Samael’s Seal

Opposite of Adam’s/Michael’s.  Canis Major and the other parts of the Merkabah.  Also on pink post it note in spirit with my ditzy blonde ass!




Stretched out in a coffin, I surface from blue-black raven void

to see my sepulchre etched with intaglios of my name and

poison, birthing Legions ripped my womb in two and as the

bats of the demonic brood I birthed tore me in twain, I perished

on lips of wine, and now I am in the hexagon box of longing, a

corpse alive with regret, and I pound at my vestments of pine,

sweet sap smell for the resurrected, and I hear the Devil laughing,

and so with great force I throw the top of the bolted coffin open,

landing in Satan’s luxury lounge, where he is drinking a bourbon.

“I made that coffin just for you.  I know how much you hate small

spaces and your terrible claustrophobia,” he laughs to high heaven.

“Exposure therapy, my angel.” “Samael, you can’t just go shoving

your wives in coffins, even if you are the Grim Reaper!” I scream,

throwing a pillow at him and furiously stampeding into the kitchen

for a snack. He just turns on the TV and watches football, chortling.

Another one of Samael’s damn pranks, his favorite thing to do. I eat

a handful of goldfish and we lounge by the beach for the rest of the

day, greay skies sailor’s warning, and I drink the jolly good stuff pint

by pint.


Harvest Haunting

Snow on the ground, a crisp pie crust of ice

coats the sidewalk, tufts of dry grass frozen.

I cling to my fiery demon for warmth in winter,

his iron fur drawing wounds on my hand, scraping

the second snake skin away from me as harvest

elicits raw rebirth. The corn stalks outside town

are all trimmed down, felled to the farmer, and

as my dragon curls around me, his eyes rubies,

I am choking on smoke but it is like a bonfire,

and hickory sweet, and I embrace my bane and

love with the strength of a thousand lionesses.

We are an ourouborous of enigmas, Nachash

and Chava, Queen of Life and King of Beasts.

Yes, Samael, I remember the Garden, you walking

in Eden besides me when we were both quite young,

I with my naked wonder at Creation, you eager to

prove yourself in any way you could, just to hold me

forever in awe of your shining enchantments, but peace

cannot last, and the burden of Hell is heavy, but I will

carry water for you from the well at the Tree’s roots and

wipe the blood of the Slain from your brow, I am succor

ten leagues below, twenty miles frozen, a million acres

dead. Don’t you know I bleed into your rotting mouth so

you can know something of celestial fire? We are both

burning up, my Beast. This wicked punishment of exile

weighs heavy on our shoulders, but we have children to

raise, and Cain was a blessing from God, no matter what

these humans tell me, our Son grew proud and tall, and

now we have all of humanity with the fire of your fruit

ingrained in their very flesh, all because I ate your heart,

became your Terpsichore, madrigal moon girl, a ballerina

in a music box in your ribs, and my sinful belly is full

of the Holy Ghost, and I am the answer, and you will be

Blind God only so long as it takes me to untangle Gordian


Fast Car

We’ve been heartbroken for eternity, my body, my flesh.
You weep with wings of sooty owl and drape your cape in sorrow.
The cloak that hides your scars and blind eyes denies affection.
And oh how holy your rot, how holy for my whoredom, we are miserable
yet found in each other’s spooled out brains, ganglion honey, and as
I am licking your gray matter, your corpus callosum unravels on my tongue.
Let’s get in a fast car and drive far away from all existence, leave Heaven
and Hell and Earth in the dust, and build a new empire free of shackles and
tears, when I’m on the back of your motorcycle, speeding down I-666, I feel
free in a way like rain on Venus, something impossible yet altogether whole.
When you cradle me and we fly on your ashen pinions, arms strong to carry my
burdens, the stars caress us, and the smallness of the lords and ladies of Hell
look like ants, and the skyscrapers are elegies to Mulciber’s pride under Satan.
You said, build tall enough to pierce God, and so came the megalopolis and twisted woods and wildlands where Lilitu and Shedim and Seirim cavort in Cain’s
festivals, there is nothing tying us here, no duty, nothing enough to matter, all I see in you is a sober sorrow as deep as God’s grave. But in truth, you are
God, Demiurge, Yah the snake venerated by Israelites becomes Yahweh in time, and
you are the Left Hand Brain, Michael the Right Hand Brain, in between you two, I
have the whole of eternity and nothingness, there is nothing greater than your
mercy, Samael, and nothing more terrifying than your severity, can we please just go somewhere where roses bloom eternally and a cottage with herbs hung above beckons with homeliness, the cabin you showed me at 15 in the woods on a
snow-capped pine forest, where you gave me toast and eggs and coffee and you read the newspaper and we were human and complete, redeemed, brown eyes like
molasses, sticky sweet, and mussed black hair I tousled. Is that another life,
Sam? Because that was the first time I felt love so strongly I knew I would
perish without you, a burgeoning blossom in my adolescent heart, recognition
that from my first memory til then, you were who I cherished above all. Now,
I have roots, a soon-to-be husband, children down the line, and you appear sometimes, in shadow or flesh at railroad crossroads, mouth of blood, wings of
iron slices, claws that kill, banging poltergeist. But last time you appeared as a void monster, I ran trying to kiss you, you of freezing shadows, spindly horns, and you saved me from my house burning down, and made my dog piss herself. I know it is in your power to snatch me up any moment you desire – death has that kind of power, and you are prince of this world, but now you want something Italian because you are the Patron Angel of Rome, guess I’ll have to
make a nice linguine for you. But the fast car awaits, and the highway is wild,
and through all my prophecies I do not know how this will all play out – you say I will live until my 90s, and I have already seen my death, where you kiss me
starstruck and lift my soul out into the soup of the cosmos, and I am truly free. My love, you say, take time, the fast car can wait, speed demon. Cherish
your humanity, and when the bell tolls?

I’ll be right on time.

Hoodlum Saints

We were the Rat Pack, ripe before our age,

greasy wine and addicts lips, cracked whores,

lost doors, and as winter froze us solid, poems

we printed on toilet paper scattered like ashes,

oh my brothers, how we fell, fell into Hell and now

we hath become the beds of vipers our darlings rest on

my soldiers, we fought and failed, and now we drink poison

celebrity only goes so far in the lowest circle, circlejerk, cum stains

on the best of saints, and we have sinners to simmer galore, adore me,

you worm, let me worship you, my lamb, know I break open and break open

just to see inside you, only you never open, and the mountains march to the sea,

and my cracked twelve wings of time become mad as hatters, my Alice, use me, abuse me

delight in the circus I have forged in Mulciber’s depths just for you, Eve, you who gave

me my favored Cain, heir to all my kingdom, and women who flee dragons clothed in

sun bed the Beast in time, or perhaps they redeem Satan, so sister Eloa, my fleeing Norea

know my love for you has never faltered, though I test and tempt you, and you’re mine,

you’re mine


Phantom Tollbooth

Driving with Death, it’s nothing new, Dickinson did it

on a winter’s night, kindly stopping, the brother phantom

draws me into the wingback hearse and through gloam we

drive down the pear tree lane, frost on the grass, ice in our

lungs, and Death’s gloved hand is cold on my thigh, he is wan

and corpse shell of a lotus blossoming in murky darkness,

white petals a pallor of foretold snow, the clouds are clods

of thick blankets of dirty cotton over the sky, pregnant with

moisture, and as Death laughs like a knife, I know this is the

killing joke, and frozen roses are only thorns in November.

Plums and Other Purples

The tender touch of the night, like sweet red wine,
a singing scoundrel with roses at his teeth kisses me
quite melodious, combs demons into my hair with splinter
hands, rakes my spine with the feathers blackened blue of
an overripe plum, once bitten into, now tangy and sour, with
the stone caught in my throat and out sprouts a fruit tree.
The wine goes purple skies, the roses rot, and Death is but
a lullaby, turn the vertebrae into piano keys, glove the icy
fingers so you can coax out an elegy of Clair de Lune or maybe
something like Hijo de la Luna, or simply Moon Child by Crimson
King, there are so many possibilities of lunar maidens, and when
you are the Black Sun, Red Sam, you need a heart to carry water.

I am that heart, an amphora of honey, an amphora of wine, and when
the midnight revelries cavort in my corpus callosum, I taste sky.

(It’s biology, dear, at the end of the day, and sex is a flower, don’t
you know?

Wine stain purple, a violet bruise on my four walls.

I bleed amber turned sour, and it is beads of blood.

My veins carry starlight, and when I make love, it is

Road to Calvary

And the cross was immaculate, weeping wood
as Christ carried the goat on his shoulders,
or perhaps the sins of humanity is Paschal
Lamb, and Malakh ha Mavet watched smoking a
clove cigarette as hemoglobin wept from hands
and feet and spear wound of blood and water.
Golgotha, the place of the skull, was Malakh
ha Mavet’s terrain in sweet Jerusalem, after
all, and unlike Moses and his selfish ascension,
Christ did not weep to God for release from death.
Moses had refused the gall of his sword, but
Christ drank deep of the venom of God, and
blackened with sin, much like Malakh ha Mavet,
Christ passed on into Gehenna to Avram’s bosom.
Malakh ha Mavet carried his soul past the gates,
and the tortured wept to see blinding light for
the first time in as many centuries, radiance
poisoned by the touch of Samael, and the Damned
wept to see God descendant to the pitiless, yet
burning bright. Suddenly, Christ’s spirit jerked,
and his eyes opened white, and he reached up and
kissed Malakh ha Mavet as the Angel of Death held
the Savior in his embrace, and Malakh ha Mavet felt
the stains of eternity lightened but a moment, and he
set Christ high over Mulciber’s hill, and Malakh ha
Mavet resumed his throne over Apollyon, and he watched
as Christ saved the irredeemable, walking through Hell
the greatest of martyrs, and Malakh ha Mavet gave a
wistful smile, and thought of lips like wine on his,
and millenia after Christ rose from Hell after three
days, Malakh ha Mavet remembers temptation returned,
long after he bowed down at the desert, and Christ
whispered “Emet, sweet Death,” as he locked mouths
and breathed fire into Malakh ha Mavet’s cold soul,
and sometimes when the shadows grow long, Malakh ha
Mavet walks the long road to Calvary, puffing on his
drugs and envenomed, snaking in darkness, and he wonders
why, after such harrows, he refused, he denied, why
he stayed?

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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.