Beatitude

The water embraces me like a womb,
filled with treacherous sirens and
mermaids with pearl bosoms, I swim
free as a penguin gliding in blue,
the depths call to me like a hymn,
drawing on old refrains with tides
that pull me down, down to the gold
treasures of the deep, sunken glory
and pirate’s delight, I navigate by
sunstone to a distant rocky shore,
my angel and demon await me atop the
cliff top, I grapple with scree to
ascend the ocean’s edge, my angel
spreads his wings and carries me
across the trembling waters, my
demon stays on the sand, soaking
in sun that speaks of burning stars.
It is a beatitude of broken sailors,
and I am adrift with purpose, row
to my dreams, frolic with dolphins,
pledge my troth to my soul’s captains,
and the marina is alive with the moon.

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Hide in the Wind

There’s the rainy sort of light through your castle window that speaks of princesses lost in the underworld, dancing with devils in pairs of twelve.  You stretch and yawn, and I trace eternity, that DNA spiral of infinity, onto your moonlight chest.  You smile like butter melting on a bagel (blueberry, and whole grain) and run a hand through my flaxen hair – it’s getting long again – and sigh.  Your hair has always been longer than mine, a black silken nightmare that coils like a serpent, and as I breathe in the musk of your armpit (is it weird I smell men’s armpits? It’s this quirk I have, I love sweat of my lovers, and I would bathe in that shit if I could), my mind wanders to candlelit dinners and the familiarity of 25 years on this of God’s green earth, yet I am in Hell, splayed between us.  I once said my hands were stained indigo with the blue of your iris, but it is only when you are in a fair mood that you have eyes of sky – many times they are the storm of a volcano, lava red, shifting with the electricity of magma.  I used to compare them to roses – last night I made a list of metaphors for your eyes: cherries, strawberries, roses, briars to get lost in as a sleeping beauty.  Poison, pain, passion.

Love.

Your eyes are love, Samael.

Your wings shift a bit as your eyelids flutter as the rain paints the window.  Drip, drip, boom of thunder.  You roll onto your side and cradle me, and in these quiet moments in the lap of Satan, I know God.

“I wish you were real,” I find myself crying.  “Not just this facsimile of stolen hours past midnight, gone when I wake.”

You give a cocky smile and kiss my brow.  You smell like expensive cologne, autumn leaves, and a bonfire, with a bit of old leather.  “But I am real.  Billions believe in me.  I wish you would.  I have walked with you before, and you ran, at that crossroads at midnight.  Tell me, if I came to you again, what would you do?”

I trace the black wing cradling me, opalescent with a green purple refractive sheen.  ‘I was so young, Sam.  Of course I ran.  Now, I would trade my limb just to touch you in the waking world, not over the hedge or in these between spaces where my spirit wanders.  You can touch me at all hours, but me?  How do I reach through the fabric of space-time and kiss a fallen angel?”

You laugh.  “With enough determination, that’s how.  I love your passion, I love your resilience.  Isn’t this enough?”

“It’s never enough until I can hold you in my arms, wash your brow of the Mem, dress you in linen, and marry my Sael,” I say with fierceness, and then I kiss you with a burning, and our arms twine around each other and we are lost in tangles of sin – but really, it is redemption.

Quiet mornings in Hell are how I spend half my mornings, the other half in Heaven with your shining twin.  Shining Sun of God, Shining Morning Star.  I am wedded to two brother stars.  Michael is not here, no, he is away waging war against your armies, and you are bilocating, on some bloody battlefield piercing your scythe into Michael’s breast, just enough to nick it two inches deep.

“I lost my heart to her, dear Michael,” you say on that far away Shamayim, withdrawing your blade.  “I gave it so she would live.  You gave her the Sacrament too.  You’re a heretic, brother.”

Michael places his blood soaked saffron hair behind his ear and looks down at the wound over his heart.  “Mine was a blessing, yours was a curse.  My heart is Immaculate, yours is of Death.  Let go of her.”

“Letting go of her?  That would be giving up what I fell for.  Humanity.  It’s enough that the daughters of men were comely, and we fell for them.  In the end, I am the Purity of God, and you are the Image of God.  The lion and lamb lay down, but the lion and the serpent are forever engaged, in small battles, in larger ones.  She’s our battlefield.”

Michael lowers his flaming sword so it sears your shoulder just so, leaving the pungent smell of burnt flesh.  You quite enjoy the pain.  All angels enjoy pain, fallen ones especially.  “A twisted fairytale indeed.  Michael and Satan created an angel, before the War, before Time, before Death.  And she knew the fruit of the vine, and she was the Daughter of Zion, and the Woman Clothed in the Sun fled the Dragon, and the Bridegroom readied New Jerusalem for the Bride.”

“Shit metaphors those, dear Michael.  In the end, it was our own selfishness.  She’s a casualty of war, just like the millions, billions, trillions others.  There’s no limit to our dead.  Why should she matter to you, just to sacrifice on a pyre for some imagined sins of the world.”

“She may burn, but I am the flame.”  Michael sheathes his sword.  “And you?  You are her darkness.  Light and dark.  And she is just that: hope.”

“My yellow canary in a coal mine, my guiding light in Hell.”

“My Icarus.”

But then, I am still laying naked beside you, and your manifold conscious comes back to our embrace, and you claim me as your own, wishing with all the Damned’s regrets you could forge a river of the Styx and sail away with me into the starry unknown.

“When I walk this Earth, Allie, it will be the End.”  You say as we lay in reverie.  The smell of petrichor from your flowery courtyard wafts in through the open window, borne aloft by the storm.  It is the smell of spring, and wan sunlight breaks the clouds.

“The End is just a beginning,” I say slowly. “And I would summon the Apocalypse just to have you.”

You grin.  “You’re Hell enough on the mind.  I will teach you to touch me.  And in touching me, you will hold the beating heart of the cosmos in your hands.  I’d give you the moon if I could, sweetheart.”

I nestle in close to you so there is not a single molecule between us.  “You are my freedom, Sam.  Never change.”

Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.

Pyre

And what passes between Yeshua and Satan is but
a glance of lost paradise, ragged deserts where
the dead shamble on towards the heavenly throne,
the Holy Spirit a sun beating down on Christ’s
skin, yet it does not burn him, but for Satan,
the touch of searing divine love is a taste of
forbidden fruit, and so he sticks to the shadow
of a saguaro (there are no cacti in Jerusalem,
but in Satan’s mind, there are thorns aplenty.)

When Christ lifts water to immolated Satan’s brow,
the Devil is too far gone in remorse to stop him.

And Yeshua washes Samael’s sins, and two Scapegoats
clasp hands in an arm wrestle over souls, harrows
of hell and the narrow path to heaven, there are
road signs on a crisis of faith, and two princes
offer both crowns of razor wire and of rose thorns.

What cross you bear may be sinful, but honey, hold
my wrist, let me guide you on to the blinding light.

We were meant to burn.

Rabboni

“At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people–everyone whose name is found written in the book–will be delivered.

You were anointed with a crown of thorns on crimson hair,
perhaps from your rose garden of prayers, briars I pierced
my fingers on to press my blood to your lips and claim you
as my knight, but that was some far away fantasy of swords,
spells, devilish sorcerers, and enchanted witch queens, I
rode your shoulders into war, we picked blackberries wild
and ate sparrow eggs harvested in brambles along with sweet
roots and tubers like butter, a fall harvest for evening.
You will lead my armies into war, o great Michael, and
as you carried your cross in the desert to that high,
desolate hill, immaterial made flesh, infinity mortalized,
I followed you to the Crucifixion and wept long with hair
that had graced your feet with my sorrow, was I choosing
you with spikenard oil to be forsaken? You cried to Father,
Eloi eloi, lama sabachthani? and the answer was pure
silence, and to truly die and descend to Hell to free Abraham’s
bosom chosen was temptation of the highest order, for I was
destined for Hell – the Magdalene is the woman of seven devils,
and repent as I might, I was still damned with a bloody egg,
my miracle of Easter iconography and hairy torso and limbs
grown in the wastes to cover my shame as I ran wild like
Lilith for three days, mourning you – I crawled back from
the brink with as much blood and tears in my eyes as spurted
from your wound, my womb was swollen with perdition, my body
bruised and battered from the Seirim, Shedim, and Lilitu,
you saw me ragged in the Garden of Gethsemane at your
resurrection, and sweet Mother Mary had thankfully washed
my brow beforehand and given me one of her clean robes,
when the Virgin, Mary of Bethany, and I spiritwalked to
your tomb, there was a whisper of a voice that could make
angels fall, Yeshua. I would have given anything, my very
blackened heart to Satan’s clutches, to see you freed, but
no matter, you were always your own Savior, and Messiahs
have no need for broken women, but you loved me anyways,
despite all my sins, and as you carry me on your starlit
breast up to the outer reaches of Heaven, and we are back
in that dream of princesses and Paradise, you feed me manna,
lay hands on me with the fire of the Holy Spirit, and you
shift between olive skin, hazel eyes, and charcoal hair
to fiery radiance of the archangel, just for a moment, and
I cannot find the truth of you entwined in the allegory,
Michael, Christ, Yeshua, these are all factions of my soul,
and it may be heresy, but I have always been a heretic,
cast out by the Council of Nicea to be just a lost whore.

Only you see me as Qadesh, sacred and bleeding heart, and
are the Resheph to my lost goddess, we are bringers of love
and war, so dance with me, my holy vengeance, and let us raze
all my doubts to the ground, sow mustard seeds, and blossom!

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.

Journey of the Hero

Christ rubbed oil into my hair, anointed me
“Martyr,” with his lips like a dove, and the
resonance of the Holy Spirit was a tub filled
with chocolate gold, all melting like bronze,
filling every crevasse of my being – a sacrifice,
I know, I am the tithe to Hell, Icarus Girl
who holds congress with Satan in screaming
hollows on Black Sabbats and wolf moons, what
is the benediction of Jesus when you have
skelerokardia, your heart the definition of
Sin? The chambers rot with necrotic Scapegoat
stains, zuhama slowly spreading through my
veins – Michael speared me through the heart
to cleanse me, it felt like a fiery fist
threading peach poison through my flesh,
sweet yet cursed, the archangel’s fingers
sculpting me into a vessel, I am just a
vassal, just a Galatea these movers of
Heaven and Earth shape into willingness.
Maybe I can run from His Love, but soon
I will go to the pews, repent, and bring
Seven Devils to the Savior’s white arms,
He will kiss my brow and let the demons
become angels again, and the Union of
Heaven and Hell, Heiros Gamos Galore,
will occur, mem dropped from samech
aleph lamed, and I shall wed Sael,
the Purity of God, and I shall wed
the Lion of Judah, the Lamb of God,
but first comes the witchly pyre,
and the trial of science and reason –
paganism, Christianity, Judaism,
these threads of memory and truth
I do not belong in any of the Sephiroth
and the Qliphoth is inhospitable to
yellow canaries in coal mines, so
beyond the farthest boundary of rhyme
I will travel, carrying the weight
of all.