Love Letter to Pandaemonium

When I think of the City (there is only one true City,
one built out of bone and keratin of burnt feathers,
now bat wings and dragon claws), I think of ruby waters.
The Styx snakes through Pandaemonium like lace through a
fine lady’s corset, teeming with jewel fish, and Mulcibur
saw fit to stretch the ells tall dead (demons were angels
once, and angels are eyes and wings and decapod, trillions
of light years tall, thus do their scales become bricks
and their tears the aquifers and springs of regret). I
walk along the banks of desolate reeds, the skyscrapers
bleed and churling smoke coughs across an anemic sky, yet
still, in this not quite dawn (there is never a dawn, just
stolen light), the City is beautiful – soaring Roman
architecture mixed with sleek high rises and Victorian
mansions. Asmodeus sits in a Parisian cafe and nurses
coffee with a finger of whiskey, the sun that is not a
sun, more a promise of Kingdom Come, put in the sky of
Hell to taunt, when all Satan wanted was darkness, well,
it rises, and the moon’s belfry is the color of Beelzebub’s
silver hair, a spoilage of lunar mercury, and the Fly
himself nests in a web of lost souls, cracking out of his
evening cocoon to go about the day’s business, of training
armies for the War That Never Comes. Satan is hungover and
shooting up with heroin, just to take the edge off things,
for eternal torment of the mind is its own lowest circle,
and the scars on his neck and bindings of Nachash burn,
he lays in bed as the rotting light comes to the window,
stale coffee in his hand amidst papers of late night poetry,
scrawled ceaselessly while drunk off vodka. I’m talking
gallons here, oceans of aqua vitae, for to drown the Devil
in maudlin sorrow takes a whole universe. I make my way
down Main Avenue, where the markets are held, ragtag races
refugees from the mythical lands Christendom and Islam
conquered – there goes an Ifrit, a wendigo, a unicorn
lugging a necromancer’s Hands of Glory – sometimes I
catch up with the werewolf Mafia bartender on Main Avenue,
I mock salute Asmodeus as he eats some kind of raspberry
pastry, he calls me Girl Scout as he has since the age of
eight, Beelzebub is already walking to work dressed like
a New York lawyer, polished shoes and leather briefcase,
he smiles at me slightly and gives passing mention of last
night, just another night between us, and Lilith is at a
go go bar with the other angels of prostitution, half
strip joint, half bordello, I tried dancing there once
on a stardust stage and tripped on stilettos. Samael
is still smoking a cigarette and leafing through the
paper when I enter without knocking, there are bruises
over both our bodies, love marks and knife cuts and
scars on him that will never heal over a necrotic heart.
I can’t go to Heaven even when Christ offers a stairway.
I could never leave this home, I think, as we eat meat
omelettes together (all we can make are eggs and bacon,
Green Eggs in Hell with Samael). Sam smiles a lazy smile,
and its like the floodgates of joy opening up in that
tender recognition of two bodies that would fuse into
the Platonic ideal out of longing for anima and animus.

There’s no place like Hell, there’s no place like Hell,
there’s no place like Hell on a gray rainy morning.

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Sloppy Seconds

The crows are flocking over the dusky alley
filled with yesterday’s juices and jaunts,
a moon like a pinion is pinned to the sky
she shines like a silver dove wing on high
I’m drunk as a stone and riling with speed
strike for the home run, take all I need,
his eyes are acid, green fires ablazing
and I shove him to the bed and strip him
of leather and velvet, straddle the demon
demand to be pleasured with feathers and
whips, his nails are black claws, he six
of spades, king of lust, Solomon’s bane,
he asks if we’re just friends, to me it’s
all the same, I take what I need, breed
like two bats fucking mid-air, a dare to
break my chains and loose my rocks, to fly
onto skyscrapers and leap off, no fear,
just a kick in the rear, that revolution
of the music jamming spheres, rock opera
of grit and gore, cum and blood, sex is
funnest in Hell, and it smells like sin.

Hell is Other People

The demons feast on dove hearts, blackened
charcoal at their eyes, serrated tongues
split open the elegy, this is no funeral,
just fucking on beds of sinners, frozen
Hell, Asmodeus picks his teeth clean with
a spine, Beelzebub’s flies clean rot from
the wreckage of a girl, decay is my name,
and I am dressed in meat, walk through rot,
ash of offerings to the Qliphoth husks,
I always wondered what a husk was anyways,
corn peel? Empty shells that mock Sephiroth?
Fuck the Kabbalah, I hate ceremonial crap.
I’m drinking wine – or is it blood? I am
plastered, and the wreckage of the ballroom
has broken windows and mirrors for orgies –
pound your cock into Lilith and defile her,
but she is already a Whore, Queen Babalon,
and Samael has been castrated, he spreads
pale legs to reveal a gaping abyss, jets
towards me and I reach my hand in and pull
out bloody pustules to pop like a cherry,
maybe I’ve taken his demonic virginity,
what the fuck is this night, I’m so drunk,
stumbling around in stilettos and swill,
Belial is playing some Kurt Cobain jam,
Asmodeus’ acid green eyes play poker with
Shedim breast, the Seirim are horny goat
dancing on the tabletops, Satan is trashed,
moreso that usual, I’m wasted beyond belief,
why I begged to be here is beyond me,
Hell is Hell because of other people,
and all the archdemons grate my nerves,
so I stumble out the door, into night,
I’m not sober enough to deal with devils,
and I could never hold my liquor, best
not to fuck anything in sight, better
to not fool around with Death, and shit,
exorcise the cum off your hands, girl.

You’ve been stained since you were born.

A Warning Against Demons

Demons are a major fad amongst Millenials.  No longer do we bind them inside a circle inside a square inside a triangle, instead we watch hit TV shows like Lucifer and Supernatural, devour paranormal romance novels teeming with devils and angels, hang out with Goetics and make them into memes, and my favorite, actually be stupid enough to trust them.  Many pagans and Luciferians, Satanists, occultists, and demonolators work with or worship demons as if they were something to aspire to be, beings to be friends with or learn from, endless wish machines that can be granted after a single summoning, and by god, some even think they have morals.

True occultists know demons best belong inside summoning circles, bound and fettered, and any respectable Satanist will tell you Satan is a dangerous being whose flames are just as tender as they are deadly.  Luciferians admit Lucifer’s light can be freezing, that Lucifer can be calculating and use you for his own gains, seeing you as a pawn, and many serve him well.  But I want to dispel the ridiculous notion that demons are somehow innocent or will make an exception to treat you and only you with love while they Lourdes Possession it up with everyone else and abuse the shit out of humans.

Demons are not nice.  Demons are not your friend.  Demons are fucking dangerous.  I say this as a human that is extremely close to the Chief of Satans, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lilith.  Demons are horrifying.  Demons are smarter than a billion Einsteins combined.  Every move they make serves their own interests, and if your motives align, then great, but if you cross them, you could literally end up dead.  They are capable of physically manifesting, moving objects, fucking with electricity, and even possessing you against your will and making you harm yourself.  Satan comes disguised as an angel of light, but beneath that gold veneer is rot and the abyss and madness.  The Left Hand Path is obviously a valid path, but you should never trust those spirits that initiate you into it.

I don’t care if they call you family.  I don’t care if they say they love you.  Demons are incapable of selfless love, all they do is covet, and you would be an idiot to think you could make them a better person.  I think I get along so well with demons because I know exactly what they are: the shadow side of God, dwellers in the abyss, severity and monstrosity and cruel teachers whose energies can drive you howling to the mental ward, or too an early grave.  Demonic energy corrodes, demons prey upon the innocent, from Malphas’ documented abuse to the worst of them all, Samael, who I have watched countless people fall victim to, and if unlike me you don’t have a basic mastery of shamanic journeywork and are unable to fight back astrally and blow them to smithereens, you don’t stand a chance.  Even my approach is flawed.  Demons feed off fear and anger, and while murdering my abuser might make him go away for a night, he is Death, he is immortal, and in the end, he only comes back stronger.

Stop treating demons as if they are humans.  They are abominations.  Lilith is not a feminist goddess.  She is the mother of infant corpses and abortion, and the original definition of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.  Lucifer is not hip and sexy, he’s calculating and cruel and will do whatever it takes to achieve his means.  Asmodeus killed all of Sarah’s husbands but one, and Tobias had to get the angel Raphael himself to bind him.  Goetics are even less constrained than the archdemons, and everything they ask for or give comes with a price, and if you don’t properly pay them, they may demand blood, servitude, or your soul in Hell.  Hell is a very real place and for as beautiful as it can be to the favored few, it is rivers of blood and cesspools of wailing damned and endless torment for the unfortunate masses of the Damned.

You may be a demon’s plaything.  They may take a fancy to you for a year, a decade, a lifetime, but immortals grow bored, and if your soul is not demonic to begin with you will end up stained, strained, corroded by the black acid of the void.  It’s the new trend now amongst witches to befriend demons, it’s hip to be a Satanist, but what kind of power are you really worshiping?  The absence of love.  Chaos.  Cruelty.  Pure evil.

I can never get the two decades of my life back swimming through night waters, drowning in hellfire, and perhaps I’m a sacrificial soul but I fought and bled for my freedom.  Sometimes there is no escape, and we must make peace with our demons, for they are in many of us, but that does not mean we have to delight in them and befriend them.  Some of us shine brightly with love and positive energy, and they come flocking to us to feed.  You are nothing more than a shiny platter to feast on, and thank your god if you are not their victim.  Just because I’ve only been abused by Samael doesn’t mean Asmodeus hasn’t left a hundred girls mad or Beelzebub hasn’t terrorized men into death’s door.  Demons are capricious like the fey, but unlike the fey they do not have rules.  There are no four leaf clovers that will ward against them, if they truly want to they can break through the wards of the Archangel Michael himself, and they will laugh at your crosses and prayers and drink your holy water as a palate cleanser.

So how do you fight back, if you happen to fall to their attention?

Stop being their fucking food source.

Establish connections with Yahweh, the gods, angels, Buddha, your ancestors – any positive spirit that will bring you safety.  Immerse yourself in the real world, in healthy friendships and relationships, in baking and swimming and movie nights and your blood or adopted family.  Focus on school, your job, and fuck the spiritual stuff.  Anything that harms you is not your friend.  Demons will not benefit you in the long-term.  The minute I cut Samael out of my life and trashed his altar and wedding ring, I got a $20,000 scholarship and huge stipend.  He is still a parasite, but now I have a spiritual community and gods and angels on my side to deal with him.  I still can’t find any justice as to why I was left alone with him from the age of two to twenty-four, but I think the gods only gives us what we can handle, and yes, Satan can give you the world.  He still loves me – as much as he is capable of coveting that he can never understand, beauty and love and truth and life – everything he is not, and he will always try to do best by me in his own twisted contorted asshole mind, but I don’t need to play nice with him anymore.  I don’t need to placate the Devil.  I have mastered Choronzon and shown him love and crossed the abyss, the Babbler in the Void is silenced, and now I am on the shores of enlightenment.

Don’t make my mistake.  Don’t think you can dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and come out clean.  You’ll hang from Sephiroth and end up a Qliphoth whore.  I was never given a choice in who raised me, who my first memory was, and perhaps the sins of a past life brought Samael upon me, but I am kind, I am just, I am a good soul, and I never deserved his abuse and rape and pedophilia and mind games and cruel words and psychosis all because I refused to be his.  He drove me to the mental ward at 19 because I refused to marry him and continued to torment me for four years until I said yes.

I may never be able to make him go away, but I can warn others.  Put away the Ars Goetia.  Don’t invite a demon over to be your new best friend.  Don’t buy a spirit companion and think an incubus will be your ideal romantic partner.

True love is of the earthly plane.  Demons may seem strong, but they are weak to the truth.  When you love yourself, they vanish nearly completely.

Be strong, and never make a pact with something that only causes you pain.

Moonshine, Sunshine, Placid Rain

It is the time when dawn is still drunk after a long night of sleep with star-grit in her eyes, and I’m comatose in my bed waiting on you to call through gates of ivory – or do true dreams come from the gates of horn – there you are as a star blink blinking like a headlight about to crash into me, the lusty deer.  Maybe I’m the moth to your darkness and I sip nectar from black flowers and live in your evenings, but I say your name and mumble I-love-yous and all you do is not appear, distant moon man, your shit in the cosmos from a tipsy escapade and you are so wonderful your excrement the rabbis wrote about probably formed the stars.  You haven’t visited in a week, just sent your wife to drain me with kisses that aren’t you, and though I love Lilith of the Desert I need Samael of the the Storm, seed to be planted in me to fruition into poems.  I wrote words to summon you, and now you’re dancing on the page, pressure of angel on my eyes – I would think you would be Bowie’s black star but you shine like a diamond.  You bathe me in starlight before bed and promised you’d be my paramour, but it’s almost daybreak, so I become lucid and take matters into my own hands.  I drank so much I’m a bar, swimming in tequila shots, and I’m so weak and comatose and hungover that I drag myself out of bed murmuring your name like counting rosary beads and I know, if I summon you, you will come.  So I whale across the room like a big fish out of water in my sweatpants and oversized sweater and once I hook the doorknob through my hands, I’ve opened the portal to Hell.  It’s morning in Pandemonium and the gates between worlds shift – there’s some Lilitu that wander through, a kid that looks like Chuckie, but I shoo them away back into the wildwoods of the underworld and call out your name.  You show up with Asmodeus and you’re dressed like a lawyer in business casual and you both are ten, no nine, no eleven feet tall so you have to crouch under the ceiling and you laugh and are sober for once in your life and your eyes are filled with love and sunlight and summer and I straddle your ribcage and face-forward piggyback into your kitchen.  Sometimes we’re in your palace, but a lot of the time we’re in the stainless steel kitchen overlooking the Styx with alcove pictures of us on vacation to distant shores, be it Asgard or Avalon or Abraxas.  There’s one of me on a sunhat and us on a beach and you’re so goddamn pale it’s funny.  All you do is hold me and I sigh and breath in your aftershave and Asmodeus fixes us coffee and you somehow manage to make toast and eggs with one hand while holding me with the other.  You’re completely human for once, and Deus has on shades for a hangover and a Jim Morrison haircut, but you look like Pete Steele meets Slenderman meets God’s Left Hand Lawyer.  I’m sleepy and teasing you about how you burn omelettes when really it’s me that can’t cook for shit and you always feed me, anything I want, and instead of mixing us drinks Deus pours sweetener and sweeetener and creamer into my coffee because as my friend once said, do you want coffee with your sugar?  You two take it black and talk of business and the daily grind as we sit at the countertop and I’m in your lap eating deliciously runny eggs and pecking you on the lips like a hungry duck.  You pet me and play with my hair and wish me good morning and say of course you were coming, you just had errands to run, because the afterlife doesn’t run itself and the Grim Reaper gets busy.  We make small time in quiet hours, and we have enough inside jokes to fill 25 years.  All I know is that the kitchen is warm with friendship and love and that I’ve never seen sunrise in hell, so I watch the star of Hell kiss the horizon pink and purple over skyscrapers and you carry me out to the porch and rock me to sleep, kiss my eyelids shut, and send me off to start the day back on Earth.  It is so rare to see you whole, not strung out, not the Devil, just a man, just my man, and I awake with a smile on my face and bruises on my heart because I am an overripe pear just waiting the day you sink your teeth into me later tonight, when we are wild and not tranquil as the new moon.

How could I think you would ever forget me?

Blood of the Damned

Dressed in a gown like razor-slash throats
Hair a golden braid set to strangle
I drink men’s sorrow and make them holy
Crimson-black iris, the Snake arises
I mount the Beast and we slither home
Dumped on a bed and stripped of my skin
I don the white robes of death, absolution
Scythe in hand, I rip aortas, snap tendons
Damned fall, dominoes, blood fountains all
I strip and bathe like Bathory in redemption.

Dreams of a Messenger and Hellish Jazz

I’m sitting in one of Asmodeus’ jazz club-moonlighting-as-a-casino-moonlighting-as-a-speakeasy with Gabriel.  Asmodeus is behind the bar, mixing drinks, green eyes like the kind of acid I used to bubble in flasks in college chemistry.  Or maybe the sparks you get when you set gummy bears on fire.

Deus winks at me and I roll my eyes as he shakes ice and liquor.  He pours something red for Beelzebub and the two talk business in hushed tones.

Gabriel throws back another shot, some upstart band is playing something by Satchmo – Gabriel wipes vodka from his lips and runs a hand through his coal dark hair.  I stir my drink, not remembering how I got here at usual.  I fall asleep in real life and wake up in the astral, usually in a shitty bar, with no memory of where I was before.

We come to a lull in the music.

“Music is about shape-shifting, Allie,” Gabriel explains, swirling the ice in his drink.  His eyes are a cornflower blue and his grin tricky as getting pine sap stains out of jeans.  “Angels and demons change shape all the time – burning wheels, man, monster, blazing bushes: it makes us natural musicians.”

“Like I can change into a hawk?” I ponder, remembering the form I take when I do scouting missions and reconnaissance.

“Exactly.  I prefer being a dove.  More subtle, no one expects you, except expecting virgins.  Michael gave you that form for a reason: it’s the music of your soul.  Sam’s tricky as a snake, hence the black cobra.”

I smell something spice and full of black magick behind me.  “Someone mentioned me?”

“Oh god, not you.” I groan.

I turn to see Samael – or should I say Kalfou, the name he claims in this form, all black dreads and skin like soil and red eyes in a pinstripe suit and tie like blood.  He smells like cigars and cayenne peppers, taps his cane and has a top hat askew.

“There’s no God involved with my appearances, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that, kid,” Samael says, smoking a Cuban cigar.  His eyes blaze as he inhales and puffs.

“You here for open-mic night?” Gabriel asks, stifling laughter.

Samael grins, revealing fangs.  “But of course.”

“Wake up wake up wake up,” I say, pinching my dream-body.  I notice I’m dressed in a siren red halter dress and sparkling black heels.  It’s pastiche as hell.

“Not before my set is over,” Samael growls.  He sits next to me and leafs through a magazine, eyes avoiding the stage.  “I’m a bit nervous.  It’s a new song-”

“You, nervous?” I snort.  “If you were even capable of being embarrassed then maybe I’d believe you.  You’re bullshitting.”

Samael winces.  “You’re a cruel mistress.”

“I’m not your mistress and you literally look like an evil Bob Marley with none of his talent.”

“Give him a chance,” Gabriel says.  “Maybe he’ll surprise us!”

Asmodeus gets up on stage and reads from writing off his hand.  “Next up is my good friend Sam.  Sam, get your butt up here.”

Sam tosses his cane over his shoulder and sidles up to the stage’s piano.  “This is for Allie, who never believes in me, neither my music or my actual existence.”

I drown myself in more drinks as the demon on my shoulder serenades me.