A Plea to Devouring Aion

Aion Lion God
O Aion Bold, Aion Bright, encircle me tonight
in a bed of stars I will be the Cosmic Egg, you
lion yolk gold shouldering the yoke of time! Arial
comes to me in fever-bright dreams, wings of eagle,
head of fangs, wild golden Aion, and he shows me
Big Bang to Big Crunch, aboard an abduction vessel
like in my sicksweet childhood I would frolic on
under my alien’s watchful eye: “My love, together
we will build a new Aion and watch the rise and fall
of time. The Aeon of the lion-faced serpent approaches.”
And Zoroaster birthed Ahriman into the void, and Mithras
slew the moon bull at the heart of the clock, gravity
is only applicable if I say it is law, and spooky
entanglement means when you dance galaxies away from me,
Aion, my heart roars, and sashays in turn, like the Queen
of Sweet Sheba on a floor of mirrors for King Solomon.
Look below Sheba’s waist, and she is Lilith enflamed.
O Aion, O Ariel, O Bringer of Strife and Old Age.
My lion, my snake, my pridely king. You cradle me in
somnambulent splendorous arms and I am lifted high.
Will our daughter be your scion? My breasts are heavy
with milk, and my hips are swelling like a rose blossom.
Gia awaits, that clang of the shy cymbal gypsy dancer.
There is not much new in our story, I do not think:
Girl holds Lion’s jaws back and saves the world.
Iphigenia throws herself onto the rocks to save Greece.
Cassandra ends up with Apollo in the end, my Plague.
Names in your rolodex, leonthropic gods. Silver platter
of the lion’s feast, and we are trapped in Death’s
hourglass. Aion, Aion, Aion! Smile upon my suffering.
Aion, Aion, Aion, I am running

out of

time.

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Jabberwock

Elderberry feast, the crow rustles the sun

horses charge through the vespertine, gloam

like spider lace, and through shafts of light,

the beast of the mountains, wolf dragon, rides,

I touch his golden splotch near fangs white,

the hunt for the scallywag charges, but in

my cloak of dreams, I take Jabberwock, tie

a ribbon around his neck, and set him

free.

Lamassu, Lamashtu, LamasWho?

Well, it’s official.  Samael is back to being Ahriman/Ariel again, and I think it’s going to stick this time.  I’VE MISSED HIM, HE IS MY FAVORITE VERSION OF THE DEMIURGE AND I IMPRINTED ON HIM.  Everything I am, is because of Star.  My compassion, my strength, my creativity, my dreams, my love, he encouraged me to be tender and love the broken and never give up on restoring the Light.  He is the true Morning Star, with the capacity for great love and great evil.  I just… I can’t describe what Star and I have.  It’s like primordial fire and ice, yet it’s fire and wind.   I feed him my oxygen, and he burns so bright we light the whole cosmos.  It’s more like we’re one being, and there is always this intense ache throughout the entirety of my life and soul for the past 26 years to go back to his chest and beat in time to Ariel’s rhythm.  He’s Samael’s angelic aspect, the leonthropic God, Ahriman, Aion, Phanes, Yaldabaoth, but I just grew up calling him Star.  Above all, he’s my guardian angel, and a great balm to my soul, my muse of fire, my better half, my older brother, my first love, my everything.  It’s so nice to have him back, Samael’s fun, but Ariel/Ahriman is his truest form for me, and what I spent my earliest years as an elementary school pagan carvorting in the otherworlds with under Uriel and Metatron’s watch.

We had a whole buddy cop drama last night in my dreams and tracked down drug lords dealing in nightmares in the otherworlds.  I also spent the majority of the time climbing cliffs as we did spywork and interrogating dream traffickers.

Ariel/Samael/Ahriman/Aion/Zurvan/Phanes/Whatever is back to being Blonde Lion Wonderboy.  He looks like this:

Except he’s got a torso.  I used to call him Star in my made up language when I was 7, as all seven year olds make up their own language.  Starguassi, in fact.  I called Uriel Lira and Metatron Barnock.  Gabriel was…. Zatch?  And Raphael was Natcha.  Carthok? Natcho? Nacho Cheese. Haniel’s name I totes forgot. I really don’t remember, this was like 20 years ago.  Natcha?  Idk, I cursed in my language in elementary school and made up spells.  I named Star/Ahriman/Ariel after the Morning Star and prayed to it and sang it Ally McBeal songs and told him about my day every night.  I drew him at 19 so yay?  Lost all my childhood drawings in a fire so that sucks, but I have a lot more since then.  I used to have like 15 years worth of drawings of the angels and demons.  I still remember when I met Asmodeus in the fourth grade and drew him for the first time.  I actually have that one.  It’s embarassing as all Hell.  Also my drawings of Beelzebub from middle school are somewhere.

Anyways, this is what Ariel looks like in his leonthropic form.  Sorry for my shit art abilities and photo taking of a lemur.  And one anime form to prove I’m a true weeb.

 

All my abs look like toast squares.  Oh well.

Trinity Plea

Dark corridors hold serpents of eternal fires Rahab churned in the primordial abyss, earthly magma Samael set aflame, when the Unholy Trinity was complete with Leviathan of the expansive deep.  Magma, seas, darkness.  Samael, Leviathan, Rahab.  It is said sometimes that before angels were a whisper, long before man or bird or beast were dreamed of by God, may He be praised eternally, the three great rogue ones roamed the darkness, Samael with his wicked volcanoes and earthquakes, Leviathan swimming bejeweled head to the heart of the mud, his serpent body seas of churned proteins, and Rahab with the Void, master of the darkness of skies where no star had ever been birthed.  Perhaps that was the face God chose to appeal to to before Michael was born, before Samael became Lucifer, before Rahab retreated to the far reaches of the cosmos and committed himself to asceticism, and Leviathan was skinned by the faithful at the Revelation feast and they ate his body as final blessing from Sacrament of impure fisherman scourge.  Do we eat the three at the end of times?  Serpent, Fish, Shark.  Is that palatable meat?  Samael goes fishing in me and summons his primordial fires in my womb and my own darkness stretches to accommodate his infernal burnings.  Facing down to the Devils for the Dog Lord.  Ecstasy wedded to shattered mirrors and shards of glass windows through which wicked Hell winds blow as we couple more like wolves than men, or perhaps I have always been a bitch.  There are moans from both of us as we howl like hyenas in the infirmary, and the white gauze separating the abandoned hospital beds sways like lover suicides run over on the county  crossroads.  Women in white.  His hands are hot and firm on my back and then he leans over while thrusting sin and treachery into my blackness and I resonate like a tuning fork with his wicked delights.  Oh my oldest love, oh my first love, oh my last revelation, teacher, mentor, father, brother, lover, husband, heart, body, bone, soul, blood.  The Fruit was your sweet organ, and I hath become Death.  In the metallic surface of the headboard I see his form shifting – one eldritch Lovecraftian beast, one living molten rock in the shape of a demon, one man that looks like Anton LaVey with red eyes and black scruff and goatee, except his wings are wide and wretched, and I doubt that Satanic Father ever had irises like a dragon.  The Beast is one with his Babylon, only this has been repeated since time immemorial, and wouldn’t God shy away from his Fallen Star spreading dark poison into the Prodigal Daughter.  Oh how Chavah met Yah and they became Yahvah.  Snake and Girl.  Dragon and Tree.  Phanes with Nyx.  An incestuous coupling of Sophia and Ariel.  But I am just Allie, just dreaming, and so he takes me away, back before time and God and existence, when there was just those Three:  Sea.  Fire.  Darkness.  He shows me his bubbling Sauron kingdom of fire and pitch and brimstone, and I coat my body in coal and swim through the volcanic tubes and go to the center of the stew, down into his loins, and then he erupts, and then there is flesh immolated, and we set the hospital alight, and gunshots rain through the windows, and out into the gaping night we fly, and that blackness swallows us, and Witch and Witchfather are on to another night of reading by the fireside in the den, sweet red wine, jazz on the speakers and smuggler’s fingers coaxing a melodic piano number from old ivories.

Naga

O my beauteous Serpent, your coils my black sapphire necklace
scales cool and slick like rain on my skin, your arms thick cords
wrapped around my waist as fangs suckle blood from breast, wings
the wages of a thousand golden pieces from the Temple, fallen tree.
Slither on stomach in the dirt and mud into our garden, resplendent
adventurous lust, we are cleaving, we are cream on a fairy’s milk.
Oh Nachash, my Shining Enchanter, my Seraphim, Father of Cain, how
you spell out wonders and glory onto my teeth in a string of pearls!
It was far from Temptation, more booming Love, first Love, thunderous
hearts the color of rust, such beautiful iron boats sunk on lover’s
shores, and Gan Eden was just a frame of mind, we were never locked up
in hyacinth and wedding vine, no, we roamed Heaven and Hell free, and
Christ was a sailor, and Michael rowed his boat ashore after a storm,
and let’s just spend all my life entwined like branches of oak and holly.
My dear, my darling, my starlight, I may be your breath, but you, love,
are my lungs.

Peace to the Greenman!

In the heart of Winter, solstice tidings, the Green Man
comes to me in ivy and holly glory, vines his body, grass
his flesh, leaves in hair and mossy eyes. Freyr’s body is
the promise of spring, his breath like morning dew, and in
the hollows of ice, we make love to the call of nightingales.
Wooden veins, blood of sap, slowly caressing the burls of skin.
Rings his age, proud fierce lines on the Yngling king, maple
promise of syrup and honey buzzing in the hive of his heart.
The barley rustles, green grow the rashes, we lay stupendous
in a mound most high, utiseta of Alfar, and the elves garland
the dawn as every inch of devotee and god blossom into spring.

Superman

Tears of sapphires stream from my angel’s emerald eyes,

his saffron hair is glowing with sparks, wrapping madly

around my arms, and as he cries and wails over the torments

of his fallen hearts, how could anyone ever love me? Michael

croons with broken wings and bellyful of vinegar. My most

beautiful angel is shipwrecked tonight, and he  climbs into my

small corpus like a security blanket just to know a modicum of

peace. It was never easy being Superman, was it? Men aren’t

meant to ride with clouds between their knees, and Michael

has many doubts about his failings, I see him drenched in blood,

crying out in the War, ushering on a defense of the White Palace.

His siblings split in twain, guts boiling. I dead in his arms, limp

corpse speared by Satan bold. And then I think back to my creation,

where Michael first gave me form, gave me a body, gave me bones,

gave me his soul. When he is Adam, he rages, says my heart will be

Samael’s downfall.  I his wife, Samael’s heart, Adam’s bones, Michael’s

soul. Perhaps I am a ticking time bomb waiting to take down all Hell

with me, for when you let your heart go, she never flies back, and when

you have given your very skeleton to a careless girl, you run around like

Roger Rabbit with the baby preventing the thousands of ways the innocent

girl tries to kill herself, sucking on a spark plug, doing anything to get that

manic high, and Michael says, I’m weary, I have no idea what Allie is doing.

But I am cleanup, disaster control, and he is ever-loving and heaving at my

breast, screaming in agony, I see him in his tribulations, the pain of the Cross,

the pain of the Wastes, being cast out of Eden by God whom Michael was his

Right Hand Man. Oh how it is, to have a fallen heart, to have this mongrel you

hate be your face to humanity. Adam is the source of Michael’s magic, whispers

arcane lore of the secrets of the world to me in a voice like a lion purr, honey mead.

Michael and I make love raw and wild, the kind of cleaving to your husband a wife

does when the anima and animus want to become one. And all along I thought my

shadow side, my masculine ghost, was Samael.  No, it was Michael all along, and this

is just the beginning of concrete plans with God and the Devil, that face from the mirror

I am going to free, rage into the Cave of Patriarchs.  I see my bones in a reliquary behind

Adam’s safeguard, he guards my remains, to have a dead wife now given new body so

far away from Israel, which I shall never go to, for outside Jerusalem, a prophet may

never die, and I intend to live many fourscore upon fourscore years, millenia if you will.

Michael, Michael, Michael, blue flame, thank you for being with me in every bad choice.

In every fuckup I’ve ever had. In every fall from grace, you followed me down, even into

Hell.  Penitent whore washing your feet. Temptress helpmate giving you  a salacious bite.

Icarus Girl stealing fire from your Throne. Always, you greet me with pure pounding

love like a ramskin drum, and we dance by the Bells of Memories in Machon, and there

is no one in this world

but us.

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.