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.

Highway to Hell, or Allie Writes Demon Erotica: Part 1

Trigger warning: Sex, Violence, Sometimes Both at Once, Mention of Boy Bands, and General Idiocy

Dedicated to Thomas Mattheos and Nirnif/Izzi/Gabriel’s Whipping Post.  

Some Pagans worship their pantheons.  I write crappy porn about them.  

Five archdemons sat round a dive bar’s table, its cushions peeling away.  Belial belched and downed another cheap beer.  Samael picked at his teeth with the point of his scythe.  Azazel, whose head was a goat’s, bleated in irritation.  Asmodeus unabashedly flipped through a pornographic magazine featuring voluptuous succubi.

I watched the four who had answered my request in the Intelligence Department for a covert operation.  I had yet to reveal the details of our musical undertaking.  All I had promised was sufficient pay in sins of the flesh.  Hell’s payroll operated on the selling of indulgences, or sins, and Belial, Samael, Azazel, and Asmodeus were all perfectly lustful fellows.  Clearing my throat, I set to elucidating our mission.

“Thank you for gathering this evening, gentlemen,” I said, drumming my talons on the table.  “I’m sure you’re all curious as to why you’re here.”

Asmodeus regretfully closed his magazine.  Steepling his elegant fingers under his chin, he met my eyes with disinterest.  “Cut the crap, Beelzebub, and pay up,” he said.  “You said there would be maidenheads snatched and virgin’s blood on our pricks tonight, but I’ve yet to see a single viable female in this shit hole.”

There was an echo of support among his fellows.

“The women come later, friends,” I explained, nervous about invoking Asmodeus’ wrath.  “After I explain the details of our undertaking-”

“Shit, Beelzebub, no one cares,” Belial interrupted.  He snatched my beer from me and drank it in one gulp.  Wiping his lips, he smirked.  “Talk fast or we leave.  Time’s a’wasting.”

“Ahem,” I cleared my throat.  “As I was saying…”

“Nice ass,” Samael noted.  He ceased picking his teeth and took the opportunity to slap the derriere of a passing waitress with the flat of his scythe.  She squealed and ran, but Azazel stuck his cloven foot out before her.  The waitress tripped and fell into Azazel’s lap.

Baaaaaah,” Azazel bleated, trapping her in his arms.  He proceeded to slobber over her face in an animalistic kiss.

“Azazel, let her go,” I said, exasperated.

Azazel glared at me, but released her.  “Bah,” Azazel said, vindictive.  The others laughed at his tomfoolery.

“I’ve gathered you four here because of your exceptional devotion to Hell’s main causes: corruption, destruction, and above all, temptation.”  I gestured to the window that showcased Dis City.  “Our capital is built upon these three pillars, but it is temptation I have gathered you here for tonight.  Our dearly wretched Lord Lucifer-”

Asmodeus snorted.  “You mean Lu, right?  Still stuck in the last century, eh, Beelzebub?”

I bristled at his comment, but corrected myself. “-Lu has charged me with a serious task: luring a tenth of humanity’s young women to Hell’s clutches.”

Samael perked up.  “Minors?” he said, voice like snake oil, “Now I’m interested, Beel.”  Samael’s shit-eating grin made even me, the Lord of Flies, feel dirty.

The other three echoed Samael’s sentiments.  Azazel bleated enthusiastically, clapping his hooves together.

Belial gave me the side eye.  “And how the hell are we going to do that, Beelzebub?” he grunted.

I looked at the four unappealing men.  One more goat than human, one a drunkard, one a sex fiend, and one who probably considered his scythe his girlfriend.  How I would make the into palatable celebrities fit for public consumption was almost- almost– beyond me.  But I had the seed of an idea.

“We used to be angels,” I explained.  “Played the harp, sang like castratis, flounced around Heaven in chorus lines for the Lord.  Musical performance is in our blood – it used to be one of our callings.  Samael, remember how you used to play the guitar and sing hallelujahs?”

Samael snorted.  “I could always shred the fretboard to pieces.”

I nodded.  “And Belial, your drum-playing was the marching beat for Heaven’s army.”

Belial shook his head in disbelief.  “I haven’t touched a drum set in ages…”

I turned to Azazel.  “And you, Azazel – you were always passionate about the bass.”

Azazel bleated, slit eyes rolling in his head.

Asmodeus waited expectantly.  “What?  I suppose you’re going to praise my melodious voice?” he scoffed, lighting a cigar and taking a drag.

“You were only second to Lucifer in singing praises to the Lord, Asmodeus,” I said.

“So what’s your point?” Samael asked, intrigued.  “What do our musical abilities have to do with this covert operation?”

I drew in a deep breath, then set to explaining.  “I did a lot of thinking, and had a stroke of inspiration.  We’ve all heard of musicians selling their souls at crossroads to the Devil for fame.  But what about fans?  The ones who throw themselves at boy bands, who fawn over celebrities?  Certainly they lose pieces of their souls to their obsessions.  You can’t tell me Beatles mania wasn’t a cult.  That girls wouldn’t have laid down their innocence for Elvis.”

Asmodeus’ acid green eyes flickered.  “You want us to form a band?” he asked.

Azazel baaed.  Belial laughed like a madman.  Samael gave me the stink eye.

I hesitated.  “Well… yes.”

“Well, shit,” Asmodeus said.  “Supposing this could work, how the hell do you expect us to appeal to teenagers?”

I tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ears.  “Well, I would be the band manager, and first, you four would all need to undergo major image makeovers.  We’d need to brand you for public consumption, clean off your edges and give you alter egos.  I actually have the plans for you here…” I said, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out four folders.  I started with Azazel’s, opening it to show the others.  “Here, Azazel, are the mock ups for your disguise.  You’re going to be the youngest of the group, an 18 year old heartthrob bass player.  The typical bad boy that will have young women falling head over heels.”

Azazel grunted, taking his picture and examining it.  His disguise was a heavily pierced, black haired youth with tribal tattoos.

“Baa,” Azazel contemplated, taking the folder and putting it in his messenger bag.

“Good, good,” I said.  “And you, Samael.  You’re going to be a 23 year old German metalhead thrash roots that fronts as the lead guitarist.”

Samael glanced at his folder, taking in the long-haired blond man with slender musculature that was to be his disguise.  He grunted his approval.

“Belial, you’re going to be the drummer, of course-”

“What’s up with the band name?” Asmodeus interrupted.  He cracked his knuckles, threatening.

“The band’s called Fortuna.  I had our pop culture team come up with the band name.  It’s sure to be a hit.”

“Really?” Samael scoffed.  “Because it sounds like you pulled the name out of your ass.”

My face flushed in anger, but I held back several choice words.  “Trust me, Samael.  It’s bound to be a success.  Your musical talents coupled with my expert management will ensure Fortuna tempts hundreds – no, thousands – to Hell’s fiery furnaces.”

Azazel responded: “Blaaaaaa?

“That’s a good question,” I answered.  “How exactly are we going to condemn these girls to Hell?  Well, through subliminal messaging, we’ll encourage these young women to engage in rebellious, subversive behavior.  With hi-tech spells woven into our songs, we’ll arouse in them base impulses and destruction, debauchery and lust.  Upon listening to our music, their ids will be unleashed.  I’m sure we can all drink to that, friends.”

“Sounds like fun to me,” Belial said, shrugging.  “I’ve been aching to get back into drumming – it’s usually something I do when piss drunk or stoned.  It’d be nice to do it professionally, and on a mission for Lucifer at that.”

Asmodeus saw an opportunity.  “And we can do with the minors what we please?”

I nodded yes.  “Kill them, fuck them, torture them – I don’t care.  As long as their souls end up in the proverbial basement.”

Asmodeus grinned like a shark.  “We have a deal, Beelzebub,” he said, extending a hand for shaking.  I took it, returning the gesture.  “Cheers, then!”  Asmodeus called, raising his glass.  I raised my refill and we clanked our beers together, toasting our new venture.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Samael murmured, “where are the virgins and lush whores?”

I smirked.  “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen…”

We tipped the waitress generously and bought free drinks for the bar, then made our way out to a limousine parked before the dive.  “Take us to Lilith’s Shedim Club,” I told the driver, referring to the Queen of Hell’s den of iniquity, where experienced courtesans and innocent virgins waited to pleasure Hell’s nobility.  A light blood-rain began to fall as we drove through the streets to the red-light district.  Samael sharpened his scythe with his whetstone in the backseat while Azazel munched on a napkin he had swiped from the bar, goat’s appetite apparent.  Belial, drunk, was hand-drumming on his legs as if practicing for our future performances, while Asmodeus stared out the window, steely-eyed.  I checked my Blackberry and waded through emails.  Finally, we arrived.

“Here you are,” said the driver, pulling up at the curb.  I nodded to him, and we climbed out.

Samael hissed in anticipation, snake-like tongue slipping out through his teeth.  “Yes,” he said.  “I can smell the sweet virgins from here.”

Belial scoffed.  “I don’t understand your obsession with virgins and purity, Samael.  I’d take an experienced courtesan over a yearling any day.”

“It’s the act of corrupting the innocent that’s so enticing,” Samael hissed.

Asmodeus laughed as we walked through the red-curtained doors.  “I don’t see what there is to argue about.  As long as they’re fresh and young, who cares how many men they’ve been with?”

Baaa,” Azazel voiced his opinion, drooling a bit.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” came a sultry voice.  Lilith, earthy-skinned with voluminous black curls, was draped over a velvet settee, a knowing smile on her lips.  She was dressed in a leather skirt and ruby-encrusted bustier, slingback heels posed like a question on the settee arm.  Her lips were a dark, tempting shade and she smelled like spring rain and sin.  Her head was in Lucifer’s lap, and he hand-fed her cherries, one by one.  She knotted the stems in her mouth and spat out the pits by his feet.  Lilith reached up in affection and mussed Lucifer’s blond hair.

I nodded to my boss and his consort.  “Hello, Lu, Lilith.”

“Beel!  My favorite blight,” Lucifer said, easing off the settee and rising to greet us.  “Samael, Belial, Asmodeus, Azazel.  I trust you’ve been briefed on your mission.”

“Oh, have we been bloody briefed,” Asmodeus grunted.  “Enough small talk.  We’re here for the whores, not sucking up to you, Lucifart.”

Lucifer laughed off-handedly.  “Telling it like it is since the universe’s conception, eh, Deus?  Well, please, by all means, don’t let me stand in your way.”  Lucifer bowed slightly, inclining his arm to the harem chambers.

Baaa,” Azazel agreed, following Asmodeus to the courtesans.

Belial and Samael, who had a tad more tact, made small talk with Lucifer about his latest torture techniques while I made payment arrangements with Lilith.  She stood behind the front desk, writing in a ledger.

“Just charge tonight’s indulgences to Hell’s Department of Temptation.”

She nibbled the cap of her pen, amber pools of eyes gazing at me.  “Will you be partaking tonight?” Lilith asked.  She ran her long tongue over her fangs.

I began to sweat.  Lilith, insatiable, was famed for taking lovers other than Lucifer, and had made it perfectly clear on previous occasions that she wanted to bed me.  I had resisted her advances in the past, unsure, but tonight I wanted to relieve the stress of the evening.

“I think so,” I said.

She smirked.  “Follow me, then, Beel,” she said, taking my wrist and guiding me to the harem courtyard.  I walked past the veil covering the door and my nose was greeted by the scents of frankincense and myrrh.  A phantasmagoria of beautiful women – some demons, some monsters, some human, all deadly in their glory – was spread out, luscious, before me.  Several women bathed, rubbing spikenard oil into their hair, while others pleasured clients.  A few belly-danced to the exotic music drifting through the room.  Others sat and gossiped in quiet voices with one another.

Samael and Belial were doubly penetrating a lamia, her tail wrapped around the both of them.  Asmodeus was pleasuring a human girl with his tongue, his lips shining with her juices, while Azazel mercilessly fucked a nymph.  I blushed at their depravity.  Lilith saw the red on my cheeks and laughed.  “For a general of Hell, you have always been shy when it comes to matters of the boudoir, Beelzebub.  Perhaps we should go somewhere private?” she asked.

I nodded yes.  “Does Lucifer mind?”

Lilith laughed.  “Lucifer and I take so many lovers on the side, I lost count of them long ago.  When you’re together with someone for centuries, it’s impossible not to have an open relationship.”  She led me down a hallway to a curtained room with a luxurious, silk-laden bed.  The mother of seduction drew the curtain and turned, smile coy.  She crooked her index finger, motioning for me to come to the bed.

Lust flared in my gut and shot static pulses through my limbs.  I advanced like a predator, all hunger.  But Lilith was no easy prey.  Like the owl, wild and elusive, she would evade capture even if I held her in my arms and drove myself deep inside her.  That was her power: she was untamable.  Even Lucifer could not lay claim to the mother of monsters.

Our lips met like a storm, and my hands on her skin felt like touching the mantle of night, deliciously cool and smooth.  Her dusky cheeks bloomed rose and her mouth thirsted, devouring my neck in kisses.  I lost my hands in the sea of her curls.

Yes…” Lilith murmured as I gently undid her bustier, circling my thumbs over her breasts’ peaks.  I swept her décolletage up in my hands and rolled my thumbs over her nipples, trailing kisses along her collarbone, down to the hollow below her throat.  I nipped her flesh with my fangs, and she laughed.  Lilith sank onto the bed, pulling me with her, and I circled my lips over her left breast, taking her pert nipple into my mouth and sucking, flicking my tongue over it.

She traced the muscles of my back.  She sighed, a sweet sound, as I caressed her inner thigh with one hand.  Lilith spread her legs open, expectant, and I felt her welcoming wetness and the softness of her folds.  Running my thumb up and down her nether lips, I caressed her clit and slipped a finger into her tight core.  Her muscles coiled around my index finger.  I inserted another finger, gently hand-fucking her as I pressed kisses to her skin.  Lilith arched her back, curling her legs behind me.

“Oh,” she moaned, orgasming.  She opened her eyes wide, gazing at the bed canopy.  She smirked.  “My turn to play with you.”  Lilith took my cock in her hands and toyed with me.  She eased me onto my back.  I did, relaxing as she took my cock into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down its length as she swirled her tongue over the sensitive head.  She worked me expertly, cupping my scrotum and driving me to the edge of ecstasy.  Unable to control myself, I buried my hands in her hair and pumped into her mouth, burying myself balls-deep in her throat.  Lilith, a fan of rough sex, enjoyed it, matching my moans as she devoured me.  She fingered herself as she pleasured me.  I saw the wetness shine on her hand and couldn’t contain my lust for her, my desire to taste her sweet dew.

I eased her mouth from my cock and guided Lilith onto her back.  Eager, I lapped at her wetness, zig-zagging my tongue over her lush folds and working my way up to her clit.  After teasing her clit, I fucked her with my demonically long, thick tongue.  Lilith shivered, clutching at the sheets.  She smelled like musk and jasmine, tasting like spring water.  I delighted in bringing her pleasure.

“Wait…” she murmured, eying the door.

“What?” I breathed, surfacing.  Leaning against the door frame, cocky as ever, was Lucifer, in a silk robe that hung off his shoulders, revealing his perfectly carved features.  He was truly God’s masterpiece, with skin that shone like opals, his hair like yellow beryls.  I cocked my eyebrows in question.

“Mind if I join?” Lucifer propositioned, grin crooked.  He didn’t wait for an answer, drawing the curtain behind him.  He untied his robe and let it fall to the floor, Adonis body like a lion.  Lucifer’s cock stood ready, thick-veined and wet with pre-cum.  Lilith shivered beneath me at the sight of it.

“I suppose we’re past the point of no?” I said.

Lucifer laughed, stalking towards me.  “I would think so.”  I paled at the sight of my king.  His depravity knew no bounds, and his sadism was legendary.  Sure enough, a riding crop materialized in his hands.  “Lilith, have you been misbehaving?” Lucifer tsked, playing with her.

Lilith laughed.  “Kiss my ass, Lu,” she said.

“Gladly,” Lucifer hissed.  He handed me the riding crop.  “Beel, Lily needs to be disciplined.  I’ll bring her pleasure.  You’ll bring her pain.”

“Lord, I…  Lilith, are you sure?”

Yes,” she urged me.  “Be merciless, Beel, like you are with the damned.”

Hot lust boiled in my solar plexus at the thought of bruising Lilith’s dusky ass.  Base and unruly, I know, but I was a demon.  Lucifer set to rimming her, kissing the pink rosebud of her anus.  Lilith, head buried in the pillows, moaned.   He continued to pleasure her until she was on the edge of cumming.  Suddenly, he drew back.

“Now, Beelzebub,” Lucifer ordered.

I struck Lilith with the riding crop.  She cried out as I brought it down on her, relentless.  I was so absorbed in my work, watching bruises form, that I didn’t notice Lucifer behind me until he started grinding his cock between the cheeks of my ass.  “Take her, Beel.  Just like I’ll take you,” Lucifer growled.

Lucifer’s desire was like an intoxicating drink.  It spilled over into me, and I wanted nothing more than to penetrate Lilith, queen of demons, and fill with my king’s hot seed.  Lucifer and I had fucked before during the heavenly war, mostly to relieve tension, but that was to be expected among generals on the battlefield.  We had never done so in an intimate setting.

I took Lilith’s ass, pounding into its tight vacuum.  She hand-fucked herself, moaning.  Lucifer rubbed his cock over my perineum, pre-cum slicking its head, then penetrated me.  I felt his hot member slide inside me, digging his hilt to my core.  He pumped with abandon, just as I did.  I finished before him, crying out, as my moans mingled with Lilith.

She, finished, lay splayed beneath me, but Lucifer still wasn’t done.  He pumped into me for minutes more, and I bore the brunt of his power, ass searing in a delightful way as I stretched to accommodate my king.

Finally, he spilled his seed into me, and it rushed from my ass down my legs in thick, hot spurts.  Sighing, Lucifer leaned against me, vulnerable for only a moment, then regained himself.  He chuckled, wiping himself clean with the sheets and spit, then rose from the bed.  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, voice playful, “I’ll leave you and Lilith to your dalliances, Beelzebub.”  And, like a wicked whirlwind that had plowed into the room, our king left, just like that.

Lilith’s amber eyes fixed on me, hazed with post-coital bliss.  “Well, that was enjoyable,” she purred.  “Shall we continue?”  Her ample breasts rose in time with her breaths.  I found myself already hard again, brimming with desire for the inventor of seduction.

“Yes,” I murmured, eager.  I sated my desires in a myriad ways that night, leaving cuts and bruises on the both of us.  The sheets were bloody come morning, thanks to our brutal fucking.

The soon-to-be band was drunk off sex and alcohol the next morning, strewn like war victims across the harem.  Only Asmodeus was up, as always sharp as a knife.  The human girl he had pleasured the night before hand fed him grapes.  He eyed me with disinterest.  “I see you were Lilith’s toy.  How quaint,” Asmodeus said, mussing the hair of his human girl.  “I’m keeping her,” he said, indicating the courtesan.

I narrowed my eyes.  “But Deus, we’ll encounter so many mortals on tour.  Surely you want to diversify your tastes?”

Asmodeus scoffed.  “And I will.  But, for the time being, this girl is mine.”

I shrugged.  “Whatever you desire, Deus.”

A rich breakfast was served by the harem girls as the others roused to the scents of fresh pastries, cheeses, and tea.  Samael and Belial rested against the curving tail of the lamia they had rutted with the night before while Azazel grazed on fresh grass, chewing his cud.

“Baaaa?” Azazel asked.

“Good question,” I acknowledged him.  “Band practice starts today.  Bright and early.  I’ve booked a tour for us in less than a week.  We need to get this show on the road.”

My Polytheism

As you may or may not know, I am a lurker.  Especially on Beth and Jo’s blogs.  I have been since I started my WordPress and used to be more active in the Pagan community, and as I’m trying to blog more, I decided to write a bit about my spirituality and stop posting so many angsty poems.

As those who have followed my blog since the tender age of 18 (I’m now 23), you may remember my Pagan phase, which despite my protestations, I never quite left (Sorry for dragging you to full moon rituals on Imbolc, D and L).  In fact, I have been Pagan since I was 7 and read D’aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths.  I was smitten with Athena, and would pray to her for help on homework, then crushed on Hermes majorly.  I read the end of D’aulaire’s, the part where the gods are dead, and cried, like, a lot.  I then decided I would single-handedly revive the old faiths and thought I was the only Pagan in the world for a good five years until I discovered Pagans online.  I went through an Egyptian phase and dressed up as Sekhmet for a school event, devoured all the mythology books I could find at the library, and while the gods were great, there was another piece of the puzzle I was figuring out.

Enter angels and demons.

My first memory, at two, is of Samael, coming to my cradle in a night terror with red eyes, ringing me with mangled ghost children, singing me a lullabye in a voice like Tom Waits and saying “I LOVE YOU ALLIE.”  I woke up clutching my pacifier right before he hugged me.  Come four and I would dream my father was ripped to pieces by a hellhound, one I would see many times afterward, with red eyes, black fur, and a wolfish mien.  I later learned through experience, after many years, it was one of Samael’s forms, besides the stupid black serpent and dragon.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Throughout my childhood, from year zero to today, I have struggled with horrible nightmares, sleep paralysis, and vivid dreams of angels, gods, and demons.  I have always been drawn to the otherworldly and my imaginary friend was an angel of the Morning Star, destruction, death, lions and serpents.  I was about eight.  He was my first OC that I wrote about at 11, and I described him in that spectacularly crappy space opera as “a Grim Reaper with attitude.”    Metatron was also in there as a tea-drinking angel.  It was weird.

Before I even read Madeliene L’Engel, I gravitated to stories about angels.  I forced my parents to buy me a children’s Bible in kindergarten because it had angels on the cover. Demons scared the crap out of me, but angels felt like home.  I saw sparks of light flying around churches, priests, and children, in particular a cobalt blue spark that was always by my side who I later learned was Michael.  Raphael is green.  Samael is red.  When I look up to the sky, to this day, I see millions of sparks of light flying through the sky.

In first grade I built a tin foil hat because I thought aliens were contacting me through energy.  Later I learned I was feeling the presence of spirits, but when you’re young and feel like your chakras are being plugged into an electric socket, you worry.  I would sing to my morning star angel and pray and feel the energy, be moved by music, pray to the gods, there it was.  So from a young age, I felt and saw spirits, but didn’t understand what was going on.

Enter puberty.

My first vision came when I was 12, December 21, on a cold winter’s night.  I was lying in bed, my eyes shut closed, and I had an out-of-body experience.  I was thrust from my preteen child’s form into the sky above heaven, and below me, angels in armor with brilliant scintillating wings were battling demonic black shadows, guts spilling onto the ground, blood, blood everywhere.  I screamed for someone to save me and fell to the ground, but no one could see me.  A demon was about to plunge its talons through me to get to an angel when a force like the whole weight of the world pulled my spirit back, zooming through ranks of angels to their stronghold.  There in a clearing stood a tall, imposing angel in golden armor, with a flaming sword, saffron hair and eyes that could pull souls out of their bodies.  He saved me, frowned, then thrust my spirit back into my body, bellowing a name in Hebrew he continues to call me to this day.  His voice was like thunder as my body rocketed up in bed.  I was wracked with shivers and sobs, wondering who the general of Heaven’s forces was and what my experience could possibly mean.  Much later on, I learned his name was Michael.

A few weeks later in seventh grade, inspired by Twilight, I invented the name Samael as a punk version of Samuel and wrote a story about a middle school over a hellmouth.  A few weeks later, I googled Samael and learned that despite being the name of a crappy metal band, he was also the Jewish angel of death and Satan.  Cue screaming and not touching that story for a month.  My computer started acting weird, shutting down randomly and claiming I’d edited the Wikipedia page of Lucifer.  I cried.  I cried a lot at that time.  Three nights after my discovery of Samael actually being a Jewish angel/demon/annoying snake, I had my first dream of him.  He was very snarky and offered me an apple, then told me I read too much.  He still continues to be an asshole and terrible, terrible cook.

That first dream opened up the door for endless dreams of demons, tricksters, and archangels.  I developed an especial fondness for Raphael and wrote two stories about Freyr without realizing who he was.  Aym popped into my dreams, Beelzebub grumped around, and Michael continued to step in when Samael decided it was okay to let the minor drink.  Loki and Samael were the broiest of bros, Manannan, Coyote, Tezcatlipoca, and Odin all made appearances, and I continued to write stories based on my dreams.  Enter high school and I believed in the gods but was still pretty skeptical of the whole angel/demon thing, as I hated the patriarchy and thought it was sexist that priests and the Messiah couldn’t be women.  I was also terrified of Hell, even though Pandemonium is basically an endless party and the only one who really seems to work are Rofocale and Beelzebub.  Lilith terrified me and I still hate her.  She’s a bitch.

I’m agnostic as fuck, so being godbothered and having all these dreams of angels, demons, and deities was confusing.  I went to the top science and tech high school in the world for godsake then was a bio major in college.  12-19 was me barely keeping my head above water as I challenged myself in academics, burned the candle at both hands, and dealed with shamanic death-rebirth crap and Sam being a right arse.  I finally figured out that Freyr was the character I kept writing about after googling “blond god of the north and nature” and other such things.  Michael kept stepping in when Sam was too drunk to function.  I made rounds with the archangels and chilled with Asmodeus at his atrociously gaudy casino bar.  Then I had to wake up each morning and try to ignore the fact that Samael got drunk off holy water the night before.

There was so much shadow work.  Too much.  When Samael basically raises you your dreams are full of the Adversary, Hell, war, and purifying fires.  He always told me to “Grow a spine, worm.” and “Stop being a doormat.  Stand up for yourself.  Don’t kneel, don’t bow, stand strong.”  He also likes to go off on tangents about decomposition, the Apocalypse, alcohol, alchemy, and the dreaded metaphysics, all of which I ignore.

The shadowork didn’t scare me so much as when Samael cried.  Seeing the Grim Reaper cry kind of makes you doubt your existence.  We fight a lot, and he has no respect for boundaries, and sometimes I don’t know why the universe made me his babysitter.  I’m on much better terms with the Archangel Michael, who I consider my guardian angel, and Freyr, my patron god.  Beelzebub is actually, despite being anal and cold, a sweetheart, and Deus is just dumb.  All Aym does is do drugs and hang out with prostitutes.  There are a lot of succubi in Hell.

So I probably sound crazy, but I’ve met about 25 people with the same exact experiences and same UPG about Samael, down to his weird fascination with squirrels.  I’ve actually made several of my best friends because Samael brought us together.  So thanks, I guess, Bonebutt.

My polytheism is this weird mess of Paganism and Christianity.  My polytheism is constantly evolving.  I believe in God, which angels and demons are manifestations of, this abstract Source that sends out servants who all embody its characteristics, hence names like “Gall of God,” “Strength of God,” or “Image of God.”  I hold the kind of strange view that Michael is Jesus, or maybe I’m totally wrong, but when you see the tenderness with which Michael gardens souls and answers prayers, and how his love and suffering and sacrifice hold all Heaven together, it seems as Christlike as Christ can get.  I think Sophia/the Shekinah manifest in personal heroes like Eve and Mary Magdalene, and the Divine Feminine is manifest in Mother Mary.  I don’t believe in Hell as a place of suffering, but a place of purification where difficult souls go to recover and then move on.  I believe demons and angels aren’t at war, per se, more in a Cold War of sorts, and I believe demons are servants of the harsher parts of God, for what is God but everything?

As for the god gods, I view them as individual pieces of the Source, in charge of different things.  Freyr is my Green Man, Manannan and Njord are my sea, Loki is my fire, Coyote is my whimsy.  And Thunderbird, glorious Thunderbird, is the majestic storm.  All I know is that Thor gives great hugs and that Freyr is an aficionado of Mexican food.

My spirituality is organic, based on lore and experience.  I would never ascribe to a strict form of worship.  I go on what I have personally experienced in dreams and then do a shitton of research, finding out that Beelzebub is in fact the General of Hell as in that one dream or that book I read in Samael’s library that he threw in my head actually exists.  My spirituality is odd, based on community, and I could give a rat’s ass about who others worship.  I believe gods are adapting, communicating with us through means like pop culture or, in my case, memes.  I’m trash, I know.

So yeah, my polytheism is this strange mix of everything I have experienced as someone drawn to the mystic path, a clairsentient, raging environmentalist treehugger, and avid, avid poet and writer.  I write stories based on my experiences with the gods and spirits and continually draw on them for inspiration.

Sometimes I wonder if they just want their stories told.

Zophael: Chapter 1

I remember when we were born.  Most angels don’t, so maybe my screw’s a bit loose.  

It wasn’t much: Father dipped his hand into the cosmos and scooped out me and Zadkiel, two cherubim more cherubic for our chubby cheeks and pudgy putti bodies than the flaming wheels and four headed messengers humans are familiar with.

I like to think I was a cute baby, but I probably wasn’t.  Something was always off about me – a glint in the eye, tousled hair, bruised knees.  Zadkiel was the charmer: blonde wonderboy I liked to call him.  Secretly I fawned over him: we were twins, but he always seemed older, wiser, knowing the ways of women, wine, and song.  

Michael, our older brother and basically a glorified babysitter, let Zadkiel do what he wanted – make explicit shapes out of the clouds, piss halos in the snow when it came to the Heavenly Palace, boy stuff.  

Because I was the girl, Michael was a hardass.  Overprotective as the briers covering Sleeping Beauty’s palace and extra hard on my training because I didn’t have the same build as the male angels – where they were hard and sturdy, I was curved and wild, like some kind of cat you find dead at the end of the road, minus the dead part.  The only time Michael was soft was when we were in the prayer gardens and he was with his beloved roses.  Secrets of the heart, he told me, only blooming when humans cried out to Father with such earnestness all the choirs couldn’t sleep.  

We hear all your prayers, every one.  Makes napping a pain in the ass.

Because we were supposed to be his generals, Father let Michael choose our names.  Michael is abysmal at naming things.  Exhibit A: Zadkiel, the righteousness of god.  Sounds like a crappy Christian metal band.  All our names kind of suck.  At least he can be Zad for short.  

Mine’s the worst though.  I don’t know what Michael has for Z’s.  Zophael.  From tsaphah.  Spy, or watcher, of god.   That’s right, Michael wanted me to be Father’s spymaster.  Milton didn’t call me “of cherubim swiftest wing” for nothing.

What Michael didn’t understand is that, in naming us, the names had power, power that sometimes undermined our purpose.  Michael was still a kid that liked celestial explosions, after all.

Righteousness could make Zad a righteous asshole.  As for me, because my eyes see everything, and I mean everything, I am easily distracted by bright shiny objects like pearls and armor on attractive men and the latest jewelry at Tiffany’s.  I timehop sometimes and scour NYC for baubles.  I especially like bells, and I wear them on my dresses, mostly to annoy Mikey.  Zad thinks it’s all great fun.

So yeah, I remember my birth.  I remember being spoonfed manna and shitting ether and getting sick off the time Samael and Bael – now Beelzebub, the twat – dunked me in the Abyss.  Those idiots always did that.  Thank god Father kicked them out.  They’re good for a drink or whatever, but being the angels of rot, death, and insects really does ruin dinner in the Heavenly Throneroom.  Bael and Michael always fought when Michael sprayed his precious, precious prayer gardens with pesticide, anyways.  Thank god I’m not the angel of, of all things, flies.

Time moves differently when you’re an angel, circular, as your beloved physicists say.  We know the beginning, sort of know the end, and bullshit the in-between.  I’ve been bullshitting most of my life.  That’s what the whole spy business is.  I’m kind of Heaven’s double agent.  Herald of hell and all that.  I mean, I’m a guy’s girl, I got along with the heavenly fratboys like Asmodel – now Asmodeus, dumbest name change ever – and I even got close to Samael.  Close enough I convinced them I was on their side during the whole Heavenly War fiasco and gathered intel to report back to dear old Mikey.  

In the end, I got burned by both sides, broke promises I never intended to make in the first place, and lost one of my nine lives.  Dead cat by the side of the road, remember?  I am many things, none of which is cautious.  

Now back to when I was a baby.  The nitty-gritty details of growing pains, first loves, and of course, Michael’s awful, cruel and unusual punishment lessons.  Father.  Glorious, wily Father, adamant Father, Father I have not seen since the end of the War.  

Father I hope to never see again.

Father who left because I told him a terrible secret.