Train to Charon

A soul worth coal, and we dance in the night.
Charon the conductor wheezes black providence,
sinners sink, the Eleusinian float. Blessed be
damned, let us ride the night train to Hades.

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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!

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Coffinmaker

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.

 

Sea Shanties

Deep sea blues, I got the Dead on my mind

Christ walks on water but I drown, and when

he reaches out with lotus hands to lift me abreast

the crescendoing wave, I see scores of bodies below.

Two brothers born of light, one of lightning, one of sun.

Orion and Sirius biting in a swan song the necks of twins.

Raising legions and legends to fight their ego-trip of rivalry.

I say, put an end to the crown sought after by angel and immortal

alike, melt down the gold to make my throne, and I will seat an octopus

atop the celestial kingdom, branching vertebrae tangles like mermaid hair,

suckers of tentacles hooked into the brains of billions, dancing marionettes.

So sweet Savior, let’s reunite Heaven and Hell, and kiss blues away, then sing

of a place where honeysuckle strangles and the figs bleed. Sickly sweet. At the

bottom of the sea is a treasure chest of Heaven’s lost songs. Unlocking it takes my

heart, but I have always been a skeleton key, so come Hell or high water, I will be

undone.

Savior of Blackest Wing

Lost dice in a subway terminal.  Gleaming fire on a blood-boiling moon, Toomer’s tithe, over back alley grit and sweat and spit.  Recycling days old poetry in an empty milk carton a wino drinks from stinking to know something of God.  You with your body of broken shards of wind chimes razing my flesh in bloody wounds and music oh so sinfully sweet.  First you tuck me in, then it’s fathoms down to the depths no man knows, suckling up a sea of white gold and rosy awakenings that would shame Nausicca seeing Odysseus naked, bathing in hoary perfection under Athena’s watchful Aegis.  The tide is rushing, this dark holiness is something spiteful and full of the color lost.  Blue, deep mahogany blue, like the tears that crumble from your blueberry eyes.  I would bake you into a tart and eat your heart with whipped cream and rubies and still, you would say, I have more desert to give, more sweets for you, please swallow me whole, just like I devour you, for the seasons are turning, and I must go to rot.  Bury me under that crab apple tree we spent years together under, where I gave you my soul, and I will forget your name in my decay.  You, my anam chara, carry on into  the darkness and with tooth and nails drag dawn up over Hell, it has been dark for too long.  And so ecstasies and poltergeists rattle the Devil’s chains and sex is what we invented yes, full score eons ago when man and woman wanted to fit together.  And look at the symphonies we made, a Viennese waltz to the devil’s trill.  Full Danse Macabre.  And now we are untethered, nothing to ground us to ruin, so like balloons in death we float above, away, avast, sailors on the outer boundaries of space, and it is only by holding you close that I know my union.  My ruin.  My Savior of blackest wing.

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

wings.

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.

Holes

Fill in the hole in my heart.  Fill it with corpses, fill it with flowers, fill it with a spade drenched in blood.  I want good soil to plant my sorrow in, cadavers to taste worm juice from as they rot in my ribs.  I hate that there is just black blood and blisters that blind me when I look at my heart, filth stitched up into my glass body, and oh how lonely it is to be the Devil’s heart!  When I see myself through Samael’s eyes, I am translucent snow, gold hair, lovely organs that coalesce like butterfly wings, but then his soul eyes look at my core, that third eye etches intaglios on me, and at my nexus is a necrotic chakra.  I am full of stains, they never wash out, and my heart is Original Sin, my heart has stigmata from Christ’s side where every night I am stabbed on the left rib going into my sternum and my heart bleeds ooze.  I want to get a tattoo at my entry wound – the double vesica piscis, that singular syllable Christ dubbed me with ointment and anointment and lips kissing me martyr.  If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs, the bark on the tree was as soft as the skies.  As the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, he cries to the moon, if only if only.  I am a feast for crows, can’t you see?  My innards are all immaculate except the open wound in my chest.  When I was a child, I read Holes.  Those boys dug six feet deep and found gold.  If I were to slush through the plasma and maggots inside my apex, would I find nothingness?  There is nothing valuable in there, Michael plunges his burning sword into my  heart and screams DEUS VULT and other times the serpent strangles my breath by wrapping himself around it and squeezing like death and other times Christ exorcises whatever curse bites its tail ourouborous in me, but the rood always comes back.

V.I.T.R.I.O.L. FOR THE LAPIS EXILLIS.

Only seekers are blind.  And I am running out of time…

Sick Garden

A curse for the Father of Monsters.  A rood for the Night Mare.  A geas for the Skeleton Key.  Samael, Samael, Samael, whisper it in the dark thrice and summon sulfur and bruises.

I am done calling your name.

Sick to my stomach, to the core, white lace drenched in blood and you’re feasting on my carrion.  There’s a maelstrom inside me of your cultivation, fields turned to soil funnels in the dark, a tornado honey, and you are it’s master.  In between my ribs are the crops we planted, gone sour and fermented and ten ways to dead.  This burial shroud at my funeral showing is tatters of a gale, and the madness in my head won’t quit, and I want anything but you.  I want anything but this troth you gave me, this rain of pain you subject me to, but I will no longer have you as my weakness, better to have no master than a razer of beauty.  I am well, well as hell, but my better demons have fled to higher ground, and my worse angels drowned in the flood, and in my mortal coil, with mortal ties, I am freed with the love of faith, family, fiancee, and friends.  The four F-yous to the Father of Lies.

So I pluck the bones from my gory pudding, and I stitch myself back together, molecule by molecule, far away from your perdition, and I am veins of red ink and scraps of leftover, dusty starlight.  I will not be your curse.  I will not be your rood.  I am only 25 but I have grown into my own womanhood and now on stork legs, I can stand alone.  I no longer need dried roses upon rot or a cursed castle over my head or the Styx under my feet, these broken wings have mended, and I am ready to leap off that cliff into the unknown, leaving you far behind.

Oh Samael, you broken, proud, hellbent swan!

You take my poetry and burn it.  You take my lilies and rape them.  You take my heart and beat it black and blue and then I am left with broken arteries and rage and what the hell was the point of this?  I’m not Panacea.  I can’t save Satan.  I’m not a balm for a weary soul and it is better to be alone in Hell and fulfilled on Heaven on Earth, with the Prince of Peace, and happy together with mortal love than miserable with the Devil.  I choose Yeshua, both versions, the Christ and my Joshua Tree.

Oh Samael, oh you curse.  You are holding me back.  You are dredging your razors through the valleys of my stomach and curves of my hips and having your way painting in my veins.  To that I say, render what is Caesar unto Caesar, and God unto God. I am not your picture perfect playground nor some target practice for all your rages.  I am done shattering my phalanges writing moon-mad over you.  I will heal, I will make music, I will rage and whimper and dance like Kali over your corpse.

Spare me all the soliloquies.  Spare me your small mercies.  Spare me your insults.  Spare me the pain and wasted quarter century alone in the dark, afraid of the Shadow Man.

Birds don’t belong in cages, and I am far from over.

Shava, Shava, Shava.

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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