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.

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Temple of Isis

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

to come

home.

Come the War

And as I clutch you naked and shivering, laying at your breast, I remember a million shattered swords and bloody barracks and I think, solace in the sun, solace in my brother, your wings soft down but your face scarred, golden armor and halo gory,

we are broken angels, dimmed from millenia, nay, eternity, in this trench warfare, in this march towards New Jerusalem, and Zadkiel, my standard bearer, my Archstratigos’s right hand man, while I am the left, I have crossed nine rivers of time to find your ravaged bones, a century of tears and Purgatory of clay from ash from ruin from Eden now nuclear winter wasteland just to be here, in this moment, on this earth.

with you.

time is a funny thing.  we fight come hell or high water. let us eke out a garden together, let us travel this small little dusty planet, let us raise Cain, let us just be not ravaged and shellshocked, but human.

angels are only as good as their makers.  angels are just war machines.  angels, angels, everywhere.

but only one

you.

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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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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Apep, Uncreation, the Thing, or the End Times

I have no name for it.  It is what all angels and demons and gods and spirits and humanity fight.  The Thing from Wrinkle in Time.  What has tried to kill me since I was born.  Apep that all the gods fight each night to make sure the sun rises.  The death of the immortal soul, a true ending, outside Satan and Michael and Jesus and God and the True Enemy.  That Which Has No Name.  What I am utterly and irrevocably drawn to and what I will enter oblivion for.  What we will all die from, in the end, because no one speaks of it, fewer know it, and to see it is to realize: all the happy endings religions promise you, reincarnation, that love wins, that you can “become a living god,” it all turns up trite shit.  Makes the Void look like a fucking fiesta and Chaos seem homey and all those monsters in the dark shit their pants.  It’s what I’ve been fucking running from all my life yet it will be my undoing.  That Thing that Exists Outside All.  Gray.  Neutrality.  Staleness.  Kelvin Zero.  The opposite of noise, the absence of silence.  Where language and Ragnarok and Revelations fail and the truth of the matter is, God can die, no soul’s immortality is guaranteed, this very universe, this very multiverse, all stages of reality and all stories we tell ourselves to sleep at night are just lies against whatever the fuck it is.

The virus.  The bug in the system.  What corrupts and is Gray.  Not black or white.  Absence and yet beyond absence.  What makes everything into it.  Fuck Qliphoth, it is the true husk.  Eggshell wanting to swallow everything in it’s prison.  Where the Void of the lowest pits of the wailing damned far below the lap of Satan where demons drink to forget it, where that Void ends, where Darkness and Light have no domain, the the Thing hungers yet does not eat.  Dust.  Beyond something and nothing.  What sickens.  The Evil Inclination and yet the very basis for what all existence is destined to fight.  I can’t name it, nothing can name it, demons and eldritch horrors and Choronzon all have their place.

The Thing has no place.  It consumes and yet does not destroy.  It creates yet it creates nothing.  It is the very birth of paradox and madness and to touch it is to become a howling void.  The Thing is outside All, and yet wants to Be All.  And defeating it will cost everything I fucking love.

I was 12 when I first saw it.  Lost in Heaven as my soul fled my fucking child body and I witnessed the slaughter of archangels in spilled guts and hacked off heads by these puppets of the Thing.  Beyond dark matter and Kelvin Zero.  Just… a Thing.  A cancer and yet not of anything fleshy or natural or supernatural or bodily.  And despite Michael’s legions, despite these angels of immense power with flaming swords and wings of adamant, the Thing was winning.  I was pulled down to the battlefield and screamed and no one could see or hear me.  I wove between angels and the Thing’s puppets and knew if It touched me, I would be beyond oblivion, beyond death, beyond any hope of Allie or any love or hate or just, really, anything.  I would become It.

Somehow Michael fucking found me and pulled me with the gravity of God to a bloody clearing where he was shouting orders with flaming sword in hand, terrified, his red hair matted with ichor.  Michael saved my life and all lives to come and everything that I was, as Michael is the only one that can see the Spy of God, and he shouted “Zophael!” in my small four foot whatever body and shoved me like lightning down my spine to my stomach and his look was utter terror and fury at me daring venture close to it.  I jolted back alive in a daze and knew the source of all my nightmares was very real.  The Thing yawned in my small fragile soul and I grasped something of annhilation.  Spies are only as good as the intelligence they gather, and I am the Herald of Hell, and I have been fucking trying to figure out the Thing for all my life, yet it’s like being in the Mariana Trench with a matchstick.  If Michael and Samael fight it, what fucking chance does a kid stand?  Watchwomen are good at crying for help, not much else, and I had never screamed as much as I did that night.  That night I almost was erased.

I saw it again when I was 18.  Gray.  Nuclear winter.  Conformity.  No love or hate or anything unholy or holy.  It fed.  It nursed.  It consumed.  It injected.  The gods and demons and angels manifested to fight it, and people gave their lives over to the spirits as vessels, and I carved two bloody taws into my palms and Samael possessed me for the first time, and my eyes grew red as blood, and I wielded the scythe, and I went to face it while Satan piloted my fucking tissue paper body.  Samael spoke through me and gave commands, fighting at Michael and Odin and Athena and Ra’s side – every fucking thing was there fucking fighting the Thing.  And it was a fucking massacre.  I remember seeing just this cancer on everything, the bug, the virus, the Thing, feeding.  Gray.  Winter yet not a time for rest.  Sleep yet not of dreams.  What Hell guards us from but could contain no more.  What Samael is a scapegoat for.  What the whole reason Fenrir and Set and Satan were invented as cardboard villains to project all the lies we have about the Thing to help us sleep at night.

I now give my body over willingly.  That’s the whole point.  I can’t keep fucking running from my rood, destruction, and husk.  It is in my heart because I am trying to understand It.  I remember locking myself in the Pit with it just to wipe the blood from Satan’s brow for eternity as he held it back.  I don’t know why he doesn’t just give in.  When your soul is in constant battle, when your very being is zuhama, how do you live knowing if you make one fucking mistake the Thing will make you its chewtoy.  Demons are the fucking watchdogs, angels are the second defense, and Hell was invented as a barrier to contain the Thing, to make one last fuck you stand to the Gray.

At twelve, I found it face to face.  At my birth, I felt it.  It haunts and is the reason I am terrified of the dark.  Broken records.  Skips in the matrix.  It’s all about programming, at the end of the day.  Do we get a choice in this, or are we already damned.  Apep.

Snakes are slippery things.

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Where It All Went Wrong

Michael often wonders where the house of cards fell under a butterfly wing flap, what joint of the celestial body was the weak link.  Was it Lucifer’s desire to suck the marrow out of the bones of the abyss?  Was it Asmodeus’ lust for the daughters of men?  Was it Beelzebub’s martial ambitions to rival Michael’s own?  Once, he would say, these brothers of his were as close as the pulse of his heart.  But Lucifer became Samael, and fire turned to ash, and he is left with a third of his sisters and brothers damned for all time on blood money, as the song goes, only they were the prototypes of Judas, selling the ineffable name of God out to the humans in the form of a shiny poison apple.

Evil roots.  Evil is a lindworm gnawing at the tap root of the Sephiroth.  And then there is death of Da’ath, and then there is the Qliphoth, and then there is the madness of the prophets bridging the Tree of Life and Tree of Death.  So evil roots into the hearts of man, Samael’s seed blossoming in witchfire, and the questions of what Hayah Havah means is echoed in the barracks of a million mortal armies.  Why do we bleed out for dictators and crackpots, dying on the streets of gang warfare and drug wars and turf wars and falling like flies to school shooters?  Lucifer turned the entirety of the universe into a battlefield, and not even the babes are safe from the evil that he planted, that dry grape vine of the vintage most vengeful.  Sometimes, the plants of filth and zuhama climb up the Sephiroth and root in Michael’s rose garden in Machon.  He takes his flaming sword and swiftly cuts down the defiant black blooms.  Rotting alive, thirsting after Heaven even after the rebellion.  Samael likes to remind Michael that he is watching.  All he really would have to do would be to call, send a messenger, but Samael likes to be flagrant in disregard for protocol, sauntering to the Gates of Heaven, which he cannot enter (or can he?) and throw paper planes with profanities over Saint Peter, enchanted to reach Michael as he is trying to relax.  Sam was always annoying like that.

Where did they go wrong?  Their bridge failed miserably.  She died in the first war, of cherubim swiftest wing, Herald of Hell, Watchman of God, Heaven’s original covert mission and spy with sympathies towards Hell.  Jophiel to Michael, or Zophael as she preferred to call herself, was always flighty, and without Samael to keep her in check, she grew wild, mad with grief, for to lose the one who gave her wings (Michael gave her her breath and heart, well, her first one at least.  Samael would claim even that in time) made Jophiel erratic.  She saved Michael’s life, yes, but at what cost?  Dissension between the twins.  A bridge burned.  She was created out of beauty, yes, but she brought pain to the garden, and she was the first of martyrs, Lucifer be damned.

Now the bridge is broken, and Taninver rides the Shekinah, and this world is not right.  This world is broken and cruel, and she is gone, out of reach, so in love with the idea of martyrdom she has made herself a sacrificial soul.  Michael has offered her Assumption twice now but she chose Samael, she always chooses him, over salvation, for she says, if her brothers and sisters who art in Hell, who Zo grew to close to when faking allegiance to the Prince of Darkness, only to blaze onto the battlefield in the glory of betrayal as Michael’s standard bearer, this guilt Zo feels at double-timing, at being an angel in hell, at leaving that third behind to rot, it makes her mad and bad and dangerous to know.  She thinks the mem can be cleansed, when really, nothing can separate wheat from chaff but the fiery lake, and that is where he belongs, at least, Michael thinks.  Otherwise he would not have asked her to abandon Earth on Easter and Good Friday for Heaven and endless Paradise.  Your penance is done, this self-imposed exile of the Watchtower Girl, he was trying to say, but it came out  in parables and scraps of starlight, and Michael grows weary of trying to save her, of trying to convince her Samael is not worth saving, so instead he just makes love to her and heals her wounds the best he can, the wounds his brother inflicts, that first spear through the heart and that last rape of the soul, all but for knowledge, all but for Samael to declare his own Hayah Havah, on Chavah no less, when he is but Yah the snake.  Snakes are slippery things, egotistical at that, but Zo is a dragon and general mother of Heaven’s battlefield, and she has not forgotten her loyalties.

Her very core belongs to Michael, and for Samael to give her his heart, means his damned brother is also under God’s love and sway.  The cardiophore chooses who is redeemed in the end, anyway, if Sa’el is left standing or if the pale rider turns into oblivion.

All hell would follow after him, were she to figure out this puzzle.

Michael does not have faith he deserves redemption.

Michael does not think she can.

Michael is weary, and Michael

no longer

believes.

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Sightseeing in Hell: Pandemonium

As Samael’s consort, I have certain duties in Hell, such as punishing the Damned, but alongside that comes rulership.  My favorite place in all the fourteen Heavens and Hells is what I call Pandemonium, my little slice of New York City meets Marrakesh in the Underworld.  Azael recently challenged me for my queenship over this section of Samael’s kingdom, and I found myself in a near-death duel with one of the Watchers who thought I was too green to rule.  I defeated her handily, and went on to enjoy a night of partying in Pandemonium with my people.

Pandemonium is the market district of Hell in the capital city of Dis and is a refuge for all different mythical races that have fled persecution of the Abrahamic faiths.  You can find everything from qilin to fey to djinn to unktehi to Melusines roaming the streets, selling wares from fine jewelry to exotic diamond and jewel fruits to fresh food, clothing that’s every style from Steampunk to Lolita, pleasures and vices for sale, from willing bodies to Cabaret to drugs made of the distilled essences of moonflowers and dreams.  The closest it comes is to a living carnival, full of its own customs, as Pandemonium is a melting pot of spirits.  I adore riding the Behemoths, these great black elephant-like creatures that carry travelers and caravans aboard their backs, and hearing the Behemoths trumpet with their trunks.  Only small vehicles are allowed, from caravans to horse-drawn carriages to motorcycles and steeds of every imaginable kind, and there is oftentimes dancing and masquerades going on, revelries of all sorts, from unholy mummer’s plays to traditions of each species’ homelands like Lunar New Year or Eid.

Pandemonium backs onto the Styx, where fresh fish come to the markets from the ruby waters, and tributaries are traveled by gondola and rowboat alike.  It borders Asmodeus’ bars, jazz and swing clubs, and gambling district and also Lilith’s go go bars, strip clubs, and red light district, the lively circus of Pandemonium’s bodies and festivals and wares spilling into any open space available like a living organ.  Buildings are temporary: yurts, tents, cloths, an open air market that is popular for shopping and romantic getaways with unimaginable tastes for the palate.  Exit Samael’s fortress of a castle and the market starts, with paths winding and erected by a madman, lit by will o the wisps, fairies, and dragon fire.  Danse macabre is a popular past-time as it is in Samael’s kingdom, and you’ll see the dead roaming the streets alongside the living.  Ghosts and ghouls and spirits come alive at night in the shadows of the stalls.

At night, Samael holds balls and all of Pandemonium is invited to the castle, to the Devil’s Masque, which can best be described as a Viennese ball mixed with a blood orgy.  Elaborate costumes, debauchery, fine wine and finer still blood mingling between lovers and enemies, the fruits of our labors and vintage of our wrath.  His subjects wear enchanted masks to disguise their identities if they so choose and hedonism reigns.  But my favorite holiday is the Festival of Lights, which happens on All Soul’s Day – the Damned and dead souls in Hell, all ancestors that dwell their for various reasons, are allowed to return to Earth as the archdemons open a gateway to the realm of the living and visit their descendants.  Basically the Hell version of Dia de los Muertos.  The Styx is lit with paper lanterns and souls returning to Earth are a Jacob’s ladder in the sky.  There are fireworks, fresh roses strewn across the streets, and danse macabre throughout the markets.

I own a little bit of woodland, what I call the Screaming Hollow, more of a park at the border of the markets that backs up into Samael’s elaborate system of courtyards.  This is the Lover’s Lane of Hell.  Samael’s garden is famed for his blood-red roses and viticulture, with red wine made on site and trellises hung with wisteria and grapes, briars growing in forests around them.  Here are the more dangerous spirits, the wild Seirim, the flying Lilin, the howling Shedim, and everything can be found in the Screaming Hollow for the right price – it may just cost you your soul.  A river runs through it from a deep tap root at the Tree of Life and the waters are a pure crystal blue with raw garnet stones in the basin.  Lovers wild off each other’s lips often come to the screaming hollow at midnight, when the witch moon sails through the sky.  This is where the Witches Sabbats are held, at the heart of the woods in a crippled apple grove on a high, desolate hill – a piece of Eden plucked from Heaven and rotting.  The witches in Hell I am a part of practice Satanic Witchcraft, if that wasn’t obvious enough, but there’s goes a step behind what the living could ever produce.  Think Malleus Maleficarum but high on nightshade wine.  Familiars are often lower-level demons, sent throughout the mythical realms to do their bidding, there is the osculum infame and blood sacrifices and cannibalism, and Samael presides over it all on a throne of bone as the Witchfather.

There are quieter parts of Pandemonium, like the residential areas, mostly stone and clay houses with thatch and patch roofs that are humble where the immigrants live.  Those are diverse as anything, with Japanese style dwellings to adobe.  Fronting the houses are often merchant tents, and the night carnival shifts each night, the heart of Hell where business off the ledgers is conducted.  Throughout it is enchanting music, buskers and street bands and sylphs and dakinis and enchantresses and sorcerers singing and fluting their songs.

Everything is for sale in Pandemonium, everything can be bought for a cost, but the best parts, in my opinions, are free.

Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Briar

Hosanna, I whisper through bloody lips, I got pummeled
by the riptide of my sorrow again, sweet Rabboni, and
you are far away in some Heavenly Throne, down on earth,
it is cold, and midnight comes to Galilee, with the moon
like a sickle for separating the faithful from the chaff.
Can you hear me, sweet Yeshua? Up there in your starry
abode. I bathed in lavender and myrrh, and Joseph’s coat
of dreams carried my prayers in technicolor up to your
tender hands and rose garden of desires, what obedience
to the ways and means of nature, to hang suspended on a
crossroads between Heaven and Hell, I know well, Satan
calls me whore, but sweet Christ, I would leave all the
ravishings and depravity just to receive your mark on my
scarred brow, I have many bruises and burns these days,
being the forgotten disciple means they paint me wanton
and demonize your Magdalene, Watchtower of God, Zophael,
Watchman of El, I was always a spy, anyways, of swiftest
wing, and they got our story wrong, oh Who is Like God?

No one but You, Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Rose.

Angel’s Landing

It is Saint Agnes’ Eve, a night for spells and lover-boys

vaunting under moonlight, but angels are carnal creatures,

and we more take quick dalliances on the battlefield,

or mate like lovebirds in times of peace, we’re flower children

but warriors, when Hawks meet Doves, winged and wild.

The squadron comes to me on the magic black moon-tide –

scores of cherubim, ophanim, and seraphim to be trained.

I am not human at midnight, no longer girl or woman, no

I am burning archangel with sword of flames, bounteous

general who runs drills and sends battalions off to melee.

I do not sleep, I do not dream.  I am in the space between

heartbeats, at Angel’s Landing, the black void of Creation

where my children of the arsenal become armed, how holy

to be military commandress to Heaven’s elite, swords abreast,

guns blazing, I am all Joan of Arc handing out godly commandments,

this is the least human I have ever been, and now the sickness of

divinity is growing too hot for this mortal coil to contain, my

magic is eating me alive, I am becoming a bellows to forge

the best of blades, Abrahamic mother of a thousand tribes,

but truly, in Paradise we are all related, and a third of our brethren

live on coal and ash in the Wastes West of Nod, Cain marked beyond

redemption, so on this high holy tide, I surrender to the War that is Eternal.

This War does not have a Name.  To give it a name would be to suggest that there

is even any War beyond this cosmic match of wits between the Light and the Dark.

 

I do not sleep.

 

I do not dream.

 

I take no solace, I cannot wander.

 

For angels do not have free will, and I am fire.