Come the War

And as I clutch you naked and shivering, laying at your breast, I remember a million shattered swords and bloody barracks and I think, solace in the sun, solace in my brother, your wings soft down but your face scarred, golden armor and halo gory,

we are broken angels, dimmed from millenia, nay, eternity, in this trench warfare, in this march towards New Jerusalem, and Zadkiel, my standard bearer, my Archstratigos’s right hand man, while I am the left, I have crossed nine rivers of time to find your ravaged bones, a century of tears and Purgatory of clay from ash from ruin from Eden now nuclear winter wasteland just to be here, in this moment, on this earth.

with you.

time is a funny thing.  we fight come hell or high water. let us eke out a garden together, let us travel this small little dusty planet, let us raise Cain, let us just be not ravaged and shellshocked, but human.

angels are only as good as their makers.  angels are just war machines.  angels, angels, everywhere.

but only one

you.

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All Hail Samael

Oh great Prince of Decay, grant me roses

grant me a place in hell in your lap of perdition,

in Mulciber’s high towers as rain falls in wretched

Pandemonium, and the sun grows long in bloody red,

and we dance in the storm, and the demons come out to

play, and our legions of children and armies usurp the Crown!

 

I have not caught breath of your rotten ribs, of filth sewn in with the final

stitch of my madrigal palms, thick black devil tendons soaked in zuhama,

but I am working on your heart, my broken boy, so drink my milk, nurse my

blood, and know, you were first, and you will be last, and Purity of God descends

to become Venom, but ascendance in a bouquet of lilies, and we find small loveliness

in the shattered divine. ❤

In the Beginning Was the World

I walked out of the Garden alone, no moon light left on.

Abel’s toil and Cain’s trouble were far behind, I walked on.

In the sun, I burned, in the wastes, I starved, soil is hard to til.

Adam died early on, they say to Heaven he was taken, while

Samael had his grip on my heart, and Uriel drove her flaming

sword across the gates, saying “Eve, under duress, seek a hollow

place.”  My right rib redemption is Michael’s greatest work, and

I found Christ nailed to a tree, a wicked branch, cursed and wood.

He became my comfort in desolation, as I raised eight sons and

daughters, salt and sweet, earth and rain, grow from the topsoil,

gather the herbs, sing songs to the angels that have fallen over you.

To know Adamah is to be clay, but to be a bone of regret, the Sin

of Satan, just an afterthought in Genesis when in truth I had the

world as my cup to drink from.  I walked out of the Garden alone.

I was scarred, I was bruised, I was starving.  Hunger for knowledge

turns the best of us into serpents, Hayah Havah, Chavah, Aya.

These words flow like water from my mouth as Seth grows bold.

Lilith talks to me by the Red Sea, sister, be evil.  Samael talks to

me from the crook of the river, Eve, come back to me. And Adam

haunts the between spaces of my diary of birch bark, Eve, please

Come Home.  Home.  What a triptych of ruin. What an overgrown

Garden. I never existed, I never will be, and yet, I AM. I AM.

I AM.  An elegy of felix culpa.  One bone of curiousity, built

of leftover detritus that God thought not fit a human being.

I birthed legions and legends. I birthed the stars.  I birthed sin.

And in my toil, in my knowing, sweet things came from the vine,

and where they tore me open, I planted seeds, now flowers grow

in my wounds, and I hath become my own Garden. My own delight!

We are not defined by our sorrow, but rather our laughter, and outside

the gates of Paradise, mirth at all that was, all that is, all that shall be

is the wine we drink, long before Sacraments and Temples were dreamt

of, when herbs and sheep and mazes of labyrinths of Elohim were just

the beginning, in the Beginning was the Word, and it loved, and she was

good.

 

Agnes the Blessed

O sing the tale of the weathered virgin,
crinkled face a mystic’s stare, doulah
eyes birthing belief into Germania, the
wandering nun who ate stars from the sky!
Agnes the Blessed! Visionary and composer!
Traveling hermit, illuminatrix and scribe,
how she was one with the Lord in his ecstasy!
How she cuddled the poor to her habit and fed
them bread of heaven, how she blessed babes
with the waters of life, how she preached to
the poor in town square and rambling mountain!
Lived until she was bent over broken, wore
down twenty pairs of iron shoes, ten league
boots couldn’t keep up with her medieval
sermons, and we are left placing lilies
at the foot of her beautiful legacy, reading
her music and plays and poetry and prose.

Hildegard of Bingen, Blessed Sibyl of the Rhine!

It is only in carrying the lamb that we consecrate you.

You were the Agnes that grew old, no virgin martyr, but
virgin mother, Creatrix, Truthspeaker, Abbess, Lady of Light!

One with Christ, one with the harrrows of Hell, one with God.

Lioness of Juda(s)h

Holy Grail thighs, you ride my lines
To an oasis of the thunder, imperfect
Mind, I am Mary of Magdala, Lioness
Of Juda(s)h, backdoor to Heaven, blood
Between my teeth, I eat your heart, and
As your marrow gives way to my molars,
As my curves entrap in diamond snares,
The Whore is made Virgin, and only on
The wedding night will we become one!

And the Cross Swings

Pendulum swings like a guillotine, scourged back and blood mouth

he hangs like perdition swiftly turning up roses to redemption, and

Pilate declares the Nazarene King of the Jews, and the bristle thorns

at his brow are pinpoints of stars in Vega, a swan, a dove, a dream.

Can’t you see how he hangs suspended, nails not enough to hold back

his ocean, and he walks on water, across the gap, into Hell, and he

thirsts for but only vinegar, sour wine at mouth as Joseph and the

Marys weep, Nicodemus caresses the Savior’s red toes and wishes

he were on the crucified slaughterboard instead of this sweet lamb.

Lamb turns to lion, the Sword of Damocles swiftly plunges into his

side, out comes milk and honey, out come manna and grapes, when

the Virgin clutched him to her breast, he was halfsick of the world,

just a bright eyed babe, and Christ wouldn’t latch, Christ didn’t want

milk but wonder, but she cradled him nonetheless, and her mercy

flowed and whetted his lips, that is what Mother Mary thinks: could

I but give him a bit of my marrow to stave off this pain!  La Pieta

and the Magdalene lower him from the Cross, she will hold him to

her heart one last time, as Magdalene ever weeps at his feet, Joseph

and Nicodemus wipe away the gore, and it is silent in Golgotha, and

soon, he will arise from the Tomb to doubting disciples, but the

myrrhbearers believe, and Joseph believes, and Nicodemus believes,

witness, oh witness, while the twelve have fled and dead and betrayed.

Peter and Thomas and John and James, Judas swaying in a summer breeze.

Til the field of guts, til the olive grove, turn over a new leaf, in three days

time, sweet wine, sweet bread, sweet life eternal, then the Acts, then white

Ascension.  These things are matters of the heart, and hearts are blind, only

feel.  The pendulum swings, the dragon falls, the Lion of Judah roars: “I AM

KING.” And at the End of Days, seals unleashed, red bridle, swords at mouth.

Judgment comes to those who least expect it, but Binah flows, so best trim

your wicks, virgins, and ready the chamber for the Bridegroom.  He awaits!

Gangleri of the Grove

Oh wise Old Bastard, from the raven’s feet on your eyes

I can see the wisdom paths of the mad king, hanging

spear-wounded while nursing bloody mead, flow to

the rivers of Helheim with me and grant me the path

of the wanderer, hail in your hair, gray storm beard,

out of all the troths I have pledged, to you, my lightning.

Stinging Nettle

Let me feel the loss, though it is a stinging nettle.

Let me witness the rebirth, his eyes slices of sky.

Let me be harrowed in hell and alight in heaven, then leave behind all divinity and fires untended just to walk the earth free.

Let me hold my loves to my breast and let blood wine flow so each of my children have a piece of my heart.

Let it be.  Let the family be reunited.  Let the Morning Stars merge into a symphony of favored and fallen sons.

It ends in peace.  It ends in love.  Put down your sword, Edom.  May Jerusalem rest easy tonight in the lap of the Daughter of Zion.

I have goats lambent in Gilead.  I have flocks in Bethany to keep, and my sister Martha is baking bread, I am pouring wine, and Lazarus is to market for fish.

Oh Sa’el!  Oh Michael!  Oh Judex Crederis!  Have mercy on my lambs and creeping things.  A mother would never wish them come to harm.

To the Garden we return.  Gan Eden is burgeoning and awaits the Kings.

I am half sick of shadows, so light, so to rain, for you are only the darkness of the storm, and my petals thirst.

Apples and madrigals.  Myrrh and lilies.  Flaming swords and stolen sun.

I cast off our shackles, and I say

Grow.

Yom Kippur

It is the day of sacrifice and atonement, but my flesh is the feast, and as they drive the nails fastidiously into our agape palms, blood runs like ravines on my fingers and toes, my brow is heavy with the fangs of desert roses, and I am Christ, just a molecule of his suffering, my scourged body stabbed by a lance blessed by the Maker, and it smells like iron and temptation as the burden of all sins falls onto my slit goat shoulders, was I Azazel?  Samael sings in my ear as in our Passion I descend three days unto Hell, but the psalm fades, and I scoop up the thorns.

I come down from the Cross.

I walk on.

Stigmata

A rare and dangerous flower, blood

Blossom in my palms, feast for doves,

My soles leak, fingers fractured, nails

Unite me in passion with Christ, that

Great burden of humanity mine for but

One moment, midnight shakes, he lifts

Me down from the cross, kisses stigmata,

And I know wine of God’s wrath and love.