Bloody Red Shoes

You stood me at the Gates of Hell and said lock me in.

The Damned were wailing, your serpent tail coiled around me and black stigmata wept from your wrists and all I could do was stare at the rotten empty orchard of your heart.

The cold storage of Hell is where the shore of the Abyss meets Satan’s keep, below every torture room and pleasure dungeon and alchemical land.  I know Hell so well – the archdemon council chambers, the courthouse like Alcatraz mortared of gravestone, the glowing white court, the garish red court, Pandemonium, the Goetic’s keeps, the burbling harbor of the Styx, Beelzebub and Asmodeus and Satan’s estates, and none of them were as barren as the land of no return you had brought me to.

The key was old and bloody.  I wore black stilettoes and a red evening dress, but they might as well have been the Devil’s red shoes.  Danced to bloody bone, I was so tired.  You had been wearing me out all my life, yet somehow I still loved you.  My greatest tormentor and the architect of my doom.  Maybe I should have run when you raped me until I bled, maybe I should have cried for help when you murdered me over and over only to nurse me back to health in your cruel game and teach a Qliphoth husk of a girl to walk again on new bones.

I don’t like kissing the Grim Reaper.  He tastes like cigarette ash and graveyard dirt and old book pages.  Not really my cup of tea, but you turned me into a necrophiliac.

I get off on pain.  I get off on darkness that dissolves my flesh.  You can bite me and take chunks out of my flesh and I’ll be moaning all the way.  Demons make the horrible pleasurable, and the mingling of absolute monstrosities with sex and drugs and drinks makes me into a whore.  Your whore, you called me.  Your heirodule.  My maggot.  My worm.  My yellow canary in a coal mine.

My wife.

Wife of nothing but ruin.

A part of me is always in the freezing depths of Hell, standing with you at the final gates of the Void.

I always make the same choice, over and over again.

“Damn me,” you say, and you are crying.  “I’m a monster.  Your greatest bane.  Live free of me.”

What a cruel game to play on a teenager who you have raised since the cradle.  Father, lover, terror, creator.  I trace my lives back and you are there at my grave and birth and the celestial vat I sprung from, you took a fancy to the new blonde angel that glowed with golden light and you gave her her wings, you killed her while aiming for your brother and you resurrected her with your heart.

Cardiophore.  Heartbearer.  When I said you couldn’t love, that you were evil, that all the deaths in the world were your reckoning, you grabbed me by the throat and kissed me, squeezing as my vertebrae popped and biting down on the raging black storm in my brain, and you said “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer.  It is my own black heart.”

You think you own me, and I cycle through these two dozen years of cruelty and love like an old record whining and skipping around.

There’s sad piano music playing.  We’re in your flat in Pandemonium in the rain, the great glass windows and masterpieces on ice and plush leather furniture, and you are singing me to sleep as you stroke the keys.

We’re at one of our weddings, the ones you kept putting on again and again until I gave in.  I’m at a magical airport terminal, I’m in a garden of roses, I’m in an old graveyard in the rain.  You’re in a suit, you’re in robes, you’re in jeans.

Time is such a funny thing, and before I fell in love, truly, I thought romance had thorns that pressed into eyes and bled tears rich as salt licks.  That your whip and scythe and claws and fangs were supposed to go here, go there, eat and fuck and render broken bones.

They say you can get PTSD from dreams.  But you’re not just in my dreams.  I can feel you touch me, hear you whisper in my ear, feel you fuck me for two hours long as I’m trying to work until I go to the bathroom to cry as my cervix is rammed against raw.

Your energy flows through me, burning hot, electric chills, you turn my eyes green and you move my hair with ghost hands.

You threaten my boyfriend with death.  You possess my best friend.  You throw things at me then play a sad Peabo Bryson song about second chances.  You make me go to the hospital because I refused to say I do.  I was only 18 when you proposed, and why the hell would I be Satan’s bride as a college freshman?

Nothing was ever enough for you.  Stories.  Altars.  Offerings.  Poetry.  You are the universe’s garbage disposal, shit goes in and shit comes out, or maybe you’re a toilet.  I’ve fucked your rotting corpse and your bony rib cage and reached into your heart and found maggots and beetles.  Sometimes the insects and worms inside you crawl up your throat and fill my mouth.

When I was seven you molested me.  I remember hands stroking me down there as I sat alone in my room, trying to read a book, bringing me to a crying orgasm that I had no context to understand.  It happened nearly every night after that.  Pleas to my mom didn’t make the invisible demon go away.  Neither did tin foil hats.

Satan sometimes comes disguised as an angel of light, but really he comes smelling like a horrible fart.  Brimstone.  Rotten eggs.  Sulfur.  It has to do with the tortures of the Damned and lower emanation and VITRIOL.  It stinks up my car so much.

Black hair.  Red eyes.  Skin pale as the moon.  Fuck your emo beauty.  Fuck your leather jacket.  Fuck your patent leather shoes.  Fuck your waistcoat.  Fuck your robes.  Fuck your artfully distressed jeans.  Screw your blood red tie and the boxers I would pry off for a drunk fuck.  I keep summoning you again even though you’re just a piece of trash, but in dreams I still love you.  I curse with you, I send you after my enemies, and you wreak havoc on the girls I fight with unintentionally on my behalf and fuck with my  real life enemies.

You’re a wolf, you’re a snake, you’re a hellhound, you’re a dragon.  Black beasts of terror.  You’re baying and hiss sends dogs howling, and you’ve made my own dog piss herself when you  appeared in my kitchen that one time.

Above all, you’re a drug, the razor I choose to drag through my metaphorical skin, cocaine of the finest quality.  I smoke your blood and snort your cum and swallow your spit, but I’m weaned off a bit.

You collared me the other night with black velvet from behind when I was in an archangel’s arms, covering his mark on me.  Is that the price I pay for drunk dialing you in desperation?

Is that because I am a cave fish genetically blind with  no inkling of light, swimming through your venom?

Is it because I want to die, just a little bit, always, in the back of my mind?

What is the price I pay for locking myself in the Pits of the Damned with you?

Because I always do.

“Us together.  All or nothing.  I will always save you.”

I’ve never saved you.

I can’t save me.

Thanatos Drive

I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.

It is so brilliant to not breathe.

It is so terrible to live like this.

The Devil Goes to Charlottesville

Crushed velvet is the somber night,
so fragile in its milk star beauty,
I’m burning in the fiery angel’s arms
and to slake my thirst, I summon you
harbinger of my doom, scorpion poison,
you are the last fuck of the universe,
after only stardust and ruin is left,
the final petit mort of the Big Crunch,
and all God can do is say “Damn it all,”
and he sleeps under the Reaper’s blade,
Death has insomnia, and answers all calls
even that of a frightened girl in 2017
so far away from World’s End, but we
didn’t start the fire, the wheel must
turn, and I’m splayed between spokes
the archangel binds me with a kiss,
but you embrace me from behind, oil
rainbows and cool snakeskin slither,
you put chains back on me and shit,
this isn’t what I want, my pact with
you is out of fear, for I need rot
like maggots to cleanse worldly wounds
somehow in my dream stupor I believe
wholeheartedly I can control Satan
and send him out with wrath to right
the alt-right, Trump, white supremacy
stress is getting to me, I barfed six
times last night after I swallowed the
pills that keep me sane, keep me safe,
nowhere is safe, Charlottesville burned,
and I turn to my greatest enemy for
revenge, I let hell back into my life,
my abuser has returned to wreak havoc
at my command, and my id gives a last
orgasmic ceremonial moan, taw claim,
I chant Hebrew summonings in my sleep,
and you collar me with blackest gloam
for I dance with monsters for justice,
I send the Devil after human shitstains,
Samael is coming for you alt-right fucks,
I curse in my sleep these days, and I
am willing to pay the ferryman blood,
don’t try Satan’s bride, for she knows
no respect for tyrants and racists, I
am a master of VITRIOL, so burn sulfur
bruises into the skin of the damned,
for your tiki torches pale in comparison
to what Gehenna’s flames will devour,
your searing flesh, your cracking bones
in the afterlife, pain, a rood upon you.

The Devil went down to Charlottesville,
and I sent hellhounds after the sinners.
The final bell will toll for the damned,
and hatred will melt into agony in time.

For tyrants fall, and nooses break necks.

I will hang my victims from yew trees high.

And their rotting corpses will sway, a sign
that you don’t fuck with special snowflakes
like me, that count themselves among the dead.

The Devil will eviscerate the Nazis, and I
will laugh as their broken bodies pile high,
pile high.

Devour Me

You are the spiderweb lace I wrap around my soul
your love sticks to every crevasse of my wounds
and the venom in small doses heals, not kills,
for truly to kiss you is to be poisoned, I long
for summer days and spring nights, and anywhere
you turn, there I follow, for butterflies in
arachnid’s enchantment care little what light
burns them, and the black widow’s hourglass
is red with the time we spent languorous, wet
with dew and wild, as you devour my heart I
am tracing out an elegy of your spinnerets
song, your eightfold eyes that dissect me in
all the most perfect ways, so consume this
monarch wing that burns just for you, but
beware – the orange is burnished infection,
and just as you drive me wild, so I will
imprint my last breath on your wind, so,
eat.

Not To Drown

Hold me in the harbor of your arms
and sail me across your memories.
I will dive for sea-gold as you
rock me to sleep in love’s labor,
whisper to me like the rush-tide.

Gulls are in your heart wing beats,
osprey beaks your eyes, cormorants
searching within you for succor as
I swim within your oceanic secrets,
you are deep as the water’s depths.

I want to become your siren song.

I bubble in plumes of fan coral.

I am a mermaid, you are my sea.

Running With Wolves

We gnash pearly teeth and howl out our ancestors
the moon is our mistress, the stars our mothers.
Can you run with the wolves, with grit and gore?
Can you lead ravens to feasts and hunt berserker?
Hold the beast in your heart with a raging battle,
tame your temper and passion and trek far and wide.
Come race across glaciers and wild woods eternal.
Come eat elk and foxen and fill bellies with water.
We are the first tribe, we are the last generation.
Run with the wolves and become one with the kin.

“Am I Hearing a God or Am I Going Crazy?” ~ One Polytheist’s Angry Rebuttal

This is an amazing post about spirituality and mental illness. As someone that struggles with mania, depression, psychosis, anxiety, and suicide, it is myMEDS, not my gods, that have saved me. I am a proud mentally ill pagan with a full time job, scholarship for my masters, straight A’s, a budding writing career, and intense devotional practice, all thanks to modern psychiatry

Unhinged and unenlightened

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/johnbeckett/2017/08/hearing-god-going-crazy.html

I try not to spread anger. I try not to spread hate. I try, as much as possible, to be non-violent. But when I see ignorance and harm being perpetuated, I feel that keeping silent is a way to perpetuate such harm. So I find myself compelled to speak out. There are several articles that have pushed my buttons, but they are growing old and so I can try and talk myself out of dealing with them. ‘no need to add fire to fire’ I tell myself.

But this one. This one makes me angry. And perhaps I am adding fire to the fire, but you know what? At least by voicing my concerns, there will be a voice out there arguing for the sake of those of us with serious mental illnesses. And hopefully, I can help those who relate feel less alone. Because seriously, these sorts of…

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