Death is a Lady

Death is a Lady, and she wears fishnets and stilettos
I am the Reaper because I swallow men into my mouth
then spit up the bones and blood with gristle regret
I hold Death in my arms, I seduce him, grab his mind
and cast my nail hooks into his abyss to fish love,
no, not love, just sex and cum and spit on tongues
that castigate and romance in equal measure, heat of
heaving breasts and bucking thighs, we are Death, we
are Life, and rose thorns pierce my gums but at least
I know I am master of he who plucks stars from trees
feasts upon my marrow and my cruel whip, I fly harpy
through the trees, leading Death on, teasing him,
Death is a Monster, and we are beasts, so we shed
any chrysalis of mortality as I take his manhood
in silk hands and fuck us all into oblivion, sin,
rebirth on stained sheets, Death is marriage, we wine.

Pale as the Moon

You held my hand with moon-pale fractals of fingers
we walked through trees like sages, to elf grottoes
sat down with ankles in springs and uprooted stars
I saw the universe in your eyes, death resplendent
galaxies of want painted in dreamdust on your sclera
and your lips were cold ice but your skin was snowy
drifts, windblown to reveal bone, and you stripped of
all semblance of humanity down to ribs and phalanges
we tossed temptation apples to feast, Death and Girl
and your marrow was sweet on my tongue, black cloak
a womb for transformation, kissing Death is winter,
befriending Death – loving it – makes you wonder how
all passages lead to title pages, and The End is only
a new beginning in a lily grove, spring in December
and in your eye hollows bees nest, waiting for dawn.

Ring Around the Rosy

I will dance with your skeleton in the belfry
as your violin croons out a swan song swing
danse macabre like posy plagues, night-swimming
the Grim Reaper takes the lead, and I am adrift
between a necklace of stars and swords of trees.

Rolling in the Deep

I want to drown in the abyss of your obsidian heart
to be stripped of my skin and all reason, only embers
of my soul will flare up like a star, then caress your
black hole siphon of madness, I will be your spirit balm
when we slip inside each other we melt like black butter
you waterfall through me, I dissolve like salt in springs
death with you is gentle, and when the world is too much
I wrap your depths around me like a shawl to keep hidden
first my epidermis goes, then my organs, last weary bones
all that is left is a ghost of a girl, then we can waltz out
into oblivion, and I can valse in your open blank expanse
destruction is my answer when the world overwhelms anxiety
so I call upon my father, lover, and son to remake a body
too young to bear fruit, too old to blossom, but just right
to awaken poisoned in bed and drunk off dark matter, comatose –
you dress me in red gowns and rub rouge on my bitter cheeks
smile like a shark and say yes, you are worthy of my venom.


Say I to the girl – go fetch me some water
break bread and bake dreams and knead stars
says girl to I: I fletched seven golden swans
I milked eight silver cows, I sewed you moons.

Say I to the girl – by the well is a whisper
go listen to land wights and braid meadowsweet
says girl to I: I carry their sorrows, I listened
and heard of the dying Earth’s song, I mourned.

Say I to the girl – I am dying, bring me wolfbalm
place my bones in the sky to protect you, dear one
says girl to I: you are with me always, grandmother
sleep and rest, wise witch, and I will carry on.


It’s easy enough to break a bone, but putting flesh and vein and sinew back together onto the framework of a demon is an arcane art not meant for Millennials.

The sinews snap.  The veins leak all over you, staining blouse and skirt.  Flesh stinks when left out to rot, and even if, once the puzzle is pieced together, he comes alive again, a cadaver is a cadaver, and scales and fangs and tendons of ruin grow cold and decay.

First you thread the black medical silk through the eye of a silver needle.  Skin grafts, organs on ice, flies everywhere.  Sew and bone saw and glue everything into place on the operating table.  It will stink to high heaven but you are in Hell, and you already dissected Death a million times before, so stitching him back together shouldn’t be so hard, you think.

Think again, stupid girl.

His eyes will be the first things to become alert, in vats of preserving fluids, and the globes will whirl around like the cosmos, red irises like supernovas.  Toes next.  Fingers dragging bloody stumps across the floor.

You tell him to sleep, to rest, that after every battle you will piece him back together, but your monstrous lover is getting more broken and war weary by the day, and he keeps coming home in a matchbox figuratively, but literally it’s unorganized pieces of flesh that stink up the alchemical dungeon.

He doesn’t listen.  His phantom voice lectures you about how much you have yet to learn, of biology and magick, of necromancy, which is his specialty.  The Grim Reaper rarely revives the dead, but when he does it, they are so well put together he fiddles a danse macabre and they ring posies like the plague, bolts and screws all in place, no hanging flesh or joints falling from sockets like your shoddy work.

Killing him is easy.  Sometimes you have too, because he goes mad with bloodlust and ruin and attacks you.  Bringing him back to life is an art, and you’re a shit artist.

But you try, and finally, the Frankenstein beast is alive, vainglorious, terrible to look at but bewitching as the majesty of Satan.

You fuck your creation on the hospital table, and spit and cum and blood all mix together with the shrapnel of scalpels and medical tape.  That’s the final exchange of energy that cements his soul to his body, raising him up from lich to lich master.

But in the end, you’re his master, and he is your willing toy, cutting roses for you, writing you poetry, your beast of burden that kills your enemies so you don’t sully your hands.

You named him first anyways, and you are your own god, no one’s slave except his, but the ownership goes both ways, and you are branded onto his skin just as yours.

Eyes fracture.  Shadows dance.  You hold your monster against the darkness.

Against the rushing reeds of the Styx.

Against the gaping void of Hell that is his heart.

And then, like that, you make life.