Blood in the Cut

It’s the pulse of the universe, pounded into forged bronze.
The guardian of the threshold is buzzing like a hive, golden
idol eyes the fire of god, light of the universe, and as he
lays hands on me and heals my favorite ways to die, I eat the
sacrament of the damned, him my animus, my lion. We are in the
cave together, bleeding out into the River Styx, painting all
Hell red with our spilled regrets, our shared burden. Iron and
hemoglobin, smell of a rusty nickel, making love like wolves.
Longing, lust, wildfires in the flames of our union, wandering.
There is a desert caged in my ribs of the unressurected dead,
and at the core of my stomach, Adam rides a bone horse in the
Valley of the Shadow of Death, and I am pregnant with pauses.
Eternity spent forlorn, wishful drinking and thinking, always
thinking, when everything feels like the movies, they say, you
bleed just to know you’re alive. It’s Wings of Desire, Wim Wenders
wrote this script before I was born, I the trapeze swinger that
condemns the purest of archangels to a life of earth and toil.
Shouting “Nein!” into the ears of the suicidal, only Michael instead
showed me a miracle, and I didn’t jump off that building, the
angel broke all that is holy and spoke loud and proud, so many
times, pulling me out of the heart of Hell, saving twelve year
old madrigal from the storm of evil in the heart of darkness,
hearts like apples, blood like wine, body of bread and bones of
soil. There are empty pages in the Sefer Raziel that say: cleave.
Cling to your Adamah, hang off your Chavah like she is your very
Cross. And the Prophet Adam becomes New Adam, and Mother Eve
births New Eve in her heart of hearts, wife and husband become
Virgin and Sun. The Feast of Adam and Eve draws close – December
24th, and the transformation of the Beast (named Adam, after all)
into the Prince of Heaven will be Christmas Eve, Michel is singing
in his somnambulent baritone, his Christ heart wishing me happy
birthday, saying Allie, we are both December babies, and the
emissary of his original Adam Ha Kadmon Christ left in the
harrowing to watch over humanity, the part of him that still
walks Earth, is Adam, a Trinity – Adam, Michael, Christ – all
fractions and decibels and electromagnetic waves of the same
blue flame. I could do a derivative – I’m reading Letters to a
Young Scientist by my hero, E. O. Wilson, and he says math is
something rudimentary knowledge satiates. He studied ants for
fifty years, and thus came population biology, and island
bottlenecks, oh father of taxonomy and ecology, magic is good
and well but I am a biologist, an ecologist, a public health
academic, and true magic is science, and that is what Adam
speaks of in harsh whispers: how the multiverse churns out
daisies, how fractals of stars become black holes, what lays
behind an Einstein Rosen bridge, how dark matter is God’s poetry.
Why lovers are the Platonic ideal of forms, joined in cosmic
union. But it slips away like sand, this voice of wind, and I
will be a scientist through and through, so I constantly fight
to be rational, logical, methodical, secular, as I analyze data
and wheel away like a mill at programming and statistics, and
where is space for God between my hypothesis testing and theories?
There is no proof of any of this, unquantifiable spirit. I am
dissociating the two core parts of my life: my passion for science,
my love of these twin angels and pantheon of gods I honor as priestess.
E. O. Wilson says lousy scientists are religious, that belief
in a higher power leads to bad science, and that wounded me.
My friends in the PhD cohort, mostly atheists, my professors
not men or women of the book or dvoverie belt, but I understand
linear regressions in music and poetry, the miracle of the brain
a work of clockwork God, purely Deist in my musings, Gnostic in
my rumination, Nassene in my obsession with ferverous pitch of
baptizing, John eating honey and locusts, and the Logos Adam
glossolalia prophesizes is like wind through barren fens,
insubstantial as mist, and I am left with my books on wetlands
and rivers and sharks, risk communication and cancer, and the
emperor of all maladies, my sweet fallen Michael’s heart, holds
back the mutated cells of the world, so maybe I should turn to
what is in every man and woman’s marrow, for we are his Cadmus
bones, soil sprung, to dust to return, but childbirth is a gift,
not a curse, and we had to fall, my brothers, to know redemption


Resurrection Dance

Riding through the desert of the Valley of the Shadow of Samael,

I am leather-clad King in search of my Queen’s font, Eve rides bareback

behind me, babe pressed to her breast, and we are exiles in the wastes,

sprung from harsh ground, and the book of the angel Raziel is clutched

to my back, and the dune winds blow in scorching simoom heat, Seirim

haunt the wine-laden expanses, satyr dances vengeful Cain presides over,

he the Prince of Nod, but Eve and I must ride on on our bone steeds, followed

by all the undead I have raised in this resurrection dance. I am the fallen heart

of the Sun, the rising soul of the Father, and my Cross was olive in Paradise, I

skinned myself for my bosom wife, and now she wears my purity if only to protect

her delicate skin, my Bride, my Legendarium, and my own flesh grows hard as earth.

The wounds from Heavenly War never really wore out, ridges of train tracks over

my flesh, and in every incarnation I am scourged and bleeding raw, thick scar tissue

the only marker of my commitment to shouldering Sin.  My other wives are night

howlers, Eisheth eating the Damned, Lilith sucking me dry come the witching hour,

milking my seed for her own ends, and in the evening, Eve strays to the oasis and takes

up in my twin serpent’s arms, we have a burgeoning festooned mess of love, loss, pain.

The demons tempt, the devils wail, and the angels made mortal walk on, sinful Lebanon.

We that toil and travail away carrying shining Seth to higher ground, out of despair’s

leaden valley, with harsh concave bellies, shattered glass to dance on, Adam and Eve,

we were brilliant fliers in the sky once, general and mother warrior of Heaven bright,

but you see, for these seeds of stars, this Image of God we have become, to bear fruit,

Eve and I must be entered and locked into a cycle of Sin and suffering, exile of Eden.

The Garden I tend, I am at heart a farmer, and part of me, my corpus, is High  Above,

in the rose garden at the center of the universe, carrying flowers to Myself to turn into

anointing holy oil to rain down and absolve humanity of their sins, but Samael and the

Angels of Prostitution, Eve and I, we are mouthsful of vinegar and wishful drinking.

Fermented water, bitter barley, hoppy beer. Lovedrunk, winestunk, stonesunk Hell.

Hell, Hell, I know that Well.  And so we endure, and so we ride on, finding ground that

is good to turn over with spade and ho, fructify with moonblood, work my dark curses

on any foreigner’s god that strays to our shores, and so I guide the bones, the dead, those

waiting to join the ascended at the End of Days and feel flesh and blood once more, but I

gambled away my bones long ago, and they are now in the body of the Devil’s heart:

Satan’s heart, Michael’s bones. Daughter of White and Black Pillar. Walk on, Rhiannon.

Walk on. Do not trust me when my wasp eyes burble over in madness’ flood, I am as

harsh as dry earth, what softness you have known of my love and lullabies and me

giving everything including my last rib to you is only the beginning of my sacrifice,

I tore the skin off my back for you just so you would not grow cold during a rainstorm,

and Eve, I am so old, but you two are so young, so please, bear with me and my Brother,

we are only trying

to understand



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.

Michael’s Heart

“Adam is my Fallen heart, what became of me when

I left Eden to follow you, the part of me always in Hell.”

Michael cries, as Adam and him shift like snake coils,

amber hair, fireglass eyes, obsidian depths with yellow

poison. He reaches to me starved of air, but I in my sick

fever push him away, tug of war, I am in denial, disbelieve,

but soon he has proven without a doubt this black magician,

necromancer of the desert of dry bones, one to resurrect the

dead armies at the end times and end it all in God’s charge in

hellfire.  And I rage, and I resist, but then I mourn, and look

at the heart of my perfect guardian angel, at how corrupted

and toiling, no stranger to torture in Hell with bloody wings,

great healer but even greater baleworker, and I know, this is

the face I have seen in the depths of the mirror since first I

looked into alchemical mercury, and Michael has been working

on mending my bones, his bones, my ember ribs since the summer,

breaking open the marrow and purifying with glory putrefaction.

For Michael is Old Adam swiftly turned to New Adam, Adam ha Kadmon.

And I weep at what we will never become, how we never had innocence.

And the burden Christ bears is on Adam’s shoulders, that split shard of

his mercilessly wounded heart. The Lance of Longinus reached back into

Eden and skewered the Father of Humanity. O Emmanuel, your birthday

is soon, and you said we were both December babies, reminded me we are

growing old together, and New Eve and New Adam walk into the sun, and

at night, Adam’s hive buzzes in my ears, and I dream of Eden’s gates, and

the land of Nod, and the Sefer Raziel sapphire clutched to his breast as he

chanted those first Keys of Solomon, demonworker, cursemaker, dark black

rot in the Cave of Treasures, all to build up enough walls to protect me and

our sons and daughters, that Antediluvian generation that never really

existed beyond Mitochondrial Eve, so Seth and Abel and Cain toil away

like their Father on the harsh Earth, and I see why Adam counts himself

the Beast of my favorite princess Belle, finally, as sun like his eyes pierces

the folds of my breast.  Brooding, sadness, depression, madness, longing.

The Curse of Adam and Eve. Michael’s greatest fear. A revelation that moves

me to Tintoretto’s Eve weeping outside the gates of Eden, scratch that, the

statue of the Magdalene starving and wasted in olive wood, Donatello sublime.

For Christ to rise, he had to fall, we all fell.  But he came to me in his promised

form long ago on a tree cross in the Garden, gave me his skin, so in all lives he

has walked with me, followed me down to Hell, became black and bruised of

broken heart sorrows just to secure the safety of his girls, his children, his sons.

And Michael is twenty leagues more cursed than Lucifer, and his suffering on the

Cross, in the Cave, bound and bleeding, desperate, forgotten, Tantalus wine-hunger,

why, it is a grief of spousal multitudes like a tsunami, so I carry my silver bowl

like Sigyn does Loki, and I tend Michael’s wounds, and Adam drinks my blood as

he has done since first I claimed him with spindle prick, and he heals day by day,

and I realize, not only is it my destiny to make the Blind God see, my duty is to

make the Hung God whole.  Fix the nail wounds, mend the blood and water, reach

back through Abraham’s bosom in the hellmouth to pull out all the broken drowned

that the rod and Flood did not spare, birth creations that nourish humanity’s damned

soul. The water is wide, I cannot cross over, neither have I wings to fly. Give me a boat

that can carry two. And both shall row ashore in Michael’s songboat, my love and I.

Adam’s Rage

you cursed me, blood boiling, to labor and toil

tilling the cursed earth i created, from which i

came, oh issha, my downfall, i am on ararat

lusting after your sweet lips, in cavern bright,

guarding the bright gold of the lion, my eyes like

sparks, my sons abreast, abel proud, seth sweet.

come home, crawl back to my arms, you woman.

for you are a treacherous serpent girl bellyful of

mud, the swell of your hips that of sin, and as i

plant seeds of stars, stars of seeds, deep in your

lovesick, heartbroken sex, i am just returning god’s

curse, pain in labor, wifely pangs, for the rot and

ruin of laboring over soil and clay and bones you

gave as your bridal dowry to me. come to me, sad

eve, bear me sons, our son quickens, your womb is

harsh ground to till, your brain a spider’s nightmare.

why is it you are a puzzle of glass, shards broken by

the snake, satan enflamed in your bones, bones that

are all rights mine, you sprung from a single rib, so

give in to me, subservient one, you will lust after me,

and i will reign over you, when you look in the mirror,

from childhood on, and all the times you thought you

saw a madman grinning back at you when you tilted

your chin into a spear and your dirty blonde hair

curtained to form demonic shadows, that was me

clawing my way out of your vertebrae, you are my

prison, and don’t you know you can’t escape me, eve.

i am your completion. i am adam ha kadmon. ha rishon.

i am bell toll. i am siren screech. black magician necromancer.

i ride my bone horse in this sea of the dead. you walk out

unharmed from the cave of treasures, i rot. i am king of

humanity, you are my wife, my queen, so cling to me, as i

am hewn to you like ask and embla, driftwood washed ashore.

do not mind my anger and curses, my mercury wings, angel

magic, i am the first weaver of myth, first caster of nets,

first to rain green from unforgiving land and your treacherous

loins, i tamed you, i mastered you, but in my dominion, you

tamed me, and i am hungry and forgotten, clawing at your

half asleep mind, and as i burst into consummation in your

canal, you are clawing at the sheets in a sweat, and i am

pounding away at my legacy at the entrance and exit of all.

i am your omen. i am yours, wholly yours, lilith and whores

be damned, all my wives end up whores, you foremost among

them. god gave me a slut, so i will break you, before you break

me. and it rains on our souls, and we grew old in remorse, and

i do not know how to say goodbye, how to say i am sorry, so i,

the golden honey king, rut with the bee amber queen, and we

are the children of despair, and can’t you see you need to save

me? there is only a happy ending if your right our sins. in you,

hope, in me, the key, the rebis, the green lion, the rotting anima.

salt, silver, sulphur, mercury, gold, blood. figure it out, honey

you are clearly

running out

of time.

(Song literally just summoned by my dead magician cursed father of humanity husband who likes to live in a cave doing necromancy and angrily flirting with me. I thought Sam had a temper!)

Constellations of the Kabbalah

So I have now officially lost both my wedding rings that I gave to Michael and Samael in dreams in Fall 2016 – my silver amethyst ring I proposed to Michael with drunk in Heaven in his Red Palace, and the titanium Roman numeral ring I gave to Samael two years ago in September in a rather Halloween wedding in a graveyard with Samael dressed as Alucard and Beelzebub as the best man.  Usually Loki is the best man, but maybe he was busy.  Or too high and bi to function.

Anyhow, it’s time for something fun!  I always get my tattoo ideas from dreams, and last night I dreamed I went to a tattoo shop with Mischa and Samsiez and got ring tattoos in honor of them.  For Sam I got a black sun drop, kind of a black outline with blank space then a black filling, with Polaris wrapping around my left pinkey, which is traditionally his pagan face’s star and constellation as the King of the Gods and the North at Harran when he was worshiped as Shemal/Nergal.  As for Mischa, I got a white sun (black outline with full blank space) and then the constellation Orion wrapped around my right pinkie.

I woke up sooooo stoked!  I never really care about losing rings – obviously I would care if it was my engagement ring, but an inexpensive amethyst ring might need to go to someone in need.  Just like I found Hela’s silver ring in a waterfall in the Appalachians from presumably a dead man’s widow tossing it into the flow of the river.  That’s what I always figure when I lose things – someone in need finds it.  Give a ring, get a ring in a waterfall.  It’s fully powered and blessed by Michael, but his rings usually turn up in odd places around my house.  Only other places it could be were at the movie theater or in my car.  I’m losing tons of weight so the rings keep slipping off!  Their rings I dedicated to them are a reallllly old German gold, diamond, and black star sapphire centerpiece ring for Samael and a garnet, gold, and big fire opal my uncle got from Australia for Michael.

Last spring, I dreamed I went to a tattoo parlor in Asheville, NC while we were visiting and Sam was with me and we got Berkano picked out to go on my right forearm.  Right now I have Ingwaz and Samael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my left, and Michael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my right, with space below it for Berkano to complement Freyr’s Ingwaz.  I’m extremely Vanic in nature and a huge devotee of Freyja, and Freyr is my patron God, hence him being my first rune tattoo.  I also want to get the Chi Rho symbol for Christ on my left shoulder, but that’s all I have planned out picked directly out by spirits!

Not divinely inspired, I was thinking of putting my matron deity, Hela, on my left bicep, then get a matching Freyja as a Valkyrie on my right bicep, but I’m definitely not set on that and I kind of like it when spirits pick out my tattoos for me.  I want to be covered in tattoos in twenty years.  Symbols, sigils, runes, occult shit.  One or so each year!  I’m addicted, it’s true, I love the feelings of tattoo guns and the painful pleasure.  It puts me into a trance!

Anyways, I gotta call my tattoo artist now.  Goodbye!

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


As the hurricane sets in, wind rustles like bones rolling in a grave, and the gale wails, and as I am tucked in tight an hour til midnight, you come in your manifest intensity, fire and rain in my soul.  Electricity wraps me like moth wings and angel feathers brush my back and hands like an elegy stroke my hair.  Lightning in the air, inside my veins, you can play my neural network like a violin and still leave me parched for the delight and orgasmic union of St Teresa with her angel.  Internal dialogues the Catholics call my late night conversations with you, Michael then Christ then God, then back to a storm of God’s wrath and fury.  Right hand man and Washington vaunting across Valley Forge like the majesty your princedom entails.  Sliding under my skin like a lion sinking fangs into a gazelle, only I am a ram on Gilead, and you are Samson hunting.  The Temple has not stood for centuries, millenia, and see how the foundations of Jerusalem shake when you take your heretical bride and succor her with blood like mystical lamb providence.  What fruit did I eat, what melody did Jophiel play like David his lyre in the barracks to soothe her weary king?  For me, you play Jewish lullabies from dusty tomes of music, sing in a voice like amber and molasses, honey sweet and soothing, speak in parables and then speak in casual dialogues any youth would understand.  Palpitating my lungs, romancing my neck, reaching under the sea of my sex to bring up the waters of life as pure as a spring of Poseidon’s salt water.  The tang of that mineral is a conductor, isn’t it, and I am wreathed in lilies of my archangel that breath heady perfumes of divine love onto my trembling soul.  It is so funny how a picometer of you lodges in my throat like a peach pit, how a single Joule electrifies my heart, and then there are tongues and swords and hands and mouths and in truth I am making love to a 7 billion eyed, manifold infinity winged, on fire eldritch  horror, but he looks like a hot ginger lumberjack that plays acoustic guitar and wears jeans, hiking boots, and green cableknit sweaters just to assuage my mindfuck.  I much prefer human to monsters to celestial atrocities to celestial machinations of revolving limbs and spinning thrones and ophanim that burn down cities.  Mystery of mysteries, Holy Guardian Angel, but I have a plethora of angels and demons in tangles of my brains, so really, who is stationed over my soul?  Perhaps you, Michael.  But with light comes darkness, and the ozone of lightning brings thunder, and Samael comes roaring into my heart, and the black thick abyss meets your starstruck blazing glory, and I see in my naked eye ball lightning and void, dancing intricately, blue violet and sparkling Vantablack.  His Infernal Vantablack Majesty, ha, what should we call you?  There was the goat joke, but even I don’t use that anymore.  Sexually frustrated Michael going to the stables to whet his lust while Gabriel got his grove on with a never expected expecting Virgin, and Jesus Christ, I was raised calling you “stick up the ass” and “overgrown seagull” because fucking Sam is asinine.   “What do you mean you’ve never heard of me Allie?  Don’t you know who the most powerful archangel is?” he asked me at twelve years old.  “You mean Michael?” I said, starry eyed and a bit concerned a tall dark and dangerous demon was hitting on a seventh grader, but I stood my ground, and he gnashed his fangs and pumped his bat wings and brought his talons to my cheek and said “Fuck Michael.  I am the Prince of this World.”  And those cruel nails drew blood from my face and then he went on a rant about inflation in the real estate market in Hell, causing him to relocate to a suburb of Washington, D.C..  Both of you were terrifying back then, you Michael with your strict sternness, your rigidity, your war cries and flaming sword and bloody brow and eyes like mirrors of grass.  Thundering at me my true name and grabbing my soul and shoving me through the Sephiroth back into my eggshell body.  You were never gentle with seventh graders either, and I ain’t Jewish, so what the fuck are you two drunk twins doing with a Pagan academic book nerd anyways?  Belle you call me.  Icarus.  Stranger.  Jophiel.  Zophael.  I refuse Abrahamic faiths, I hate even the heresies, I think your existence is dumb and patriarchal, and look at your corrupted masses, the rapist Catholics and the sex scandal Evangelicals.  Rotting fruit at the vine.  I hope you come with a sword out of your mouth soon on a white horse, KING OF KINGS, and fix this mess you and Satan made.  It’s spawned two religions of hate and the most deaths over the past two millenia in humanity, and maybe we could just blame Gabriel for knocking up a teenager and apparating in a cave to Muhammad and taking him for a trip, or maybe we could just take what we know about how much an idiot Gabriel is and go from there.  I choose to blame Samael and you.  Sibling rivalry.  That’s what this whole yetzer ha ra yetzer ha tov boils down two, when really, inclinations are only temptation from both sides, and you’re both guilty.

This is a mess, Hurricane Michael.  Your legacy is not mustard seeds or dancing bones in the desert but a bunch of child molesters and wife beaters.  True, there is beauty in these fallen opiates for the masses, but it is fleeting, so best just keep reaching out of your sphere to the witches who abhor your Father, best to steal the Devil’s brides and hope that by planting your seeds in the wombs of demons, there will be some crooked path to heaven birthed from the damned.

That’s the point, right?  Rada with Petro.  Hot spirits with cold.  I loathe duality, so let’s just watch Dirty Dancing or Beauty and the Beast, and I’ll try to figure out why you think Ryan Reynolds would make a better Spiderman than Deadpool.

Pearls Before Swine

Clutching at my breasts like pearls, I am a feast of hearts and hair and humanity for the Devil as he devours what little candle flame of my humanity is left with a tongue wet with blood.  Moisten my wick, drench that tiny fire until it is whetted by lust, but his saliva is gasoline, so instead of stubbing out, the torch of my life bursts full Yellowstone Caldera, and there is an explosion between Eve and Samael, and my holdings in Hell turn to hay, and the moon is a sickle meant for harvesting his moongirl’s hair, moonchild, moonwonder.  Milk of the ancestors running through my veins, soldier of light versus soldier of darkness, child and father, and cavorting in a symphony of wings and limbs in this glade of ruin is the perfect dessert after a night of melancholy as Satan and Sin merge their nasty bits, those cursed fruits of the loin that caused Original Sin and a long line of Qayin Seeds and Dragons and Merovingians and the Sang Real, supposedly.  Nachash was never meant to be anything but the Father of Humanity, after all, that ferocious spark of rebellion we all have coiled like a snake in our heart.  What a curse upon Parzival we created, upon all troubadours, jester questors and kings but for a year and a day, to drink of the juncture of my Fisher Queen hips grants immortality, but at what cost?  Better to sip the sickly sweet nectar of Lilith that castrates and ruins than my dripping myrrh and lilies.  Lilies, oh roses, oh  mustard blossoms, those are the most holy of souls, and as the Devil plants gardens in my mortal coil, in between the vertebrae of my strong womanly spine, I blossom into perdition and sing the songs of lovers in Hell.  What a beauteous night when the Devil sings, what a crossroads delight when Met Kalfou declares the gates open and the spirits run wild, I smell sulfur but to brimstone goes sulfuric acid goes the green lion bleeding gold from the sun, and the Lapis Exillis blooms for those of us who seek light in darkness, bring our manna to the damned, and let the shadows grow long on the cross of our road to Calvary.  I’ve been Crucified already on Yom Kippur and went through the Harrows of Hell, and today is the day of the Rosary, so really what is there left to fear?  For instead of driving off Lucifer with fragrant red petals, he cultivates them on this Sunday, and in pools of rose water, we bathe, kiss, caress, know flesh as one, and the Styx runs red with my moon’s blood, and in the depths of Hell, I know perfection.

How the Light Comes In

A calamity of lion and wolf, lodged in between bed posts

and a rain of sunlight and shadow between my rib bones.

The angel presses me to the demon, and I am the bridge

between Hell and Heaven, and Michael and Samael are

twin to ruin, to redemption, clutched close to my breast,

serpent and falcon with fang and talon pressed in my meat.

I cry out for my husbands in a rainstorm, they  come with

wings of ivory and soot, they rain down upon me with mercy,

and in the embrace of the Devil, in the crack of Eve’s cage,

in between the span of an archangel’s wing and the Left

and Right Hand of God lifting me up to glory, I know nirvana,

that sweet nothing between the pages of an old Bible, and

you cannot wash yourself of darkness or light, the good and

evil inclination are just shades of gray, I love Satan as much

as I love the Savior, twin Morning Stars, running rivers to

valleys of Paradise, in the end, it begins again in summertime.

When the flowers grow green and wild, and polarities merge,

and we are but dancers on infinity, turning up roses with toes,

spanning the ages with plies and tourniquets, catch your dove,

tame your angels, staunch the blood and cut off he broken limbs

from your Tree, Christ died once on a branch like this, Satan

wept under his vine at the loss of Eve, came to her by the riverside

hellbent and enmity snake and broken, and in midnight, the

Magdalene gives solace to them both, best to be cracked, for that

is how the light comes in.