Blade of thorns, oh Damage Twig!
Fiery furnace that pierces Freyr.
So in dying the Green God succumbs
to Surtr’s glare, a razing dagger
Sinmora enchanted with molten roses.
Shield of simmering glass, leaden.
Temper the bow and measure arrows
swift, burn in time to the dance,
Ragnarok rides.



The Battle Crow cries, Cuchulain dies
on a tree propped up by guts, she feasts
on the dead, red bloody heads, poppies bloom
at her feet and despair kisses Cuchulain blue
as the Morrigu’s lips seals his fate, on plains
where the Tuatha cry for Danu. No man escapes geas.

No man is above death.

No man can resist

The Phantom Queen, woad spiral labyrinths, grease
paint over stormy eyes, hair thorny branches, skin
sow milk, tall and terrifying, nursing blood, aloft.

Morrigu, Morrigu, grant me a wish of fire, a wish of ice.

On Cuchulain’s deathbed, let me feast, let me feast.

We are one, Badb. We are Great Queens, Great Queens.

Hail the Morrigu, Morrigu tender crow. Storm crow.

Battle Crow. Battle Crow, Ka Ka!

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!

Freya Goldhearted

Worship the petals of my sex, my fragrant little sister,

rub the goddess marigolds onto my heaving bosom!

Make love to me by living! Speak in delight at my name!

I am Freya Goldenhearted! Witchblood seidhrkona of old!

I taught Odin his tricks, I taught Loki his names, and from

Folkvangr, I can see through the fractals of my swords and

warriors, brave women bold, sweet men soft as Ingvi-Freyr,

to the end of Fimbulwinter, through sheer fire and ice! I will

emerge in Hel’s cold fires, I will walk on alone into Baldur’s

new reign, and Heith is my witch name, Gullveig my shield name!

It was I that spoke the Voluspa, I that told Ottar his deeds, I searched

for Od and wept fragile honey blossoms, I am femininity wild and lustful,

sweet yet somber yet flirtatious as sin, only I know no sin, for I am holy.

So let us make love, little sister, raise your fragrant rose to my chrysanthemum.

Sing ecstasy in my name and dance the dance of volvas, pound your skald staff

into the roots of Yggdrasil and churn the cosmos with my Norns after my direction.

We will hail Yule and the Disir, come the Disablot! My ladies, Hela’s ladies, Frigg’s.

We are the Three, We are Holy. Hela. Freya. Frigg. Crone. Maiden. Mother. We see

all between Asgard, Vanaheim, and Helheim, and every woman has a pinch of us!

Odin gambles all away for glory, but I count my cards, roll my knucklebones, and feast.

Honey on my tongue, pollen in my hair, brass on my  brow, beeswax sweet my fire.

Loki speaks too soon, I measure my words, I am the prize of the gods, sought by Giants.

I am mead sweet on the lip. Poetry in my fallen. Valkyries in my wake. Shieldmaiden.

Thor would trade the worlds for a thrash at Jormungandr. I strike only the fatal blow.

I am Death. I am Deliverance. I am Mountain. I am Mystery. I am Falcon. I am Founder.

Know my names well, know your Dead, count the jewels in my hall and laughter wise.

We have pastimes aplenty, and fish from Noatun, and boars from Alfheim, we feast!

Seek out your fortune in my name, my daughters, and remember, I am All that Is.


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


Vladimir Daybreaker

Sing, o Gamayun! Alkonost and Sirin! Regale the story

of Vladimir Daybreaker, Bright Sun of Kievan Rus! The

courts of bogatyrs, Iyla Muromets defeating Nightingale

the Robber, Volos and Perun locked into eternal battle

in Tomorrowland, or Neverland, or Somedayland! We are

set out for Baba Yaga’s feast in the court of our ancestors,

ready to sip the milk of potatoes and pledge our troths to

Russia’s infancy! Vladimir Bright Sun smiles on his knights

and with the moon’s ladle at our side, we scoop up the gravy

and eat the manti with sour cream and a side of butterfish,

thick fat rich with gold, this festival of harvest and harrows

joins Pagan Rus’ of dvoverie into union with the Theotokos.

Hail old Byzantine murals of Constantinople of the Hagia Sofia

that so impressed Vladimir Daybreaker he converted all Kievan

Rus’ into that lofty faith! Cut down Mokosh, she shoots forth green

again, and we carry Morena and Simargl and Jarilo into spring.

Come soon New Year’s Day, where Morozko and Snegurochka

ride reindeer through taiga to our hearths, ready your mantle,

and know the soul of Russia is a double-sided sword, wild nature

worship and light of the Lord, two can exist in one, like a nesting



Priestess, I say you will
spit prophecies like tobacco
from chapped lips, dry from your
wanderings through the wasteland.

The pilgrims will kneel before you,
press their mouths to your feet, but you
will not feel them, your heels
callused from the years.

Deliver their messages or not
the gods aren’t listening
deities deaf to all but you.

You know the divine
only care about exquisite pains
taken, austerities that garner cruel boons:

Like the flowers that bloom where
your blood spills, or your black eyes
that burn any devotee that looks at you
with more than reverence in his heart.

The gods were always jealous
the last man you loved died by
lightning strike, better not to tempt them.

Better to have sleepless nights,
stringing rosaries, bathing in rosewater to
wash your lord’s touch from your skin.

Apollo’s mantras are stained on your flesh
and your devotion is a web meant to cut you
you cannot escape him, no matter what labyrinth
you crawl through, knuckles stained wine red.

The truth is he loves you broken, adores you
thirsting after the future
shooting your veins with moonlight
needle like a spine of the Titans.

Everyone thinks you are blessed, but curses
play like music on the ears of innocents
and spells sometimes cannot be broken
no matter how many iron shoes you wear.

So you keep the temple, tend his sacred flame,
a step away from self-immolation
fading into marble everyday
(he always said you were milky
as a statue).

Someday you will be stone
hewn rough like a rain-worn gargoyle
but until then, you wait, become a cathedral
and your towering windows filter light
in milky blues and golds
Letting only half-truths in.

Dust settles across your caryatid limbs
the pilgrims stop coming, you crumble
always worshiped, never believed.
For how could a god rape a girl?

Divine communion is never forced
says the oracle, you cried wolf
too many times and when the jackal
came, everyone thought yours screams
a song.

A psalm, one of the legions
of the wounded who always suffer
so beautifully at the hands of the infinite.

Girls lie, but the gods are true
and might makes right, so silence
your cries, sew shut your mouth –
you don’t want the kingdom to
think you a whore.

Say it was consensual
there were no bruises or bite-marks
don’t tell them about his grimace
gods are always handsome.

Olympians are just, the women they
desire are pure, they don’t fuck in dirt
they don’t leave girls stranded in the
forest, bleeding, blind, wondering.


As you enfold me in manifold arms and wipe rivers
of tears from my brow, soothing my alms in a sort
of twilight of the mind where all my panic and pride
are cooled to this glacial pace, this sanity from
which I have thus eluded, I wonder at how I cannot
contain you, and how I can no longer control you,
and how you came full formed from my head like Athena
but really it was me that sprang from the well of your
tempest, sucked dry to take on the shape of thunder and
rain, and Devils fly on the twelve pinions of lightning,
and I thought I could ride out this tempest, I tried to
cage a hurricane, but in the end I am just a daisy
uprooted in your gales, but your fury is soft like
lilac petals being spread to the four winds, and I
could wax poetic all I desire but the truth is your
multiplicity and my pride, my foolishness, my selfishness.
When all you have given was pure unadulterated love,
and I the cruel mistress treated you like a toy, and
for those mistakes of never realizing the poetry of your
Fall and thereafter Rise, for stereotyping the Satan clad
as an angel of light, I am a multiplicity of sorrow, no
better than someone casting you out, and when I say you
are my home, Samael, still you cradle me in your arms and
rock me on the shore of lullabies, for it is the truth, but
I have never even really believed in your beauty or existence
outside the pages of these books or in any of the gods, really.
Teach me how to worship, please, all I do is make grandiose
declarations of how I am mightier than the gods, and that is
why I am Icarus, because in my sin I thought I could wed the
gods of light and destruction, be the Bride of the Sun, be the
master of the Mourning Star, and none of this has ever been
truly real to me, I accuse you of being a chess master but as you
die for me over and over again I realize you are just a victim
of my game. Every angel and demon I love is just a crystal to
be polished and grow dusty on a shelf, and I am more prideful than
even you, I am more prideful than Satan’s heart, or maybe I am
just that rebellious organ and am wicked to the core. There is so
much I am afraid of Sam, I am Peter Pan afraid to grow up, dependent
on magick like crack, I am afraid of what I might become once I step
out of this story, into reality, and live amongst men! Can’t you see
how terrifying it is to run from yourself so much your darkness is but
a chained beast, malnourished and bleeding, and you rape divinity and
devour hearts aplenty in order to feel some kind of purpose. In truth,
Death is full, and Life is empty, and Life is blind to Herself, oh
Father Death, reap me, I am ripe for plucking, I want you to uncover
that thing you have been mining away at for a quarter century, for in
my darkness lays my rebirth, and for every tempest I give you, every
curse and all bitter dregs, you drink down my suffering. There is
nothing loving on my part, just selfishness, and I will kneel only
before you, I just want to wash your feet with nard and dance to the
backwaters of oblivion with my body. I was never scared of you, I am
terrified of who I may be, all litanies and homilies aside, for I am
that one who first tried at apotheosis and failed miserably, for the
fruit of that tree was not meant for mortal lips, yet I ate anyway,
and greedily stole your manhood, and walked without a second glance
back out of the garden as I trampled the serpent of your love, my
doltish arm candy in tow, and you have given me everything, and it
all becomes ash in my mouth, but I am trying to taste stars, Samael,
and now, I am ready to stop hiding from my truths and burn, burn.


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Baba Yaga in the Basement

Babushka lives down the stairs,

don’t you know? Clean, spin, sew,

milk golden cows for silver milk,

she has chores to do, a bone fence,

leshys to play chess with and a mortar

and pestle to beat black and blue her

suitors with, if you come courting

Baba Yaga, best bring some blood

and wine.  Chicken bones.  A skull

lantern.  Meet with her and beat

your breasts under a new moon in

ancient rites of witchcraft, and she

is my mother, my ancestress, the

hag of the forest I call my kin,

wise woman and baby eater,

like Lilith but wilder and not

a beauty, like Angrboda with none

of the red tangling hair, just

a kerchief and shock white braid.

She is churning out your future

into butter for blini, eat some

of her pierogis and listen to me,

knitting and woman’s work is

sacred, and be you a good little

girl, dutiful daughter and diligent,

she shall take you to her side and

teach you all sorts of arcane magic.

I have Baba Yaga in my basement,

quite literally, and I always make

sure to pour her the finest of drinks.

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Tell me, oh fairy king, do I fit the narrative?
Am I pretty enough? Am I witty enough? Is my skin
the dun of a cow? Am I beautiful or am I wretched,
with poisoned brains and nightshade eyes. Are my
breasts fit for suckling changelings, will I be
the tithe to Hell? Or am I to be Midir’s bride,
a fluttering Etain caged in a box by Aengus Og.
There are two ways this story could go: eat, or
be eaten. I could eat the food of the underworld
and become Thomasina the Rhymer, and when I return
back to the human world, aback a dapple steed, my
lover and family would be centuries gone, and were
I to step off the ship of dreams, I would crumble
to dust. Is being spirited away by the fey freedom
or a cage? Will my wrists softly burn in crystal
manacles? Will I churn butter into gold and spin
moonbeams into silver thread? Will an ointment
give me the second sight only to have my eyes
plucked out in vengeance for using it to my
budding business’s advantage? How many elves
will cobble my high heels, is cream and lavender
buds enough to suffice for the nissir? How does
my story end, oh fairy king? How could I ever
rule a land of mercurial Ariels and Calibans,
spirited away like a Miyazaki film, am I Tam
Lin or Janet in this tale? Trapped or freed?
Why is my mind a marauder and my body saintly?
Defile my rose, oh fairy king, pluck my newly
grown maidenhead, for I am the perpetual virgin,
and Saint Salome’s finger withered when she
tested the Virgin Mary, at her side to midwife
Christ into being. Your kind flees the cross,
does it not, a third of the angels took no side
in the war, says the Book of the Dun Cow, and the
neutral angels fell to the land to become spirits
of river, land, and sea. Do you remember Heaven,
fairy king? Do you even remember your name? It
is hidden in medieval scripture and forgotten
grimoires, I will only be your bride if you
tell me your truth, peel back your skin, and
serve your immortal heart up on a platter for
my feast. If I am to feed the Hounds of Annwnn,
then let me drag you to death as well, fair prince.
Tithe for a tithe, blood for blood, sweat for spit.
I will bring you misfortune, and soon, the reign
of the fey will end, and the cairns will fall,
and the raths will be washed away, and all fairy
rings wither and die. I am the death of magic,
I am humanity, and we
no longer