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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When it Rains in Hell

In Hell, in the beginning, there was darkness, like God put out the moon with his thumb.

Satan fell, and his tears froze the lowest circle.  Satan’s love is a burning thing, but his agony is absolute cold.

Beelzebub was the first to fall.  The first to carry the banner and sound the horn for the Mourning Star.  He was the first to bleed, the first to storm Heaven’s Gates.  Satan’s wise counselor, most trusted general, and above all, esteemed companion.

They are alone together for what seems like eternity, Beelzebub with his insect wings torn by the incinerating atmosphere, Satan plucking his mangled feathers dry as he goes mad, not even noticing he is freezing.  Beelzebub’s king is singing a song Father used to sonorously paint their cradles with.  Satan makes it sweet and wretchedly cruel:

My sons, my darling shining stars.

Smolder bright like embers from afar.

But up close, sons, burn them to flames.

Thy Kingdom Come, all worlds to claim.

For each word, a broken bit of white down.

For each verse, an infidel kingdom crushed for Christendom.

For each syllable, a dead god, a cold idol, a coffin for the false spirits.

Satan repeats it over and over, his tears blue banners.

Beelzebub waits.  Finally, there is light, after perhaps the trillionth repetition.

A third of Heaven falls as stars of simmering bright flesh, a flash of brilliance.

Then impact on jagged rocks and ice.  Reformation and mutation into monsters.

Pain.

They build an empire on ash and bone, and bury the brothers and sisters that do not survive the Fall.  In honor, much later, when some semblance of civilization is build, however twisted, they put their gravestones into the mortar of the Capital’s building.

Pain, memories, wine like blood, or is it blood like wine?

There is not much to say at night, but it is always night in Hell.

Beelzebub remembers, Satan grows more wicked, so far from his former brightness, and falls into madness and depravity.

Beelzebub holds the kingdom together, runs martial drills for the War That Never Ends.

Beelzebub goes over the ledgers and public records, holds councils, takes too short nights of comfort in his sweet boys.

Usually, he is alone in his tower.

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?

Only if Heaven was ever perfect in the first place.

The Lord of Flies looks up at the stars of dead god’s hearts, stitched into the fabric of the void.  You see, the demons had to improvise.  All that were left were corpses after the conquest, and after all, all souls eventually end up here.

I sit with Bael, Baal Zebub, a memory of Baal Hadad, or maybe he has always been a spider.

We entwine in his web and kiss venom and poison and toxins.

There are jewels in his web, lost treasures of a thousand conquered kingdoms.

Maggots eat Satan’s corpse, flies emerge from the dregs of the Grim Reaper.  Satan’s true name is Samael, after all – the finality of the scythe, and before his scythe, his spear.

Beelzebub would eat his shit if it purified his brother.  He has drank Satan’s tears, swallowed his cum, bathed in his blood, all to feel again.

It is a cold night in Hell.

Beelzebub looks up at the stars.

There is mist in his eyes.

Tear for every dead brother.

A sob for a negligent parent.

I miss my Father, Allie.  Sometimes, it takes all I have to just go on.

I take his bone white hand – my albino angel, or my red-eyed demon with platinum hair, black capes, and gauntlets.

I speak without thought:

You have our brethren’s love.  Asmodeus.  Samael.  Rofocale.  Belial.  Lilith.  Asherah.  From the Archdemons to the Goetics to the lowliest Damned. You have us.

He gives a ghost of a smile.

Yes, you, our angel in Hell.  Sometimes, Allie, you are the only light here.  I am the Lord of Creeping Things, of the soft rabbits and soft souls, the moths and butterflies, your soul is a doe or a hare.  I am frost, ice, and fire – Hell is primal, fire and water, but I shall keep you warm.  In Hell, the only light is love.  Never lose your kindness, Allie.  It is innocence demons cherish above all.

Baal Hadad rides the storm, be they frost or fire.  Some gods died in those ancient celestial wars.

Some took on different names.

Some forgot their own holiness.

For all of them, Beelzebub remembers.

 

Gangbang

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

Lord of Flies and Souls

Yours is a life that is quiet and steady as rain –
hair of fog, is it any wonder I cannot see you?

Baal of Storms, Baal-Zebul of souls, enchanter,
you are the eye of a hurricane, sweetest spider,
and the tempestuous lightning? Your silk of fire.

You are the quietest and most reserved infernal,
General and Prince of Hell’s Armies, albino freeze,
the White One, the Pale Warrior, the Lord of Flies,
you slosh red wine and watch the jester calmly,
hold Satan’s leash like he is a dancing monkey.

Aren’t we all fragile curiosities to you?

Who holds the power in Hell?
He is quiet as snow.
He is ice, he is cold death,
he is sterility, silence.

Sweet Baal, you are tender to the few you love,
steadfast shelter, my friend and sometimes warmth
when the lowest circle freezes, mayfly in the sheets.

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.

Baal Zebub

Mayflies are much like humans
they spring from sweet waters,
burn their tallows at both ends
ensnared, sieve through my web.

Many call me Lord of Flies
but in truth I am a spider,
a weaver of fate and secrets.
Hell’s general, yes – also
a spinner of temptation
skeins of sin in pedipalp
my bed of maggots and silk.

A ring of garnet eyes, my crown
in dark robes like rosary beads
I nest in the highest of places
my swarms your heart’s swift buzz.

I am Baal Zebub,
Lord of Hordes,
Lord of Souls.