Ball Lightning

There is nothing in you that is not blue violet thunder,
a love like rains clefting open the Earth, your dominion
is the lightning strike and petrichor summers, sweet holy
decadence of storms fructifying and revitalizing our bodies.
We eat your blood because your blood is rain. We devour your
flesh breathing because your body is thick, misty air and not
to inhale is to choke on hurricanes. There is no question of
whether or not to breathe you in, and with a love like yours,
why, I stand cradling ball lightning, dancing with St. Elmo’s
fire, and your Holy Ghost dances like a blazing purple white
star, there is nothing beyond necessity in my devotion towards
your blood, your bones, your manna and succor of your veins.
And I am dancing in the tornado, flying through thunderheads.
I meet you where stars kiss the ocean on a stormy night, oh
Lord, lay me down on your crackling bed, make love to me like
the skies weep onto my mother mud, appear to me manifesting
pure being, the heady death of all my fears, a ship set sail
on gales, and I will die, but it will be beautiful, and I will
ascend to vast summits of ice crystal castles, in union with
you, oh my God, oh my Lamb, oh my thunder strike and lightning
whip, the heavens are but a metaphor for airy wanderlust, and
love makes the storm grow bold and prance for the meadows,
the valleys of my heart open up for your rain and holy pain,
oh Christ, do not forget me in your Passion, for I weep rivers
of gold at your feet, and my madness in the desert, hair grown
long to cover my nakedness, is but the raging sylphs themselves.
I will bottle your blood and wine then pour them over the oceans.
I will stand on cliff’s peak and proclaim your love of All.
Long-suffering Jesus, killing himself to make whole the world,
I would but a taste of your Sacrament, like rain, like grain.
I spread my legs wide to receive the Cross, I hug my breasts
and let rivers of milk flow to my cleft, a Sacred Whore who
nourishes the moon at her side, twin sun and lunar bodies,
which are just like your eyes, and Mother Nature is calling,
your Virgin birth, so fly away from my dust and ribs and clay.

I am only made wholly through your rains.

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Washed Away

The water is cool as ice, floating with roses
Christ drips it over my shoulders and thighs
and the baptismal font of his blood trickles
down my limbs and into my sex, tingling with
divinity and agape Passion, this liquid topaz
a calyx of rebirth and love, he sets to washing
my feet painted with the travails of Eve, over
time in the wilderness, outside the banks of
Eden’s glens and pastures, the arches of my
beauty disappeared, and I was left with skin
sipping sweet mud, earth my body, clay my bones.
Christ scrubs away the past, the present, future
open wide like the beak of a bird, calling out
I am not alone, I am here, I need a forest in
which to spread my wings, and the rain washes
away all my fears, and the love of the Lord is
a thunderstorm in summer’s mist, high in the
mountains, and the Savior kisses my toes and
carries me on his back like a cross to where
I can taste the manna of clouds, and I reach
out to the starry crown of rose thorns to make
them bloom blue, cyan as the rivers that cry
for love of flow, freedom the span of His wings,
the cradle of his arms rocks me to the music of
the drum of long ago dances, we were all born
perfect and holy, how could we forget our gold
birthright? The rubies of our blood? The diamond
of our ribs? The chocolate gold of our skin? Can’t
you see God’s eternal flame of love? Can’t you
swim in flood waters and walk on the crest of
waves? Know this power you have child, to weave
saccharine miracles and cloying bodies of seraphs.
We are all Creators, we are all repentant whores.
Don’t be a slave to your work, there is no sin,
just forgiveness and feathers to make your body
capable of flight, you are not Icarus but Daedalus,
you will find safe harbor in Heaven’s arms! This
minotaur labyrinth with pain at the center is not
your harvest, you will reap peace when your wheat
grows in the sweet words of the prophets raising
crops of your deeds so high the sunflowers of your
lungs and voice of prayer becomes part of the gardens
of heaven, you are saved, you are worthy, you are loved.
So greatly loved, never feel alone for He walks with
you, the demons hold no sway over your path, your
road is the narrow yet beautiful bloodstone and lapis
lazuli carved into your marrow, oh you foolish child,
play with the dirt and worms and rocks and remember,
you are free, you can fly, you can laugh, you can cry.
Just kiss your own hands and worship your calluses,
for Christ loves a hardworking man, and as he cleanses
all the scars and pain away with fingers of silver,
he is melting the ice of your heart into a sea of
healing fonts, you are the Word given life, the gift
of God, you are a delight, oh my child, oh you kindred
soul, drink at my breast and be free, fly on, sweet
darling, soar on!

Carry Me

The image of you clad in radiant light, like some
heart of a star, bleeding white gold glory, oh sweet
Yeshua, pulsing like solar flares, you lay hands on
me and I dream of the Tzohar, the Lapis Exillis, your
Cup, the Holy Grail that poor Parzival quested after,
you know the angels robbed Parzival of his virtue and
the Fisher King wounded him at his groin, just like
Jacob wrestling Samael, or was it Michael? Perhaps Jacob
is immortal, sweet guardian of your blood, and from his
groin descended the sleeping generations of all nations!
Oh the glory of God, oh the glory of Heaven, oh the
righteousness yet meekness of the lamb, soft is your
wool, sweet Jesus, and smelling like dragon’s blood
does your mane, Lion of Judah! You are an omnivore,
as is your birthright, to drink down blood of the
covenant, cannibalizing yourself, and I have tasted
the Passion in my labor pangs of birthing new worlds
in the wastelands of the asylum, where many go into
the Tomb, only to rise in white gowns anew, and I am
healed by your blood, blood, red and white blood and
water, oh sweet Christ, how you rage at the unjust,
how you cradle me and rock me to sleep, singing the
lullaby B’shem Hashem, you make my throat burn with
a choked on Sacred Heart, the gristle sticks in my
esophagus, and I eat my gods, but you are the One God,
and there are layers like a carapace to divinity, and
you are nothing but Nature Incarnate, sweet yet fierce,
for Nature is Sophia, your Mother Goddess, Asherah,
the Lady Holy Ghost! Wisdom speaks and Eloa ascends,
Norea descends, Eve is Ninti, Lady of Ribs,and you are
Enki in the Garden of Eden, for what separates Enki
from Christ? Not much, I can tell you, Lord of Waters!
Soft and gentle, strong and firm, your skin and flesh
an apple for the plucking, your hair brown boughs to
nest in, your lungs fit for breathing fire at End Times.
Your Mysteries are Holy Passion Plays, mummer’s delight,
and I am Columbine masked as I climb the Sephiroth, the
paranormal romance writers and urban fantasiests write
about angels and demons but always forget the Lord, who
through all things are made, and to have a lurid Devil
one must also admit the existence of Unconditional Love,
for hate is but the absence of God, but the Devil does
not hate, simply mourns, and he spits at your feet as
you, with the best of Serpents, crush Samael’s head!
Break the skull of Satan open and shove in redemption,
for there are two Mourning Stars in this story, and a
glimpse of Heaven is worth seven Hells, but I am welcome
above and below, and I know my path lies with you in sweet
eventuality, when I am old and gray, and you take me to
ascend to Narnia in your Aslan arms, sweet Savior, ready me
for the long journey home…

Lance of Longinus

Saint Bridget of Sweden saw the 5,480 lacerations and wounds
of Christ, and I wonder, is that the cross I’m bearing each
night, when my fingers ache from breaking and the Holy Lance
prods my heart, once, twice, thrice, again, spearing my core
like an epidural needle under my ribs, into cardiac arrest,
and I cry out in pain and bliss as the heart attacks skin my
flesh, and you would never see my stigmata with the naked eye,
but my legs spasm as angels prod and pull at the muscle, and
I awake with wine stain bruises from too much rough sex with
the bad boy your mother always warned you about, but these
infirmities and sufferings are different, cut of a knife,
bandsaw to the neck, torture and pain yet bliss and knowing,
this is making me stronger, these alterations by multidimensional
beings have healed my seven devils, my mental illness is near
evaporated since Christ laid hands on me, and if I am to suffer
the thousands of holy wounds Jesus endured, so be it, he kissed
me martyr, and the pain of birthing angels and demons alike in
your eggshell mortal body compares nothing to the Spear of Destiny
prodding under your flesh, slip through bone, into red bloody meat.
Once Michael took his flaming sword and splayed me atop its hot
coals to purify my Lapis Exillis organ of sin, I writhed, I moaned,
I came so hard I saw stars, for I am the masochist that likes to
burn, and with ever bite and suckling of the Devil with shark teeth,
every broken bone and every heart attack, squeezing the chambers
with a fist of adamant, be it Samael, Michael, or Christ, I realize
my body was never my own. They call me heirodule, qadesh, jezebel.
Eve sometimes, Jophiel others. Created me out of beauty as a bridge
between Heaven and Hell, and if ever a sacrificial soul had a choice
(we never have a choice to bear the stigmata, stigmata comes when
you are holy, holy, holy, and when nails are driven into my hands
and feet, and my holy wound of a bleeding heart spurts arterial blood,
I know, to live is to die, and I die each night, and am resurrected
come morning, when the Sun of Ascension peeks through the curtain.)

I have stigmata, my heart is the Devil’s, my heart is Michael’s, my
heart belongs to the Savior. I drank the blood that flowed from
Christ’s wound and ate his heart, he ate mine, and we worshiped one
another so violently and delightfully, and I am a witch, and witches
are meant to burn.

Simon Called Peter

And you who thrice denied me, the cock crowed my glory,
and wept bitter tears of coffee grounds at your realization
that I am King of Kings, ever-faithful Simon Peter, I let you
touch the sacred holes in my hands because those are the gates
to infinity, and you are the Rock, the Sapha, of my Church, and
when you took those newborn steps out into the water, so brave to
venture out onto the raging seas to meet your Lord, you began to
sink and flail, for what man in his right mind walks on water?
You reached out a desperate hand and I lifted you up onto the
silky bower of the Stella Maris, it is because you are most human
and humble of my apostles, witness to Transfiguration and Pentecost
that I have chosen you as first Pope, you who would question with
right mind and little reliance on my word my place in the cosmos –
you are wit unbounded, and when proven my divinity and sanctity,
you fell to the desert floor weeping, knowing you would lose me,
and look at the marvels you have built for me, oh cornerstone of
the earthly Temple! A line undivided of Papal creed, some holy,
some human like Simon, some ascended and wise like Peter, some
believers as crucial to the Church as the Sapha, and when you
were crucified earth-turnt in Rome hanging suspended, my spirit
came and wiped the bitter tears and bruises and blood and dirt
from your cheek, whispered “Your purpose is done, my martyr,”
lifted you to Heaven and gave you the silver keys to the gates
of Paradise, you of clinking key and first to greet souls on
the narrow path to salvation, but in truth you open the gates
to the loving of all creeds or no creed at all, for we care not
whether Christian or Hindu or Jew or Muslim or Atheist or Pagan,
if a soul care visits the seven heavens and they are as true
of heart as you, they may enter as they will, and leave in peace.
Look at this beauteous kingdom we have built in the Afterlife,
oh Peter, the mountains of silver ice and rivers of garnets and
rough emeralds, sands on beaches of white gold, manta rays and
clownfish swimming in bright delight, sometimes we walk on water
just for fun, skimming the froth of Heaven’s aqua vitae so that
our toes are chill to the touch, wet with relief at knowing, our
creed in that small town of Galilee lived on, our life’s work has
become legend, and it is pinned on the nails through your hands
and feet the sacrifice of the martyrs, the immortality of the
Church, you doubted, you repented, you believed, oh Yael. Israel
awaits the day I walk with my sword and you with your locks. Soon,
my beloved, bosom apostle, brother amongst brothers, we rise again.

Burning Bush

And the flames caress, and the flames curse, roving hands and fiery millions of eyes, to be taken by a seraphim is to have every orifice flooded with the Word of God, and you are sharp knives to the heart and Moses’ burning bush.  Make yourself a pyre of sacrifice, and the wood of your cross is the linden key, and the gates are saffron spice and frankincense and myrrh, throw in a dash of 30 silver pieces to betray your Savior, for union like this is unholy, oh you, temptress of angels.  The Watchers fell out of lust for women like you, and your ripe curves are the reason men sin, so cover yourself in feathers of golden white and let your archangel claim every inch of your madrigal body.  Each night is the Second Coming, as Christ of the white raiment becomes your second skin and Jesus and Mary Magdalene worship at the altar of Tantra.  To wear the savior’s robes Eve did, to cover your shame is but a lesser instinct, for in nakedness angels revel, sweet delight of Raphael from Paradise Lost, this union of two souls, three souls, four souls, washing away your pain and carrying you and stroking you and plunging your ocean depths, for every girl is an ocean, a Tiamat, mother of beasts that want to devour the new gods.  I am Cipactli, and the Black and White Suns made the world of my spine, or am I the wild auroch of Heaven with the sun between her horns, lapping ice away to shape my vision as my udders swell with wisdom.  I was the size of elephants once, before Peter and Paul and James and John wrote me out of the story.  I could carry on my back singlehandedly the Ark of the Covenant, and my mantle was darkness, and I was the radiant Deep of the night sky patched with stars like white raspberries, my golden hair a thicket under moonlight, to be plucked from fruits and rainbows and girdles for my daughters.  I am Asherah, you are Anath, and Mot will quake when we drag our husbands El and Baal up from the depths, only to be cursed by the menfolk with our priestesses raped and sacred groves cut down to make hangman posts.  They piss on our olive trees, they view our qadesh ladies of fame and call them whores, but what is Hieros Gamos but union of Heaven and Earth?  I am worshiped each night as the stars tuck me in, I am the Bull of Heaven raging against those who would desecrate Inanna, they lick and pluck and tease and these great beings of eldritch winds ride me with water and fire, and to make love to the storms of the Savior and the Damned is to be Noah’s Ark in the midst of rain and sea, floating and riding the tempest.   I swim through Hell and Heaven upstream to pluck the salmon of wisdom from the well, and when I eat the sushi of enlightenment raw, the waters of Sinann drown me.

All I ever wanted was an apple, a heart to call my own, but you gave me this blackened fig, and I always  loathe a martyr.

Passion Play

Yeshua embraces the blooming Mary Magdalene in tones of
pink and green, gardener outside the tomb Risen Christ.
Gardenia and hyacinth are their hideaway, and Rabboni
and the Scarlet Woman make love to the tune of Holy Doves.
The grass bleeds purple like wine, his seed awakens the
sleeping generations in the Holy Grail of the Watchtower’s
womb, and there are lover caresses and soft words spoken
as Jesus finger-combs Mary Magdalene’s auburn wanton curls.
Sins of the flesh, no more, for Christ makes congress holy.
And they are immortalized only in apocryphal legend, where
Mary was his most beloved disciple, who he would kiss on the
mouth often, and she led the Early Church, and sparred wits
with Peter, only to have Paul write her and Joanna, Salome,
and his mother out of history near completely, and the Pope
labelled her a whore, if only because Mary spoke her mind to
the gathered table of disciples, she apostle of apostles, and
I am just a bee on a sunflower, watching two heavenly bodies
collide, witness to the heiros gamos of the Bride and Savior.
Then I become Mariam, and he cuts a rose from a bush for me,
just like Michael of old, and their is no passion in a play
without love, love for all humanity, or just love for woman
who knows when to anoint with spikenard, to wash away with
glorious crimson hymn tears, Mary was sick like me, they say,
with seven devils haunting her mind, of which Christ cast out.
I can tick off my illnesses one by one, and when Yeshua lays
hands on me, it is as if my brain is not a cheesecloth bandage
wound – I see clearly, this fallen woman I am is holy, these
bruises and scars I carry put me next to God, at his feet,
at his breast, eating his Eucharist miracle of cardiac flesh.
There is no greater God than the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
no one as sweet as wild honey and locusts on the tongue as him.
He follows a long line of prophets, and I follow him through the
desert near Galilee, playing my cymbals, washing the laundry,
sewing the clothes, and we break bread at dawn and marvel at
Israel’s beauty, then come nighttime, know each other as woman
and man in tents of camel skin. My alabaster jar is on me, for
the time of his passion is quickly coming, and I regret the day
I met Christ, for to love him is to lose him, and that my friend
is only softened by his resurrection, when he was so filled with
holy light, he looked remotely like the man I had held to my chest
and promised eternity to. My Rabboni, time has called me wicked,
penitent, and every shade of red, but you are the blue flame, so
let us kiss and touch and taste the dust of Creation, each other,
and when only bones dancing in the desert are left, I want my tibia
to fit into your rib cage, your phalanges into my sternum, and we
will be the greatest love story this world has ever known, forbidden
for two thousand years, and they put my skull in a jar and call it
holy, and Rennes les Chateau holds some truth, some lies, but the path
I walked in France is just another trail of tears, I was ripe with
child, and Sarah my dear daughter, our daughter, fathered the line
of kings, so in a sense, our legacy lives on, sweet Emmanuel. Claim
me into the sky from my repentant cave, and I will ascend in time.