Jah Michael

Hallelujah, that the weak may be mighty.

Hallelujah, that the warrior might know peace.

Hallelujah, that the singer’s locs be long.

Hallelujah, that the artist’s palette is never dry.

 

Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Red hair held back by a paintbrush.

Caressing Bob Ross landscapes on canvas.

I know Hebrew in my dreams, but I know your face

in every single shard of you, Michael, ochre-splattered

jeans, five o’clock shadow, losing yourself in brush strokes.

 

Hallelujah sings the broken man as he learns to love again.

Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Reflection of God.  He Who is God.  Image of God.

I may be the moon but you are my sun.

And in your artist’s studio, Michael, I find respite.

 

Hallelujah toll the bells of Paradise.  Honor to Thy Lord.

He is not My Lord, He is not Your Lord, for You are Him,

and to worship God is to worship Love and Creation.

To worship Jah is to make sweet life on a paintbrush.

 

God is a Poet.  God is a Lover.  God is an Artist.

Jah is All, Hallelujah, sweet trembling soul.

His strength cradles me, cradles you, lifts up

the dusky night and brings Paradaisical Day.

 

Michael, sweet Jah, sweet Yah, in you I know God.

In you I know Father.  In you, I know redemption

in the colors of grass and wine, gilded in gold leaf.

 

You painted me into Creation and breathed life into my

trembling hands.  I would die for you again,  always, only

save your tears for sacred reunions, this is not

goodbye.

 

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Joan of Arc

Swords rust with blood, but the sheath renews
my girl is a knight of twelve blades, red blue.

My girl screams ruin and wonder, my lady shines
like rain, she rides into battle on honor divine.

So heavenly, the way she plucks my pinions and bites
my lip, sashays her hips in a way belying her might.

She is a dancer, a moon maiden wanderer, sailing
on ballerina toes to the safe harbor of my wings.

I bleed only for her glory, scream her name as night
leaves me barren in the wake of her ghost, no light.

No light at all but a promise, and I am a selfish king.

Prince of Roses

I could write a thousand songs for your majesty,
but the rains would still fall, and autumn come,
and at the end of the day, fall leaves your hair
would brush against my cheeks among the red oaks,
I would smell your bonfires, hear your guitar slip
into the empty spaces of the branches canopy to fly
like geese flocking south, while I migrated North
to the highest castle’s walled rose gardens, red
petals a musk on stone pathways through the water,
you are the prince of brier blooms, wings cotton
leftover from milkweed, soft as the rolling clouds
over the valley of my heart, sweet archangel, kiss
away all my fear and bathe me in the sun, embrace
me on the edge between poetry and prose, I am your
fledgling, you are my falcon, eternal saint, smile.

Deus Vult

The war is eternal, the barracks are full of gutter swill, and Michael sits with his soldiers – some young angels not yet scarred by battle, some hardened veterans with crooked broken noses and lashes across their skin, burns from brands, twisted flesh from whips and swords.  In the trenches and camps, the border never falls, and the only thing to sing you to sleep is Israfel’s weeping over the Damned.

Sometimes, when there is a pause, and the demons retreat, Gabriel pulls out her battered trumpet and plays hymns.  Raphael has an accordion, and Uriel a makeshift drum.  Michael sings then.  It’s a ragtime band, Vaudeville in the wastelands, for shed enough immortal blood in Heaven and the grasses, flowers, and sedge drown in ichor.  All that blooms is asphodel.  The angel will dance among the plain white flowers and bramble thorns.

There are also roses.  One blooms every time an angel utters his or her last words.  They are sickly sweet with the fragrance of lost hope and a rain that never comes.  Michael picks them and presses their nectar and delivers their prayers to God’s throne room.  God weeps at the loss of his children, and another poppy blooms in the fields of the slain as the snow of their Father’s tears buries the corpses.  Roses, asphodel, poppy.  Pink, white, red.  It’s like a twisted Valentines, a love letter from Heaven to Hell.

Oh sweet nothings between Michael and Lucifer as one bites the heel and one crushes the head.  Oh sweet somethings between Raphael binding Azazel in Dudael.  Oh sweet possibility as Gabriel plays up the dawn with her song.  Oh sweetly impossible wishes of Raphael, for healing of the broken hearts of his comrades.  Oh bittersweet light of Uriel, who has run out of tears to shed – all that is left in her amber eyes is salt.

It is a Crusade.  It is a Cold War.  It is a chess set with poker on the side.  Two masterminds, Left Hand and Right Hand of God.  Over humanity perhaps, or perhaps so much more than mere hairless humans.  Perhaps they fight over free will, for freedom, or perhaps they forgot what they were fighting for long ago, and the lances and armor are dressings over empty burning hearts swiftly turning to coal.

Deus Vult.   As God Wills.

God left

a long

time

ago.

Gangbang

I swear I stumbled into this accidentally, into some sultry corner of Hell where bloody eagles make roosts behind the bar. I spend most of my time down here drunk off my ass to pass off the careless hours as if they meant nothing to me, lounging on leather in chiffon and lace, tipsy turvy and smelling like honeysuckle and everyone here says I am champagne. The bubbly kind, you know, a perfect golden spherical of air in a fluted crystal glass. Doesn’t help that I have curves that strangle and breasts and hips like one of those Angkor Watt carvings. Doesn’t help that my appetite for men (and some women) is severely unhealthy and I stumble around in negligees acting famished, sweet teeth out with my golden hair a net. You know how it is in Hell, right? Heels on, tits out, gloves up to elbows and maybe a Columbina mask when you’re nearly buck naked. Save some dignity, I don’t know. I’m not really here, not really there, in the between space where I’m fully awake on Earth in a bed that is probably possessed and fully awake in the Underworld hanging out with my boy toys. Boy toys, can I call them that? Is that like offensive? They’re either buff and tan or pallid and lean or like knives given demon form. Red hair, platinum hair, black hair. I’m a whirling dervish in a red dress, Satan is flames, Beelzebub is fucking Sauron again and I tease him about the stick up his ass, and what the fuck is the Archangel Michael doing here, doesn’t he have lives to save in sterile hospitals and shouldn’t he be fighting the General and Prince of Hell, not fucking throwing drinks back with them? It’s after hours, I guess, and honestly I seem to calm the storm of this War, Jophiel the curvy blonde idiot with skimpy white robes and golden sandals and wing like opals. I’m a hoot, I think, but honestly my divine purpose is to be the comedy that lulls you into complacency and whets bloodlust. Bed the general and fuck his brains out so he forgets the horror of bloodshed, or maybe he loves bloodshed in the bed especially so he’ll bite your wrist while making you raw. A comfort woman. A whore. A heirodule. Lady Qadesh. Fuck if I know, I’m just a fucking nympho. It’s all like Vulcan mind melding with energetic bodies, but like if that were sexy. Like if you could orgasm by teasing archangels and archdemons with your thoughts alone, saying Michael is boring, saying Satan is cheesy as fuck, saying Beelzebub is as overdramatic as fucking Darth Vader. Because let’s be real, Beel is Darth Vader, and Sam is fucking Kylo Ren, which I guess makes Michael fucking Luke Skywalker. I think I fit into this equation like R2D2, really annoying but cute, and that’s where the Star Wars metaphor fucking breaks down. They’ve been hanging out since Michaelmas, which according to the eponymous archangel is your birthday, and their gift to you was the most intense but weirdest experience of your life: a fucking foursome. Fuckkkkkk me. It’s really just a gangbang at that point and as they’re shooting the shit and you’re doing shots, one thing leads to another, and it’s all my fault because I’m a cocktease. Like as in I insult the fuck out of them then flirt then drive them fucking crazy and then categorize archangels and archdemons as Tits or Ass men. Sam is Squad A, Michael is split, and Beel is fully a T. They look kind of weird without armor or fucking stupid robes on. Like fantastical porn stars with wings. How is this my life. How is mind sex gangbangs a thing? I mean, I ain’t complaining, but I wonder if I’m the battlefield and their dicks are swords. They don’t “cross swords” though, at least in front of me, cause I ain’t into that. I’m a girl-on-girl chick and otherwise overwhelmingly hetero. Sam’s putting a puppet on his dick again, trying to make me laugh. Michael is tossing back scotch and playing with my hair. Beelzebub forgot to take his helmet off and his horns are poking me in uncomfortable places. I’m really an idiot when it’s late at night and I never figured out how to masturbate I guess seducing celestial beings is the next best thing. I’m probably going to make this mistake again. Ow.

Hymn to Uriel

Uriel is earthen skin with sandy freckles,
graceful as the light of dawn, toothy grin,
shifts all the colors of man, cycles days,
divine protecteress of all meek creatures,
fierce wolf mother, Warrior of Heaven,
clad in blue and white, beneficence gown,
armor of silver and voice like chapel bells,
hair a mane of joy, her spear is revelation,
and she is of the earth but also God’s Light,
she taught me the values of humility in youth,
in observing and nurturing the heart of storms,
she is the eye of the hurricane, potent power,
weather goddess, eyes green then hazel, brown,
all the banners of her forests, elk and hares
cuddle up to her warmth in winter frost tides,
sweet elder sister, I offer you peonies and
wine, the oceans you so love, friendships you
guard, in your realm all is crystalline light
and tropical day lilies, Caribbean breeze,
your form is cerulean splendor, blue flame,
oh Uriel, how sweet you are, how tender, but
you burn as fiercely as a star, so homage to
the Heavenly Firemaster, Light of God, Hail!