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
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,
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.