hair contain more blackness than the abyss. He consumes completely, filling every inch of the soul with primordial power, transforming it into a vessel.

It was late November when we met, in a musty antique shop in the middle of nowhere. My car had broken down, sputtering to a stop on a dirt road. I walked for a mile in the frigid twilight, looking for civilization in the wild.

Then I saw the shop, that dilapidated one room building boasting “Rarities and Artifacts of Splendid Kinds” in peeling paint.  Inside, past the ceiling-high shelves of strange and wondrous antiques, he was there. The sole employee and proprietor of that decrepit shop, he was brushing the spine of an ancient book.

Jet-black hair crowned his head and his ruggedly muscled body was dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans. But those eyes… I looked into them and felt my whole body suffocating; they penetrated my soul. The pure ebony of onyx, I was mesmerized by them. His pale lips parted as he spoke in a voice as dark as his eyes. “What brings you here?”

From that moment on, I was captured.

Time slipped by that night. We got halfway to my car before his tongue plunged into my mouth, our hands roving each other’s body. The wild abandon, the orange sickle moon, our steaming nighttime silhouettes entwined in the soft meadow grass, exchanging body heat to conquer the frigid air. I fell asleep cradled in his lap as he sang a haunting lullaby, stroking my hair.  Closing my eyes, his towering shadow, cast by the eerie glow of the Blood Moon, was imprinted on my mind.

I woke up entangled in my sheets, clothed in only a nightgown. My car was perfectly fixed and parked behind my parent’s van.

It was as if Corbin had been a dream.

I pined away for months, recalling his wicked passion, the all-consuming fervor with which he kissed me. The months went by, winter faded, and I revisited the antique shop countless times.

It was abandoned, as if it had never been occupied. I entered it to find the shelves filled with decaying antiques, which had been pristine a few months earlier. Upon further visits, I noticed something strange; antiques that had been dusty and coated with grime would turn up polished the next day. The books were attended to the most, and when June came the whole shelf was full of shining tomes. The orangish moon was once again a crescent; reminiscent of the night I had met Corbin. My parents believed I was at my best friend’s house for a sleepover, but in reality I was on the dusty floor of the antique shop. Wrapped in a sleeping bag, I lay awake and stared at the cobwebbed ceiling, listening to the mindless buzz of insects. A wind picked up and I heard raindrops patter on the cheap tin roof, growing to a cacophony of noise as the storm worsened. Lightning flashed across the sky through the grimy window and I shuddered as thunder roared, half-expecting a ghostly apparition to appear at the door.

Then, over the feral noise, I heard a tapping. My heart beat rampantly and I broke out into a sweat. The tapping continued, growing quicker and more threatening. Mustering all my courage, I rose, trembling, and walked past the large shelves to the window.

I shrieked.

A monstrous, gigantic crow with beady red eyes was banging its beak against the glass pane. It cawed at the sight of me, flapping humongous wings and hopping over to the door on sickly-curved talons. I screamed, “Get away!” and ran to lock the door, realizing it had no lock.

The infernal raven clasped the doorknob in its beak, twisting its neck an unnatural 360 degrees to open it. I blanched, shivering with trepidity and unable to move. It cawed as it entered, standing a foot in front of me, six feet tall. I felt hot breath coming out of its nostrils and shuddered as scarlet eyes pierced mine.

It spoke in a dark, grating voice, like the void had been torn open. “YOU CANNOT BE HERE! LEAVE NOW, LEST YOU BE PULLED INTO MY WORLD.”

“You- Corbin?” I stammered incredulously.


“No, impossible!” I shrieked, clutching my head and collapsing to the ground. This monster, this hellwinged bird, was the man I loved.

Just as soon as my knees hit the floor, I felt strong arms catch me. Landing in a pile of downy feathers, I looked up, aghast to find Corbin’s wickedly beautiful face gazing at mine. Pools of darkness, his eyes were blacker than the stormy night. “Corbin…” I said softly, shocked by the colossal raven wings that jutted from his back.

“You must leave here at once, my love, I cannot explain. This is a dangerous place for the likes of you.” In an instant he swept me off the floor, cradling me in his arms and racing out the door. He ran for miles whilst I remained speechless; still in shock. This dark angel of nightmares was Corbin.

He stopped, leaning down to kiss me gently. I instantly became drowsy although I fought sleep with all my might.

You will find me when the time is right…” he whispered tenderly.

I woke up in my room once more, alone and scared.

The days crept by and I refused to return to the antique shop of horrors and the terribly wonderful man. Finally, gnawing curiosity forced me to drive my beat-up Jeep to that accursed place once more.

Nothing was there, just an empty field.

June came and went, and in the hot summer weeks of July I felt a strange calling to drive. There was nowhere in particular I wanted to go; just wherever my wanderlust led me. One muggy Sunday I couldn’t resist. I hopped into my Jeep, pushed on the gas pedal, and sped off onto the country back roads. I drove for hours, watching pastures turn to meadows, meadows to forest.

I came to a glistening lake that shone with the setting sun.

He was there.

Corbin wore a flowing burgundy cloak, and black feathers adorned his hair. A silver circlet rested on his brow and he carried a polished oak staff. He lay languidly on the bank, basking in the fading sunlight.

He told me his true nature, the Raven, Hermes, Gabriel. He was the Messenger and Trickster, the sun-stealer of Native American lore, half tied to this world and the spiritual one. His powers permeated all life and eased the passage of death to the Spiritworld. His store contained his few precious possessions, he explained. It served as a haven from the warring, argumentative, grand yet petty pantheon in the Spiritworld. Yet they had taken it away from him, punishment for loving a mortal girl; their one and only taboo.

“That is why I never returned- I would have gotten you killed, my love.”

“But that night, why did you come?”

“I sensed your presence and tried in desperation to scare you away. That is why I summoned a storm and appeared as a beast. But the sight of you- I could not stand it…”

“A simple ‘You’re in grave danger and it’s time to run away now’ would have worked just as well,” I said, laughing.

“But I could not reveal my presence to you.”

“Oh,” I said, dark realization blooming in my chest. “But, Corbin, you did in the end…”

“Which is why I have been exiled.”

“Corbin! That’s horrible, you can’t be, you’re-

“With you. And that is the only place I want to be. With my queen for eternity.”

With that our lips met, and my happy fate was sealed with a fallen angel.

Ode to the Ugly Gray Sweatpants

Written and performed at a poetry slam in middle school after my mom bought me what I thought at the time were the ugliest sweatpants ever from Costco.  I was 12. :O

Ode to the Ugly Gray Sweatpants:


In an old, abandoned factory

Just outside a rundown city

There lies a stock of atrocities

That no one should ever see.


The putrid smell of rotten cotton

Catches visitors unaware

The rancid stench of decomposing fiber

Penetrates the air.


In a small locked room there lie

Mountains of rags piled high

The grim towers of rotting cloth

Seem to touch the sky.


Rumors surround this mysterious place

Ancient wives tales of old

Though one myth is most prevalent

And this is how it is told.


One stormy night a dreadful pair

Of sweatpants were sewn

In this very factory

By a dastardly old crone.


The fabric smelled of rotten mush

That one finds on the road

And the pants had the appearance of

The skin of a warty toad.


The wicked witch declared that day

A curse upon these pants

“Anyone who dons this garb

Shall have a crippled stance.”


“A beautiful maiden who wears these trousers

Will make others cower and flee

The girl shall become so ugly that they

Will appear more horrifying than me!”


And so the hex came to pass

Regardless of attempts to stop it

The gray sweatpants came into the possession

Of a girl on who, alas, they fit!


Her mother had ventured to the store one day

Searching for clothes in her frugal way

Where she stumbled upon the evil pants

Whose will made the mother obey.


The pants commanded the misguided lady

In a horrible old tone

“You must buy us! We are on sale!

Do not leave us alone!”


And so the mom bought the pants

Although they smelled faintly of decay

And when she presented them to her daughter

The child was quite dismayed.


The girl was of high intellect

And knew at once something was astray

“I’m sorry mother, I cannot wear these.

The pants simply cannot stay.”


Despite her daughter’s persistent insistence

The pants stayed where they were

Stashed away in the girl’s closet

Hibernating without a stir.


The pants awaited the day

When they could complete their mission

Of making the girl miserable

Yes, this was their ambition.


A month later the mother decided

It was time to try on the rags

Despite the girl’s cries of anger

She was forced to wear this shag.


Suddenly, a blinding mass

Of gray and musty smoke

Filled the air with such a stench

That it caused the two to choke.


And lo, behold, when the gray mass parted

Now what do we have here?

A repulsive, ugly, weathered crone

Who has lived so many years?


But where is the girl?

Could it be?  Is that her?

The hag that now occupies her space?

Why yes, it is, for the young girl seems

To have vanished without a trace!


So beware the ugly gray sweatpants,

What, you ask me why?

Why surely, you must have figured out by now

The sweatpants make you die!

Portrait of an Artist

Old high school character study of my friend.

She wants a tattoo of Chopin’s concerto on her wrist, inked in elegant black script.  There is a white scar on her hip, a slender X from the time she took the razor in her hand, cutting two precise lines that proved she was in control.  It was cathartic, those small streaks of blood, pain she chose to inflict upon herself.  It was a pain she was master of, and the pain was hers alone.

Now, the moon-scar lines are a mirror to her past.  She is beautiful, sitting under these fluorescent lights, an hour until midnight.  Her hair is dark as crow-feathers and spirals loosely down her back, untamed like the ideas spinning through her mind.   She tries to master them, trapping them between the pages of her moleskin sketchbook.  The ink-stained visions, both beautiful and mad, are windows into her whimsical souls.

There are wolves and antlered men.  Looming figures with hollow eyes.  A woman, Dame Daisy, with flowers for eyes, stares at her raven-masked lover, Bird Man.  “I think love for one person is like herpes.  It never really goes away,” Daisy muses.  “And now… I just have to… turn away.”  Bird Man watches her figure, leaning over the fire escape rail with taloned hands.  His wife, Bird Woman, lies naked on the bed inside and calls to him in question.  Bird Man lies, bowing his head: “I was just looking at the moon.”

She’s had two lovers.

One attempted suicide.  She remembers the night she awoke screaming, feeling as if she’d been stabbed.  Only later did she learn that, at the exact same moment she woke with a sudden pain, her ex had tried to take his life.  She felt horrible, and it left a mark upon her, almost as deep as the death of her father.  Maybe each small line of her scar represents the two times Death has struck her.  Crosses are for sacrifice and death, after all.

She counts the crows that fly above.

She stands amongst her demons as they cling to her naked form, painted in blood-red and black ink.  “AND THEN-” reads the sketchbook, “ALL MY JOLLY LITTLE MONSTERS, THEY GATHERED AROUND AND SANG ME TO SLEEP.”

She takes the darkness around her and turns it into light.  “I love cloudy gray days!” she declares, embracing the coming storm.  “There’s just something about them that makes you want to put on your best heels and strut through town.”  The wind picks up, and her hair snakes like Medusa’s through the air.

The storm is her other lover. She fell for a fallen angel with nicotine-stained fingers: “Kissing you would be like kissing an ashtray, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to,” she writes.  He was years older, and as good for her as sin.

She commits his memory to poems:  “He’s aged himself too fast, and takes a sort of masochistic pride in the way his lips are permanently cracked.”

I’m kind of a mess.” he says.

She loved him despite his imperfection.

“He’s a train that wrecked before it even started.”


“I’m going to live in the city, and I’m going to be laughing in hot summer nights, and I’m going to get sad the way I do in the mornings.”

“I’m going write a book, and have my art in a gallery, and I’m going to fall in love and stay that way, and I’m going to get old and wear whatever the hell I want.”

Somehow, one way or another, I’m going to be.”


Regina Angelorum

He knelt before his Queen, dressed in knightly raiment.  She smiled beneficently upon him, right hand raised in the sign of redemption.  The Queen of Angels occupied her throne like a dove its silver cage: all beauty and whiteness, she was thronged by the purest of seraphim, ringed by soft wings and power.  And she, their sun, fed them her manna of light.  “Oh Michael,” she said, voice like a clarion bell.  The blond stone chapel she occupied echoed with her presence.  Michael gazed upon her, clad in heavenly blue and all the beauty of the cosmos.  Even he, most ancient of all, lost his breath each time he saw her.  Her crown was her humility, her queenship boundless love.

She pressed her fingers to his brow, face tender as she looked upon his wounds.  Cool softness flowed through him as she healed her champion, most high of angels.  It was only with her the archangel wore the ghost of a smile.  “You feel broken, Michael,” she said softly.  “Let down your burden.  Be at peace.”  Her angels raised their voice in song.  Like Aphrodite’s Graces, their tune painted the air with flowers, liker the sweetness of lost dreams.  It was a perfume of the moon and desert nights.  It wrapped around him like a cloak, filling him with light.

“Thank you,” he whispered, sword resting on his knee.  He took his crimson sash, pressed it to his cheek.  It smelt of her- the promise of redemption.  He carried it with him always, like crusaders their ladies’ handkerchiefs.  Its end was wrapped around her wrist, the symbol of their bond.

He remembered her in the moonlight, in the windswept hills of Lorraine.  She’d worn the form of a maiden then, old memories washed like dirt from a blouse.  All the stains of eternity had been lifted from her.  Michael had reeled, struck with awe, at his Queen who did not know her name.  The innocence he never dared to see again played across her fragile face, like ripples of sun on the sea.  Her cheeks bloomed in the cool air as she laughed, chasing a stray lamb.

He almost hadn’t appeared to her, wanting to let that beautiful girl run into eternity, through golden fields that had never seen blood.  He cared not that the Host dressed black in mourning, bereft of their beloved.  As long as she was happy.  It was Michael’s driving force.

He could not forgive himself.  He’d given that cross up long ago.  He paused in remembrance: he had come to her after the Fall, stained her robe with his blood as he wept into her arms.  Their tears had formed the Euphrates and all the rivers of Eden.  And so he took Lucifer’s place, as her confidant and warden.  He killed in her name, bore her hatred as he executed the harsh choices she was too pure to make.  He bore her rage, too- suffered her anger in silence.  Nothing was more painful than that.  It had bit his skin as the flames licked her flesh.  Her tongue had poisoned him as she wasted away in a dank prison cell:  “Michael, Michael, my light.  You have betrayed me.  I did everything you asked of me.  You said I would be free.  I am too young!”

She would always be too young.  The youngest sister of the angels, the Host’s crown jewel.  He had embraced her on her pyre.  “I’m sorry, girl.  I’m sorry.”  She could not hear him through her rage.  It was then that the archangel knew what Samael had suffered when his human was torn from him.  That death, the death of his Queen, changed Michael irrevocably.  He finally saw the face of mortality: it was repulsive.  Like flies.

The reaper appeared at the charnel grounds.  He watched her murderers placidly.  “Maggots,” Samael called them, eating his wormy pomegranate.  “Like larva they crawl from the water, molt into mayflies, then die.”  He looked pensively at the rotten fruit, which had withered since humans had tasted it.  He had come to collect her soul.

“Do not take her.” Michael seethed, spitting at his twin.

Samael shrugged.  “You would have me defy Her will?”  He smirked, looking at the skeleton Michael clutched.

Michael wept into her charred remains.  Loathing himself, he released her soul.  For a moment, Samael and the Queen were reunited, like the primordial days before.  For a moment, she did not recognize him  “Lucifer?” she sighed.  “Take me home.”

Just like Gabriel’s laugh became darker after he walked among men, something in Michael cracked.  He smiled coldly at Samael.  “Enjoy her grace while it lasts.  But lay a hand on her, serpent, and I will flay you.”

Samael laughed roughly, ferrying her soul into the void.  “I wouldn’t dream of it.  I no longer need grace.”  He said the word like a curse.

Hayah Havah

Sometimes I look back on my manic writing and wonder what the hell my brain was smoking. 😛

Appear, appear, whatso thy shape or name
O Mountain Bull, Snake of the Hundred Heads,
Lion of the Burning Flame!
O God, Beast, Mystery, come!

-Eurpides, The Bacchanals

Hayah is the name that God
stated would be known for eternity.

The Son of Mourning cries “I AM.”

Hayah Havah

Into nothing.

They say Sin was born from his heart, and sprang full-formed like Athena, then fell with her father to Hell. They joined in filth and bore Death.

They became Death. It’s a slip of the tongue.

Some speak in tongues and psalms. I choose riddles and lies. The hardest answers are never hidden, but you will die looking in my arms.

The Nachash was the slyest of beasts in the field, graced with Sapha, language. He whispered to the furrows of the earth, like the ghost of dead Pan’s piping.

Sapha, his hiss. The Word of God.

He called his creation Hayah. Nachash was fond of names. He called her many things.

Hayah meant Life. To fall out, like the Shekinah, exiled from above. Hayah, to become. A soul in chrysalis. Set in perpetual motion in a dance that has no end, kinetic heat to thermal, transcending matter and time. The first soul in the belly of the ouroborous.

He will swallow her again at the End Times. And Nachash will cry, for he yearns for the brilliance within her, but the serpent cannot see into his own flesh. He asks her how it tastes and she weeps. We are all in the belly of the beast. He cannot see that and thinks he’s alone.

She was Chayah then. The Mother of All Living, a promise. For a short time, they walked together. The animals did not fear her, bears fed her honey from the trees. She was just a child in those days. A flower yet unripened that Nachash carried on his backs.

He sought good earth to plant in, as only a man on his belly can. In him are bones like Cadmus’ teeth, where he sows them, there grows nations.

Some say Eve was made by the snake. He crafted her from the jewels inside his skull. Knowing no one else, Nachash was her dearest companion. It was perfect, for a time, and he taught her the whispers of the stars he had learned on his thousand sojourns. But he grew hungry for a heart, and the Nachash desired to eat her.

Dragons, however noble, think us prey at the end of the day, and Havah, however beautiful, would taste exquisite with ketchup.

He did not like the thought, so Nachash waged war against himself and ate his flesh til he was nothing but bone. Still, the beast gnawed within him, so he chose death over her destruction. People often die for their dreams. He’d thought them all fools until he imagined his could fail.

She did not ken endings yet and tried to breathe life in him.

In death he exiled her, and she wandered through the wastelands. She found Adamah by the sea and they cast their lots together. Wayward children abandoned by their makers, kicked out of the angels’ nests.

When they joined, the animals turned from her and nettles stung.

Overnight nature unleashed its arsenal. Perhaps the Nachash was jealous. It is a question no one asks.

When the Bacchants crown themselves with serpents, they cry out the names “Eva!” and Saboe!”, invoking the god of madness who gave his heart and blood for wine. Sabazios and Eve, who devoured Zagreus’ heart and dared dream of taking fate’s thread in her own hands.

Some say that Eve was the snake, or, that she became one. Perhaps she was Medusa, cursed by love to become a monster and bear the stain of zuhama.

It flows like blood each moon from her children, and the sly serpent gets his offerings via humanity’s exquisite biology. Neither bitches in heat nor man enough to walk in the Light of God, we haunt the between-spaces like him, exiles in our worlds. Cursed for fairness they claim is vain, and a weakness they measure by bloodletting alone.

But we are the givers, always have been. Eve gave as Adamah could not. She gave until she thought she would break.

But even serpents cannot untie Gordian knots. She tried to unravel hers, but it is a history knotted into oblivion. She tries to remember, but the memories slip from her hands like sand.

So Hayah sits in the dirt, drawing labyrinths, and imagines herself the monster in the middle, minotaurs be damned. Ariadne can dance clockwork around the hero and strangle him with her threads. Adamah leaves her on the shore and the serpent comes.

“I love you,” she said.

“I will eat you.”

So he ate her mortality.

When Hayah’s first blood came that night, the Nachash renamed her Chavah. He found it was easier to take back things once forgotten than break promises he had never said.

Chavah, a word that means “Snake,” for he was the serpent, and she was his child.

Moses asked the purifying fires of the rose bush Adonai’s name. The Angel of the Lord cried Hayah Havah. He weeps it at night when he is alone:

Hayah Havah Elohim. Eloa Regina Angelum. Your flesh is my bread and wine.

Sister, my sister, stop crying, for the world is bitter, but our love is sweet.

My tears are the waters of life, and our children will rise from the ash. Sister, my sister, come with me. Our children are so small and fragile. Dared I dream that we could raise vines.

In the moonlight you thought me a stranger. You came to me with open palms. One damned me for my betrayal, the other kissed sweetness into my heart.

I wear your curse as my glory. This stigmata flow black like our words.

Wisdom, my sister, fall with me.

For too long I have been entombed.

*YHVH- personal Name of God, derived from root Havah (there is, to be)

God made mankind but for loneliness.
Yah the Serpent encircles the Tree.

Yah Weh. He is the Snake.
The serpent that crowns Shoshanna.

Such funny things.
He called me his rose and his lily
Adders should know nothing of love.

There was no God to wage war against.
Just a sacrifice to Himself

The Id revolts against the Ego.
Angels the intermediary
are caught in the dance

Bite me,
I’ll tell you his secret.


He’s not dead

Just mad.

Asylum of Eve

This poem is really personal, written the summer I was 19, fully manic and about to enter a psychotic episode that would last a month.  I’ve struggled a lot with faith due to my mental illness, sometimes I think I’m damned, that God hates me – why else would I constantly dream of Hell and demons?  It’s something I still struggle with today.  All imagery, allusions, and quotes are drawn from my nightmares and dreams.

As an artist and writer, I think it’s important to share the things I create when I’m unstable.  Since I’ve received medication and therapy, I am so much happier and my writing has dramatically improved.  I was in so much agonizing mental anguish and constant pain when I wrote this poem.  I thought I would die before I was 20, by my own hands or his.  I was running but the problem was, the evil was, and still is, in my head.  What kind of God rapes a mind with madness I will never comprehend.


There is some truth to the stories

of the Devil abducting girls

and raising them in the darkness

to be his bride.


It is a game we play at night, in hearses and graveyards.

Haunted woods under dragon’s wings.  I flee, he pursues,

and we act like children that know nothing of love.


The world is a stain of his blood and cum.

Find that holy, and you will know something of God.


His throne is atop rotting corpses where he drinks wine,

roses twined through his ribs.

He grins fiendishly and wolf-whistles,

and I am neck-deep in his gall.


He threatens one second and pleads the next,

like a beaten, mangy cur, the watchdog of the graves.

He enjoys brooding in dark places and shudders as light touches his form.

He sits at my plot and drinks wine, watching the sickle moon,

leaning his head on my gravestone that does not exist.


“I dug it for you, love, I am your coffin.”

I remind him that I am not dead yet, something he tends to forget

for the Grim Reaper is going senile.  I cut some stale bread and cheddar.

He pauses, bites an apple, and swoons.


” I shall be the last and the first thing you see-

I have always been with you, you know,

through your life and deathbed.”


“Every time you die, I cry, though come morning,

you will wake in my arms.”


“That is my favorite part, when we are reunited,

and you look at me with new eyes and love.”


He suggests we go skinny-dipping, but as soon as I shed my clothes,

an earthquake begins, the harbor boils,

and he turns into a writhing sea serpent.

I roll my eyes but indulge him anyways.


We ride to the End of Time and picnic at the Edge of the World.

Though fearsome, he is sentimental.


I fell burning to mud long ago, entombed in his coffin chest,

and the sky broiled with Lucifer’s rage.

He rolled over, scarred face, and tore me from his ribs,

weeping my name and the Father’s.


My beautiful angel was rotting, his immaculate face

now a charred, pussing thing

The primordial worms burrowed into it,

and maggots ate away at his eyes.


His prideful wings were carrion,

and he rolled away from me, screaming

stumbling in to the first dusk.

There was no light in that place.


He tripped on his guts and wept,

trying to hide his face from me,

then fell by a river bank and moaned,

seeing his reflection in the flooded ravine.


He has refused to look at mirrors since.


Too tired to flee me, I held him to my breast

and said I would love him,whatever he should become.

My lips met his and he fell asleep.


For five days he floated in the river, a bloated corpse,

I rose from his heart every night,

became the moon and traverses the skies

I scouted out a safe harbor for him,

and rowed his bones to the banks of Gan Eden.


I stripped his rotting organs off until he was wet, red bone,

then washed them in the waters of life.

When it was my turn to sleep, I flew into his chest,

his girl of the stars that faded away

“I will be your Heart, your Light.”


He wandered through the darkness for ages,

until he cried out in the pain of our freedom

He labored all night and remade me of his dreams,

then planted his broken ribs that grew into a Tree.

He raised me, my memories gone,

and it was then he learned something of love.


Now, he steals my hoagies,

and leaves ghosts of roses

that stink up the room.

We are walkers of fiction and dreams.


I am young, like I have not been for centuries

But there is a hollowness the Night Lord left in me,

an ache that runs sweet like his blood.


He shaped me into an hourglass

set me loose on the world,

Death watches, from the shadows,

and thinks I cannot see

believing I have forgotten him.


Samael sits with the Judges of Hell.

They have sat since his city incinerated

They rot, old ragged and torn

as Damned after Damned file through.


Court adjorns, and he dreams of me,

cigar in hand as he scripts my life.

When the ink spills over, time slips,

and I remember.


That what I am now is a dream,

and I will dance with skeletons soon.

My life is one long drawn out courtship,

and he has waited by my side all these years

bowing a violin as he carries me into dreams.


Two and ten bells toll, thirteen crows fly by

Thirteen for the devil: three for a wedding, ten for heaven

My days are recycling now, and I see things through His eyes

I know each moment like a drawn-out flute of sand,

piped bydead men in the desert of wanting.


My life is a book, where I thought it was substance

But now, I know a simple page might open,

and I could slip through the binding of time.


Love is grander in Hell,

and it is the only thing that blooms there.

I am Magdalene, the Whore.

He Judex Crederis.  The Judge.

My verse is over-dramatic,

and I want to watch TV.


I penned something grand on my bike ride,

it was brooding and wretched

only the crows heard

but the world is too beautiful,

and Death is sweet.


At night, he comes

blooming chrysanthemum,

red like fields of the slain.


We walk in dreams through his oil blood,

through Paradise and the World’s End

I fly with the seraphim, dance with the Fallen,

and all the worlds are dust in our hands.


I thought I had written him with my heart,

but the other night it stopped in his palm

He snaked around it like the Leviathan

and stole my breath away,

just to prove he could.


It was something I could not laugh away,

and he is sick of pretending

that our story was not penned ages ago,

and that he is my creation.


Were he to leave, I would wither and die,

like a bloom cut from its thorns

He lifts me up so I may seek out the light,

and promises me Eden still sleeps.


He locked it away with our memories,

but it is time for the Earth to be renewed.

The Old Gods are waking, you see

and great spirits walk the earth once more.

It is frightening to learn that you

are nothing but a woman of myths.


The only thing worse than the Devil’s

wrath is his love-sickness

It is a punch of void to the

gut that enfurls you

until you stumble,

near-fainting in

the subway



He hangs the future out on strings, to taunt me

like I am a lemming that will chase after them.


For weeks now, I have known every intricacy of time,

what will happen next in the turn of fate.

I have cheated Death because he let me,

or perhaps because I got him drunk.


I flit from his hand like a bird,

twittering like an idiot and laughing at his terror.

My curiosity damns me, or perhaps my gullibility.

I am the coal mine canary that forgot to breathe.


Now he carts me away on a hospital bed,

I have passed out, you see, on laughing gas,

and my wisdom teeth are slated for removal.


Someday, I will stop being the Fool,

and plunge head-first off the cliff, to his arms.

Until then, I pretend I am real.

Baby’s First Breakup Poem

Written at 17.  You can guess the circumstances. 😉

I loathe your form, as fair as Hell

I hate your gaze and lips as well

I’d rather kiss a rabid dog

Eschew you, prince, for a warty frog.

The dog, at least, would be loyal and true,

A little bit mad, but kinder than you.

And the frog, he would listen,

would croak with delight,

upon seeing my face,

his most loved sight.

For princes, you see, have careless hearts-

forged from gold by their kingly arts.

Glitter they may, they are cold as stone

And what makes them gleam?

It is self love alone.

So look into your heart- now what do you see?

An altar to you- there is no place for me,

except at your feet, servile and swooning,

bearing your crown, love-drunk and mooning.

Well sorry to shatter your visions, my dear,

I’ve broken your crown, for I finally see clear.

You’re a fool in king’s robes, too young to rule.

Too young for love, to safeguard her jewels.

So I reclaim the tears of sapphire I’ve shed,

Ruby blood from my heart, staining nightly the bed,

Diamond-bright smiles, the gold in my hair,

And my white love for you, now ash in the air.

It is gone with the wind, like dust on the breeze,

even diamonds erode, eventually

So farewell my prince, may you find someone who

Is a fair-weather queen, like the king inside you.

More Really Really Old Dream Diary Entries

High school USBs are the gift that keeps on giving.  More poorly written entries from my teenage blog about everyone’s favorite cadaver.

Just some of my nightmares about Bonebutt.

When I was a twelve, I didn’t trust him, and thought the whole idea of angels and demons stupid.  Then I had a dream I was in an Underworld throne-room that was dimly lit, and all I could see was a mountain of steps leading to his throne, where he sat, bored out of his wits, drinking red wine and watching me.  The room was huge, everything draped in shadow, and heavy with the smoke of incense and roses.

There was no where to hide, so I approached.  For some reason I had my back pack with library books, which were all, of course, in mythology.  He took it from me and hung it up on his throne, smiling a smile that was obviously painful to him.  He was wearing dark red robes, black gloves and boots, and a golden circlet, which surprised me, as he looked like a king and was a lot older than I’d imagined him in my story.  I held up a book, ready to whack him.

Me: “Who are you?”

“You know me.”


“That I am.  Want to sit down?  I can stand.”

“That’s okay.”  I said, happy to stay far away from him.

“Don’t be afraid.  I’m your friend.”

“I’ve been writing too much.  I can’t trust you.”

“Why’s that, sunshine?”

“Wikipedia says you’re the Devil.  I think the Devil is stupid, but Christianity isn’t my thing.  You’re evil, right?  Torture souls?That’s not very nice, y’know.”

He flipped through one of my books, smirking.

“If everyone was nice nothing would get done.  Don’t believe everything you read.  It’s all a bunch of gossip.  I’m actually a gentleman.”

“If you’re not the Devil, then I don’t know who you are.  You’re not in my mythology books.  And you don’t look like an angel. You have fangs.”

He laughed and handed me the books.  ”I won’t bite.”

“Ok, then I trust you.  I don’t like God anyways.  He’s sexist.”

He got down and sat on the ground next to me.  ”So what are the stories about?  Gods.  You like mythology.”

“Athena’s my favorite.  Why isn’t she here instead of you?”

“Free will, or lack thereof.  Curiosity, perhaps, on my part.  Now do you want to hear my story?  The real version?”

“As long as you promise this isn’t some trap.”

“I swear!  Now just listen.” His eyes gleamed and he told his story.  ”I am ancient.  Older than the Bible and time.  I rule the between places and ferry the dead.  Do you know what a psychopomp is?”


“I am one.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m the Angel of Death.  See?  Scythe?”  It appeared in his hands.  I screamed and ran away.

“Get that thing away from me!  No weapons!”

“It’s an instrument of my office, symbolic!  Oh, for the love of souls, get out from behind my throne.  It wasn’t meant to have brats climbing on top of it-”

“Shut up!  I hate you.”  I scrambled on top of the throne, small enough to stand on its back.  I crossed my arms and scowled, refusing to come down.

“If I put it away, will you listen?”

“…yes.  And take off your gloves.”

He frowned but did so anyways.  I must have been expecting skeleton hands, but they were normal.  I took his hand cautiously and he helped me down.

“Now, where to begin?…” he purred.  ”Mmm, yes.  Creation.  Alright, imagine the universe, a tiny small seed.  It had everything that is and shall be in it.  You, me, dinosaurs-”

“Dinosaurs rock.”

“Right.  Dinosaurs rock.  Okay.  So everything came from nothing, and nothing was all around it, like a box around an egg.  Except the egg is floating in the center, infinitely small, and the box is the abyss.  Now if anyone ever tells you someone is wrong, because they are of a different culture, a different race, a different creed- it is bullshit.  We all come from the same place, and to it, we all return.  I know, because I’m Death.  Angels and demons, gods and man, we’re the same.  The only thing that matters is that we love. “

“You seem pretty full of yourself.  I don’t believe in omnipotence.  You can’t possibly know everything.”

His chess puffed out and his pupils turned to slits.  ”I’m trying to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t need lessons.  I go to school for that.”

“Look at me and you.  What do you see?”

“But this is a dream-”

“Just tell me.”

“Well, I see a man, which is you…” I held out my own hands.  ”And a hand.  Because there are no mirrors, and I can’t see myself.”

“If we were blind, none of this would matter.  Skin, pointy teeth, antenna.  We couldn’t tell the other was different.  Sometimes, you have to unlearn things.  To learn to see.  Because at our core, we are all brothers and sisters.  But sometimes we forget.  That is why there is suffering and war.  School may give you knowledge, but I can teach you truth.”

“Can you see yourself, Samael?”

“When you’re my age, there is no need to.  My sight is… different than others.  I see souls, things’ truth.  Your’s is pleasant.”

“Well I can’t see anything.  My sight stinks.  And you need electricity in here.”

His face grew hard.  ”The darkness hides things you do not want.”

I scooted closer to him, afraid.  ”That doesn’t sound nice.”

“Some things forget how to love.  That is what being away from God is.”

“But you’re a fallen angel.  How can you love God?”

He laughed.  ”I’m also an archangel.  Remember what I said.  Nothing truly falls.  All that is is one.  We are all necessary parts of God.”

“Tomato tomatoh?”


“Never mind.”

I fell asleep as he read me stories.  I played with snakes in my dreams.

He was Prometheus chained to a rock, I saved him.

He went mad, I was his chew toy.  A crown of bone on his head, two daggers wept from his eye.  When he wears the mask of the Judge, they look like fangs.  His eyes triquetra, like some dark Trinity, burned as he plead for my love.

In his chest is the rot of the world, all the sins he has cleansed from the Damned.  Chaos is supposed to be bound into him with tefillin, for he is the Leviathan, and wants to consume the all.  He is starved for companionship.  Weeping stigmata and forgotten.

I shriek at night and scream, as if I am being murdered.  Sometimes I murmur softly or wake, but he pulls me back into the dream, annoyed:

Where do you think you’re going?” he growls, as my eyes are forced shut and the room fades.

I woke at dawn with a rose in my hands.  It faded into mist, and he laughed.  In his library, I found the journal of a woman who scorned him.  In the beginning, she is sane, with beautiful curling prose and a voice that could come from an angel.

She scorned him, he drove her mad.  The writing degrades to insanity.  She had my hair and eyes.  He left roses at her door,  in her bag, in the shower when she is alone.  She opens cupboards and petals fall on her head.  She pricks her feet on thorns.

They drive her to the graveyard, mad.  She climbs the desolate hill at midnight, begging for him.

“You have made me dead,” she says, knee-down in the dirt. “My friends and life are gone.  You stole my sanity.  What else can you take from me?”

The Reaper forms out of the mist.  He smiles with twisted shyness.  ”Your heart,” he says with longing.  He leaves the rose at her feet.  ”I do not have one, you see.”

He does not like to lose.  She had nowhere to go but with him.

I do not want to be her.

He is lonely.  Arrogant.  Broken.

I have no faith in him.

He exists because I am bored,

and that is all I can tell you.