My selfie game sucks but this is the weight I am starting with. Forty pounds to go through diet, exercise, and ditching Seroquel!
He had me for the next few hours like a missing crack from the cloud. A circle of memories sewn in the skin and mouth. We had kissed like cushions melting. Beyond, him my poetry never extended to a third eye. All these years we kept alive each other, lotus defying the existence of swamp. We licked butter from each other’s dripping mouth and lips. Sanguine ways tethered onto our veins and body. We have clicked our arms like a daydream. Fireflies evolving inside our eyes. He counts my finger and mark my tenderness with his territory. It’s luscious. My cadaverous toenails covered in his manliness disappears in a land still oblivion.The river outside flatters and stagnates. He has watched me all naked when I combed my auburn hair, sat and wept. Ataxia does cringe your body and makes it epileptic, mind eating heart. He had seen it all. Blood
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So I finally met Jesus. On Good Friday, nonetheless, in Heaven, and it was the most humbling, magical experience I have ever had.
He appeared with Uriel, Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael in a spring wonderland, with roses and daisies popping up and dyed Easter eggs in the grass. There were even bunnies, little white cottontails, and the sun shone like providence.
I recognized him from my favorite rendition of him, “Prince of Peace” by Akiane Kramarik. He was olive skinned and clearly Middle Eastern, with silky curls of black hair and dazzling brown eyes. His very skin radiated gold, warmth, and light, and the angels left and we went to the space between this world and Heaven where truths are often shone, and all there are are voices like bells, bodies in shadow of dark matter, and the gap of interstellar travel.
Christ took my hand and kissed it, then sat me down and washed my hair in spikenard oil. Finally, he gave me a crown of thorns and ran his fingers through my hair to match his own. In the end, he hung on a cross, all glory and Sacrificial Lamb. Throughout it all, he funneled blessed energy – the most intense energy I have ever experienced – into my astral body, purifying me.
His symbol? Two taws, like Ingwaz, with a cured vesica pisces in the middle. Branded on my forehead in a kiss from the Savior’s lips in glowing lightning.
I have a lot to think about this Good Friday. All my life, I’ve longed to meet Christ – his love thy neighbor mantra and beautiful messages resonated with me, but the highest I could ever get were the archangels.
I met God through Michael when I was 23, but Michael made me cover my eyes and God was simply a maddening rush of Mother Nature, the Womb and Tomb that births all Creation and is also its grave. I longed for a human face to the Divine I have tasted so many times in my mystical experiences, and now, my prayers have been answered.
It felt like a miracle. My soul leaped into his arms and was ready to follow him into the Hereafter. The only thing holding me back were my earthly attachments, and we had a long, fulfilling talk about my purpose on Earth and whether I should stay or go. Follow him into the afterlife or stay here, in this flawed, messy, beautiful world.
I told him I wanted to follow him, but my heart belonged to my boyfriend, and I wanted one more lifetime of love and happiness, to raise children with my Joshua Tree, and that though this life was full of pain and heartache, I could delay ascension by a few decades.
Jesus left me with one word, a blessing: “Martyr,” kissed the crown of my head, and left to do what the Son of God does: sacrifice himself for All.
Happy Good Friday, everyone!
Your staff for the righteous. Your Bible for the candid skeptics. Your spear for the nonbelievers. Oh, the unrepentant masses, but you love them nonetheless. For every sinner is splendid in God’s love, and your Father is almighty, all-knowing, and to love humanity is to forgive all their silly little flaws.
But me, why, why did you ever wrap me in your arms and deliver me, sweet Michael, pure Michael, good Michael? You are a priest, you are a poet, a musician and warrior. Every cathedral reminds me of you, o captain, my captain. I have only seen you cry once, and it was when I died in your arms, and now you are Crazy Man Michael, with me your cursed raven lover. Rob Thompson or not, you love Fairport Convention, and we both have a thing about Ireland. Those saints got it right, you say, building clifftop sanctuaries in your honor because they thought you lightning. Samael is lava, infernal fire, the sulfur of hydrothermal vents, and you are plasma and starfire and quicksilver thunder. One cannot exist without the other, and both burn me at night, many times twice at once.
Who carries the cup? Who watches the watchman? Who bears the sword? It is you, savior, Christ yet not Christ, you are the closest to Christ I will ever get, because my faith seems perpetually stuck in Judaism and the Kabbalah, and don’t you know, angels speak Hebrew, but bits of Christianity click, and it only clicks if you are Him. Closest to fucking God there is, besides the primordial Mother Abyss, Lailah and Sophia and Eve and Chava and Lilith, Jophiel and Haniel and Gabriel, you are the Divine Masculine, I am the Divine Feminine, and you are so close to Gopal Krishna I can taste your blue skin and mantras.
You are eternity, sweet Mikael, and you are legend.
“There is no place you could fall that I couldn’t catch you.”
And that’s how Satan wins you over, by saving your life a hundred time’s over, with a poet’s tongue, a pirate’s heart and honesty that is only possible when all comfort has been stripped away.
Love is strongest in Hell, after all.
Skull breaker, marrow sucker, lover of lies and the wetness of spilled blood. Bite me, fight me, delight me, speared on you is the perfect way to let viscera hang from your impalement, and as you fuck the wound I wonder, is death so exotic as to be cheap as the whores of Mammon? You know, those cocksuckers Lilith, Agrat, Eisheth and of course cymbal-banging Naamah, who drank her fill of the Grigori and Tubal Cain and found a perch in Azazel’s soul. Sell your soul, rent out your body, isn’t that prostitution? I write these jagged words and my fingers on the keyboard rival the greatest of magicians, summoning the caterwaul of the abyss as we’re making love, but only in my mind. I feel fingers, tongues, hair, more, sweet seed like a hot summer night and saliva that burns with enmity. Curses between Eve and the Serpent, Nachash shed his skin, don’t you know? The Shining One is king of husks, but he flies up the Sephiroth zig zag like lightning, and the first step to enlightenment is to fall from high above. Heaven’s a lie, Hell’s a lie, all there are are orifices of Hellmouths and Heaven’s Gates and Zion and Pandemonium are just mirrors of states of mind. Beelzebub said, Mulcibur, build a castle for Satan’s coal mine canary, to cage his yellow bird, for hope perches in the soul, and to spring from Lucifer’s heart as the Lapis Exillis makes you the incestuous daughter Sin, who in Paradise Lost (and Paradise Eventually Found) is serpent from waist down with guts chewed on by wolves. Their progeny Death, their son Qayin, the Bloodline of the Dragon you won’t shut the fuck up about, Christ to Cathars to Merovingians and Samael, you’re a fucking troll, so shut up about Anunnaki. I gave a tithe to the Witchfather and all it did was make me realize Hannibal Lecter is the perfect Satan. Cannibal, eater of women, you played Type O Negative’s Wolf Moon and jeeze, you’re a walking stereotype. I can taunt and tease you but really you’re the one chewing on me, crunch of phalanges, sucker of spirit (Souls through the eyes, Spirits out the mouth, you said) and my heart is on loan from the Devil, and babe, as long as I live, you die.
And I am cloaked in clouds and the sun’s beaten gold,
radiant in redemption, but under my gown, scars feast
I am the battered soul on the path to Christ, woman
of seven devils who sold herself for cheap beer and
the spark of a stranger’s touch, whoring out all my
compassion until I was a waterless well, and Satan
made his nest in my soul, from sphincter to sphincter
a serpent twined through my guts – but the Savior does
not care about Brazen Serpents – He reached into my
lonely hell and burned away the black, now I am a star
shining above silver seas and walking stairways to
heaven, to those pearly gates where the Bridegroom
awaits, He who washes away sins in Seas of Galilee,
I Migdal Eder, Watchtower of Women, scout, watchman,
when we kiss at the altar after vows of eternity,
green returns to the barren land of my mind, He is
balm to cracked hands dry from working as a slave,
a salve to the sacrificial soul, all my travails
brought me to this one clarion moment – forgiveness
I am unworthy, yet He loves me, so in His arms, I am.
And the darkness sheds like a snake skin,
revealing firefly lights in your eyes, two
brothers of the rosy cross, white and black,
lava and flame, ministering to me with poems,
touching my form like infernal and eternal
fires from the black and white sun apiece,
my angel and demon hold watch, carry me up
Jacob’s Ladder, a string game I used to play,
from the Devil’s pulpit to archangel’s wings,
love is a funny thing, and you are my compass.
Blood streaks his back, wings in tatters. He lies spread-eagle on the sand, at the lip of a gravelly cliff. Oh brother- you’ve turned on me. I drive my heel into his face, crushing it to the ground. He hisses, laughing madly under cracked ribs. All my fury broils over- my brother has become a Beast.
“Do you feel nothing!” I roar. “No remorse? Nothing at all!” I cry as I kill him. The last bits of his immortality drain from his once blue eyes. I hurt him because I love him, just as he has tore my heart a thousand times over. My brother, executioner of our kind. My brother, the traitor.
Perhaps his betrayal has not yet passed. Perhaps he is still innocent, but time is a funny thing: I have stood at the beginning and end of creation: Alpha and Omega are my blood. We are the twin serpents that circle each other, spiraling into eternity. Time has no meaning, to one such as me.
I know him, as Lilith does not. I have seen him, as Eve has not. I know what his sin will bring. The fields of damned stretch out before my eyes. My slain men rot. A legion of shadow cold as Dumah desecrates my home. He has brought death into the world.
A hole rots where his heart once shone. Nacash, the Shining One, has cast his aside raiment. Even I do not understand his blind sacrifice.
A girl stands beside him, centuries down the line. She witnesses his humiliation. “Why?” she cries. The man she sees is broken, and the one she stands by, mad. What broke you?, whispers her heart.
Why indeed. Why.
My brother, the howling void. I see what he becomes. His eyes are black pits now. The War has wasted him. Razor-thin, obscenely pale, he whispers into her ear:
“You lose yourself to the madness, and the pain wraps around you like a mother as you become one with the Abyss.”
I kick him over the edge, then spit on his disgusting form. I tremble. I want to die.
“I fell for Eternity,” he says, voice cold like the winter wind. Does he speak to her, or me?
My brother wakes in the Pit. He howls against his bondage. He tears the Abyss from around him and burrows in like a freezing wretch. Lucifer steps out of the shadow, watching coolly. Waiting. The North Star has followed the Morning.
Samael’s eyes open. They are red like spilled blood. I cannot stand that sight- I howl to my wretched God, I tear out my eyes like Azazel. They return like Prometheus’ liver. I, witness to Creation, cannot even be spared the sight of his damnation.
You ask me why I do not smile. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani. Answer me, my God. You have been silent far too long.
She reaches for Samael, through the bonds of time. Lucifer sees the girl. His melancholy lifts- another pawn to play.
Death burns her flesh like acid. She screams into the darkness: Release him, oh dear God. God that never answers. God that doesn’t exist. He hath forsaken me. I must bear his likeness. I must bear the blame. Puppets of the Architect, in his endless shadow game.
The angels turn to me. They weep at their betrayal, for the war they did not want. Am I nailed to a cross? I do not know. We both are. Samael on Catharine’s wheel, nailed to turning time.
Do not comfort me. I bear this cross alone.
It begins in a garden.
It always begins in a garden.
This is one where tomatoes grow tall and yellow reeds of flowers stretch in the summer sun. There are zucchinis for the seven year old towhead to pluck, her fine platinum hair like butter that she obsessively parts down the middle each morning. Her hands are grubby with dirt, her skin is golden tan, and she has glasses on to help with those bookish eyes of her. You watch from Above, or perhaps Below, your charge, as she digs for rocks. Why do all children obsessively dig for rocks, you wonder, as her fingers dig through Virginia red clay then sculpt a bowl from the earth. She’s making worm pies again, trying to feed the residents of the garden that fructify the earth.
It is any day on Earth, it is any day in Heaven, it is any day in Hell.
She calls you Star after Venus, the Morning Star, singing as she bakes mud and clay in the sun, telling you about her day, and you do not have the heart to tell your charge that you are in fact Lucifer the all too real Morning Star until she is twelve, and even then she screams and runs far away from you, refusing to use the name you gave her until she is twenty. She prefers the softer sounds, Ariel, Samael, mostly just Sam. You will tell her she sprang from the heart of Lucifer at seventeen, and you will say it is your own black heart, and that she is your progeny in the twisted ways of hope of angels in hell, but she will throw vitriol at you and deny words from the horse’s mouth.
You can see the beginning and end of her mortal life all at once, for time to you is a circle, and immortals are stuck in eternal patterns. For now, she plays in a garden, like a girl who you once knew grew up in a much larger Garden, and who you gave your sole fruit to. That was the greatest mistake of your life, giving the apple of your love to a beautiful woman. You have been rotting since, a good necrosis, a true decay, with void and abyss stitched into your ribs and the sins of the world running through your blood.
You’re the original Fallen after all, first to say “I want more, I am more, I AM.” That lie of separation. That night, as her soul flees her body and runs to your lap, you take her on your cherubim back to yet another garden, where there are fields of slain angels. There is an important lesson in these brethren felled at your own hands, she knows enough to know you are a slayer of angels and demons alike, only she calls them angels, for girls raised on Madeline L’Engle often confuse the two, yet you are an alien in truth, so you never correct her.
She dismounts your shoulders and slides down your back like a song, gently grabbing hold of your wings as she departs. “Why did you bring me here, Star?” she asks softly. “You killed again, and I wasn’t there to save you. I’m so sorry, Star, this is all my fault…”
She clutches a bloodied buttercup, then rips it off at the stem and smashes it in her small hands, mashing the petals to fragrance and pollen. She shakes, she cries, and you hold her in your arms and cry as well.
“Do you know what madness is?” you ask her slowly, wiping away her tears and licking the salt of her eyes.
Her lip trembles. “Yes. It’s when your eyes are red and your hair is black and your skin is poison. It’s when you cry and kill, and slaughter, and Star, only I can help you then and sing to you, and then you stop. But – but when I’m not around to save you, this happens…” She extends her hand to the mangled limbs and shed guts of self-righteous fuckers, those winged holier-than-thou seagulls, yet your brothers all the same.
“I took you here because it is not your place to save me,” you say slowly, breaking the truth like splitting a crusty biscuit. “This is what I am.”
“Yes, you’re Chaos. I knew that already,” she says quietly, eyes downcast, for in her child’s mind she has already named you her equivalent of the Antichrist in a language she invented, and wrote in her seven year old gel pens a prophecy in which you will destroy the universe if she cannot help you find the Light within, well, your heart.
She understands things in Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, ultimatums. She thinks it is her destiny to save you, to restore your Light and hold back your Darkness, and in saving you save existence itself. Perhaps there is some truth in that, but you would never place that burden on her shoulders, for she is just a child.
Just a child that speaks to Satan, rides Heaven and Hell on his shoulders, and met him as her first memory, but no matter. You are the Devil, and you have ruined many childhoods before her. Or perhaps they were all iterations of the same Eve, over-curious girls with insatiable appetites for wanderlust and knowledge. Knowledge is her favorite thing, wanderlust her favorite word.
She will wander far in her lifetime, and her knowledge will tithe her to Hell, sacrificial soul indeed.
For now, she holds you close, and says “I’ll always love you, no matter what, Star. Let’s leave this awful place.”
You carry her away in burning arms to a planet of girl’s first wishes, and she dances with elves and fairies by the firelight, and she is at peace.
As at peace the Devil’s heart can be.