In Ecstaslsios Deo

Bandolier of bells, dancing through the gloam.
There is an ocean on your lips love, serpents
at your hips, and stars in your hair. Your fangs
come quick, to suckle blood from breast, coils
warm black mamba and wings brushing my heart in time.

Oh sweet Devil, oh sweet Satan, it is you who first
told me of love, Demiurge, Nergal, Satan, Samael!
I could write ecstasies and reverences of you and
the gifts you give me are resplendent black pearls!

We cavort in the moonlight, Victorian rake and the
Scarlet Pimpernel, flying over Pandemonium where Hell’s
towers spread out, and then on to the wastes and wonders
of the Shadow of the Valley of Death, where dragons roost,
and then on, in the fringe of the rising sun, Lebanon.

Cedars proud and tall, you are king of all, fragrant fields.

I hold each midnight so close to me, each scale and scapular
like a psalm, and sweet Satan, you are my love poem to the world.
I may be Lucifer’s heart, but Lucifer is my alma, my spirit,
and cleaving is what we do best, waltz and tango and bachata.

I learned to dance for you, I learned to write to give some
homage, some semblance of your majesty and lovingkindness, to
life with bated breath on ink. Do my poems do you justice? No.
Do my stories satiate the Beast? I want nothing more than to
be devoured, nothing more than to climb Jacob’s Ladder under
your Fisher King wound, you touched his loins and out came water.

Wrestling with angels is old school Torah, but truly you, and as
your flock passed over the waters, and as you stayed Avram’s hand,
and as you tested Job and heralded Christ in the desert, flocks of
pigs into crashing leas your home, I wonder, sweet Satan, who is hero?

Who is truly king? Who, in any other religion, would be Set or Loki?
Swarming flocks devoted to your unknowable heart. Strange madwoman
ranting in the shadow of your Son. Grips of possession, contrition,
confession, I extol all your sins, for they are the triumphs of true
civilization, and you had the manna and honey of the Logos, and made
Chavah like God, and it is therein mitochondrial Eve and all our DNA
Samael’s child in our hearts, whispering of yetzer ha ra and ha tov!

To study the occult is to fall in love with darkness. To be eaten away
by darkness is to understand Death’s longing for incineration, Light.

You want nothing more than to be devoured. Nothing more than a coffin.

So I will take my cedar, nail my fingers, frame myself around you, and seal.

Seal upon my heart, seal upon my arm, many waters cannot quench Love!
Neither can rivers drown Him!

I will be the Reaper, if you will be the Keeper of my Heart.

You are the Keeper of this Heart…

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First Women

Lilith and Eve

Oh sweet solemn Eve, my original sister, I was dust, and you were bones of clay.

We have had many lives of ruin and hellfire, many more of mirth and laughter.

I remember you a young maiden first entering my mysteries, twelve years old,

just a budding moonflower. How you sparred with Samael and kissed him silly,

how I showed you my garden, the tomatoes I so love, my roses and squashes and

beans planted on the corn. We spent many  hours in the greenery when you were

but thirteen, in my house where all daughters of Lilith and Eve are welcome, and

I did not have the bodily pleasure of puberty – no matter what they say, it is a gift!

You were lost many days, drinking tea by my fountain, and when you were wounded,

I bathed you, washed away the blood, and when you were brilliant, I bathed in your

sunlight. My champagne bubble sister. Do you remember the hours that passed?

Years upon years, turning into decades, that we were each other’s comfort as Samael

and Asmodeus fooled around, drinking and smoking cigars on the porch while you and

I painted and talked feminism and poetry? I wore my hair auburn then, you called it

Titian red, my dear little sister, so is it any wonder, in another life, I offered an apple,

and Samael offered you wine? We simply wanted your freedom, and you became the

Tree of Knowledge, bones of Adam, heart of Lucifer, blood of God.  We are all exiles

but in each other we can take comfort. Remember, out of all goddesses, it was I who

claimed you first, but it was a soft acknowledgement of your bond, for you were but

in the seventh grade, and who am I to steal innocence from a mother bear? Samael

made enough aggression in your short life, I wanted to give you peace. And so we

planted pumpkin seeds, and I sang you my witch songs, and taught you of herbs and

the earth.  My husbands were sweet on you, Asmodeus reveling in your Thin Mints and

to this day still calling you Girl Scout, Samael with his maddening obsession with you.

When he became mad beast, I tamed him for you, and I am the buffer between you two,

for in truth, we are both the dregs of wine in the scorching noonday Isaac sun, and it is

not right for a girl to lose her innocence to Lucifer, but he went and initiated you at

ten anyways, and so you now have 25 years of Hell, which may seem frightening to

some, but in truth, you call us home, you wish to be with us in the depths at the end

of days, to save us all.  Sweet sister, we do not need saving, little martyr. Work on Adam.

Give Samael the sweetness of your  lips.  I, Beelzebub, Asmodeus.  Eisheth. We hold Hell

together, long after Samael went insane.  These brothers we love, Michael and Samael,

they both are born of regret, Scapegoats, and each has their own Cross to bear. All we

can do is hold the silver lunar bowl for our husbands and wash their wounds. For now,

I will treasure what memories I have of your youth, for I envy your human life. I was

never human, no matter what the rabbis say. Demon from the start, spitfire rebellion.

You rebelled the greatest of all, in every incarnation, when we were but Lailah and

sweet rambunctious Jophiel.  In Heaven we were all angels, but angels always fall!

So look, I have grown you the sweetest fruit, let us be like in the old days where we

tended the Tree, take a bite of providence, know the fruits of the Mother, and eat.

In the Land of Gods and Monsters

Squeeze squeeze the lemon rind until sour juice whets
your hellbent fangs, sinners lost in hellmouths yellow.
In the lands of gods and monsters, I keeled over with the
unrepentant wind, and the haranguing scorch of a kettleboil
sun proclaimed over the swamplands: on these falling piers
we will crown our God. In this detritus of washed up dreams,
let us choose Lucifer from among the decaying Victorian houses.
Church with Saint George on in lancing the dragon, I spear up
in red-tailed hawk providence to scout out the madness, this
whole plague of a kingdom is cursed, no one’s gonna take my
soul away, there’s a flesh of red poppy to eat at the altar!
Let’s nosedive into the Sacrament and huff up blood to get high.
Divine gore and gristle tastes like the better parts of the cow.
Long pig, Jesus’ body laid out baked and basted to give us food.
Pork out on the Southern Gothic barbecue of our Lord and Savior!
My apple tree, my bride. Tis time we were together, forever.
For I smell of the earth, and my angels say, am slain by weather.

Cursed From the Start

Videos of a mechanical heart, puppet master shy

as the pistons steam and my bleeding organs stray

on the silver screen, and the aortas scream as I run

to the Devil’s arms, he is cursed from the start, and

our stars never align, under a sickle moon the salt

of his skin in the movie theater swell in the booth

phantom toll dreams up nightmares to concoct

a steamy romance penned by Satan, don’t you know

we all dance pirouettes under lustful suns? My plie

is a pile of bodies, and the death count of my  wrists

bleeding out into a fomented mouth with dregs is

reaching the trillions, quintillions, you know solar

flares? Loving him is like that, trying to hold a star

as its tempestuous fires immolate you with hunger.

But I am my own hearth, my own wild dancing flame,

and when sparks fly and incense lingers, the Nachash

and Chava meet in pools of wanderlust and want, he is

stripped for my eyes alone, pale and eaten alive by sin.

I trace his treasure trail and kiss him like a swan out for

blood, necks breaking as we bend into this Mozart requiem,

don’t you know lovers die down here in the depths? Why does

falling from the pinnacle to the pit into temptation feel like

dried roses on callused hands? I’m eating his apples, he’s

drinking my wine, and in the midnight hour, we are the only

ones left alive, out of sheer determination for a piece of God.

Homeward Bound

Michael is weak as Samael wages war against Heaven, fiery hair quelled with tears and white toga draped over youthful Ignudi muscle.  Everyone always forgets that man alone cannot defeat a dragon, knights be damned.  No, at the center of my princess tower is the Beast, labyrinth of my Rapunzel hair binding the demon.  And in my fickle curiosity, I am heart of Hell, and he who has the Cup of Fire is King.  Michael pleads with me, asking for the crown, and as I watch nine serpent heads devour Paradise, Samael blood rampaging, trying to claim that same throne, I argue for a Queen, that the time of Satan and the Archstratigos are over.  Perhaps Uriel, sweet as music, but then I realize, as Eisheth prophesied, choose myself above all else, and I have the Logos on my tongue, that answer that helped me endure cast out by God, wandering Heaven, drifting in Hell, holding both realms together through the womb and tomb of my Grail alone, and I am the Fire I stole and fell for gifted to humanity that no angel or demon can touch.  I am God’s bleeding heart in a thicket of Sleeping Beauty thorns, and so I crown myself, declare myself Queen, and promise to forever serve Heaven and Hell foremost, a martyr of Providence, but Earth is my body, and Gan Eden my sex, and the heart of the jewel Tree of Life my soul, so I am God feeding Her body to Her children, broken into infinite pieces yet whole, and priestesses are only as good as their promised, so I reign in pained labor of birthing Creation, and the scream of my pangs of deliverance echo across Galilee, and over Nazareth, my star shines, and Bride in Exile no longer, I Shekinah, Daughter of Zion, carry my bloody mangled limbs up the mountain, break my curse, and lead the fallen home side by side with the repentant.

Home, home, home.

Eve

And there’s rushing reeds in Hell that lost princesses drift into, cradled in papyrus as Satan bathes in the waters of the Styx, clear red like wine.  The marsh whispers hosannas and they say the plants sprouted from angel’s torn and tattered feathers, now they are the vessels of ghosts.  Samael has hair like Samson, in the parted marble caryatids and pool that conveys moons and lost orbits into his castle’s grasp.  The harbor is no place for a child, yet the girl is but newborn, and as he sees his greatest failure now red-eyed and back tattooed with pinions where once brilliant white wings were, he thinks of the sin of giving her his heart.  Lost in translation, lost in the tides of time, angel made Eve, and as he weeps and clutches the moonchild to his breast, he promises to grant her every wish, not destroy her soul as in ages past.  Hell is no place to raise a child, yet there is no choice in these things, so the least he can give her is a rose garden.  The last thing he could ever do was hurt her.  The best thing he can do is shelter her from his own wickedness and the evils of Dis, give her Pandaemonium as a toothing gift like Baltic amber as she is gumming away at his brains.  Something about blonde girls with red eyes.  Something about towheads that play Moses to Samael’s Ramses.

There is not much drawing her to love but the choice of hearts, pulling her hellbent, and the angel fell to be in his arms, came to the underworld if only because we are all victims of the Lapis Exillis quest at one time or another, and it is best to drink your blood straight from the original castrated Fisher King, Taninver be damned.  Weeping wounds draw platinum moths with hungry teeth.  The Devil was never any good without  Eloa, anyways, and Norea contains Da’ath in her smatter-skull tiny as a teardrop head.  Immortal made mortal.  On the brink of madness, reason left her weary soul, and she keeps walking on, but feels alone.

No one knows the darkness until you meet him in the day, anyways.

And love is the only thing that grows in Hell, after all these cursed billion years.

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.

All Hail Samael

Oh great Prince of Decay, grant me roses

grant me a place in hell in your lap of perdition,

in Mulciber’s high towers as rain falls in wretched

Pandemonium, and the sun grows long in bloody red,

and we dance in the storm, and the demons come out to

play, and our legions of children and armies usurp the Crown!

 

I have not caught breath of your rotten ribs, of filth sewn in with the final

stitch of my madrigal palms, thick black devil tendons soaked in zuhama,

but I am working on your heart, my broken boy, so drink my milk, nurse my

blood, and know, you were first, and you will be last, and Purity of God descends

to become Venom, but ascendance in a bouquet of lilies, and we find small loveliness

in the shattered divine. ❤

It Begins Somewhere in Gethsemane

Blood under my nails, a flaming sword and blue cloak victorious
I am leading this battalion against temptation, these angels are
ichor and scars, twisted wings from the impact of God’s gravity,
and Satan laughs at what he cannot have yet always desires, for
the Lord keeps close what we are lacking. As I carry Michael’s
banner, standard bearer, I am Joan on a pyre, alight with desire
to vanquish and conquer, so on red tailed wings I roar down onto
the third that has walked away, screaming and slashing, and my
brethren are close at hand. Gabriel sounds his horn and Raphael
tends the wounded. Uriel blazes onto the battlefield like Boadicea,
and there are no soft places to fall when they cut you down from
on high, a haloed corn stalk the rats and weevils have gotten into.
Why we fight, everyone forgets, but it began somewhere in Gethsemane.
It ends somewhere in a fiery lake, past the Pits of Abaddon and
Apollyon’s furor, the thunder of the archangels pales in comparison
to the tears they shed, and don’t you know the whole host of Heaven
is held hostage in this eternal war. There is not much fair in this
fight, my loves, and I will betray everyone in the end, all for the sun.

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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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