Apep, Uncreation, the Thing, or the End Times

I have no name for it.  It is what all angels and demons and gods and spirits and humanity fight.  The Thing from Wrinkle in Time.  What has tried to kill me since I was born.  Apep that all the gods fight each night to make sure the sun rises.  The death of the immortal soul, a true ending, outside Satan and Michael and Jesus and God and the True Enemy.  That Which Has No Name.  What I am utterly and irrevocably drawn to and what I will enter oblivion for.  What we will all die from, in the end, because no one speaks of it, fewer know it, and to see it is to realize: all the happy endings religions promise you, reincarnation, that love wins, that you can “become a living god,” it all turns up trite shit.  Makes the Void look like a fucking fiesta and Chaos seem homey and all those monsters in the dark shit their pants.  It’s what I’ve been fucking running from all my life yet it will be my undoing.  That Thing that Exists Outside All.  Gray.  Neutrality.  Staleness.  Kelvin Zero.  The opposite of noise, the absence of silence.  Where language and Ragnarok and Revelations fail and the truth of the matter is, God can die, no soul’s immortality is guaranteed, this very universe, this very multiverse, all stages of reality and all stories we tell ourselves to sleep at night are just lies against whatever the fuck it is.

The virus.  The bug in the system.  What corrupts and is Gray.  Not black or white.  Absence and yet beyond absence.  What makes everything into it.  Fuck Qliphoth, it is the true husk.  Eggshell wanting to swallow everything in it’s prison.  Where the Void of the lowest pits of the wailing damned far below the lap of Satan where demons drink to forget it, where that Void ends, where Darkness and Light have no domain, the the Thing hungers yet does not eat.  Dust.  Beyond something and nothing.  What sickens.  The Evil Inclination and yet the very basis for what all existence is destined to fight.  I can’t name it, nothing can name it, demons and eldritch horrors and Choronzon all have their place.

The Thing has no place.  It consumes and yet does not destroy.  It creates yet it creates nothing.  It is the very birth of paradox and madness and to touch it is to become a howling void.  The Thing is outside All, and yet wants to Be All.  And defeating it will cost everything I fucking love.

I was 12 when I first saw it.  Lost in Heaven as my soul fled my fucking child body and I witnessed the slaughter of archangels in spilled guts and hacked off heads by these puppets of the Thing.  Beyond dark matter and Kelvin Zero.  Just… a Thing.  A cancer and yet not of anything fleshy or natural or supernatural or bodily.  And despite Michael’s legions, despite these angels of immense power with flaming swords and wings of adamant, the Thing was winning.  I was pulled down to the battlefield and screamed and no one could see or hear me.  I wove between angels and the Thing’s puppets and knew if It touched me, I would be beyond oblivion, beyond death, beyond any hope of Allie or any love or hate or just, really, anything.  I would become It.

Somehow Michael fucking found me and pulled me with the gravity of God to a bloody clearing where he was shouting orders with flaming sword in hand, terrified, his red hair matted with ichor.  Michael saved my life and all lives to come and everything that I was, as Michael is the only one that can see the Spy of God, and he shouted “Zophael!” in my small four foot whatever body and shoved me like lightning down my spine to my stomach and his look was utter terror and fury at me daring venture close to it.  I jolted back alive in a daze and knew the source of all my nightmares was very real.  The Thing yawned in my small fragile soul and I grasped something of annhilation.  Spies are only as good as the intelligence they gather, and I am the Herald of Hell, and I have been fucking trying to figure out the Thing for all my life, yet it’s like being in the Mariana Trench with a matchstick.  If Michael and Samael fight it, what fucking chance does a kid stand?  Watchwomen are good at crying for help, not much else, and I had never screamed as much as I did that night.  That night I almost was erased.

I saw it again when I was 18.  Gray.  Nuclear winter.  Conformity.  No love or hate or anything unholy or holy.  It fed.  It nursed.  It consumed.  It injected.  The gods and demons and angels manifested to fight it, and people gave their lives over to the spirits as vessels, and I carved two bloody taws into my palms and Samael possessed me for the first time, and my eyes grew red as blood, and I wielded the scythe, and I went to face it while Satan piloted my fucking tissue paper body.  Samael spoke through me and gave commands, fighting at Michael and Odin and Athena and Ra’s side – every fucking thing was there fucking fighting the Thing.  And it was a fucking massacre.  I remember seeing just this cancer on everything, the bug, the virus, the Thing, feeding.  Gray.  Winter yet not a time for rest.  Sleep yet not of dreams.  What Hell guards us from but could contain no more.  What Samael is a scapegoat for.  What the whole reason Fenrir and Set and Satan were invented as cardboard villains to project all the lies we have about the Thing to help us sleep at night.

I now give my body over willingly.  That’s the whole point.  I can’t keep fucking running from my rood, destruction, and husk.  It is in my heart because I am trying to understand It.  I remember locking myself in the Pit with it just to wipe the blood from Satan’s brow for eternity as he held it back.  I don’t know why he doesn’t just give in.  When your soul is in constant battle, when your very being is zuhama, how do you live knowing if you make one fucking mistake the Thing will make you its chewtoy.  Demons are the fucking watchdogs, angels are the second defense, and Hell was invented as a barrier to contain the Thing, to make one last fuck you stand to the Gray.

At twelve, I found it face to face.  At my birth, I felt it.  It haunts and is the reason I am terrified of the dark.  Broken records.  Skips in the matrix.  It’s all about programming, at the end of the day.  Do we get a choice in this, or are we already damned.  Apep.

Snakes are slippery things.

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Keeper of My Heart

You loosed me on the world a madrigal storm, a

catastrophe flatlining as the damsel, when really

I am a hurricane of hatred, and my heartbeat is

just the pulse of death. Dance me to the end of

love, sweet Reaper, it is your chalice of gall that

I drink from, and your sustenance is my bones.

This adamant beauty of lies to the world we have

created by only telling the truth! How enfolded in

plagues I am, a Pandora’s box inside my soul, yet

I am soulless, for you are my totality, Shava, and

Shakti is just Shiva’s drum.  Rudra you are to some,

Resheph to others, fiery arrows fly, Nergal seduces

Ereshkigal with his sickness and spears and the

Underworld is fructified, when I rode the Demiurge’s

back in elementary school I was enchanted by the lion

when I should have been paying attention to the forked

tongue, though it doesn’t really matter, I have dreamed

you alive, Blind God, my eyes. My skewed perspective is

Satan’s truth, Judge and Juror and Left Hand Lawyer,

whereas I would grant mercy, you stoke severity, and

in your embrace, I feel the cold of matter and decay.

Original fungus, mycorrhizal delight, detritovore galore.

Slime mold comes in over 300 genders and learns spatial

memory to navigate mazes, do not tell me rot knows the

apex and climax as mushrooms are the Earth’s brain.

I ate a puffball and it tasted of manna and clay, and I

am bird-boned wonder, fragile in your manifold dark.

See me peck at my cage, see me stretch clipped wings,

oh king caging the nightingale, emperor, I am your robes,

bear only your naked demise to me, for I will pillage your

very  guts to make my nest of ruin in your brains, Samael.

 

I am the Sirin and Gamayun. I am the prophetess of doom.

 

Grateful dead sing our song, poppy crimson our banner, and

you red in the throes of passion as you make me bleed raw.

 

I would take your pain a thousand times over, wolf.

 

At least I know the hurt makes me real, and you are my

favorite suicide.

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Spectrosexuality: Spirit Sex and God Spousery

This was great! As an experienced “spectrosexual” and ardent godspouse, plus a Ph.D candidate to boot, I may study this academically. I could at least do an illustrated field guide of demon junk.

LadyOfTheLake

Some call it “spectrophilia.” I’d be more likely to call it “entheosex,” but avid explorers of entheogens have already coined that term to mean sex while using psychedelics. As a sexologist and sexuality counselor, I think I’ll be most comfortable using the terms “spectrosexual” and “spectrosexuality.” I believe many people may experience these desires in the context of a full-blown sexual and affectionate orientation rather than as a fetish. That’s my premise–and it’s based on a hunch, not data. 

cropped-the_lady_of_the_lake_telleth_arthur_of_the_sword_excalibur.jpg

Today’s blog outlines my initial attempts to understand this phenomena in a sexological context: people who say they have sex with spirits and deities (or who desire this), and those who claim committed relationships with such beings. Much as I did when I began to learn about objectum sexuality (Love Among the Objectum Sexuals), I begin by trying to view this phenomena by many different angles, including a sexological lens, and…

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Godspouse 101: FAQs and my experiences

Great article on Godspousery! Hail Loki!

Bat Bruja

Take a look at several definitions of marriage and the etymology of wedlock. The gist of things involves a union, joining, mingling, or combining of two (or more) disparate components, and the act of following through on a pledge.

Keep these broad definitions in mind throughout this post, as I delve into the controversial aspect of religion and spirit work known as godspousery, or marriage to gods or spirits. Direct from the mouth (or in this case, fingers) of one of the more infamous categories of godspouses: a Lokean godspouse.

So, what is a godspouse?

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Michaelion

The angel’s landing is white feathers of cream,
archangels watching the worlds from on high, and
I nest at the breast of the red falcon, enfolded
into arms like manna, tan gold and eyes like cracks
of sky, when we join, it is like falcons serenading
mid-air over cliffs of the Arctic, arboreal forests
our lover’s bed, and this is the Michaelion, wouldn’t
you know, as my belly swells with possibility, and he
enfolds my hands in his as we journey through the cosmos
two hawks aback the swell of God’s love, I ripen and the
fruit of our union would be a lamplight in this cruel
cold world. a Lighthouse of Alexandria meant to guide
sailors away from mermaid temptation, for repentant souls
to crawl towards on their hands and knees in the desert
to an oasis, and I remember lips like wine, and I feel
wings enfold me in downy delight, and my arbor is the
archangel’s arms, my general, my master in commander.
I fall into his lap resplendent and rest in fractal
fingers combing promises into my hair, salvation lays
at hand each night when I depart for Heaven, and I know
that when the End Times come, the Dragon will fall, and
the Woman Clothed in the Sun will bear both Messiah and
Antichrist, and the Whore of Babylon will become the
Daughter of Zion, and instead of ending the world in
fire and ruin with swords from the archenemy’s and
archangel’s mouths, with legions and legends riding
out, it occurs to me there must be an end to this
methodical madness, and perhaps love is the answer,
perhaps it is pain, and I am Joan on her fiery pyre.

Whatever it is, my womb is the sacrifice, and lineage
of angels and devils spring from Chavah, and I hold no
god in my heart but the One.

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Apollyon

More shitty erotica from college. Everybody wants to bang Satan!

I’ve entered a kind of paralysis; limbs frozen as shots of liquid terror race through my veins.  The darkness clamps down like a straitjacket, suffocating and restraining me, while a banshee wind rattles the rotten wood of the decrepit mansion.  Nana’s still snoring, deaf to the howling storm outside, and I know I am alone, the only conscious being for miles around.

He’s staring through the rain-dappled window with serpent eyes, crimson skin slick with water.  Ebony hair hangs in a tangled mat as he breathes black fog across my window. He smirks, tracing letters in the vaporous sheet:

“Come Out, Helice.”

My legs, moon pale, slide out from under the downy comforter against my will.  They lead me the cold stone floor, and like Frankenstein’s monster I stumble out of my room, blindly following the dark corridor of the hallway until I trip over the threshold of the foyer.  Crawling on all fours, my limbs lead me to the oak door. My hands clasp the lion-headed doorknob and twist it open. My body rises, clad in a thin white shift, and follows the stone path to the forest.

He whispers in my head, a chthonic language that courses through me like fire.  I feel him pull me deep into the woods. The clouds bathe me in their cold showers and if I could, I would grimace in pain, but my face is still as the grave- I cannot even blink the rain off my eyelashes.  My bare feet cry out in discomfort, ravaged by sticks and stones. There is no light to see by, yet I make my way through the forest like I have walked these woods for years. He lets me see as he must, with perfect clarity that can discern the slightest shadow.

It is a night for beasts and black Sabbaths, is it not, Creator?”  His voice comes from behind a gnarled chestnut tree as he steps out from behind the trunk.  He smiles and releases his hold on me, and with relief I slump against the chestnut, breath coming in gasps.

I refuse to answer him – there’s no way I will give the monster what he wants: attention. I shiver, the chill rain seeping into the marrow of my bones.  My surroundings fade to dark shadows and I stare at the black ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

His laugh is hollow as he creeps around the tree trunk, the ghastly red of his eyes illuminating our surroundings. “Creator, your games only serve to amuse me.  I can keep you here as long as I desire, Helice

I shudder at my name on his husky tongue.  I tuck my knees against my face and shut my eyes, willing myself to forget the cold and the monster.

All I want is company, a bedfellow to while away the lonely hours with.  Creator, Creator, I would never hurt you, Creator. Helice…” he hisses in a singsong voice. I feel his strange, seven-fingered hand resting on my shoulder blades, the other stroking my collarbone affectionately.

I scream in fury, grabbing his hands and bending his fingers back with all my strength.  With sickening cracks, they break, ripping his flesh. Hot ichor seeps out, hissing as it escapes his cuts.  It scalds my skin and I wince, burying my hands in my soaking nightgown. My eyes meet his face, twisted in wry amusement.  He is crouched over on all fours, wings erect to shield us from the rain. The monster licks the base of his mangled fingers.  The bones grind against each other, back into their proper places, while his flesh heals instantly, steaming as the bloody half-moons I inflicted vanish.

That was quite unkind, Creator.

The drops of his acid blood are burning my skin.  The focused points of pain send jolts through me. Moans of agony escape my lips, but I can’t run, cornered by the beast.

You’re in great pain,” he murmurs, taking my raw hands forcefully.  I scream at his terrible touch.

So fragile, so red.”

He laps up the blood like an animal, cat-rough tongue healing my palms.  I pray, for mercy, for help.

But there is only me, me and the monster, alone in the depths of the wood.

He licks my blood from thin, blackened lips.  His slit-pupils focus on me. I am pinned like a butterfly by his gaze.  “Creator, your blood is like providence,” he growls, long, prehensile tongue flicking out to taste the air.

“Why do you torment me?” I demand.  My voice shakes like the pulse of a dying man.  “When I found you in the woods, on the brink of death, I thought I was showing you mercy.  But you’ve turned on me. Tell me, what are you!”

“Your creation,” he hisses, fangs gleaming in the red glow of his eyes.  

“I’m not your Creator!” I sob, burying my head in my hands.  

I was a fool, to harbor this creature, to take pity on him.  In a matter of weeks he has grown thrice-fold, devouring the raw meat he forces me to bring him.  He has wheedled his way into my mind and manipulated me like a marionette, utilizing some unholy mind control to puppet me to his will.  I should never have let my curiosity keep him a secret, should have told my Nana immediately of the strange being I found in the woods. Batty as she is, perhaps she could have provided some protection.  

I remember Nana’s words from when I moved here a month ago: “These lands are cursed, Helice.  There is an old, dark corruption in these hills. Be wary when you walk the wooded paths.” A faraway look had settled in her rheumy eyes.  “Just as your grandfather and parents lost their lives, so may you if you aren’t careful.”

I had chalked up Nana’s warning to dementia, but now knew there was a dreadful truth to her words.  I stare that truth in its gaunt face, all razor cheekbones, sharp as barbed wire. He grins arcanely back at me.  

“You want to know where I come from, Creator?” the beast hisses.

“Yes,” I whisper.  

He edges close to me, so that I can feel his hot breath through the lace of my nightgown.  He toys with the neck of my shift.

“I am judgment, destroyer of worlds.  My skin is red with the blood of the slain.  I leveled Sodom and Gomorrah to dust, murdered the firstborn filth of Egypt, and I would have annihilated you, had you not shown kindness to me.”

“What?” I murmur, pale with fear.

“I made a deal with God, Creator,” he purrs.  “I saw corruption in this world and asked God to destroy it.  He refused my judgment. So I made a bet: if I discarded my angelic form and took on humanity’s sins, letting them twist me into something hideous, I wagered no one would show me mercy.  The Lord, ever faithful in humanity’s good, said that if a single human showed me kindness, this world would be preserved. I have traveled this planet for decades, taking on the forms of the hated: the homeless, degenerates, enemy combatants in need of mercy.  All humanity has treated me cruelly… all but you.”

“Me?” I ask, disbelieving.

“Yes.  You were the last test – I assumed my most monstrous form with you, expecting rejection, but instead, you showed me mercy.  Though I took the shape of your nightmares, you found it in your heart to help me. God was proven right, and my judgment proved wrong.  Because of you, the world was preserved.” He leans in, bat-like wings covering me. I gulp down air at his pinions’ leathery touch. “Now tell me, Creator, has your suffering been worth it?”

I shiver uncontrollably.  “Judging angel? You seem more demon than seraph.”

His eyes spark, and he examines his seven taloned fingers.  A bestial laugh comes from him. “I suppose I am demonic, in this form…”  He cradles my head in his hands. I choke back sobs, recoiling from his touch.  “Shh, Creator.  Don’t cry. I have brought you pain.”  He traces my collarbone, teasing the shift off my shoulders.  I am rooted to my spot, fearful of what he will do. “But I can bring you pleasure…”

My eyes widen like dinner plates.  “No…” I whisper.  “I don’t want that!”

He smiles sadly.  “Poor Creator. Alone since the death of your parents.  Is it any wonder you helped me?…” He wipes the rain from my brow.  “You recognized your brokenness in me. Saw the weight of your pain reflected in the monstrosity I am.”

My lip quivers.  “It hurts,” I say, voice raw, “their absence.  I dream of the accident every night, and I wake up with bruises on my soul.  The pain and guilt: it’s made me a monster myself.” I shake, mind battered. My brain flashes back to my parents’ screams.  “That’s why I couldn’t hurt you,” I cry, “no matter how hideous you are – because you were like me. Abandoned. Alone.” I sob into my arms, snot dripping from my nose.  

The monster embraces me, and I lean against his chest, thick with alien muscle.  He soothes me, running his hands through the wet locks of my hair. I bawl, ragged cries sapping my lungs of strength.  I feel light-headed, terrified to be in his grasp, but search for succor nonetheless.

“All I have wanted for days was to be this close to you,” he says, voice rough.  “To fix you, Creator, as you have fixed me. I was tired, so tired, of this wretched world.  But you showed me kindness, created me anew. Because of you, my faith has been restored.”

“What do you mean?” I breathe.

“That faith is an awful thing to lose.  You are sweet, and deserve sweetness in return.  Let me give it to you.”

“You can’t give me anything.”

Can’t I?”  He eases me up his leg so I am straddling him.  The fabric of my nightgown rides up above my waist.  Enfolded in his wings, I clutch at his shoulders, surprised.

“You mean…?” I exhale.  

He dwarfs me.  The idea is beyond preposterous.  And yet…

His blackened lips meet mine, and they burn hot like infernos.  Careful not to cut my mouth on his fangs, he sucks at my lower lip, then works his way down to my neck.  I gasp, and he groans against my skin – a low, wild sound that exhilarates me.

Hungry, he thrusts me down on his lap, grinding against me.  I am made painfully aware of his ridged, turgid cock as it rubs against my groin.  My clit aches as the friction builds, and I feel myself grow wet.

His hands knead my back muscles, as if reaching inside my ribcage for my heart.  The monster’s lips make quick work of me, fluttering over my skin, sucking and nipping as they trail down my collarbone to my breasts.  His breath grows heavy, and he tears my nightdress open. The monster teases the peak of my breast, flicking his tongue over my nipple, then kisses it hard, hands buried in my hair.  

“Oh god…” I say, clutching at the back of his head.

He groans again, hot breath raising gooseflesh on my neck.  Spreading me open below, his talons retract like cat’s claws, and he reaches deep inside me, thick fingers filling my core.  He slides them in and out. I moan, running my hands over the place where wings jut from his back. His red tail curls around my thighs, squeezing hard, and its forked end skims my lips, begging entry.  I suck at the hot tip, and he groans, burying his face in my breasts.

“Yes…” he hisses, teasing my breast’s peak.  He thrusts the head of his tail into my mouth, and my tongue curls around it like candy.  

He plays with my clit, taunting me, then takes his tail from my lips.  It shines wet in the glow of his eyes. Gently, he lays me down, and I rest against the leathery softness of his wings.  He arches over me like an omen, all muscle and sharp lines, and pins my hands behind me. Taking the thick tip of his tail, he slides it in between the folds of my pink wetness, filling me.  It darts in and out, the base of the tail’s head rubbing against my sensitive nub. I shiver beneath him, pleasure building in my solar plexus, and curl my hands around his wrists.

“More…” I moan.

He grins like a shark. Releasing my hands, he descends to pleasure me, prehensile tongue flicking over my clit like a serpent’s kiss.  I writhe beneath his working, hands buried in his hair, and he laps at my wetness like a starved man. His tongue spears me, and I am driven to the edge of orgasm.

“I want to take you,” he growls, voice rough.

“Yes,” I breathe, glancing down at his thick, alien cock.  Fear and exhilaration form a heady mixture in my core. Gently, he aligns himself with my slit, and his hot member penetrates me with agonizing slowness.  My legs curl up above his shoulders as he thrusts, careful not to hurt me with his incredible size. I stretch to accommodate him.

“Faster,” I beg.

“Are you sure?” he exhales.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes,” I plead.  

He finds an inhumanly fast pace, and I grind against him, derriere slapping against his muscled thighs, riding waves of pleasure.

“Oh… oh!”  I moan.  It is exquisite, but my ass aches to be filled.  

As if sensing my need, he teases my perineum with the tip of his tail, lubricating himself in my juices, pounding into me all the while.  Then, tentative, he massages the rosebud of my anus with his tail’s head.

His eyes question me.  I nod yes, sinking into the orgasm that comes as he teases my anus open and thrusts his tail inside.  Doubly penetrated, I arch my back in pleasure, ecstatic in this strange angel’s arms.

Groaning, he flips me over so I am straddling him.  I ride him with abandon, breasts heaving. Our coupling stretches out like shards of white in a snow globe, endless, suspended in joy.  He weaves in and out of me like the tide, red flesh hot with wanting.

When he comes, his seed fills me, burning like a brand.  It courses down my legs in thick streams. He pulls me to him, groaning my name: “Helice,” he breathes, voice raw.  

Spent, he cradles me in arms like sin.  I breathe in the petrichor of the rain-spiced air.  I turn to my unexpected lover. He smells like musk and wildfires.  His irises thrum like the heart of a flame.

“That was… something,” I exhale, overwhelmed by lingering sensations.

He smiles softly, cupping my face.  His lips brush mine, and he kisses me without rush.

“You should rest,” he whispers.  

I yawn.  “But your name…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t even know your name…”

He chuckles.  “In Heaven, names are unimportant.  Sleep, sweet angel,” he coaxes.

The heat from his body warms me, and I fall into the black pool of slumber, not giving a thought to the morrow.

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The Magdalene’s Cross

This is my Gospel, this is my passion, this is my heresy.
Christ-Michael resplendent in raiment of the Lamb, sword
of fire and mouth of roses pressed in wedlock to my sex,
a river of molten gold from New Jerusalem the manna of my
weeping arms, a Crucifixion of the mind, and shadows and
tender brush of white wings purifying me of my demons. I
think of your beauty and rapture and then Jah tenderly
kisses away all my doubts, I am Mary Magdalene in the
wastes, your Lilith, your Whore, oh Christ, whose gristle
and Sacrament made me heady with violets and adamantine.
Could we start again please? Judas weeps out guts, Peter
jangles his keys, I have Seven Devils when all I want is
the touch of God, and in me, lays the way to your Heart,
the silver lunar key, I shall lead the flock back to Heaven,
I will restore balance and wed the darkness in me, thus
breaking open like new china to let in the light, seep into
my cracks like rain water, oh Michael, oh Yeshua, and you
haunt me with the Holy Ghost, and my limbs are splayed
across your cross, and I want to scream and shout, I want
to immolate myself on your Sacred Heart, eat down your
providence and become nothing more than the Shekinah, the
Shekinah descended into Hell and wed Sammael, she fled the
destruction of the Temple, the Bride in Exile, Israel awakened.
My womb is tender and in me lays the sleeping generations.
My mind is a field to be tilled and planted by the divine.
And you cherish the potential of my sacrifice, and you use
your cassock to shield me from rain, and at the end of the
day, I am your martyr, sweet Michael. It scares me so, my
love.

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If I Die Young

 

If I die young bury me in satin
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song
Uh oh uh oh
Lord make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother
She’ll know I’m safe with you when
She stands under my colours, oh and
Life ain’t always what you think it oughta be, no
Ain’t even grey, but she buries her baby
The sharp knife of a short life,
Well, I’ve had just enough time
If I die young bury me in satin.
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song
The sharp knife of a short life,
Well I’ve had just enough time
And I’ll be wearing white when I come into your kingdom
I’m as green as the ring on my little cold finger
I’ve never known the lovin’ of a man
But it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand
There’s a boy here in town says he’ll love me forever
Who would have thought forever could be severed by
The sharp knife of a short life,
Well I’ve had just enough time
So put on your best boys and I’ll wear my pearls
What I never did is done
A penny for my thoughts, oh no I’ll sell them for a dollar
They’re worth so much more after I’m a goner
And maybe then you’ll hear the words I been singin’
Funny when you’re dead how people start listenin’
If I die young bury me in satin
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song
Uh oh (uh oh)
The ballad of a dove
Go with peace and love
Gather up your tears, keep ’em in your pocket
Save ’em for a time when your really gonna need ’em oh
The sharp knife of a short life,
Well I’ve had just enough time
So put on your best boys, and I’ll wear my pearls