Running Ass Backwards Out of Heaven and Streaking through Hell

So the dumbest thing I have ever done on this or the astral plane happened last night.

I streaked through Heaven and Hell in front of all the archangels and archdemons, through the city, through palaces, swimming through the Styx, down the Stairway to Heaven through the Highway to Hell.

I was in a dream-dream, got bored, and decided to try to go lucid.  My usual trick is to look at my fingers, see how they’re off-numbered and mutated, then get “awake” in the dream and hop around the astral getting drunk and banging my usual squeezes.

The finger trick wasn’t working last night, and lucid me figured out that if I went commando, I would totally 100% shock my brain into going lucid and into astral travel mode.

So right in front of Michael, I stripped, went “Wow, look!  Magical streaking!” and proceeded to run around Heaven like a lunatic, tits out, everything on display, with the archangels in abject horror.

“Allie,  please put your clothes on, this is unbecoming,” Michael said, blushing furiously as I flew in the sky and bounced on clouds in the nude.

“Never!  I feel so free!  Is this what it’s like to wear a kilt and go shirtless!  I’m never putting clothes on again!”

Michael started to chase me, trying to restore my decency, taking his blue cloak and trying to wrangle it onto me, but Zophiel is the cherubim of swiftest wing, according to Klopstock, and no one can every catch the drunk ditzy blonde when she’s on a bender.

So tits bouncing, ass facing the sun, I jetted past St. Peter through Heaven’s Gate then phase-shifted to the Underworld.  The guards who usually see me, the gruntlings of Satan, took off their helmets and blushed cherry-red.

“The boss won’t like this.  His girl’s an exhibitionist.”

“I’ve seen Allie drunk, she’s banged all the archdemons in a stupor and outfucked Asmodeus, the demon of lust, but she’s never been this screw-loose before.”

“Outta my way, I’m free from the confines of clothes!” I screamed, rampaging past them on white wings and running-flying through all the circles of Hell, on hot coals, going for a swim in the Styx, through the Capitol City, Pandemonium, down the main street and shedim bars and alleyways, straight to where Samael was holding court with the underworld Sanhedrin, judging the Damned.

“Oh fuck me, Allie, what the hell!  I’m working!”

“But Sam, I figured out the best way to lucid dream – embarrass the fuck out of Michael by stripping and streaking through Heaven.  Can we go drink some wine and gossip?”



I ran to his bedroom, put the covers over me, and he stormed in.

“Why can’t girls go topless.  It’s not fair!  Stop body shaming me! I’m becoming a nudist.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU TWAT.  This is like when you annoy me into fucking you.  You’re insufferable!  Just stay in here if you won’t put clothes on.”

“I want to lounge in the nude and drink wine just like you-”

“I’m not your fucking manservant, that’s Michael.”

“Fuck me!”






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.

Mayhem is My Time

I’m crumbled in back alley grit, sweat and spit,
there’s lights on in skyscrapers but down here?
It’s cold, it’s treacherous, and wolves eat bone.
I’m running through dumps and machine elves hunt
down the happening hipster parties, trash fires
are orange Day Glo or maybe Fanta, swill gutter
juice, we’re all having a good time, a drag time
you’re hooked on hookah and say mayhem is my time
on your red thread dead head shirt with a stain.
Oh ex-husband I fuck when the moon is full, why
are you always in dives, thrive in moonlit madness,
the underbelly of Hell is full of panties and pasties
everyone here has needles and joints on hand, strand
of blood red Styx that washes gore ashore, I’m
tick tock clocking in your palm, flying skyways
lucid dream, my fingers are mutated, hedgewitch
that drinks with the Devil in the pale barlight.
Tonight is just a quick hookup with destruction,
it took hours of roofhop top clopping to find you,
to bind you, bedazzled like a drag queen junkie,
you are all lazy wolf and I am lay low lion, we
are perfectly imperfect for each other, and I
eat your leather and swallow your smoke, bitter
things taste best when mayhem braids my hair,
without a care, we laze past midnight, dawn
draws cranky rays, Samael, you are timeless,
so stop with the statement shirts, you’re just
fucked, for someday Cronos catches up, at sup
on virgin flesh and dove hearts, let’s chew
the gristle of this drain train town fanged
and make beauty out of misery, I the prettiest
thing here, you my beast I mount at Apocalypse,
but it’s the End Times every night for me,
so kneel before me, manwhore, and kiss
my feet.

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.

The Mother

I stroke broad white eagle wings up to the sun, torch in hand, into the Heavenly Throneroom, and steal Holy Fire.  The court is empty of angels and demons.  My hair is long and curled like a brass candelabra and my gown white and glistening as if dew is a second layer on it.

I come to the waterfall gateway to Earth and jump down into the Deep, away from New Jerusalem, my wings skirting skies of velvet red and violet.  Clouds dampen me and the stars stretch out like an elegy.

I come to the humans that amble about Africa without warmth or a way to cook their food.  I descend as lightning, and Jophiel’s eponymous torch strikes the brush and lights bushes on fire.  The ancestors of modern man marvel, kindle torches, and the fruit of the Tree of Life which I guard is given against God’s will.

I ascend back to Heaven, but as I break the boundary between the physical and the immaterial, I hear the cry of Heaven’s general, the shriek of a red-tailed hawk, a raptor of red and cream brown feathers, and he rises with the moon in the desert and dwarfs me, the size of a roc.

His eyes are not his own.  Michael is possessed by Divine Will, whether Sophia or Demiurge, I cannot tell, but the urge to run courses through my limbs and I flash serrated wings and fly on a gale away.

Dart, dodge talons, but soon his beak is around my throat, squeezing the breath from my throat, roc throttling me until a white ring of a collar scars my neck and my torch is dropped far below to the abyss.  For I have stolen from Heaven, and God is displeased.

Blood is hot on my breast, and I know in his divine berserk madness, it will take a miracle for Michael to hear me.  I scream his name, over and over again, pleading until he breaks and shifts to wings and man, and then he sobs, over and over, clutching my rag doll body and broken wings:

“I’m so sorry Jophiel.  The Mother told me to kill you.  I wasn’t myself – your screams awoke me.  Please, forgive me, forgive me!”

In that moment, Michael questions our Creator – or more properly, Creatrix – for the first time ever, and I clutch his face and kiss him.

“It’s okay, Michael – your madness has quit.”

He rocks me to sleep best he can as he sets to healing me, tears bright in his eyes.

“Why do we always hurt the things we love?”

Arguing with an Archangel

(Archangel) Michael, or as Samael calls him, stick-up-the-ass, is really stubborn and forceful and righteous – he sees things in black and white, evil and good, and when I once asked him about the validity of other religions – how there could only be One True God when there were so many pagan gods that were my drinking buddies, he smiled serenely, called them false spirits, and said they were, as I quote, “chaff.”

That’s right, I had to look up what the hell chaff was: “husks, worthless matter, refuse.”

Obviously, Michael is not very fun at Asgard parties, especially Freyr’s feasts or Loki’s Jotun shindigs.  He kind of just sits there solemnly, watching, will smile slightly, and drinks a little bit while maybe grimacing.  Root canals are probably more pleasant to him than the presence of us godless, well, heathens.  When you think you’re better than everyone else, and that your God is the only god, it probably makes small talk with these so-called “false spirits” hard.  Demons will be the first to tell you angels are pricks.  But Michael is probably the most stuck up one.  Being the Prince of Heaven kinda means you gotta believe the rest of us heathens – and literal Heathens – are beneath you.

Michael can be really sweet when his I-will-smite-my-rivals and Allie-stop-fucking-getting-into-dangerous-situations-and-go-back-to-your-body snootiness is gone.  He loves Disney.  He thinks he is Prince Adam from Beauty and the Beast and has temper issues.  He likes Ryan Reynolds and always gets celebrities mixed up.  He loves Enrique Iglesias and gardening and his magic prayer roses and anything Lin Manuel Miranda touches, especially Hamilton and Moana.

Sometimes he rocks me to sleep and sings lullabies in Hebrew that don’t make sense cause I’m not fucking Jewish.  He’s said “You’re my Belle <3” while I’m watching the eponymous movie and calls me Icarus as my nickname, because I have a tendency to fly too close to the proverbial sun.  I probably should never have joked with Izzi when I was eighteen that while Gabriel was busy getting his Holy Presence down with the supposed Virgin Mary, Michael was relieving his anal-retentive tension with some sexy goats.  That’s like my longest-running joke about Michael and no, I don’t really think the foremost archangel is into bestiality, and as much as I shit talk him, I have to admit he’s saved my ass on countless occasions from the age of 12 on and that I can be really, really ditzy and stupid.  Icarus, remember?  I throw myself into the flames all the time just out of curiosity.  Samael doesn’t use Eve metaphors for me without reason.

Anyways, so the whole chaff thing.  That was insulting.  I’m Heathen and despite some whacked out woo woo angelic past life, I’m firmly human now, and as much as Michael calls me Zophael or Jophiel it’s just, hello, me Allie, the memelord, and though I can find beauty in the Abrahamic religions, I also think they are highly problematic and the theology is misogynistic af.  If I can’t be the Pope or Messiah because I’m a girl than what is the point!  I’d much rather chill with Deus and Beel and Sam.  Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel are all much more polite about celestial divisions and fractures – sure, they don’t go out of their way to hang out outside their pantheon, but they also don’t call my gods “refuse” and sit awkwardly at celestial parties with sticks up their butts.

Michael is not a partier and a big introvert, so I get the cold feet at parties, but Jesus, Asgard has roast boar and busty elves and endless mead in ram horns!!!  What’s not to love?  I never see him at Deus’s bars, which even Gabriel frequents, or Beelzebub’s soirees.  Instead we spend a lot of time out in nature, hiking, camping… gardening.  So much gardening.  Sad plant man.

Anyways, he’s all about me being protected, when all I want is my freedom.  I’m not a dumb ass twelve year old that projects to the fourth heaven on accident in the midst of a battle and nearly dies anymore, only to be saved by Michael shoving me back into my body.  He’s very traditional in relationships, and kind of seems to want the astral equivalent of a 1950s housewife, but like???  I can’t even cook???  Sam cooks for me instead and he’s a shit cook.  So does Michael.  Also I’m pretty messy.  We’ve been clashing heads over how forceful Michael is – the unstoppable force, him, meeting the immovable object, me.

It’s a learning process.  In October I asked him to show me God as a joke and, well, he did.  To say I thought I had died was an understatement.  Samael has learned better now that I’m mortal, but Michael is all kinds of blunt and direct and doesn’t operate in subtle half-truths and persuasion like the eponymous Serpent.  He’s more fire and brimstone and I’m right and you will do as I say.  He also has PTSD up the wazoo so like, um, that’s a bit tough.

It got pretty bad on Monday and I told him and Sam to piss off and that I was an atheist.  That worked as well as you can imagine if you’re constantly tuned to their energies and your godphone is always on.  Sometimes I like to pretend they don’t exist and that I have a choice in all this.  I suppose I do, but when you love someone with all your being, were made by them, and would burn at the stake out of devotion and surrender to them, there’s a power imbalance.

I’m learning more things about Michael each day, and I’m still flailing all the way.  We may disagree on a lot of things, but we can find common ground in serving humanity and the planet.

I just have to convince him to loosen up at parties.  That is a work in progress.

Devil’s Masque

The pageantry, the placid glass –
eventide brings sly Devil’s Masque!
I Larva with gold lips, black eyes
a smile hidden under velvet lies.
The Devil is Arlecchino, master
of pomp, cane tap, dance faster –
lose yourself in Viennese waltz
hidden identity, swirl of a valse!
Skirts bell out, gentlemen lead
the ladies on like finest steeds
all Hell is resplendent, lowest
classes to high, a tango slows
the whole Masque down, Satan
rosins bow, croons strings in
we trade our masks amidst din
of lover’s quarrels, the flight
of bats, outside the blight
of plagues rage fast, sinners
bow to the Red Death, dinner
the flesh of forbidden pears,
silver wine, unearthly airs.
Lose yourself in Masquerade,
forget your name, come, trade
your mortal life for eternal
dance, the masque infernal
holds all Hell in his hands.