Hide in the Wind

There’s the rainy sort of light through your castle window that speaks of princesses lost in the underworld, dancing with devils in pairs of twelve.  You stretch and yawn, and I trace eternity, that DNA spiral of infinity, onto your moonlight chest.  You smile like butter melting on a bagel (blueberry, and whole grain) and run a hand through my flaxen hair – it’s getting long again – and sigh.  Your hair has always been longer than mine, a black silken nightmare that coils like a serpent, and as I breathe in the musk of your armpit (is it weird I smell men’s armpits? It’s this quirk I have, I love sweat of my lovers, and I would bathe in that shit if I could), my mind wanders to candlelit dinners and the familiarity of 25 years on this of God’s green earth, yet I am in Hell, splayed between us.  I once said my hands were stained indigo with the blue of your iris, but it is only when you are in a fair mood that you have eyes of sky – many times they are the storm of a volcano, lava red, shifting with the electricity of magma.  I used to compare them to roses – last night I made a list of metaphors for your eyes: cherries, strawberries, roses, briars to get lost in as a sleeping beauty.  Poison, pain, passion.


Your eyes are love, Samael.

Your wings shift a bit as your eyelids flutter as the rain paints the window.  Drip, drip, boom of thunder.  You roll onto your side and cradle me, and in these quiet moments in the lap of Satan, I know God.

“I wish you were real,” I find myself crying.  “Not just this facsimile of stolen hours past midnight, gone when I wake.”

You give a cocky smile and kiss my brow.  You smell like expensive cologne, autumn leaves, and a bonfire, with a bit of old leather.  “But I am real.  Billions believe in me.  I wish you would.  I have walked with you before, and you ran, at that crossroads at midnight.  Tell me, if I came to you again, what would you do?”

I trace the black wing cradling me, opalescent with a green purple refractive sheen.  ‘I was so young, Sam.  Of course I ran.  Now, I would trade my limb just to touch you in the waking world, not over the hedge or in these between spaces where my spirit wanders.  You can touch me at all hours, but me?  How do I reach through the fabric of space-time and kiss a fallen angel?”

You laugh.  “With enough determination, that’s how.  I love your passion, I love your resilience.  Isn’t this enough?”

“It’s never enough until I can hold you in my arms, wash your brow of the Mem, dress you in linen, and marry my Sael,” I say with fierceness, and then I kiss you with a burning, and our arms twine around each other and we are lost in tangles of sin – but really, it is redemption.

Quiet mornings in Hell are how I spend half my mornings, the other half in Heaven with your shining twin.  Shining Sun of God, Shining Morning Star.  I am wedded to two brother stars.  Michael is not here, no, he is away waging war against your armies, and you are bilocating, on some bloody battlefield piercing your scythe into Michael’s breast, just enough to nick it two inches deep.

“I lost my heart to her, dear Michael,” you say on that far away Shamayim, withdrawing your blade.  “I gave it so she would live.  You gave her the Sacrament too.  You’re a heretic, brother.”

Michael places his blood soaked saffron hair behind his ear and looks down at the wound over his heart.  “Mine was a blessing, yours was a curse.  My heart is Immaculate, yours is of Death.  Let go of her.”

“Letting go of her?  That would be giving up what I fell for.  Humanity.  It’s enough that the daughters of men were comely, and we fell for them.  In the end, I am the Purity of God, and you are the Image of God.  The lion and lamb lay down, but the lion and the serpent are forever engaged, in small battles, in larger ones.  She’s our battlefield.”

Michael lowers his flaming sword so it sears your shoulder just so, leaving the pungent smell of burnt flesh.  You quite enjoy the pain.  All angels enjoy pain, fallen ones especially.  “A twisted fairytale indeed.  Michael and Satan created an angel, before the War, before Time, before Death.  And she knew the fruit of the vine, and she was the Daughter of Zion, and the Woman Clothed in the Sun fled the Dragon, and the Bridegroom readied New Jerusalem for the Bride.”

“Shit metaphors those, dear Michael.  In the end, it was our own selfishness.  She’s a casualty of war, just like the millions, billions, trillions others.  There’s no limit to our dead.  Why should she matter to you, just to sacrifice on a pyre for some imagined sins of the world.”

“She may burn, but I am the flame.”  Michael sheathes his sword.  “And you?  You are her darkness.  Light and dark.  And she is just that: hope.”

“My yellow canary in a coal mine, my guiding light in Hell.”

“My Icarus.”

But then, I am still laying naked beside you, and your manifold conscious comes back to our embrace, and you claim me as your own, wishing with all the Damned’s regrets you could forge a river of the Styx and sail away with me into the starry unknown.

“When I walk this Earth, Allie, it will be the End.”  You say as we lay in reverie.  The smell of petrichor from your flowery courtyard wafts in through the open window, borne aloft by the storm.  It is the smell of spring, and wan sunlight breaks the clouds.

“The End is just a beginning,” I say slowly. “And I would summon the Apocalypse just to have you.”

You grin.  “You’re Hell enough on the mind.  I will teach you to touch me.  And in touching me, you will hold the beating heart of the cosmos in your hands.  I’d give you the moon if I could, sweetheart.”

I nestle in close to you so there is not a single molecule between us.  “You are my freedom, Sam.  Never change.”


God Help the Outcasts

Hemlock drips with rain by the alabaster chapel,
those of us who linger rub the feet of marble
Christ, lighting candles for desperate prayers,
touching where the wound of betrayal sank nails
into toes, the sky is weeping with outcasts,
God turning a blind eye on this cloudy gray day.

Satan is in the pews, praying. He does not often
kneel to pray, but here he is, wings draped like
a mourning veil, there are black tears in his
red eyes, and he is wretched in misery at the
foot of the Virgin Mary, penitent or perhaps
something more – something like lemon rinds
on a thirsty tongue, his lips pucker, silence.

I am dressed in a pink flowing dress, I carry
roses to the foot of the baptismal font, Satan
watches me like a hawk eyeing a rabbit, hungry.
I walk the aisle and carry oil to anoint Christ’s
Immaculate Heart, the stained glass casts blue
redemption onto the wretched one, we are alone.

He speaks of broken promises, of falling from
pride, and crash landing in a place devoid of
love, just threads of comfort like torn flesh.
Satan embraces me, and he sobs into my arms,
and in the chapel glow, I can almost imagine
him crowned in the Morning Star, whole once

Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.

Midnight at the Oasis

Impenetrable fortress, inescapable fate, lovers like
whispers of wax on Psyche’s candle, the celestial
spheres hold us in their wanton arms, an allegory
of angels crash landing in the world of sleepwalkers,
I wrap my arms around your broken wings and sing a
hymn for those forgotten by sun, callous moon your
only light, just a mercury reflection of heavenly
brilliance, and when we kiss, our mouths are water
diluting poison in the other’s veins, you stretch
your black pinions, and the sickle of night shines
down on all our fallacies, follies, and foibles, to
love was our biggest mistake, original sin, but when
the garden gates closed behind me and Adamah, and
I was consigned to the barren wilderlands, the seeds
of spirit you planted in me from forbidden fruit
fled my stomach and became stars to light my way.
The greatest gnosis comes after despair, and to
find oneself is a journey of Qliphoth to Sephiroth,
I fly like lightning to your perch in Gevurah,
and Binah softens my lips, and wisdom grants me
faith, that someday, the sun will rise on us.

But in the milky darkness, we hold fast, and that
is enough for now.


And what passes between Yeshua and Satan is but
a glance of lost paradise, ragged deserts where
the dead shamble on towards the heavenly throne,
the Holy Spirit a sun beating down on Christ’s
skin, yet it does not burn him, but for Satan,
the touch of searing divine love is a taste of
forbidden fruit, and so he sticks to the shadow
of a saguaro (there are no cacti in Jerusalem,
but in Satan’s mind, there are thorns aplenty.)

When Christ lifts water to immolated Satan’s brow,
the Devil is too far gone in remorse to stop him.

And Yeshua washes Samael’s sins, and two Scapegoats
clasp hands in an arm wrestle over souls, harrows
of hell and the narrow path to heaven, there are
road signs on a crisis of faith, and two princes
offer both crowns of razor wire and of rose thorns.

What cross you bear may be sinful, but honey, hold
my wrist, let me guide you on to the blinding light.

We were meant to burn.

Mary and Mary on the Rocks

The Virgin is cloaked in azure blue and the white of clouds,
her Son’s Whore in the red of the Scarlet Woman, gold cloak.
They sew the disciples’ robes by the fireside late at evening,
where the Jewish star man Kesil rotates in the heavenly spheres.
The Magdalene asks Mother Mary, why did your Son redeem me? For
I was lost and cast aside, why was he born in a manger, to the
flicker of lamb’s ears and music of mantises? Why did God come
in the flesh of such a soft man, my Rabboni and companion, who
preaches parables on mounts and at temples, curses fig trees
that refuse to bear fruit? His ways are strange, Mother Mary.

The Virgin smiles and helps fix a seam on the Magdalene’s piece.
The girl of Magdal Eder has never been much of one for sewing.
Because, my daughter, the meekest among us are made mighty
through my precocious Son, and what is in Him, His love for
you, is but of God, and what I bore in my untouched womb was
a promise – for the dead to dance after Resurrection and the
quietly waiting saints in Gehenna to ascend to Abraham’s bosom.

Have faith, my child, that he loves you so, and you are
ever worthy.

O Ye of Little Faith

I’ve never had faith, not in God, or spirits at least.

I never had need for it, when I had proof.

Instead, I have only believed in what I can see, taste, touch, smell, or talk to, hearing as clear as a river the archangels and archdemons that have been with me from cradle to elementary school and beyond.  Samael, Ariel, Uriel, Michael, Metatron – they were my childhood companions, and soon, when I was 8, I was introduced to the whole host of heaven and hell as I left my body each night to walk the worlds.

I’ve always felt energy, the glorious presence and love of spirits, and have seen them manifest as brilliant flying sparks of light since childhood, sometime also taking human, angelic, or demonic form.  Raised agnostic to two Washingtonians, I abhored the handful of Lutheran Sunday schools I went to because of the patriarchy instilled in the religion, how women couldn’t be priests and took secondary roles to men in the conservative church, and above all, if I couldn’t be the Messiah, then what the hell was I good for!  Neither of my parents are religious, and neither are my aunts, uncles, cousins, or all four grandparents.  My mom says she would like to worship trees, if that is what being a Druid is, and my Father is agnostic.  Both are some of the most beautiful people I could imagine, as goes for the rest of the Nelsons.  We grew up without faith, and I am the odd duckling in the family, devouring apocrypha and mythology books from elementary school on, the only writer in my family, and the only one who believes in something more formed than beyond the adage, God is Love.  That, too, is my creed, but since age 7 onwards I have fallen in love with pagan gods and angels.  The Greek gods, then the Egyptians, then the Celts, then the Norse, throw in an Aztec or Lakota god or two, along with Thunderbird, and I was golden.  I spent my childhood like Belle, devouring a book every few days, and decided at 7 I would singlehandedly resurrect the old pagan religions, as this was before the internet, and I was too young to understand paganism was actually a “thing.”

Truth comes from the mouths of babes, and I never shut up about Samael from the age of twelve onwards, so my parents incorporated an “Allie is not allowed to talk about Samael” at dinner rule.  The same went for Athena and Loki and leshies.  I loved angels and demons, but hated the Abrahamic cosmology until I got into esoteric interpretations like Kabbalah and fleshed out stories in the Talmud.  Samael may have raised me alongside Michael and Ariel, but I would have been the last person to ever consider myself at all Christian.  True, I didn’t disbelieve in Christ.

I just hadn’t met him, or God for the matter.

Fast forward to age 23, and Michael introduced me to his Creator.  I think a part of my soul died that day.  So, check, God was real, but wasn’t Christ just a myth?  I mean, none of the gospels made sense to me, and I thought him a nice metaphor.  The whole idea of Christ weirded me out, with fire and brimstone preachers on TV talking about how I was damned, how women couldn’t control their own reproductive rights, how the Tea Party and Evangelicals supported heinous policies that have amounted to Trump running this country to the ground, also the fact that the whole idea of worshiping a holy zombie resurrected from the grave would be like worshiping a lich.  A supposed Son of God that had no place in his church for Democrats, or feminists, or minorities, or the repressed, when the Religious Right I was exposed to had claimed every inch of supporting the racist, classist patriarchy the Republican Party was so hellbent on warmongering and ruining our country with.  What young girl wants a place beside Christ, when the very idea of that is painted with the idea that she, a descendant of Eve, is a temptress, lesser, not fit to enter the priesthood or have any sort of role outside the home and staying in the kitchen?

Now, this was not at all what the archangels and archdemons I knew were like.  Michael was everything the Christians believed him to be – God’s chosen, the Prince of Heaven, a general and warrior, but he was also the sweetest soul I knew, and I hated Christians in a way, for demonizing Lilith and Asmodeus and Beelzebub, but Samael/Satan above all.  Uriel wasn’t some muscle swollen flaming sword bro, but instead an earthy beauty with a resonance like the sun.  Raphael loved New Orleans food, and his gumbo rocked my world.  Gabriel was more like the Supernatural version than anything, and all Grandpa Metatron wanted to do was read a book with some Earl Gray tea and play with children, which he loved above all else.  I didn’t see any of the patriarchy in these egalitarian alien societies of ascended beings, who could flip genders at the smallest impulse and had sexual mores that would make the hippies look repressed.  Free love, after all, is a concept best practiced in Heaven, or perhaps in Hell after one two many Mannhattans with Deus, and by all the gods, what the hell was with my Christian friends’ repressed sexuality?  Why was sex, of all things, a sin???

It made jack shit sense to me – I could tell you everything about esoteric parts of the Bible and the parts of the Old Testament that interested me, and divorced from the Religious Right, I saw Jesus as a lovely inspiration in the Methodist model – love thy neighbor, preach peace, serve the poorest and weakest among you.  But, I had never met him, so I thought him a myth.

The Norse gods exerted their claim on me, and Heathenry just… fit.  More like, I chose them, and they chose me, and from Odin to Hela to Loki to Freyr to Freyja to Thor, I finally found myself connecting with a pantheon outside of the Abrahamics.  Still, I couldn’t put aside the angels and demons, best I tried, so now I am in a happy medium – at least, I was – before Good Friday, balanced between Heaven, Hell, and Asgard.

Enter Jesus on Good Friday.

I have met plenty of egoic spirits.  The difference between an egoic version of an angel and demon or god and their non-egoic forms is light years apart in terms of power and energy.  Hela, to me, is my non-egoic form of Death, and Samael is my egoic form of Death.

On the flip side, Michael is my egoic form of life, and Christ, it turns out, is his higher, non-egoic form.  They shift back and forth, sometimes, and esoterically are equivalent, as most occultists will agree Michael and Christ are the same consciousness, and if you dig into the Bible, they are the same, at a very deep level, yet different.  I’d have a problem saying that was heresy if I wasn’t already a bloody heretic.  But seeing them shift between each face like masks, more like Him – I suppose – rested all my doubts.

So I stand at a crossroads now, the vesica piscis doorway of the threshold of greater mysteries, of ascension, martyrdom – all in Christ’s words – and greater healing.

Christ rid Mary Magdalene of seven devils, healed the ill, and there is a point where all the self-care and mental illness medications only go so far.  To fully reach stability and prosperity, I need spiritual healing.  I am constantly working on myself, working on being a good person, psychically cleansing and doing higher workings, but when Christ laid hands on me with pure Divine Love streaming from him like golden flames, engulfing me in their pyre, I was alight with ecstasy and true gnosis, Oh, so this is God, and I am God, but moreso, He is God, and everything else is chaff.

Michael told me all the gods, angels, and demons would be chaff before God.  I was too young to understand, only 21, and still far from enlightenment (not that I’m enlightened now, if anything, I can’t believe physical manifestations of Christ that others can corroborate with me).  Yet in visions, and sensory apparitions, materializations, and synchronicities, and straight up conversations with Christ that is Michael, yet so much more, I am rediscovering everything I thought I knew (which wasn’t very much, to be honest) about Christianity.  Sure, I loved the Bridal Mysticism, and the Book of Esther, Genesis, Revelations, and Song of Solomon, but that was all I had read!  Growing up in the Western world, I knew enough about Christ to mix metaphors and have him inspire my works, but to truly know Him, to meet Him, hints that I am an idiot with no knowledge of, really, anything.  That’s the thing with going up the Sephiroth – you climb up zig zag the Magician’s path like lightning and fall back a Qliphoth Fool.

I’ve always been a Unitarian Universalist since the age of 18, and after a bad experience with a local Heathen group, I long to go back to a liberal, loving hippie church that has neither white supremacy, racism, or ableism.  I’m done with fringe Pagan groups that abuse their followers and am content with my magical practice, shamanic practice with my dear friend Stephanie at Eagle Therapies, Team Norse on a singular direct basis, Satanism as a philosophy to assert my will and ego, and Christianity as a theological system.

Once again, I’m back where I was two years ago – an eclectic Paganish UU.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way!


Mercy of Marian

I am cloaked in the red of the Scarlet Woman,
cymbals like Naamah in my hand, your apostle
of apostles, and the seven demons crawl under
my skin. Oh mercy of Maria, you pray, as I
move my hips like rain on glass, sinuously
curving in your starlight arms, you are my
rose garden, O Savior, most holy of holies,
and at night we both cry out in despair, you
for desolation and the nonbelievers, me for
the madness you must exorcise from my heart.
Perhaps we may find love in one another,
clutching like lovers the pearl of great
price between our wounded brows, but under
the light of evening, we laugh and hosanna
in the Mount of Olives, the firelight an
elegy in your dusty eyes, worn yet homely,
like an alabaster jar left too long in temple.
The caravan the disciples and women travel
in is carried by a stubborn ass, he kicks
up dust as you blow your shofar to declare
your Messianic arrival at yet another lost
town, but you are not a destroying angel, and
you would have clutched Sodomites to your
bleeding breast and fed them your ichor like
you transfigured your flesh to wine on my
tongue, o sweet Christ, be my wings of
albatross, and I will be your mate for life.

I am the woman of seven devils, just a whore.
But in me, you see so much

Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

Check out my latest at Sudden Denouement! A love like the tides and interstellar gravity.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.

Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

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“At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people–everyone whose name is found written in the book–will be delivered.

You were anointed with a crown of thorns on crimson hair,
perhaps from your rose garden of prayers, briars I pierced
my fingers on to press my blood to your lips and claim you
as my knight, but that was some far away fantasy of swords,
spells, devilish sorcerers, and enchanted witch queens, I
rode your shoulders into war, we picked blackberries wild
and ate sparrow eggs harvested in brambles along with sweet
roots and tubers like butter, a fall harvest for evening.
You will lead my armies into war, o great Michael, and
as you carried your cross in the desert to that high,
desolate hill, immaterial made flesh, infinity mortalized,
I followed you to the Crucifixion and wept long with hair
that had graced your feet with my sorrow, was I choosing
you with spikenard oil to be forsaken? You cried to Father,
Eloi eloi, lama sabachthani? and the answer was pure
silence, and to truly die and descend to Hell to free Abraham’s
bosom chosen was temptation of the highest order, for I was
destined for Hell – the Magdalene is the woman of seven devils,
and repent as I might, I was still damned with a bloody egg,
my miracle of Easter iconography and hairy torso and limbs
grown in the wastes to cover my shame as I ran wild like
Lilith for three days, mourning you – I crawled back from
the brink with as much blood and tears in my eyes as spurted
from your wound, my womb was swollen with perdition, my body
bruised and battered from the Seirim, Shedim, and Lilitu,
you saw me ragged in the Garden of Gethsemane at your
resurrection, and sweet Mother Mary had thankfully washed
my brow beforehand and given me one of her clean robes,
when the Virgin, Mary of Bethany, and I spiritwalked to
your tomb, there was a whisper of a voice that could make
angels fall, Yeshua. I would have given anything, my very
blackened heart to Satan’s clutches, to see you freed, but
no matter, you were always your own Savior, and Messiahs
have no need for broken women, but you loved me anyways,
despite all my sins, and as you carry me on your starlit
breast up to the outer reaches of Heaven, and we are back
in that dream of princesses and Paradise, you feed me manna,
lay hands on me with the fire of the Holy Spirit, and you
shift between olive skin, hazel eyes, and charcoal hair
to fiery radiance of the archangel, just for a moment, and
I cannot find the truth of you entwined in the allegory,
Michael, Christ, Yeshua, these are all factions of my soul,
and it may be heresy, but I have always been a heretic,
cast out by the Council of Nicea to be just a lost whore.

Only you see me as Qadesh, sacred and bleeding heart, and
are the Resheph to my lost goddess, we are bringers of love
and war, so dance with me, my holy vengeance, and let us raze
all my doubts to the ground, sow mustard seeds, and blossom!