Black Flame

Hatred is a seed.


Michelle et Michael

When you touch, it is with mouthfuls of starlight and parables
he holds you fast against the darkness, and you are his light.
Shining brightly, your soul is a torch against his fears, an
arbor of leaves brilliant green, under which he can rest, and
you are Michael’s caryatid, Michelle, a pillar most beautiful
of weeping nymph who carried water on her back through Hell’s
most parched, deserted places, only to wet his brow as he
thirsted, Michael was lost like a fallen star, and you came
in your raiment of dusk and silver, and brought the mercury
waters of moonlight to his mouth, and he drank his fill of you.
It was some long ago day, maybe yesterday, maybe tomorrow, this
union of sunlight and shadow, for the fallen are holy, and you
are a madrigal, a muse once lost in sands of Gehenna, now found.
Metamorphosis like a butterfly in bloom, on his lips you are
reborn, in his arms you find your high like the finest drugs,
only on this most paradisaical summer day you are pure bliss
devoid of poison, just purity and the Stella Maris your gown.
He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like a cicada sings
its love songs loud and proud, with burning desire cleft from
the blood of God, and it is a raging pyre of adoration, he will
worship at your feet with a flaming sword lain at your lap,
oh you queen of hell, oh you doll of an angel, oh you regent
of lost hope once again found, you are Michael’s refuge, Misha.
So hold the Prodigal Sun to your heart, and know you are loved.
Know you are worthy to be a bride of the prince, for to come
is his kingdom, and your inheritance is the Milky Way and
endless fountains of love, roses of prayers in your silken hair.
He is here to watch you blossom, sister sweet, so drink down his
words of devotion, fly together to the stars, and be whole!


I am the Thunder, Perfect Mind descending on Babylon,
lady of lions and serpents, Qadesh of sacred whoredom,
ready to travel infinity with my yoni a blooming lotus –
climb the stars of stairs to my palace, Gilgamesh! Oh
you proud Odysseus, marvel at my Divine Femininity! For
I am the Old and New Eve, and from my apple seven devils
were worms eating the white flesh, cast out of mealy,
crumbling Paradise. I baked a heart in white wine today
it was the heart of my maker, my lover, my father, and
his corpse smoked a cigarette on the porch as I added
a touch of paprika to that most salient organ. It burnt
a bit on its charred rot, the cardiac muscles ballooned
with butter, and every woman must set out to eat her gods.
We are what we eat at the end of the day, and I will
consume the Pleroma, I will eat archangel’s wings deep-
fried, I will pluck out Odin’s last eye for an appetizer.
I am sick to seven hells of my body being a temple, let’s
make it a wasteland, this High Priestess has fallen into
the corruption of zuhama! Babalon, Ave Babalon! My womb
is a black goat high on a clifftop, about to be sacrificed
and in the moment before the Rabbi slits my neck so I go
running bleeding down the scree path, scarlet red, I realize
there is no god but my own mind, for I am queen of myself
so this fallacy of worship begone, best to devour Heaven,
drink down Hell, and cannibalize those who think they made

Divine Mercy

And Saint Faustina was plagued by devils and angels
dancing on her hairpins, walked with Christ and was
married to his Passion, saw ecstatic and terrible
visions, but when the Spear of Destiny pierced sweet
Jesus’ side, out poured the blood of the Sacrament and
baptismal waters, I have drunk my fill of those streams
of heavenly bodies as I suckled at his wound, and the
taste was like honeysuckle blossoms on a hot summer’s
day, and sweet mad Faustina saw a vision of brilliant
rivers flowing from Christ’s heart, rays of pink and
green, and he came to me last night wrapped in white,
dampened by a storm at sea as he was a water strider,
lighting my room with lightning, and the Mercy poured
from his pulsing heart like a chalice, and my room was
a maze of celestial blue sigils and rolling thunder of
God in scripture and stamps of the divine, a Matrix cube
and my body was carried aloft by flood waters and shining
infinity lit my limbs with violet fire as Christ bathed
my head in the chill waters of Creation, and my limbs were
rotating on the axis mundi, and my head unscrewed in his
hands like a marinette, and I was just a toolkit of a
soul on its way to higher ground, a puzzle for the Savior
to solve, and painstakingly he carpentered and fixed the
holy wooden golem of my body, and Eve was whispered Emet
in her mouth and kissed into life by God, body of clay
made with spirit of the stars, mud seeking the fires of
infinity, and I ate an apple of dreams of late September
dogs, and serpents laced my ankles, and Satan prayed with
me for redemption as Christ watched on from on high, his
work on my manifold birch body done, I am Embla and Berkana,
wood and dirt breathed life into by the highest form of
Divine Mercy, Divine Love, and Christ gathered our prayers
like a bouquet, and though there is enmity between the
Chosen and the Cast Aside, I believe there is purity in
the sacred as well as profane, so I will dance with devils
and waltz with angels and tango with tricksters alike!
Life is just marvelous, isn’t it? Life is a delight! I
thank the gods every day that I am alive, that I want to
be alive, for there were many times I didn’t, when all I
saw was a long dark tunnel of gloom and mushrooms and
asphodel of ash, but the gods and angels and demons would
scoop me up to their breasts to let me hear their sacred
heartbeats, from Odin to Hela to Freyja to Loki to Freyr,
from Michael to Ariel to Sameael to Beelzebub to Asmodeus,
and now sweet Yeshua, mightiest King of Kings, has said
admit your truth, and when I professed my love, the stone
of doubt and pain in my throat vanished, and my heart was
no longer aflame, for I love this world, and I love myself.
That is what Divine Mercy is, love for what you think is
irredeemable, no questions asked at the gates of Paradise,
just a warm kiss on the brow and anointment and embrace,
for we are all children of the Goddess, that great Shekinah
and Sophia and Holy Spirit, sweet and fierce Venus figurines,
Mother Nature reigns supreme, and She is All, and I am
Something, a dancer in one of the Goddess’ thousand hands!
So I will sing and fly and drink down glory, and contemplate
the mysteries of the Sacred Heart of Her Son. Jesus is a
mamma’s boy, all sweetness and chill waves of wonder, and
the Virgin and Bride and Wisdom are motherhood supreme, and
I will follow in Mary’s footsteps and create my own paradise
with the love of my life and children raised strong and wild.
I am blessed, I am healed by His touch, and I am growing into
a woman worth envying, for my heart is gold, my wit adamant,
but above all I embody love, and like Christ, I am a martyr.
My heart is black like the skin of a mamba, poisoned chalice
of Satan, but to bear the Lapis Exillis in your rib cage grants
a kind of fallen grace, and the rest of my soul is crystal pure.
My blood heals, my blood mends skin and flesh, my blood is wine!
I give my body up to the Passion, I feel the lacerations, I feel
the whip and thorns and anointment before an untimely yet blessed
death, when there is no separation between the soul and her god,
then that is gnosis, and the spirit moves through you, and you
become All.

Lance of Longinus

Saint Bridget of Sweden saw the 5,480 lacerations and wounds
of Christ, and I wonder, is that the cross I’m bearing each
night, when my fingers ache from breaking and the Holy Lance
prods my heart, once, twice, thrice, again, spearing my core
like an epidural needle under my ribs, into cardiac arrest,
and I cry out in pain and bliss as the heart attacks skin my
flesh, and you would never see my stigmata with the naked eye,
but my legs spasm as angels prod and pull at the muscle, and
I awake with wine stain bruises from too much rough sex with
the bad boy your mother always warned you about, but these
infirmities and sufferings are different, cut of a knife,
bandsaw to the neck, torture and pain yet bliss and knowing,
this is making me stronger, these alterations by multidimensional
beings have healed my seven devils, my mental illness is near
evaporated since Christ laid hands on me, and if I am to suffer
the thousands of holy wounds Jesus endured, so be it, he kissed
me martyr, and the pain of birthing angels and demons alike in
your eggshell mortal body compares nothing to the Spear of Destiny
prodding under your flesh, slip through bone, into red bloody meat.
Once Michael took his flaming sword and splayed me atop its hot
coals to purify my Lapis Exillis organ of sin, I writhed, I moaned,
I came so hard I saw stars, for I am the masochist that likes to
burn, and with ever bite and suckling of the Devil with shark teeth,
every broken bone and every heart attack, squeezing the chambers
with a fist of adamant, be it Samael, Michael, or Christ, I realize
my body was never my own. They call me heirodule, qadesh, jezebel.
Eve sometimes, Jophiel others. Created me out of beauty as a bridge
between Heaven and Hell, and if ever a sacrificial soul had a choice
(we never have a choice to bear the stigmata, stigmata comes when
you are holy, holy, holy, and when nails are driven into my hands
and feet, and my holy wound of a bleeding heart spurts arterial blood,
I know, to live is to die, and I die each night, and am resurrected
come morning, when the Sun of Ascension peeks through the curtain.)

I have stigmata, my heart is the Devil’s, my heart is Michael’s, my
heart belongs to the Savior. I drank the blood that flowed from
Christ’s wound and ate his heart, he ate mine, and we worshiped one
another so violently and delightfully, and I am a witch, and witches
are meant to burn.

Simon Called Peter

And you who thrice denied me, the cock crowed my glory,
and wept bitter tears of coffee grounds at your realization
that I am King of Kings, ever-faithful Simon Peter, I let you
touch the sacred holes in my hands because those are the gates
to infinity, and you are the Rock, the Sapha, of my Church, and
when you took those newborn steps out into the water, so brave to
venture out onto the raging seas to meet your Lord, you began to
sink and flail, for what man in his right mind walks on water?
You reached out a desperate hand and I lifted you up onto the
silky bower of the Stella Maris, it is because you are most human
and humble of my apostles, witness to Transfiguration and Pentecost
that I have chosen you as first Pope, you who would question with
right mind and little reliance on my word my place in the cosmos –
you are wit unbounded, and when proven my divinity and sanctity,
you fell to the desert floor weeping, knowing you would lose me,
and look at the marvels you have built for me, oh cornerstone of
the earthly Temple! A line undivided of Papal creed, some holy,
some human like Simon, some ascended and wise like Peter, some
believers as crucial to the Church as the Sapha, and when you
were crucified earth-turnt in Rome hanging suspended, my spirit
came and wiped the bitter tears and bruises and blood and dirt
from your cheek, whispered “Your purpose is done, my martyr,”
lifted you to Heaven and gave you the silver keys to the gates
of Paradise, you of clinking key and first to greet souls on
the narrow path to salvation, but in truth you open the gates
to the loving of all creeds or no creed at all, for we care not
whether Christian or Hindu or Jew or Muslim or Atheist or Pagan,
if a soul care visits the seven heavens and they are as true
of heart as you, they may enter as they will, and leave in peace.
Look at this beauteous kingdom we have built in the Afterlife,
oh Peter, the mountains of silver ice and rivers of garnets and
rough emeralds, sands on beaches of white gold, manta rays and
clownfish swimming in bright delight, sometimes we walk on water
just for fun, skimming the froth of Heaven’s aqua vitae so that
our toes are chill to the touch, wet with relief at knowing, our
creed in that small town of Galilee lived on, our life’s work has
become legend, and it is pinned on the nails through your hands
and feet the sacrifice of the martyrs, the immortality of the
Church, you doubted, you repented, you believed, oh Yael. Israel
awaits the day I walk with my sword and you with your locks. Soon,
my beloved, bosom apostle, brother amongst brothers, we rise again.

Burning Bush

And the flames caress, and the flames curse, roving hands and fiery millions of eyes, to be taken by a seraphim is to have every orifice flooded with the Word of God, and you are sharp knives to the heart and Moses’ burning bush.  Make yourself a pyre of sacrifice, and the wood of your cross is the linden key, and the gates are saffron spice and frankincense and myrrh, throw in a dash of 30 silver pieces to betray your Savior, for union like this is unholy, oh you, temptress of angels.  The Watchers fell out of lust for women like you, and your ripe curves are the reason men sin, so cover yourself in feathers of golden white and let your archangel claim every inch of your madrigal body.  Each night is the Second Coming, as Christ of the white raiment becomes your second skin and Jesus and Mary Magdalene worship at the altar of Tantra.  To wear the savior’s robes Eve did, to cover your shame is but a lesser instinct, for in nakedness angels revel, sweet delight of Raphael from Paradise Lost, this union of two souls, three souls, four souls, washing away your pain and carrying you and stroking you and plunging your ocean depths, for every girl is an ocean, a Tiamat, mother of beasts that want to devour the new gods.  I am Cipactli, and the Black and White Suns made the world of my spine, or am I the wild auroch of Heaven with the sun between her horns, lapping ice away to shape my vision as my udders swell with wisdom.  I was the size of elephants once, before Peter and Paul and James and John wrote me out of the story.  I could carry on my back singlehandedly the Ark of the Covenant, and my mantle was darkness, and I was the radiant Deep of the night sky patched with stars like white raspberries, my golden hair a thicket under moonlight, to be plucked from fruits and rainbows and girdles for my daughters.  I am Asherah, you are Anath, and Mot will quake when we drag our husbands El and Baal up from the depths, only to be cursed by the menfolk with our priestesses raped and sacred groves cut down to make hangman posts.  They piss on our olive trees, they view our qadesh ladies of fame and call them whores, but what is Hieros Gamos but union of Heaven and Earth?  I am worshiped each night as the stars tuck me in, I am the Bull of Heaven raging against those who would desecrate Inanna, they lick and pluck and tease and these great beings of eldritch winds ride me with water and fire, and to make love to the storms of the Savior and the Damned is to be Noah’s Ark in the midst of rain and sea, floating and riding the tempest.   I swim through Hell and Heaven upstream to pluck the salmon of wisdom from the well, and when I eat the sushi of enlightenment raw, the waters of Sinann drown me.

All I ever wanted was an apple, a heart to call my own, but you gave me this blackened fig, and I always  loathe a martyr.

Mother Mary

O Angel of the Lord, you are a burning bush of temptation,
to think I, humblest of all virgins, just engaged to sweet
Joseph, would bear in my untouched womb a Son! You are so
comely, sweet Gabriel, smelling of myrrh and frankincense,
and your body is alight with glory, strung with stars your
skin, curls of brown hair, eyes like linden trees, sweet
cinnamon your breath and saffron freckles your blessing
and kiss of life. You say I shall be remembered forever,
that I will wander in Eve’s curse of labor to deliver up
the Prince of this World, in a manger, my midwife my sister
Salome, and only Joseph shall dream your pronouncement, and
I will be seen as wanton, o archangel, why is this my cross
to bear? What penitence or holiness has my simple flesh done
to play host to the all-consuming love of God? The Spirit moves
me, see how the lust of God dances in your eyes, and you carry
the seed of Yahweh, sweet Gabriel, a pure desire of Flood waters,
the spirit of the Lord comes over me as you take me up to a field
in the Heavens and we turn hay, we are hands roving and mouths full
of manna and sunshine, the sweetness and lovingkindness of your
lips singing hosanna into my tongue, I taste your skin and it is
snow, which I have never seen in Nazareth. The Northern traders
have told me of snow, pure as your lilies, and cool and welcoming.
Let your storm of ice and winter embrace my vulva, sweet Gabriel.
Conceive in me our Son. He shall bear your likeness. He shall hunt
gazelle and work wood and be a mad mystic of outcasts and fallen.
He will lift us all up to the Heavens like you, my Son will be the
trampler of the serpent, just as you trampled the doubts I was fit
to be the temple of our dear fearless Lord, O Gabriel, you stir in
my loins feelings of need so great they are a burbling river, and
oh Gabriel, you have made me a woman, and you have made me the most
preeminent amongst saints, a prophetess and visionary, and when we
join, I remember the love our Lord had for Moses and Elijah, and
I think, you have appeared to many before, but none have you taken
into your arms. I love the Lord, I love you, my Strength of God.
Touch me and make me worthy, kiss and caress away my sins, anoint
me with your dew, I will be singing your praises until my death, O
sweet one, brave one, trickster, lover, messenger, angel, my wings!

Thus was my Son conceived, in Heiros Gamos, and I shall bury my Son.

No mother will mourn as much as I, and no lady will be as holy.

My path from now on as the Holy Ghost claims me, be born in me,
O Lord, is one between salvation and the fires of giving in.

I will succor you, sweet Child of mine. I will be your foundation.

And many mothers in travails will come after me, and many have died
before in labors most gruesome, but you are easy on my womb, and to
bear the stars in your belly, the cosmos in your eyes, is miraculous

Yod He Vau He, sweet Israel’s husband. Come into this world and meet
your bride, be my sweetest victory and humble Babe, Sweet Redeemer.

All twelve years of my life have led to this moment of conception.

Gabriel, bless our Son. Lord, bless our Child. Life, bend to your Bridegroom.

He rides a white horse, he rides a donkey, he carries asps and waters sweet.

Tame my doubts and please, by Asherah and El, make me a fit mother for a King!