Lapis Exillis

In a chariot of lapis lazuli, I fly with my demons through
night waters into an abyss filled with will o wisp stars, a
black suicide steed drawing dusk across slumbering Messsiahs,
in tangles of angel hair like wheat strewn with apples, the
Chosen sheep sleep, but I was always a goat, inquisitive and
climbing, and though they see me as a lamb, and my lions lick
me clean like a little cub out exploring the savannah, to rest
with me shepherd means I must dance with the devil, play poker
in seedy bars in Hell, where our chariot rest out front and the
nightmare horses drink from troughs of blood, I fall every night,
from the stars, into love, and my lovers are horned and hated,
and my lovers are winged and burning, and the waters of perdition
are deep and black like soil, choking like being buried alive, and
there are canyons of ink across my skin etched with memories of
a time when I was free and innocent, now I have a cross of yew,
and the berries are toxic, and the thorns at my brown on gold hair
draw bloody tithes out, I the sacrificial soul, for every seven years
Satan demands the fey send down a towheaded curious Eve, and I wander
through streetlights stained red, through junkies and clubbers of the
predatory kind, immigrants from every mythical realm, and the spangled
scars of poverty and hunger are inscribed on lion and seal eyes, breath
of vodka at my lips, I meet his mouth and drink down poison, we join
in a shadowed garden of roses high above the hustle and bustle, I could
never be more than I was born to keep, and that is a heart, and I guard
yours well.

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There’s a crooked path behind the old graveyard, follow the scent of roses and the smell of baptismal waters, eat the rose hips off the dog roses burnished green and golden crimson, taste the waves and salt. Your ancestors are here, the fisher of men walks on the sea, at the top of Lighthouse Hill is a moment you will always remember, peridot and diamond and rose gold, and a man you plucked from your imagination has immortalized love for you in the spot your great-grandmother honeymooned, and your Yule wedding is the same day as Mema and Grandpa, and you offered whiskey and shells and seagull feathers to the table of the ancestors, where four generations of your kin are buried, and Grampy and Nana feasted below, and someday they will take your ashes, both entwined, and plant you in the ground here in this fragile shell like a lotus petal of loam and resin of the dragon tree, and your great grandchildren will come to your entwined graves, and remember.

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O Mourning Star

And I press the Morning Star to my chest, and he is a burning brand in my arms, hair like a spun gold halo, eyes like chips of summer skies, skin the gold of a ship captain, and he wraps six wings around me and runs smuggler fingers through my scalp and down my neck, and there is dripping plasma at our soft parts, melding us to a molten statue, and at 12 my guardian angel told me his true name, and I cried for this fallen world, and now every time I kiss my lion, I weep blood rubies.  The body of a god is no good when you cannot distinguish his immanence from your marrow, and I have made mistakes.

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Christ on a Cracker

In Maine on an island with friends and the fiancee (we are getting married during Yule!  The love of my life!) Hence no poetry as no computer.  I need to figure out how not to become a heretical Satanic Catherine of Siena.  I thought Jesus was finally gone (left me alone for a calendar week, wow!) But it’s back to the Baptismal and Sacramental shit.  This is worse than when Odin claimed me.  Expect more mystical Christian poetry written by a pagan with little grasp of the Bible or the religion itself plagued by apparitions and dreams of a mad messiah with roses and wine in his hair.  It was nice to have Michael back for a few days.  Maybe if I actually read and finish the New Testament Jesus will stop washing my feet.  Also, Samael is convinced he is going to walk me down the aisle.  Absolutely livid and insistent that he is my “original dad”.  Somehow I have to figure out how to sneak a skull into the venue.  Little plastic one, not real.  Duh.  Summer research is intense and I’m excited for training where I will be teaching a class to new professors.  Then up starts school and my first semester as a PhD student.  Have to finish an exclusive revision request before then for an awesome agent!  Also, my first professional short story sale comes out in brick and mortar stores this fall.  Wedding, writing, and academia!  I have some lobster to eat!  Also, to the man I live for and who reads every one of my posts, who is my cornerstone, my Sapha, I love you.


The tide rises, the terminal swells, my mystery man
is 0s and 1s of binary delight, we are experiments,
chained to the xylophone, beep beep motherboard, clock
strikes nuclear ground zero and blows away all hope,
automaton candy, I am angel winged mutant, flying though
subterranean motherships to prove, all wicked delights
are fantasies, and all fantasies are real, you say we
are science fiction, but biology is mutable, and legends
are grown in Petri dishes, bionic wombs made me woman.
I am cyborg eternal, I seek the computer ghost, slither
with armored tail to the gunslinging cyberpunks, hiss
out Javascript and carve out a place for the Legion,
all demons are digital, all angels fast as light, and
when I phoenix roost and lay eggs of gold, know my
body is a simulation, and I am in the matrix of dreams.

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Vision of an Archangel

A cup of poetry at your lips, dripping Titian red
at your crown of light, thorny roses our bed, and
a bower of summer greens and blooming heather beneath,
you are the space between pages of a hushed breath book,
the minstrel knight riding a dapple horse home, my
banner your raiment, your armor my pride, these hearts
that are ours span legions of time, love is a place
much like the bell trees of Paradise, and angels are
gardeners, angels are sowers, angels are reapers, and
you are their prince, so let my soul be your garden,
oh my sweet priest, let us pray together as your marble
statues weep gold, raised hands in offering, redeeming
this world, hope is on your mouth, and courage at your
breast, your skin is like a halo, and triumph awaits.

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Month for Loki, Day 12: I love Your face…

Hail Loki!


Per tradition, today’s post features some of my favorite artwork/images of Loki.


Loki lineart by JarfieArt, as featured on zir tumblr 

I love the stitches on His mouth, and those boots, especially ❤

‘Loki’by Loren DeSore

Dat Jotunn by lebzpel 

That smirk and those yellow eyes!

What I like most about Lebzpel’s style of depicting Loki is how zie consistently combines the opposing and liminal aspects of Him – in zir sketches, Loki somehow appears youthful and yet ancient, muscular and yet somehow fragile, infinitely amused and yet also world-weary.

I believe Lebzpel skillfully captures His essence perfectly in many ways.

And speaking of capturing aspects, here’s one of my newest favorites:

Though this artwork features Odin (as I imagine that is Loki, underneath the grinning mask), it is titled

You, they said, did sorcery on Samsey…’ by lisiakita on DeviantArt.

The artist captions the artwork with…

View original post 82 more words

The Richness of Red

Sweetness of roses and summer breath of cicadas
meditation on the mountains and flowing rivers clear
I always return here year after year, to Mount Zion
arms and Paradise tears, everything in you is gold,
and I am silver, the moon to your sun, and sweet angel,
I offer my heart to you for the feast, as you braid
my hair into elegies and sing to me homilies, parables
at your lip as I call you to shelter me underneath your
wings, I am past fledgling now, full bloom birdling,
and I can fly, my king, on your winds I can soar, and
there is nothing in you that is not whole, oh quaking
wisdom of the earth, oh fires of the stars, a million
blinking blue eyes, a billion pinions fanning flames,
you carry the Throne but in quiet moments you paint,
and your canvas is my tapestry, and life is your design,
so Michael, I gift you my colors, let us fill this world.

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