You Cancerous Man

Slit your liar’s throat and bleed out beetles,
eat your traitorous heart and choke down worms,
peel your cancerous skin and become a serpent –
you always ate dust, lowly maggot, you slug.

Psychosis is your groomsman bouquet, insanity
to the criminal degree your treacherous laugh,
you are the stench of brimstone, ugly as sin,
with bruisy eyes and boozy hands that wander.

I call you an insect, a flea, a mayfly, all
bugs and grubs you named me after, now you
they say the best teacher is your enemy, so now
I learned all your tricks, I turn them on you.

Find the Ace of Spades I buried in your lungs,
pull out the flaming blade I staked, you snake,
slither wounded to Hell, then drown in red blood,
choke on your abuses and be raped by your sins.

I place this curse upon you, Sammael Malkira,
to wander and hunger and never find solace,
a rood upon you, to die maliciously in fire,
a lake of flames your eternal home, begone.

Be Damned.


The Monster Comes at Night

It goes like this.  The girl is born with a silver spoon, with gold hair and teeth like pearls, but inside she is death and moonlight magic, a graveyard his coffin fits into, and the Devil lusts after the glimmering strands of her wyrd, like an amber and pink aurora borealis, and the way her blood redeems him simmered to a fine stewing panic on his tongue.

She is in love with his poison and makes a bed of ruin with Satan, for who could understand her monster better than the most deformed, wicked, tortured and enfettered drunkard in the world?  Who else lashes out with the storm of a bipolar hurricane?  They smash bones and slit throats, they drink down the gore of each other, and it is hate fuck after drunk nude after shitty love poem after breakup and makeup and make out and early fumblings in preteen years then knowing each other’s bodies like a favorite instrument.

Their love is a house on fire, with a wife and husband trapped inside that is too busy screaming grit out of lungs at each other over another high and lush fight to notice flames licking their flesh.

The Prince of Darkness comes early  at the stroke of three, when she is cradlebound, and he sings to her in a voice so sweet and eldritch, with eyes like a Lovecraftian abyss.  He is the Prince of Lies, but never does he come disguised as an angel of light to her.  He would rather show her his rot, with red siren eyes and chains grating along with the shrieks of the Damned.

A two-year old does not know good from bad, polarities or light or darkness, just that the blackness holds her demon.  That he tortures her and eats her father as a hellhound at four, that in daylight hours he is the Shadow Man that feels like Kelvin Zero, absolute cold who stalks the house and slams doors.

At six she’s making monsters, drawing chimeras of angels and demons, and she gives him the name Doom.  Rood or curse or whipporwill, for his song is sweet and of the fall, or perhaps a mourning dove, in mourning for nothing but his pride, for he is a dirge and the tolling of chapel bells at a funeral.

He gives life and takes it.  He makes her and destroys her.  She claws and hugs and kisses and grows into an iron rose.  At twelve she meets him – Samael, the Venom of God – and he is rich claret Martian robes on a marble throne, golden circlet, and fine long black hair and rose eyes.  She always called his eyes roses, when anyone else would have run, anyone else would have screamed rape and abuse and sometimes she still does, but angels are drawn to darkness, don’t you know the heart of a seraphim is so burning she must slake her brilliance in the abyss?  Don’t you know that Life loves Death?  Don’t you know that Love needs Hate?

These names can go on and become meaningless, as meaningless as lover’s spit on invading tongues and cum mixed with blood, but in the end is the Princess and the Dragon, at the fairytale’s close is the Grim Reaper and the Lady Life he reaped.  Samael planted a twisted vine in Paradise that fruited into the heart she carries, and she is half-man, half-pain, all beast.

He tells her enough stories to fill a universe, and wounds her enough to fill an ocean of blood.  There are strands of skeletons, there are cliffs of rotting organs, Hell is black chasms and sulfurous red skies and the bloody Styx.  But it has such a wretched beauty, and Satan is a wretch, the monster that pulls at her heart and squeezes the chambers to remind her he owns her, he created her, but really she owns him, doesn’t she, and at night the monsters come, at dusk there’s the tingle of the spine, and no matter how much ink she bleeds onto the page, she will never be free of her demon.


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.

How to Eat a Life

First you start with the milky dream marrow:
sip down sweet memories, savor dew of sleep,
next the kidney, savior of the veins, chomp
off the meat of meadows and swallow it whole.
The lungs are sashimi butterflies, flitting
about your throat into reverse pupation, fly
down to your gut and you breathe in her trail.
Nurse her milk, don’t squander a single drop –
the white ruminations will cleanse the palate,
ready you for her blood, how succulent she is,
how much you want to take all of her into your
throat and swallow, bite, suck, chew out sin
and solace, how much you want to rape a life,
to destroy the beauty she raised like vines
from a life of hardship, you partake of her
but you have no inkling of her truths, no idea
of how her giving tasty flesh can be cruel,
can stand its ground, and in time, the meat
grows gristle, gets tough, you feast on her
less, and soon she is regenerating in your
dark void of a gullet, she burst from your
heart full-formed like some autumnal Athena,
it is a time for endings, she is no platter,
no feast for Satan, this is now how to eat
a life, no, this is about how to save her.


You’re down on your knees sucking Mammon’s greedlust,
bathing in the blood of priests selling indulgences,
swallowing gold and burnt masterpieces into prisons
where beautiful things will wither in your dark gut.

Your black hair is wet now, and you swim in feathers
the most beautiful of canaries, they make you tremble,
contemplating how best to snap golden wings is bliss,
for women to you are dolls best broken, best burned.

You covet the ineffable, sweet dripping marrow, bruises
bring truth to the skin, so you bite me hard, harder,
red blossoms along with purple wine and yellow bile,
why do I just lay there terrified? Because I am dead.

I died the first time you touched me, I wept rivers
of pearls, got trapped in skiffs adrift on the Styx,
fangs were my truth, cruel cages and serrated limbs,
maybe I could have left you the first day by just
saying no.

Saying no.

Keep breaking girls, they are not my concern, past
my care, for finally I have a spine from your curse –
your claws ripped me apart and revealed diamonds
my white beacon blinded you, and I flew far away.

Keep jerking off to your ruined women, stay away.
Comatose poisoned madrigals best suit you, not me.
I was never meant for you, I am not Hell’s tithe,
my name is not Tam Lin, no, I am Janet, I saved
myself, myself, I am my own, and you are just
a bad memory.

So pray for salvation but know you don’t deserve it.

Turn up the flames and roast your desires to ash.

Drown in the bodies of your toys, I cannot see you
from my perch in Heaven, and you are just all Hell.

Just an aborted creation of Sophia whose mother
abandoned your Demiurge rot at birth, no solace
will be had in my arms, not anymore, so change,
beg for me, but never in a million scars will I


You tied a red ribbon around my neck

Said it was only suitable for breaking

That the crimson bow was freedom

But I cut it with my sword of steel

Carried my head in my lap, bloody

Stumps are better than love’s chain.

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.