Chalk it up to archangels, chalk it up to lore
flying from brim of dusk to dawn, warriors
mighty with seraphic fire and brows black
with soot, this is the end times, our blades are
troubadour bright and emanate with God’s light.
Oh Michael! Oh Samael! Oh Zadkiel! Oh Gabriel!
Spectrums in the looking glass in the Temple of Isis.
We can pay homage but we cannot stray, in this
midnight goddess mission, clear lakes reflecting
burning hair and armor of the End, flying rampant
through hellfire and brushflame. We are death squadron
of Heaven, here at the helm of the War, I cast out
Satan, now he is fire retardant Lucifer, and Michael
waits long by the hearth side, bellyful of wine, mourning.
These vespertine fantasies come with a price: wear the
four rings, hail Jesus, we are but bread of the dead
and somnabulent wanderers, when we sleep, there we go.
Avast, plunderers, we raid twilight and take all we want.
Spoils of our Crusade, nothing can stand up to the Lord.
It is strange to be a stray angel, it is strange to be cast out
yet beauteous in my suffering, and this nightswimming is
unbridled passion, I can soar in dreams, plunge my sword
into the heart of the Damned, oh ghosts by the river, tell me
my name! All I see is Saphael, reflection of El, a mercury
of Masonic lore, President of the Moon, and that is just
a mask, where Freemasons join arms and salute the quadrants.
Funny, I find shards of myself in literature and myths and strange
footnotes in grimoires. What is my truth? What is my quest?
That is what Parzival asked, after all, but am I Grail Maiden,
Fisher Queen, or Pure Knight? Where is my place in this story?
God, who am I? I Am. I am. There are puzzles, and whispers,
and the trappings of lies that become truth, oh Yeshua, anointer!
Oh Temptation and roses and incense, what is the grit of my soul?
I am lost in pages of some heroic journey, but I have bills to pay,
and this Alice rabbit madman hole of Hell and Heaven and Hereafter
is better left to the Illuminati, so stop it with the clues, you two.
Green lion bleeding gold from the sun, whatever, Lapis Exillis shit.
Even in sleep I am on a pilgrimage. My wings come
with a cost, after all! Oh please, let me dream of
ducks in galoshes and underwear at work,
I get tired of conquering, I get tired of guns
ablazing and romance and loss and mythic
tithes, my head is full of starlight, and I
am just trying