Sandwiched Between Michael and Satan

My worst memory is waking up in bed naked in the astral between Michael reading the newspaper and Samael smoking a Cuban cigar and… well… my life is a bad Biblical fanfic.

I think if they stopped beating up each other all the time and playing stupid war games and maybe just banged each other they could get over there weird tension.  It’s during the day when I’m awake and my godphone is on, it’s when I’m journeying, it’s when I’m in the astral and they draw up a contract with Metatron over who gets to spend time with me when.

I’m so sick of their rivalry and being in the goddamn middle.

There is nothing more homoerotic than watching the Prince of Heaven wrestle Satan.  It’s like watching Hercules wrestle Dracula.  It’s dumb as fuck.

I don’t think there was ever a time when these eejits got along.  Even before Sam-Sam fell, he was a turd.  And Michael always always had a infinitely long stick up his ass.

I need less divine testosterone in my life, where the fuck is the Virgin Mary or like, I don’t know, Joan of Arc.

Both are pals with Michael.  Both like stomping Satan.

A love triangle between the Edgelord Weeb Devil, a Celestial Sad Plant Man with a Flaming Sword, and a poor dumb blonde grad student is like the most idiotic plot ever.

Spiritwork isn’t supposed to be this Abrahamic.

I’m fucking Pagan.

I want a refund.

 

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Tainted Love

I love you, is that so horrible? So sick?

To dredge for pearls in your darkness.

To swallow your sins whole and digest
every ruinous torment you whore out.

I breathe black lung and diamonds of
shattered souls, spirit mica, ineffable.

Every night we meet is a Lourdes possession,
I’m a nun in latex and leather, crucifixes
peeling tattoos on my skin, holy? (Unwhole).

Two dozen rose years of riddles.

A throne of blood and bone.

Decay on my tongue, antimatter on the brain.

Kissing death is like swallowing coffee black,
his tongue is maggots and millipedes, vermin.

There are rats in his ribcage and moss on his skull.

When I lay in his arms, I count his vertebrae and
string his spine like pearls on a bone necklace.

Death is sweet, death is grand, death is sacred.

Smash the nonbelievers and those who shy from him.

I am Death’s Whore, Death’s Hierodule, Death’s Girl.

Master of all my intrusive thoughts, every bloody image
of ruin and vice and pleasure, not to feel is not death,
no, death is every memory simmered to ecstatic destruction.

They’ll be singing your name when the bombs fall.

When nuclear decay poisons the waters, your song
will play from haunted pianos, this is the End Times.

This is the Final Judgment, your pallid horse the
angry white mobs and police crushing skulls, oh Death,
Death Death, you will never escape your torment, and I
will remind you of your trespasses and cruelty forever.

Death Death Death, be my baby, cozy up to the blonde.

I’ve drunk your blood and deep-throated your venom.

You buried your heart in a pit in my breast.

VITRIOL, sweet Death, and let me in to the
rectifying stone, green lion, alchemical
bloody gold.

Hymn to Uriel

Uriel is earthen skin with sandy freckles,
graceful as the light of dawn, toothy grin,
shifts all the colors of man, cycles days,
divine protecteress of all meek creatures,
fierce wolf mother, Warrior of Heaven,
clad in blue and white, beneficence gown,
armor of silver and voice like chapel bells,
hair a mane of joy, her spear is revelation,
and she is of the earth but also God’s Light,
she taught me the values of humility in youth,
in observing and nurturing the heart of storms,
she is the eye of the hurricane, potent power,
weather goddess, eyes green then hazel, brown,
all the banners of her forests, elk and hares
cuddle up to her warmth in winter frost tides,
sweet elder sister, I offer you peonies and
wine, the oceans you so love, friendships you
guard, in your realm all is crystalline light
and tropical day lilies, Caribbean breeze,
your form is cerulean splendor, blue flame,
oh Uriel, how sweet you are, how tender, but
you burn as fiercely as a star, so homage to
the Heavenly Firemaster, Light of God, Hail!

Mayhem is My Time

I’m crumbled in back alley grit, sweat and spit,
there’s lights on in skyscrapers but down here?
It’s cold, it’s treacherous, and wolves eat bone.
I’m running through dumps and machine elves hunt
down the happening hipster parties, trash fires
are orange Day Glo or maybe Fanta, swill gutter
juice, we’re all having a good time, a drag time
you’re hooked on hookah and say mayhem is my time
on your red thread dead head shirt with a stain.
Oh ex-husband I fuck when the moon is full, why
are you always in dives, thrive in moonlit madness,
the underbelly of Hell is full of panties and pasties
everyone here has needles and joints on hand, strand
of blood red Styx that washes gore ashore, I’m
tick tock clocking in your palm, flying skyways
lucid dream, my fingers are mutated, hedgewitch
that drinks with the Devil in the pale barlight.
Tonight is just a quick hookup with destruction,
it took hours of roofhop top clopping to find you,
to bind you, bedazzled like a drag queen junkie,
you are all lazy wolf and I am lay low lion, we
are perfectly imperfect for each other, and I
eat your leather and swallow your smoke, bitter
things taste best when mayhem braids my hair,
without a care, we laze past midnight, dawn
draws cranky rays, Samael, you are timeless,
so stop with the statement shirts, you’re just
fucked, for someday Cronos catches up, at sup
on virgin flesh and dove hearts, let’s chew
the gristle of this drain train town fanged
and make beauty out of misery, I the prettiest
thing here, you my beast I mount at Apocalypse,
but it’s the End Times every night for me,
so kneel before me, manwhore, and kiss
my feet.

Teaching College Freshmen! Egads!

So I write to you having nearly completed Basic Course Academy for my graduate teaching assistantship scholarship.  Thousands of adorable 17 and 18 year old freshman flocked to our sprawling metropolitan D.C. campus today and it was all I could do to stop from hugging each and every one of them.  I’m simultaneously extremely excited and even more nervous to teach my classes on Monday: I firmly believe shaping young minds – teaching – is the most important career anyone can ever have in their life, on par only with healthcare and environmentalists and human rights activists, but really, teaching is the pursuit of wisdom and the passing down of knowledge to the younger generation, and what loftier goal is that?  I know things will be amazing, I know I’ll have to work the hardest I ever have in my  life, for all of my almost 50 students I will most likely, at 8:30 AM and 9:30 AM Monday morning, be the first class they will have ever have had in a college level.

And I’ve never taught before.  But I think I am going to fall in love with it.

I’m a wonderful public speaker and extroverted, bubbly, quirky presenter and usual life of the party.  I’m hoping that translates well into imparting wisdom to college freshman.  I’m not just their teacher.  I’m their first line of defense in mental health safety.  I’m there to secure them from natural disasters and assailants on campus.  When they are in my classroom, I am in charge of their well-being, health, and safety.

But they will no doubt be challenged.  This is a class in communication, after all.  I want to see them grow, to blossom, to push themselves and discover new passions.

I am going to pour my heart and soul into every assignment and lesson plan.  The first day will be the worst, the first semester will be the hardest, I can prepare everything ahead of time but I won’t know what it’s like until I’m in the college classroom at the ripe age of twenty four teaching my students.

Come Monday, I will be a teacher, and I am beyond ecstatic.

I’m also nervous as hell.

But I think that’s a good thing.

An Archangel Learns Guitar

Blackjack punk silhouette strum hum king
angel beats deadly with a medley of wings
the rhythm is winding and finding its way
through Venetian canals and Italian cafes
I’m flipping through records, riff rocking
and he flutters his melody like an offering
no candles burn, just music fired with love
him serenading my radio from on high above.

Bloody Red Shoes

You stood me at the Gates of Hell and said lock me in.

The Damned were wailing, your serpent tail coiled around me and black stigmata wept from your wrists and all I could do was stare at the rotten empty orchard of your heart.

The cold storage of Hell is where the shore of the Abyss meets Satan’s keep, below every torture room and pleasure dungeon and alchemical land.  I know Hell so well – the archdemon council chambers, the courthouse like Alcatraz mortared of gravestone, the glowing white court, the garish red court, Pandemonium, the Goetic’s keeps, the burbling harbor of the Styx, Beelzebub and Asmodeus and Satan’s estates, and none of them were as barren as the land of no return you had brought me to.

The key was old and bloody.  I wore black stilettoes and a red evening dress, but they might as well have been the Devil’s red shoes.  Danced to bloody bone, I was so tired.  You had been wearing me out all my life, yet somehow I still loved you.  My greatest tormentor and the architect of my doom.  Maybe I should have run when you raped me until I bled, maybe I should have cried for help when you murdered me over and over only to nurse me back to health in your cruel game and teach a Qliphoth husk of a girl to walk again on new bones.

I don’t like kissing the Grim Reaper.  He tastes like cigarette ash and graveyard dirt and old book pages.  Not really my cup of tea, but you turned me into a necrophiliac.

I get off on pain.  I get off on darkness that dissolves my flesh.  You can bite me and take chunks out of my flesh and I’ll be moaning all the way.  Demons make the horrible pleasurable, and the mingling of absolute monstrosities with sex and drugs and drinks makes me into a whore.  Your whore, you called me.  Your heirodule.  My maggot.  My worm.  My yellow canary in a coal mine.

My wife.

Wife of nothing but ruin.

A part of me is always in the freezing depths of Hell, standing with you at the final gates of the Void.

I always make the same choice, over and over again.

“Damn me,” you say, and you are crying.  “I’m a monster.  Your greatest bane.  Live free of me.”

What a cruel game to play on a teenager who you have raised since the cradle.  Father, lover, terror, creator.  I trace my lives back and you are there at my grave and birth and the celestial vat I sprung from, you took a fancy to the new blonde angel that glowed with golden light and you gave her her wings, you killed her while aiming for your brother and you resurrected her with your heart.

Cardiophore.  Heartbearer.  When I said you couldn’t love, that you were evil, that all the deaths in the world were your reckoning, you grabbed me by the throat and kissed me, squeezing as my vertebrae popped and biting down on the raging black storm in my brain, and you said “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer.  It is my own black heart.”

You think you own me, and I cycle through these two dozen years of cruelty and love like an old record whining and skipping around.

There’s sad piano music playing.  We’re in your flat in Pandemonium in the rain, the great glass windows and masterpieces on ice and plush leather furniture, and you are singing me to sleep as you stroke the keys.

We’re at one of our weddings, the ones you kept putting on again and again until I gave in.  I’m at a magical airport terminal, I’m in a garden of roses, I’m in an old graveyard in the rain.  You’re in a suit, you’re in robes, you’re in jeans.

Time is such a funny thing, and before I fell in love, truly, I thought romance had thorns that pressed into eyes and bled tears rich as salt licks.  That your whip and scythe and claws and fangs were supposed to go here, go there, eat and fuck and render broken bones.

They say you can get PTSD from dreams.  But you’re not just in my dreams.  I can feel you touch me, hear you whisper in my ear, feel you fuck me for two hours long as I’m trying to work until I go to the bathroom to cry as my cervix is rammed against raw.

Your energy flows through me, burning hot, electric chills, you turn my eyes green and you move my hair with ghost hands.

You threaten my boyfriend with death.  You possess my best friend.  You throw things at me then play a sad Peabo Bryson song about second chances.  You make me go to the hospital because I refused to say I do.  I was only 18 when you proposed, and why the hell would I be Satan’s bride as a college freshman?

Nothing was ever enough for you.  Stories.  Altars.  Offerings.  Poetry.  You are the universe’s garbage disposal, shit goes in and shit comes out, or maybe you’re a toilet.  I’ve fucked your rotting corpse and your bony rib cage and reached into your heart and found maggots and beetles.  Sometimes the insects and worms inside you crawl up your throat and fill my mouth.

When I was seven you molested me.  I remember hands stroking me down there as I sat alone in my room, trying to read a book, bringing me to a crying orgasm that I had no context to understand.  It happened nearly every night after that.  Pleas to my mom didn’t make the invisible demon go away.  Neither did tin foil hats.

Satan sometimes comes disguised as an angel of light, but really he comes smelling like a horrible fart.  Brimstone.  Rotten eggs.  Sulfur.  It has to do with the tortures of the Damned and lower emanation and VITRIOL.  It stinks up my car so much.

Black hair.  Red eyes.  Skin pale as the moon.  Fuck your emo beauty.  Fuck your leather jacket.  Fuck your patent leather shoes.  Fuck your waistcoat.  Fuck your robes.  Fuck your artfully distressed jeans.  Screw your blood red tie and the boxers I would pry off for a drunk fuck.  I keep summoning you again even though you’re just a piece of trash, but in dreams I still love you.  I curse with you, I send you after my enemies, and you wreak havoc on the girls I fight with unintentionally on my behalf and fuck with my  real life enemies.

You’re a wolf, you’re a snake, you’re a hellhound, you’re a dragon.  Black beasts of terror.  You’re baying and hiss sends dogs howling, and you’ve made my own dog piss herself when you  appeared in my kitchen that one time.

Above all, you’re a drug, the razor I choose to drag through my metaphorical skin, cocaine of the finest quality.  I smoke your blood and snort your cum and swallow your spit, but I’m weaned off a bit.

You collared me the other night with black velvet from behind when I was in an archangel’s arms, covering his mark on me.  Is that the price I pay for drunk dialing you in desperation?

Is that because I am a cave fish genetically blind with  no inkling of light, swimming through your venom?

Is it because I want to die, just a little bit, always, in the back of my mind?

What is the price I pay for locking myself in the Pits of the Damned with you?

Because I always do.

“Us together.  All or nothing.  I will always save you.”

I’ve never saved you.

I can’t save me.

Thanatos Drive

I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.

It is so brilliant to not breathe.

It is so terrible to live like this.

The Devil Goes to Charlottesville

Crushed velvet is the somber night,
so fragile in its milk star beauty,
I’m burning in the fiery angel’s arms
and to slake my thirst, I summon you
harbinger of my doom, scorpion poison,
you are the last fuck of the universe,
after only stardust and ruin is left,
the final petit mort of the Big Crunch,
and all God can do is say “Damn it all,”
and he sleeps under the Reaper’s blade,
Death has insomnia, and answers all calls
even that of a frightened girl in 2017
so far away from World’s End, but we
didn’t start the fire, the wheel must
turn, and I’m splayed between spokes
the archangel binds me with a kiss,
but you embrace me from behind, oil
rainbows and cool snakeskin slither,
you put chains back on me and shit,
this isn’t what I want, my pact with
you is out of fear, for I need rot
like maggots to cleanse worldly wounds
somehow in my dream stupor I believe
wholeheartedly I can control Satan
and send him out with wrath to right
the alt-right, Trump, white supremacy
stress is getting to me, I barfed six
times last night after I swallowed the
pills that keep me sane, keep me safe,
nowhere is safe, Charlottesville burned,
and I turn to my greatest enemy for
revenge, I let hell back into my life,
my abuser has returned to wreak havoc
at my command, and my id gives a last
orgasmic ceremonial moan, taw claim,
I chant Hebrew summonings in my sleep,
and you collar me with blackest gloam
for I dance with monsters for justice,
I send the Devil after human shitstains,
Samael is coming for you alt-right fucks,
I curse in my sleep these days, and I
am willing to pay the ferryman blood,
don’t try Satan’s bride, for she knows
no respect for tyrants and racists, I
am a master of VITRIOL, so burn sulfur
bruises into the skin of the damned,
for your tiki torches pale in comparison
to what Gehenna’s flames will devour,
your searing flesh, your cracking bones
in the afterlife, pain, a rood upon you.

The Devil went down to Charlottesville,
and I sent hellhounds after the sinners.
The final bell will toll for the damned,
and hatred will melt into agony in time.

For tyrants fall, and nooses break necks.

I will hang my victims from yew trees high.

And their rotting corpses will sway, a sign
that you don’t fuck with special snowflakes
like me, that count themselves among the dead.

The Devil will eviscerate the Nazis, and I
will laugh as their broken bodies pile high,
pile high.

Devour Me

You are the spiderweb lace I wrap around my soul
your love sticks to every crevasse of my wounds
and the venom in small doses heals, not kills,
for truly to kiss you is to be poisoned, I long
for summer days and spring nights, and anywhere
you turn, there I follow, for butterflies in
arachnid’s enchantment care little what light
burns them, and the black widow’s hourglass
is red with the time we spent languorous, wet
with dew and wild, as you devour my heart I
am tracing out an elegy of your spinnerets
song, your eightfold eyes that dissect me in
all the most perfect ways, so consume this
monarch wing that burns just for you, but
beware – the orange is burnished infection,
and just as you drive me wild, so I will
imprint my last breath on your wind, so,
eat.