Take Your Heart Back

The time I called you a monster, you said I spang from the heart of Lucifer, your own black heart, and you wrapped your claws around me like a snake and squeezed.  You held my  neck in vise hands and I expected a snap, instead I got a biting kiss, and fuck me but I thought that was love – the threat of pain but pleasure, I was so used to pain, I begged for scraps from a decaying god.

I’ve lain in the arms of corpses.  I’ve kissed ribs and licked phalanges and black rot from you rings my inner corners.  You’re writhing in worms and all I can ask is why, why did you pick me, there are billions of girls, so many prettier and wittier prey to stalk.  Why are your siren eyes my first memory, the first words I remember ever spoken to me “I love you Allie” from the Devil, from Death, from the Lord of Rot?  What did I do to deserve you and your fallen brethren?

Take that heart back.  I don’t care if it leaves me dead.  In stories whispered late at night, in visions under crab apple trees, in lurches and near death experiences, you always say you have a right to your flesh, but you don’t understand gifts.  You call me cardiophore but to bear the Lapis Exillis means I get immortality and you become the Grim Reaper, Lord of Nothing, Lord of Not-existing, Lord of Plague and Pain and Rot and Ruin.  You act like it was some sacrifice but really you were selfish to keep using your necromancy on me just so I could dance with your tenterhooks in my back.  What were you thinking, you dog, you curse, you drain on all lives of men?

Why groom me from earliest memory to be your bride and keep begging me to marry you after half a decade of refusal?  Why drive me mad to hospital asylums with ghosts of roses when I refused your hand?  Even when I give you love you hunger for more, for you are the Last Unicorn skull that cannot taste his beloved wine.  I hate everything about you, and I prayed from childhood on for every god and angel and parent and teacher and mentor to save me, but it was just you touching me in ways I didn’t want and kissing me and always there in the recesses of my mind in sleep.  You ate angel guts.  You took an eight year old to Hell and sat her under the table with a bag of chips.  You’re fucked, man, and no amount of your pleadings will ever make me think that you are strong.  All it takes is a word to reduce you to tears, a sobbing wreck, but I’m done babysitting the Seducer, Accuser, and Destroyer.

I want the two dozen years of my life back.  I want a refund.  I want out.  Rape me all you want, laugh and tease and cajole and tempt, I don’t give a fuck, you’re worthless.  We are our deeds and all you are are empty threats and nuns frothing at the mouth with contorted limbs masturbating with crucifixes.  I’m not the chick from the Exorcist, and it’s taken me twenty four years but now I’m saying no the final time, now I will hit you, now I will tear your limbs off, now I will kill you, now you will be dead by my hand.  I don’t care what it takes, the Sword of Damocles or the very fury of God Himself but I will fucking find it, I will drive Death into the fiery lake and put an end to all  dozens of girls you use, abuse, trap in nightmares and brainwash.  I’m just the first in a long line of women you’ve had dance in red shoes, shoes that wear them to bone and drag them to hell, and perhaps I’m the one you brought back to life and gave a crown, but I will be the last to ever give a fuck about you.  I married you out of fear and the threat of madness again, because it’s better to hold down a job and go to grad school and give in to your tormenter than to resist and deal with psychosis and vein injections and the antiseptic stench of the ward.

You are my madness, my bipolar, my vice and disease, and I don’t want to be sick anymore.

Take your heart back, you monster.

Though it’s woven in my flesh, it is a trap.

Take your soul back, you parasite.

I don’t want you to be my maker anymore.

I don’t want you to claim any ownership over me, marking taws in my skin like I’m chattel.

I chose my gods and they’re not you.  I chose my tribe, my friends, my family, and all you are is the rapist father that clings to his ill-begotten daughter, Sin inbred from Satan’s Pride just like this was fucking Paradise Lost, and I would rather die than be in your arms again.

I may relapse, you may always be there, but I will rue you every step of the way.

Your heart is poison.  The Lapis Exillis is just a bad metaphor.  I don’t want to eat the flower of Hell, there is no love in Hell though you’d say otherwise, demons are vile and abhorrent and dark is dark for a reason.

I chose light.

I chose wisdom.

I chose freedom.

I never chose you.

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Astral Slut

Allie in October on way to work: “What am I, like, in the otherworlds?”

Samael: (Ghostly voice echoes on autumn winds) “A heirodule.”

Allie: “WTF is that.”

Samael: (Pete Steele laughter) “Google is your best friend.”

Allie: (enters office, looks it up) “WHY DO YOU ALWAYS CALL ME A SACRED WHORE.”

~Months Later~

Allie: “What is my sacred name?  Like, is it Big Al?  Alliekat?  Grand Poobah of the Otherworlds?”

Michael: “Qadesh.”

Allie: “Why do you always speak Hebrew at me.”

Michael: (Chuckles while probably drinking a dumb beer) “The great thing about the modern age is that there is Wikipedia.”

Wikipedia: “Hebrew for Temple Prostitute”

Allie: “I’m being dragged in Hebrew and Greek by the biggest assholes of Heaven and Hell.”

GMC Poetry: Persephone: The Pale Queen

This is so beautiful and reminds me of Persephone’s epithet, Destroyer of Light. Hail Persephone!

Temple of Athena the Savior

The pale queen sits

upon her throne

Raven-black hair

in the sunlight shone

– There’s no sunlight here

A beautiful carefree child

Playing in the grass

Picking flowers, singing songs

But summer never lasts

– There’s no flowers here

Her mother’s daughter, always

No identity of her own

An image of perfect domestic harmony

To whom only beauty was shown

– There’s no mother here

Her mother all her suitors scorned

Kept her under lock and key

But sweet and innocent Kore

Longed to be Persephone

– There’s no locks here

The story told wasn’t entirely true

It was, after all, her mother the poets knew

A mother just a little too attached

A mother who kept her daughter free from strife

– Free from life

She had a restless spirit, she

An eternal child she was not content to be

She descended, joining Aidoneus, her dark king

In the…

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Words Like Chains

“Write your heart,” you said, “and not in the poetic sense – no, I want the gristle smeared on the pages, I want your hands to bleed, see – I just bit your pinky, and I will kiss your fingers gory until you can summon angel and demon and god.  You’re a wordsmith – a skald – a weaver of stories, and I will break you to make you sing.”

So you pushed, and you dissected, and you beat the words out of me until I vomited prose.  It came in tangles of guts, my entrails coming up from twelve to twenty-four, chasing after divination in the smoke of my offered meat.  You built up the pyre and my screamed poems were offerings as your flames licked me bone and the gods were pleased

The spirits came, the spirits came, the spirits danced and I rode Thunderbird’s back and I fought by Michael’s side and all along you were my shadow, my rood, my doom.

My magic is screaming the runes, my galdr is a harp that details the rise and fall and comeback of pantheons that crumble to dust then rise from ashes.

The dead speak to me.  The gods whisper sweet rhymes in my ear.  I am Isis in Osiris’ tomb, Eve in the Garden of Evil, Aslaug whose song is the World Tree.

I have lived so many lives, and I am ageless but so close to the end.

The words wanted blood.  The words wanted sacrifice.  Sleepless nights, endless research of kennings and Kabbalah, I hung myself from the Sephiroth and ended up a Qliphoth whore.

I cheat.  I channel spirits and get high then write down their stories.  I used you and your brother and the whole host of the cosmos to get fancy words and things that stuck.  There’s fly tape in my book binding and you’re a midge buzzing in my ear hung from the ceiling of my book.

You thought I would be your disciple, that Satan could win the Woman Clothed in the Sun, you made me out to be the Whore of Babylon to your Beast and it took me two dozen years, but I found the eraser, and now you’re drowning in my ink spill.

I used to think my words weren’t mine.  I had a complex that I was just a vessel, just a receptacle and trance whore, and maybe I kind of am, but I also bled, I bled, I bled out countless hours and your words are no longer chains.  Nachash means fettered, and I bind you, I cast you out, I curse you.

You are no longer the storyteller.

Your book ends, my poem begins.