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.

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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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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.

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.

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.

And the Garden Rotted

Apples rot in Fall, seasons turn Winter’s bone

Adam I have never met, all I remember is a

body count, dead sons and daughter, lost husband.

Satan rots, Michael weeps, God is Dead and Broken.

I wander. I walk on. I must endure. Through Heaven

and Hell, come millenia upon millenia, trickster, I chart

a path through the unknown, hurricane my heart, treasure

in my chest, and not Cain’s eyes at my breast nor Abel’s sucklings

nor Seth’s divine providence nor God’s burning sword stabbing me

straight through, that first time I was betrayed, that third time, the millionth

time the men failed, from the thrones in the abyss and starry kingdom, I birthed

new palaces, and I carried my burden, and I wept, but I was a warrior, and I bled gold.

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
only
to
steal
your
wings.

Maybe You’re Not the Hero

“Maybe you’re not the hero you thought you were.”

I sit with scarred, armored, war-torn Zadkiel on a threadbare couch, my twin angel and second-in-command general of Michael, of whom we are both standard bearers, I reconnaissance, he defense.  We are reminiscing about the War (there is only ever one War, don’t let mortals fool you otherwise) and Zeke’s eyes are alight with fire and rambunctiousness.  He clutches his sword between his kneecaps, driven down into the wood of the floor, and chortles like a jackal.

“Gaby kept running around delivering messages he didn’t see my infantry plowing through him.  That was the first time he died.  Oh, what a little bird flitting about, unaware he’s in the way with those high falutin messages straight from Mikey himself.”

I bring my knees to my lap and nestle against his wing.  He has a familiar face lit with fire, like the gentle soul that houses him is in vengeance mode.  The night before I fell asleep, I saw him in pointed spidery silver and gold armor with gauntlets and lamellar plating and a visor that hid darkness and burning blue eyes that would flicker to red like coals.  Zadkiel kept cutting the air with his flaming sword as if to spell betrayal out for me, only I couldn’t catch on, not in the awake state at least.

“How did you die, Zadkiel?” I ask, hesitantly.

Zadkiel gives  wild laugh.  “Oh, how didn’t I die?  I bled out in the trenches.  I took bullets through the heart.  Stabbed by an underling that didn’t like my iron fist.  The question, my dear, is that I always die, it’s only a matter of time.  Some more gruesome than others.”

I think back to my death, that first fall from grace, and can’t help but ask: “Do you remember me, Zad?”

Zadkiel sighs like wind through an empty carnival.  Like he is haunted by me, which is likely the case: “You were put on trial for corrupting demons during your reconnaissance missions, Jo. Up to scale 11, you ruined the . At the end, we couldn’t tell whose side you were on but your own. You were judged as a traitor.  Due for execution but you died anyway in one last coup d etat.  Always the wild child, Jo.”

There are tears in his eyes and he doesn’t look at me.  I can barely look at my own legs.

“Oh…” I speak softly, remembering the lore.  Zophael, the Herald of Hell, with sympathies towards the fallen.  Zophiel, the fallen angel of Maria del Ocidente’s poem.  Zophael, the one who took the side of the fallen and rebelled against heaven.  Zophiel, Heaven’s double-timing spy that got in too deep.

Three battalions met the day I died.  My own rebels, hewn from fallen and angels.  Samael’s forces.  Michael’s legions.  Three separate battles: those that would restore balance, those that would drag the world to Hell, and those that would enforce the mono-culture of Heaven.  I have met those that took my side.  They were much fewer, possibly not a third, but perhaps the neutral angels that fell to Earth and became the land, sea, and forest elementals.  Perhaps we did make a stand, however brief, and when I took Satan’s spear through the heart for Michael, I abandoned not only my post but betrayed both sides.

A traitor to both heaven and hell.  Playing my own little games.  Turning angels on demons and demons on angels.

We are not always heroes in our own stories.  At best, we might wrangle some sympathy from those who wronged us.  To fight for Satan is a noble misguided cause.  To fight for Michael is a glory train of bad choices and patriarchal fuckups that gets you nailed to a cross.

To fight for the traitor, why, that takes special madness.  You get put on Earth, in the end.

We are never the heroes in our stories, and my sadness runs deep as the liar’s grave I fill.  In the end, I hurt everyone, all because I wanted to be the architect of my own story, or perhaps I was playing both sides all along.  An instigator for the war.  Flying to steal the glory of god for humanity, too close to the sun I touched eternal fire and brought it back for those hairless apes.  Goading on Samael and Michael to rough it out over me.  I am  the only thing they cared about, at least momentarily, in the end (of my life, not there’s – there’s is a cause, a higher purpose, and mine is the trickster mentality).

Whatever happened, history may be doomed ot repeat.  Or maybe now, I finally get the chance to redeem myself.  Maybe now, I won’t bleed black ink from adamant veins.

We are never the heroes we thought we were, but maybe, on the flight of a lark, on a vespertine moon’s last rays, we can become something like God.

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O Mourning Star

And I press the Morning Star to my chest, and he is a burning brand in my arms, hair like a spun gold halo, eyes like chips of summer skies, skin the gold of a ship captain, and he wraps six wings around me and runs smuggler fingers through my scalp and down my neck, and there is dripping plasma at our soft parts, melding us to a molten statue, and at 12 my guardian angel told me his true name, and I cried for this fallen world, and now every time I kiss my lion, I weep blood rubies.  The body of a god is no good when you cannot distinguish his immanence from your marrow, and I have made mistakes.

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Rats

And there’s the cloying record skip of cologne and cigar smoke,
an eyeless Azazel with an infernal Pope’s crown, ruby and blood,
the rats are crawling on the walls, the dead walk the halls, and
in bursts the putrid multitudes, of clamoring resurrected in holy
Pentecost fire, those dry bones of the didn’t quite make it, too
saccharine in sweet sin to burn up, and so we rot hanging pennants
of pulchritude, there are so many words for cadavers, you say your
brother Michael tore out the Watcher’s eyes for looking upon women
with lust, and Samael, or should I say Samyaza? Infamous rebellion,
your punishment is jealously, as Christ courts me in the Bible Belt,
luring me in with the laying of hands, lavender linen, and the fresh,
you are the filthy, blaring brimstone from the speakers to poison my
car, Satan haunts a beat up Nissan Versa, what a fucking loser, hey
punk, at least buy me a hot rod, some crotch rocket to rock oceans,
how the hell am I supposed to speed lane to Hell in this piece of shit?
I hit 60,000 miles today in my scratched up rust bucket, and you chose
whiskey, sweet whiskey, and cigarettes and rusty nails from a Cross
that you always secretly wish it was you, Sael, that had hung from,
the original Mourning Star, and now you’re squeezing my heart, and
you offered the Messiah, your afterthought of a Brother, and yet
Father, all the rich spoils of war you had garnished, a kingdom
of men, in the desert where the fig trees wept and were cursed,
and Yeshua turned you away, cast you aside, and you thought, what
pride comes before me, Satan, who is glory until ash, vainglorious
and unable to turn the cheek too, this upstart Lamb, cursing my vine?

It is a question you have thought of often, oh Blindness of God.

Oh Severity of God, oh Poison and Venom and Medicine and Gall.

Now you think it is I Christ will spirit away, into some high
heaven from which you are barred entry, and is this the latest
heist Christ planned, spiriting away the Magdalene from my
beguilements and charms? Christ came with love at first, but
his Second Wave is fire. In that, you both want it all to burn.

You told me to never kneel, Sam, when I had only knelt once for
you, you hoisted me high and proud, when I was trembling in awe.

I will never stop holding you as close as my heartbeat, but much
of the time you anger me, why the Devil must refuse redemption
come each dawn, when the stars hold out their hands to all Hell
and demons in synchronicity turn their backs on the love of God.

You are beautifully broken, wretched in your self-loathing, and
my ocean, if only you would forgive yourself, if only you thought
yourself worthy of

More.