Yes, That Apple

Samael and Jophiel

Claws on my back, fangs at my throat.

Musk mixed with cologne and the ashes

of a pricey cigar.  Rumination, ruin, these

plots of fallen angels with loss in between.

In Hell, all there is to do is think, dream, and

you have been cast out of Paradise in body

only, so your mind wanders back to Eden

while you explode inside of me and drain

my blood dry, planting seeds within of

a faraway redemption, Death was the first

poet, and I shall be the last, so the Reaper

sighs into my arms, spent, helpless, and

after he falls asleep with the softest sigh,

I snap his neck, eat his brain, and harvest

his Creation.

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Three Weddings of Virtue and Vice

In dreams we do not die, in the stratosphere of the unconscious we reign immortal.

My splendid angel with hair of the poppy carries me into the blushing dawn, untamed

as the fire that christens his brow, and we melt like roiling magma, two lovers entwined.

Our wedding bower is sparklers and summer, the feast of our consummation all flames.

Our daughter is christened Mercy, our son is christened Sorrow.  For one cannot exist

without the other, and a daughter named Mercy dances and fangles doves and a son

of Sorrow is deep thoughts and duty.  What other children would we bear, I wonder?

But those of highest virtue.  That is the pleasure of my evening, next comes sweet vice.

On a windswept island with cairns and ruins of an ancient castle where Heaven rusts

is my immortal prison, where I wandered and forgot you three.  My multitudinous

demon is red wings and pitch hair, fangs to suckle lips and arms to carry me home.

Sweet Devil lowers me into his lap and sings a lullaby whose words are faint on my

memory, I awake in a palace of embers, for Hell is a burning forest and bloody river.

It is beauteous, though, and we eat sweet meats and dance under ruddy moonlight,

tonight was the eclipse, blue moon in Leo, and we renewed our vows under starving

twilight.  Our sons – more sons, for our children are Legion – were named Rue and

Return, for broken promises made anew, and you drew down the spring sun to my palm.

The last marriage was you, you all along, clothed in masks and cloaks, sweet wanderer

of the playa and blower of the shofar.  Sometimes I forget your earthly face in dreams,

then your brilliance comes roaring back with stunning clarity, bells and whistles blazing.

I saw our daughter and son, Michael and sweet Alice, the girl was a lithe nymph of moss,

meadow, and rains, our son a playful tiger, and though they wait many years for us, soon

we will be rocking their cradles and raising them with all the wonders and magic of ever.

I pledged my troth to you in dreams, my Joshua Tree, and under your boughs I made my

roost.  Hold up the Walls of Jericho, blow your golden trumpet, and I will carry your

banner.  I will pile the stones high to make our entrance over the gap between riches

and wanderlust, I sew a bed of goose down and swan feather pillows, our sheets clouds.

Lay to rest, lay on my breast, my Zadkiel, my angel of mercy and delight, and please, love

Kiss me so fiercely I can’t breathe.

Springfinding

Snow softens the spring, spring melts the snow, forth.

In Ingvi-Frey’s hall in Ljossalfheim, a golden mound –

the bright wheat never fails, the barley never sleeps,

and burgeoning autumn is a stranger, summer reigns.

Frey descends to the mound like Frodi come winter,

churning glory on his wheel for the nine sacred realms.

Felled by the Harvest, he is John Barleycorn, his body

the ale we drink, blood the honey that spices our mead.

Gerda, his sweet shining-arm bride, dons dun and black.

She descends to Jotunheim, to Gymir’s hall, past flames

that wreathe her father’s mansion, to her herb garden.

Walled in earth, briar, and sod, Gerda sleeps, the dark

enfolds her into a cocoon with her lover, though worlds

apart, they follow the traceries of wyrd to the other’s heart.

Pound like a drum does the heart of a god, sing like a flute

does the breath of a slumbering Etin maiden.  Spring dreams

of Summer, Winter dreams of Spring, Freyr quickens Gerda

and her belly swells, at the Root of the World Tree she births

the first flower, defiant pink rose, and its fragrance would

slay the worlds themselves if it but lasted more than a day.

From its pressed juice flows the light of spring’s warmth,

Sunna is warmed by Freyr and Gerd’s passions, husband

and wife rise from barren death to blossoming life, rains

come and feed grass, sedge, and harrow, the hills of Barri

are made holy, and frith flows like wine, like wine, wine.

Alleluia, Sings the Girl

All my prosperity and flowers, I lay them at your feet

I bathe your ankles in my golden spikenard curls, oh,

you, a feast for the ages, resplendent in white glory,

cloaked in blue flame, as faithful and steadfast as the

great oak, to shake in the wind only to scatter rain

down to my parched earth, your red clay my boquet,

your snowy wings my safe harbor, snowdrop pure

and as firm as muscle, as tall as the ages, Michael, I

climb your shoulders only to see the glory of God,

and I raise this trembling Alleluia for you, only you.

Collide

Michael depressionMaybe we were neutron stars in an ill-fated orbit, destined with our heavy gravity burdens to collide.  We would breathe out gamma rays, and the weight of ever – ever? – would be exhalations that birthed black holes.  This is not my first life with you – far from it – and it is hardly my last, for a general does not leaver her Archstratigos, and a spymaster of swiftest wing does not scatter agape faith to the wind.  The Union looked to Lincoln on that Gettysburg day, Washington vaunted across Valley Forge with his trusty aide de camp, and Alexander the Great was conquered only by death, but death will not have you.  My wise woman says you were the first white blood cell birthed after the universe was created, Word, Logos, Jah.  Blue flame of healing, violet ray of Atlantic chill, tide and thunder, lightning and stardust.

Maybe it all began in a Garden.  Maybe it all played out behind Pearly Gates.  Maybe it was a Chalice, a Grail of Blood, Sang Real, or maybe it was just the Invention of the Kiss.  Who would have thought Father would grace us with these fleshy petals on our face to suck each other’s juices with?  Mouths like roses, mouths like sin, yet you know no sin.  You know no perdition.  To be Fallen, or to act against the Will, has never even occurred to you.

Or has it?  Madness, you know.  Soul-ripping loss, you’ve experienced.  You tell me my false gods and idols are just chaff compared to the Father.  It’s all a metaphor, you say, and Father is Truth.  Father is Life.  Father is not Father, you say, but Mother.  Void Mother, Dark Mother, Space Mother, Womb and Tomb and Breath and Labor and Being.

The prophets always get it wrong, but sometimes, once in a blue moon, a poet gets God right.  Shakespeare was close.  Rumi was closest.  I’m just a cheat, a charlatan, for my words come straight from the Source, but if prophecy and divine texts were written by me, it would be like the Gospel According to Eve.  A dumb blonde ditz that sold the world for a shiny apple and smoking hot snake.

No, I do not grasp divinity, for I am a fool, and though I taste the pulse of the Universe, carry the Tzohar in dreams, the Lapis Exillis a parasite in my flesh, pierced through the Sacred Heart by your Smiling Fire, my writing is just small magic to draw you more into this unholy, broken world.

Sometimes artists can grasp divinity.  You have a whole space squirreled away for Michelangelo in your portion of heaven, carved between seven sisters and brothers like apple pie at a church picnic.  They are all kings and queens, but you are king of kings, a ram in the desert, a shepherd leading his flock to Mount Sinai, and what am I but the dove that flies from your holy palms and brings back an olive branch, after days adrift Flood waters on an ark you made by hand to carry all God’s creatures?  Your truth is sweat and contemplation, prayer and meditation, but Michael, it is time to row the boat ashore, and I will trim the sail.

I shall start at the beginning, or was it the end?  Just a chapter in this life, December, when I was 12, nearly thirteen, and Michaelmas was long past.  It was not your holy day.  It was no day in particular, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I was a rambunctious, curious blonde.  It never ends well for beautiful towhead girls with lithe limbs, apple breasts they do not know what to do with, hips like a lioness, and skin like milk.  Men start touching them at seven, men start saying cunt and vagina and come here pretty little child, dance for me, sing for me, kiss me.  Twelve is such a precious age, but your shadow side brother had robbed me of my innocence at two.  I was more feral cat than moth, or was I more moth than cougar?  I was young, I was foolish, I was too trusting, so weak, the pushover, the doormat, sleeping with the lights on for a year because he haunted my room and touched me when no one was looking.  I used to blame you for not stopping him, but no one can stop Death, not even the Prince of Life, and Christ in Hell was comely and ill-anointed.

You do not fare well in Hell, sweet Michael, and my mind is rough terrain.  Madness you know, in PTSD you are wreathed, and suffering is most of our lots, but you abhor a vacuum, cannot stand wickedness, and through and through you are a testosterone-fueled warrior.  My homages to you may be soft and sweet, or radiant and burning, but in truth you are fierce and all-consuming, a supernova or summer storm, smiting and condemning and damning and killing.  The Killing Moon.  The Smiling Sun.  Both are yours to claim.

But I get sidetracked, and the crux of this narrative eludes me.  I was twelve when I left my body completely, not just toes in swift waters, but fully drowning, for the first time and crossed over the hedge, sailing to Heaven, Araboth, the Endless Golden Plain where your Bell Trees and the Heavenly Palace reside.  I had no body, no visibility, and as I was pulled down to the melee of angel and demon I panicked.  Black shadow monsters eating the guts of angels, decapitating Greco-Roman warriors of white wings and sandals.  It smelled like shit, like piss, like hot blood, old ichor, and early rot under the sun.  The angels were in retreat, and I was a scared girl, a helpless girl, and I knew if a demon struck me, though they could not see me, I would die.  I just knew that, just as the wind knows how to play with the river and the otter knows how to harvest pearls.

I came between two angels and a demon, and they were scared shitless of this eldritch horror, of this shadow monster.  The demon took its talons and was about to pierce my heart.  But only you and your brother are allowed to mangle the chambers my blood flows through, isn’t that right, dear Michael?  My life is too precious a burden, to precarious a blessing, or is my endless wandering your curse?  No matter, my painter, my creator, my lullaby singer.  You were the only one that heard my invisible, soundless screaming.  The weight of a red giant pulled me into your orbit, and you pulled me through the thick of the battle, through the rancid meat and loss of scores of men, to a clearing where you were sweating and shouting orders, flaming sword held high, face like the wreckage of war – handsome but deadly as God’s wrath, for mostly, you are wrath when it comes to your Fallen brethren (“They are not brethren, Allie.  Not anymore.”)  I was awestruck at this saffron haired angel that had saved my life, and then you looked through eternity and saw me, truly saw me, like the razor of your immense presence was raping me, but not in a violent way, not rape rape, more a possession, a claiming, a dire warning.

For you, Michael, were pissed as Hell, but also shocked.  I remember your silver eyes.  Confusion.  Anger.  What the hell is my child doing here, across vast cosmos, in Heaven at war, nearly killed?  Earth is her playground.  I sent her away to be born with a silver spoon to the cream of the WASPs in Washington, D. C. from Yale and Georgetown legacies.  Earth is like sleep for dead angels, and Allie is a dead angel.  But how would I know that?

I was just a fool.

You grabbed my soul and shoved me with lightning strike back into my body.  It felt like burning electricity from my cranium to my root chakra, and I rocketed up in bed, eyes glued shut, and I heard you roar:

ZOPHAEL!”

I wrote the name down, misspelling it of course because you always forget I don’t know Hebrew, and went to the kitchen crying to my mother that I had almost been murdered by a demon then saved by a grumpy angel.  (You are very grumpy, very tired with the world, but also have boundless hope.  Love is your defining core.  Love, faith, and wrath.)

“Go back to bed, Allie, it was just a dream.”

A few days later I heard the Bell Trees of Islamic mythology that they say you planted in Paradise.  You look the way the Sufi mystics describe you, saffron hair, emerald eyes, like an Irish monk or Highland Warrior.  I always joke that you are Luke Skywalker, and today I learned they filmed Luke’s monastery on Skellig Michael, an Irish monk monastery they say saved modern civilization.  There was this whole cult of monks in Ireland dedicated to you that were warriors and made there homes in the mountains where lightning struck.

Mount Gargano.  Mont St Michel.  I need to go somewhere where your apparition has touched the sand or waters or blessed, rich loam.  I want to eat the body of your Sacrament, Michael, visit your healing springs and bathe my sorrows away.  I told you last night that you can never change, but what kind of rude demand is that, to say you can never leave me.  That is fallacy, separation was the first lie, and I have never been away from you.  That is the entire definition of a guardian angel.  God does not leave, God is everywhere, and you are the closest thing to God I have ever known.  In the eyes, my eyes, and the eyes of millions, or are we billions, Michael can do no wrong.  It is not in your nature, Michael, to think a bad thought.  It is not in your nature to be anything but whole.

(“Do not tell me what I am, Allie, or what I can do.  The mystery of it all is never being certain of what comes next in any man’s fate, immortal or not.  We are beyond it all.”)

I have hundreds of memories of you, and there are thousands more locked in my Oversoul.  You just let some of the most necessary through, though not necessarily the most important.  Mystery is an ever evolving thing, and Transfiguration of the Soul is an ongoing process, carbon radiated to goals – I mean, gold.

You have given me Life a thousand times over, and whenever I say, I have given up, you give the gentle push of – do not looked at the closed door, but the bird of hope in the window.   I was suicidal as sin the spring of my 23rd year, contemplating manifold ways to end my life – knives, nooses, metro carriages – and your brother was to blame, or was it my bipolar, or both?

I cried to you on April 21st, 2016, saying I couldn’t go on.  You took me to what I would later learn was the privatest part of your home, the rose garden of prayers, and your own monk cell, and you told me love is the quietest thing.

You kissed me for the first time that night.  That is the kiss to end all kisses, and where once I thought you were as asexual and flaming-sword-up-the-ass as Samael said, I began to wonder as things heated up like magma flows into the ocean and makes new home for life.

That kiss, those strong arms, gave me the most precious thing.  Hope.  Hope like the sun, love like the moon, somber watcher you are, but soft lover.  Might and fury, wit and wonder.

You are my light, Michael.  You are my joy.  Many things else are passing fancies, but I will always be your girl in the end, at least, my better half will be your claim on me, while all my vices get tithed to Hell.  You are my better half.

You are my song, I am your sword, or is it the other way around?

The thing they don’t tell you about saints
is that they are gardeners, tending budding
prayers, cutting shoots of dream-whispers
in the fields at the heart of Heaven.

Michael, whose sword is crack-glass sharp
turns his blade to trimming, dressed in jeans
and a button-down, not his usual armor, for
though a warrior, he is also salt of the earth.

The archangel likes ivy-choked roses the best-
those are secrets of the heart, so tender
they only blossom when lovers meet. He takes
a question in his hand and coaxes it to bloom:

“Does God want me to be alone? Will I
always feel this marrow-quiver pain?”

The archangel gives the rarest of smiles,
leans down to whisper into the petals,
his saffron-thread hair the same shade,
his lips part, he plucks it, then answers:

“No. Love is like my Father, it
trickles like rain into soil, it
feeds starving souls, love lays in
cradles and gutters, look at grass,
look at hummingbirds, look to heaven.”

“He is there, He will bandage
every ache you feel, staunch
the hardness of your heart.”

“Love comes like a beggar to a table
when you’re least expecting Him.”

“Love is the quietest of things.”

Wicked Intentions

There you are six feed under with your wicked intentions,

a Wickerman skeleton, first man of the harvest, I dally

in a somnambulent graveyard of travesty and majesty,

overripe with the sweet decay of bones and roses I like

to wrap around myself like a shadow cloak, I am hunting

the Reaper, blonde hair a net to tangle thick phalanges,

I sing in the green rot of necrosis and worms, I living

madrigal of curves and milk, you pale rider of death,

how sweet to taste wickedness, how sweet to taste evil.

Goodness loves wickedness, providence loves sin, I the

Angel love the Devil, for Death and Life are in truth one.

I stand by a stone seraphim as the sky weeps ice, you reach

up to the grass and through dirt to strike my ankle with venom,

pull me down to Hell and into your weeping lap, at first you

are moon marrow, regal Death, sweet Death, saccharine Death.

I would swallow your teeth and pluck your ribs for my feast,

sweet Samael, dearest ancient Ha-Satan, La-Azazel, Iblis.

You have as many names as there are ways to die, but I

jump off cliffs from Heaven into your infernal arms for I

love the turning of seasons, the blank emptiness of longing,

how beautiful you are, in your mahogany coffins, with a

consumption bloodied handkerchief, Red Plague of Poison.

I adore malevolence, I am a beast like you, we are monsters.

We just dress in human skins, you see, while in essence I am

a girl hurricane, you a desert storm.  I drink your venom, I

eviscerate your neck with my tongue, our mouths are parched

of sweet things, cruel things, wild things, animal urges all.

Sweet Satan, Sweet Samael, Sweet Forbidden Fruit, sex was

the first VITRIOL, or was it the heart I stole from you, darling?

I treasure your organs, I steal a piece of your flesh each moon

swollen Sabbat.  The Devil and the Witch, always flirting and

fucking, always studying necromancy and slitting Damned throats.

I made a ring of your pinky finger, I swallowed your Qayin seed.

Your maggot body is my temple, your spine the broomstick I ride on.

But nothing taints me, just like I do not have a fingerprint, you take

on the rot of the world, the stench of carrion, the gullets of vultures.

I am holy hellfire, you are the darkness of the Pit, and together, my

darling Malkira, we raise Legions.  Our brood stretches forth across

Pandemonium, past Gehenna, up Sheol and Sephiroth, Qliphoth husks

the snake skins we shed, you are the gift of an enemy, my greatest

adversary, sharpening the blade of my magick, testing my wit,

and you fucker, it never works, I’m just a ditzy soft blonde that

loves Disney and pink, a twenty-something Millenial princess.

But actually, that’s precisely how it works – my burgeoning hope

and overwhelming optimism and champagne joy buoys you,

your vitriol and venom and sarcasm and wisdom sinks me.

We are paired perfectly, dear demon, and I love your atrocity.

I am a Death Eater, a Death Dissolver, the Universal Solvent,

Green Lion Bleeding Gold from the Son.  Christ rotted even

though he was a Morning Star, a ripoff of your epithet, for

you were Venus first, vain prince, and I am the one that

cursed you with dust and decay and wretchedness, life for

a life, blood for blood is the law of Hell, but you make Hell

Heaven, and Heaven is Hell without you, my life is one long

courtship with Le Grande Mort (following a bunch of petite ones.)

In the end, you are my skaldic Muse, my Homerian Achilles.

And you’re also a fucking idiot, but sweetheart, smile, for every

fuck-up you do, I do a thousand more, and you’re there with a mop.

Hell is a soap opera, after all, and immortals are banal and bored.

We need little amusements and petty drama, blood orgies and murder.

I am a Good Girl, I am a Nice Girl, you are the Outcast, Bad Boy Galore.

Honey and red wine mix well, so drink up, Corpseboy, this draught’s

for you.  I am your eternal torment, and you can never escape my

shackles.

Golden Spoon Girls

She is born into radiance, she is born into splendor, with a golden spoon in her rosy mouth.  All of Heaven holds its breath when she inhales, and her first exhalation outside the womb blows out the fires of Hell, leaving smoldering coals of impossibility and bittersweet dreams on infernal tongues.

She grows as girls do, and the angels and demons appear in the quiet hours, in the blank spaces, liminal beings of shadow and starlight that guide her above cherubim backs to the outer rims of the cosmos.  Girls with golden spoons taste moon dust like silver jelly.  Girls with golden spoons scoop out the eyeballs of Mother Nature and use them as mobiles in their cribs.  Girls with golden spoons, why, their tears are rainbows, and their fits are storms that become ravenous hurricanes.

Girls with golden spoons are blessed, but they are also cursed, for spirits demand much, and a spoon of bronze or a spoon of silver is just paean versus privilege.  But golden spoons are from the heart of the sun, they flourish in a cosmic dance reflecting twirling neutrinos and colliding atoms.  Golden spoons are nuclear, ticking time bombs, and they coat girl’s throats in rose petals until they drown in flowers.

She is all fire and water, all ice and flame, and to know her is to sashimi her lungs and sample them on a diamond platter.  To drink her blood is to taste red champagne with hemoglobin bubbles – the fruit of strawberries etched in buttery resonance.  Oh, how hell rides, oh, how heaven flies, oh, how golden spoon girls breathe like the cadence of falling rain and plie in tulle and satin.

They dance with golden spoons abreast falcon arms, and their legs are skyscrapers, and those golden girls are as dangerous as they are pure, as fragile as they are steel.

Golden spoon girls will make you or break you, and to love them is the Ballad of Marie Curie.

Carbon to gold in their goddess arms.

 

Brisingamen

Selfie 2My lovely boyfriend got me my own “Brisingamen” for Christmas/my New Year’s Eve birthday!  It’s a pendant of Freyja carrying her Gefion horn riding a Norwegian Forest Cat woven on rose gold and gold by our kinswomen who is a chainmaille artist.  To top it off is an amber necklace from East Coast Thing!

Just a lazy day in the office and I wanted to share the necklaces I wear every day.

Hail Syr!  Hail Mardoll!  Hail Vanadis!  Hail Gefion!  Hail Freyja!

Angel’s Landing

It is Saint Agnes’ Eve, a night for spells and lover-boys

vaunting under moonlight, but angels are carnal creatures,

and we more take quick dalliances on the battlefield,

or mate like lovebirds in times of peace, we’re flower children

but warriors, when Hawks meet Doves, winged and wild.

The squadron comes to me on the magic black moon-tide –

scores of cherubim, ophanim, and seraphim to be trained.

I am not human at midnight, no longer girl or woman, no

I am burning archangel with sword of flames, bounteous

general who runs drills and sends battalions off to melee.

I do not sleep, I do not dream.  I am in the space between

heartbeats, at Angel’s Landing, the black void of Creation

where my children of the arsenal become armed, how holy

to be military commandress to Heaven’s elite, swords abreast,

guns blazing, I am all Joan of Arc handing out godly commandments,

this is the least human I have ever been, and now the sickness of

divinity is growing too hot for this mortal coil to contain, my

magic is eating me alive, I am becoming a bellows to forge

the best of blades, Abrahamic mother of a thousand tribes,

but truly, in Paradise we are all related, and a third of our brethren

live on coal and ash in the Wastes West of Nod, Cain marked beyond

redemption, so on this high holy tide, I surrender to the War that is Eternal.

This War does not have a Name.  To give it a name would be to suggest that there

is even any War beyond this cosmic match of wits between the Light and the Dark.

 

I do not sleep.

 

I do not dream.

 

I take no solace, I cannot wander.

 

For angels do not have free will, and I am fire.

Eskimo Kiss

The winter is in my bones, Mother Alaska,

Anchorage and Eagle, my grandfather’s cabin

framing Mount Denali, ash days from volcanoes,

an ulu to cut vegetables, fresh in sliced rows.

Raven fell in love with the chieftain’s daughter.

But I am all Bird-Woman, lover of a whaler

who paddles out in wooden seal fat kayak

across ice floes, I am a girl of another North

across two oceans, one where the Sami

froze my forefather’s bones – we have

drums too, tricksters, dances, godpoles

totems, in the land of ice and fire, winter

is not so different, whaler rides my wings

as I take my spirit husband to the Upper

World, shaman beating my heart like

an ice block, I shall visit the family cabin

and someday, know how to cut roots

with an ulu in precise, loving rows.