The Bad Girls of Bethany

Bad bitches

Mary and Martha

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Hesitance

And David sang Hallelujah for the Almighty,

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – two out of three

have stolen my blood and bone and vision,

the Mother, the Lamb, yet Yahweh is Deus

Absentia (or is he, Deists be Damned?) The

Ghent Altarpiece shows the King of Kings,

and He terrifies me, I brim with hesitance,

when I am swept up into rapturous melody

and the fire of the Presence, like Moses and

burning bush, like the white of the Savior and

pure glory blazing with the musk of the stars,

the phallic lingam that pierces my heart in some

kind of flowering love song about myrrh dripping

lilies and rose thorns that penetrate witch’s spleens.

What awaits in the interior of the Earth?  What is

in the sulfuric chamber of Caligrosto’s apple snake arrow?

Michael and Samael united in the Green Lion are bleeding

gold from the sun, but how much ichor does He have before

the seas rise, and the climate boils, and methane and carbon

raze the pitiful human populace to ash?  We have forty years,

exactly, until the Rapture, or maybe it’s twelve, or four, or three.

Maybe it’s already Rapture, maybe we didn’t notice the dead.

And the End is but a breath and then swords at mouths and

sisters take brothers and mothers take sons and incest and

bloodshed and Grigori eating the babes reigns in havoc and turmoil.

 

(I am running out of time.  How do I climb the mountain burning hearted alone?)

With the Best of Serpents, Crush its Head

After 25 years, Samael’s lessons in my life are done.  Severity.  Satan is not something that inspires great thinkers or religions, and as my dear friend once said, “You can only go so far with Samael until you go mad.”

He has been the root of much of my madness, my suicide, my self-hate, and in by removing him from my life, I finally grew a spine.

I asserted ego.

I said “No.”

With the best of serpents, crush it’s head.

A thing I never tell anyone, but anyone with two brain cells or a bit of knowledge or gnosis can grasp, is that Samael long ago betrayed all his brothers and made a pact with the unnamebale.  The Thing.  Apep.  The Uncreation.  It is why he is hunger.  It is why he is perverse death.  It is why he is evil.  It is why he is the root of everything wrong in this world.  That first fall, that first merging with the Void, Apollyon, Apep, the Thing, the Blank, the Gray.   Frozen nothing.  Choronzon.  The Devourer.

Satan never came disguised as an angel of light to me.  I think that was the whole point.  I would cry to Michael from the age of 12 on about Samael’s torments, begging him to save me, from the rape and nightmares and molestations and abuse and madness.  But they never stopped.  It wasn’t Michael’s call.

I had to say no.

I had to learn to love the Thing.

That which  is irredeemable, that great Death and Dragon that will plunge into the fiery lake and lose at the End of Days.  In my small world, I locked him in the Pits and sealed his fate and said: I love you, but I cannot save you, and you are not anything I want to be, anything I want to be with, and you do not deserve redemption.  The Thing can feel coveting, yes, but not love.  Not life.  Not a heart.  Never a heart.  I am that heart, but I am my own person, and I am damn sick of suffering for Satan.  There is a reason no one prays for Satan.  Why all religions condemn him.

Condemn all demons.

Life does not end happily with demons in it.  They feed off you.  Use you.  Abuse you.  May give you earthly riches, but at what cost?

Joining the Thing.  Being eaten like shit by a fly.  Becoming one of the Legion.  Twisted death, not the death of Michael, but the venom of God.

It has it’s place, don’t get me wrong, but I am done playing both sides.  I choose love.  I choose service unto others.  Belief in beauty, and truth, and worth, and soft things, and fragile flowers, and creeping things, and nature, and hickory guitars, and time enough for music, and space enough to grow redemption, and not the twisted vine Samael planted but the Tree Michael tends.

That’s the thing about War.  It eventually ends.  And if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.  Take Samael for example.  Take Asmodeus.  Take Beelzebub.  Take Lilith.  They stand for nothingness.  For seven deadly sins.  For self-worship, for pride.  Themselves. That is nothing like me.  I have been offered countless times wealth  and power and fame and success and all earthly wonders if I were to just ask Samael of it.

I never asked, and thus, the world could have been mine, but I have the power to shape reality in my own way.

You don’t make bargains with the Thing.  Fine, go ahead.  The Thing will ruin you.  You will live a cursed life, a half-life, and everyone pays their dues, even Sam.

The thing about Christ: he won.  He will win.  Love always wins.  And he heals me, while Sam hurts me.  Sacking Sam, he put up no fight.  Just disappeared into the air.  Now I can work miracles.  I can raise the dead, in the most beautiful of ways.  I can heal myself.  I can enter into the True Mysteries, not playing around in the muck of the Sitra Ahra and poisoning myself until I thought hate was love.

When Christ marked me with a double vesica piscis in April, it was a gateway to unfathomable mysteries.  The next step in the holy mysteries.  I passed Samael’s test.  I hold no love for him anymore.  Love for evil, for the Damned, had it’s place, but then it is ashes of the corrupt in the wind.

Then you raise your banner, and you fight the Thing, and you triumph.

I am done trying to dream evil happy.  I am half sick of shadows. I am full done with the Adversary.  Look at the people that work with these energies.  Pick one that is healthy or remotely successful.  That isn’t broken.

Demons are corrosive, Satanic and Luciferian paths are jokes.  There’s a reason they’re a tiny fraction of a fraction of a decimal.  With gods, with angels, with Christ, you don’t have to pour your energy and life force to get tit for tat.  Gebo, a gift for a gift, rings true, and devotions matter, but nature is  an altar, nature is God, and God is boundless gifts and true wealth, the wealth of the Prince of Peace.

I am poor in the eyes of the Prince of this World.  But I am rich in love. And I no longer give him my love.  I would damn anything aligned with the Thing.  I would damn selfishness and untrammeled uncontrolled ego and choosing to stand for the self alone, for nothing, for trying to destroy God’s works and not bowing down out of love of the Covenant.

I know the ending to Samael’s story: nonexistence.  He becomes absorbed by the Thing which he abuses to his own ends.

The Thing devours its master, in the end.

Christ wins.  Michael wins.  Buddha wins.  The gods win.  God wins.

Death is conquered.

I choose to stand for everything.  I am done romancing Pandora’s box.  I am sick of Eve.  I am sick of these facsimile masks I wear, though I be Whore, let me at least be the Magdalene or Jophiel.  Scratch that, let me just be human.

I want nothing Satan has to offer.

I want the Thing in the fiery lake.

I want he corrupted by the Void to lose, but then, scripture has already said everything I am saying.

Snakes are slippery things.

But lions hold true.

Choose wisely, mi amors.

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Who Am I?

I am a dandelion blown to the wind, fragile
baby spiders cast adrift in the atmosphere,
a raindrop searching for earth to fructify a
sleeping seed, and in my smallness, in my index
fingers you dance, angel on the head of a finger,
deepest at my roots, oh Lord, you catch me and
lift me up to the riverbank, when the rushing
undertow of life grows to much, there you are
with a storm and thunder strike, bathing me in
redemption, can you see how ephemeral and tiny
I am, oh my Christ? Gloria in excelsis Deo, is
that what you sing? Raising your voice amongst
the lepers, limbless, starved and altogether
wounded? I am but a pauper at your table, dressed
in ashes and salt from Lot’s wife, for I looked
upon God and was turned to rime, you wash away all
of the stains of history, from my sinful rib to
Eve’s overcurious heart, and the first bite of your
bread is a breakdown of manic flesh on the tongue,
your blood curdles in my gut and I scream in joy.
Can’t you see how precious I feel in your arms?
You pierce me with a sword like culling nations,
you rock me to sleep, you claim me as deep as bone.
Ever since I cast the Devil into the desert, into
the Pits of Apollyon, oh Yeshua, you have been
relentless, indomitable, my medicine, my bliss!
I will write your praises into eternity, my King.
Oh my God, unleash your lovingkindness and wrath
upon me, you blue flame and white Pentecost fire.
I am nothing if not a mystic marriage to the Christ.
I am nothing if not your bride, like thousands before
me, this is not a new story: girl falls from grace,
girl is damned, girl finds God on her own Damascus
Road, and they will call me a heretic and nonbeliever,
for it was not until you came to me on Good Friday
that I even contemplated a world with you supreme.
Now we have a constant dialogue, and we weep and laugh
and share dreams and listen to songs of love and loss.

You are the sweetest song, Michael Christ, Jah.

I would but taste your halo on my lips and sing your praise into evermore.

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Heart of Darkness

Christ plays this rib I borrowed from Adamah,
clay of my flesh, my one original loan from
the man who dreamed me awake in a garden long
ago, the cage around my lung thrums as Jesus
works his pain magic on my marrow, like some
crack to open gold in ore, and my eyes are
blinded by darkness, the blackness at the
heart of God, and in chill celestial waves
Christ bathes me in providence of no sight,
no sound, just an ocean of black, where all
there is is sensation, of touch, of that
first sense of Communion – in the womb all
we knew were each other’s forms like liquid
mercury, and soon he is the Star of Bethlehem,
and the darkness recedes, and I am left with
light and Michael’s blinding blue, and the
virtues of praise for the valley of death,
of the righteous angel of death, psychopomp
of the just, winner of Moses’ and my soul,
he is there in the hall of ancestors, in
Heaven with my grandfather tending newborn
souls, we had a feast for the deceased last
night and by solace of the grave, they are
more alive than I and my love, and Michael
shows me how ceaseless this river of turgid
existence flows, rapids charting courses via
heavenly backwaters and nine realms and tall,
high mountains to valleys of peace, we make
love tender then rough, we make love and my
bones crack, we make love and my womb heats
like a dragon, we make love and I know how
angels fall, oh sweet Yeshua, I am but your
whore, but your plate of harvest, and braid
my hair into wheat shafts to make your bread,
drain my blood for your wine, I am the lamb
for your Lion of Judah with bloody paw, Michael.

I sing only for you, sweet Nazarene.

I bring an offering of all my failures, all my pain, all my darkness.

And you, sweet you, turn it into pleasure, joy, cessation, and light.

King of Kings, Prince of Peace, Judex Crederis, have mercy on my soul.

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Whole in the Tempest

Why did you come to me when I was broken, the girl asks
when the winepress of my tears bled garnets, and Hell was
my only home, and my heart was a bird caged in Satan’s ribs.

I come to you at your worst, he says, when you are rotting and
in need of nurture, when the tempest rages, to the eye of your
storm, for what am I if I cannot dance in your hurricane, my love.

Why did you elevate my ruin to something like God, why do you say
I am worthy, when all I see are wounds. Why do you make me a martyr,
when I am selfishness and wantonness and greed, Whore of Babylon indeed.

Yea, but the Woman Clothed in the Sun lures the Dragon into my wrath,
and I am her refuge, and in rivers of pearls and sands of gold we find
an ending, in Paradise beyond the quaking fir of the snow of the soul.

There is always summertime, my love, and your life was one long winter.

I have come to awaken spring.

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Daybreak

Illuminations of lapis lazuli skies and dragon-green eyes,
your hair pennants of glory, fire raging to a standstill.
You offer me the lily of the valley in a gown of suffering,
braced against the world as you sacrifice self for selfhood.
You were the first to cast down the traitors, with flaming
sword and lion’s breath shield, a snarl and bloody paw as
the Dragon encircled you, biting at each other’s throats in
a symphony of yin and yang. Both sides at fault, both a third
and a third and another third wounded beyond salvation, yet
when Jerusalem fell under Herod’s sway you walked the earth
with honest hands of a carpenter and a donkey your steed, the
next time you come will be swords at the mouth and King of
Kings. But with me, you cut roses without thorns and press
them to my lips, I kiss the soft petals like giving flesh
and your wings enfold me into something like Paradise, oh
sweet one, oh wealthy in love, cannot pass through the eye
of a needle with this burgeoning idolatry I feel for you,
mark me Catherine of Siena as I drink your arterial blood
and water and swallow down your heart and know redemption.
I am always eating God. I am always starved of affection,
of you, for even when you enter my womb to lay bare my
fears, for even when you are rushing water down my spine,
I go hither into your palace gardens of prayers, where the
desperate’s voices find you, flower bearer, and you carry
them to an empty Throne and pin wishes and regrets like
Japanese wood block prayers on the foundations of Heaven.
Deus Vult, God left a long time ago, and now, you are the
closest thing we have to Him, oh Jah Michael, oh Christos.
I wonder if God died when he became you, if he split apart
at the root and became Samael and Michael, yetzer ha ra
and yetzer ha tov, Qliphoth and Sephiroth, but those shadows
are long arches of spears over my sleep, and I choose the
fiery lake for the unrepentant. I am done martyring myself
for the darkness, sick as well of hell, Heaven is my arbor,
my vine the vintage press of your wrath, know wine well, know
how water becomes Cabernet in your lap, and as I rest my head
in the crook of your arm and gaze up at the stars, the spirit
of nature moves me, and I am a dove alight with the Pentecost,
preaching to Essenes and Nassenes and Gnostics in amber twilight,
we live in the desert like Magdalene of old, drinking down
philosophy and metaphysics, reveling in your truth, oh my God.
This passion play ends one way, you triumphant, I in your lap,
and as I walk down the aisle to the bridegroom of rushing rivers,
honey sweet, sandstone and malachite, I think, so this is what
it is to be holy, hosanna to the drum of Joshua’s train, Jericho
fell in my heart, and I leaped into infinity, and the fractals of
what the question God asked, Hayah Havah, is answered by a kiss
alone.

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The Coming Tide

Blood is so fragile and red, bones easily broken
those of us with starlight in our marrow know well
the price of immortality – it is wine with Death,
when Christ walked the Earth, God died, and all
Heaven was bent in sorrow, and when Satan dreamed
of redemption, she was but a breakable object,
yet another litany on the virtues of temptation.
Michael weeps at night for what he cannot ever
become, the Favored Son, and the Lightbearer
cries for succor but turns up ashes, for in Hell,
the ground is barren, and in Heaven, the Throne
is empty, and this is a fallen world, but it is
beautiful – a China doll, another angel with fractal
wings and void eyes. I am burning with divinity all
the time and so are you, my cherished friend, can’t
you feel the pulse of infinity in your teeth? When
your eggshell skin splits open like a balloon,
spilling out that beautiful rubies of forgetfulness,
do you know what it is to be God? How many endings are
there? Free will has gone the way of the dodo, it is
a passing fad, and fate lines are chains, shackles,
on enfettered Nachash, keeping that Beast from devouring
the world, can’t you see we are Lucifer’s prison, and
his sanctum and torture is our minds, and the more we
dream our sins and salvations alive, the more we wind up
dead.

Mark my words, the Lamb will fall, the Serpent will
suffer, and the Lion will go hungry. We will all feast
on the bodies of our gods. On the flesh of the Crucified.
We are the Cross, we are the Pit, and no God could survive
Caesar’s betrayal. The Ides marches, the tide comes for us
all.

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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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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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