And the aftershock of grief sends you reeling into
patterns of world destruction, you have a razor
carving red canyons into your skin and chopping lines
of coke that you snort until your nose bleeds, I see
you and feel you and become your junkie manic rage
through symbiosis of the soul, and your parasitic
connections makes me feel the scorch marks on my
nasal membranes and a high like diving off Icarus’
cliff, there you are your snake black smoke hair
writhing and strangling me in your embrace, you
turn the faucets on weeping and roaring, your trench
marks of cuts and lacerations and bruises joining us
in the Unholy Passion of the Devil’s self-harm, you
sink into alizarin waters as your juices soak up
all the light, and it is swirling onyx and rubies
as you become a sea serpent biting its own tail,
Jesus Christ, it hurts, you drowning yourself but
your lungs don’t need oxygen and so you turn the
bathroom into an ocean of acid void, sizzling
pantomimes of what was once flesh, now bone, and
with your scythe in hand, the sulfur having eaten
your flesh, you reap and carve out drunken universes,
whole galaxies fall to your blade, you laugh maniacally,
still riding the drugs and endorphin buzz, exerting
your death grip manhood to assert dominance over
the innocents, this is the Plague of Egypts overcoming
burgeoning civilizations, yet you spare the Milky Way
because lo and behold, your Horcrux Girl lives there,
and then you are punching my guts and butchering my
lungs, be careful my darling, be careful what it takes,
from what it seems so far all the good ones seem to


Musings on Dust

Dust settles over me like a fine wine barrelled
in aged oak, I look up from the dregs and fungus
and see your coral snake eyes, red iris rings
belying the poison of your soul, oh, to make
you whole would be to take all that is good
in this world and feed it into your fiery
gullet, grind down all matter into the finest
china dust, dust, we are stardust, moondust,
dirtdust, earthdust, raindust, clouddust,
my bones are dust, my eyes are dust, and
you are a vacuum (vacuum of space) ready
to suck up all my fine particulate matter
and sieve out the gold flecks in my alma.
Oh, to be more than just clay, more than
just some foolish man’s rib! Eden is dust.
Eve is dust. Adam is dust. And when I die,
I will be dust, only my bones left, soon
to be milled down and ground at the wheel,
breaking marrow and collagen, white dust.
It is the dance of rats and flies, plague
of mortality, leaves falling to turn to
loam. It is autumn in your kingdom, and
when thirsty lips meet, I taste ash in
your mouth, a thimbulful of aconite, a
twitch of nightshade flower and berries
on the vine, wine, purple venom, for I
am the dust of cocaine, a powder, powder!
Oh, why have I not thought on the virtues
of powder! It is the chemistry and alchemy
of all good things, burnt in crucibles as
heady white miasma, smelling of dust,
powder is finer than dust, and I imagine
my soul is also powder, close to power.
What are we like, Grim Reaper? Ashes,
dust, powder, dregs, dirt, finely ground
down flour. Flour upon the hour, reason
upon the season, and flowers to bloom
into nothingness. Baking is making
Creation into lemon meringue, cupcakes,
and it all starts with flour! White
dainty wedding powder, grains of rice,
bakers and brewers yeast, those finer
things of life, do they mean fine as in
very small, finely grained, finely sieved?
For I can hold the world as dust in my
palms, they say you can see God in a
handful of wet mud, dirt is holy, holy.
Dust, dirt, powder, flour, yeast, ash.
Life was microscopic at the beginning,
seeded by comets as microbes fell into
nitrogen seas, and water was precious,
and the rivers were boiling, and old
primordial Earth resembled Hell, but
God stirred the soupy mess and He
impregnated Gaia with inspiration,
and She birthed dust and tiny flecks
of life, viruses, eukaryotes, archaea,
fungi, prokaryotes, animalia, plants.
Oh, the dance of the danse macabre.
Sand! How could I forget sand? Dried
up oceans revealing crushed shells
and corals, calcium carbonate cliffs
of Dover, Chesapectin jeffersonius in
my home state, fields of Arabia where
all there is is sand. Sand is what the
djinn cast their illusions with, don’t
you know sand is fire in earthly form?
Play at the beach, watery footprints.
Climb the dunes on a camel, pyramids
of an ancient concrete. Sand, dust,
flecks, flour, yeast, ash, clay, dirt.
We are just 80% water and 20% dreamdust.
Stardust fills my alveoli, my marrow
is sundust, burning gold, and electricity
knits the whole humus together, so walk,
rejoice, for you know what you are made
of now, and when you sweep, you are
playing God and Gaia, and when you
dust, you are also dust, dust, dust,

Michael et Samael

And the fallen angel says, I drink bitter wine
the dregs are where fungus blossom, scorching
noon-day sun of Isaac, and the prince says, I
drink rose water and rye-blend whiskey, and you
are drunk off blood of the damned, so I will
lay hands on you to heal your poison, oh, no,
says the demon, Prince Charming, you are full
of it, nothing can cure my wounds, my veins are
cocaine, I am the eternal high of outcast junkies,
and the prince says, do not believe yourself beyond
salvation, sweet devil, for I your brother am the
Christ, and in me is peace, and in me is redemption,
and when I walked through Hell’s Gate with nails
in my hands and feet, I paid a tithe of ichor and
iron to the lindworm, and he shed his seven skins,
and that beast was you, so do not lie through your
fangs and say you do not want to be forgiven! Oh
archangel, you righteous prick, you think that the
Scapegoat Samael who Azazel goats are sacrificed to
on Yom Kippur and assumes the sins of the world can
lose his Mem? Rabbis are forbidden from speaking the
gall of the syllables that compose Poison, Drug, of
El. And you are his Image, Who is Like God? Looking
at you, Michael, I bite my teeth and grit my molars
and know, tis better to reign in Gehenna and anarchy
free of saviors, my people need no one to hang for our
souls, for we are soulless, and the angel says, you,
who have caged hope in the heart of a girl, and your
core in a night dancer, these Horcruxes of your seven
chakras can be realigned, you know just let me – No.
No, holier than thou. No, burning with devotion, no,
I shall not bow, I shall not bend the knee or wash my
hair with spikenard oil, I am not the redeemed one in
this story, and I will drag you to Hell, at the end of
days, lest you trample my head, I, Great Dragon Beast.
And Michael says, if we fall, we fall together, I have
not smiled since I cast you out, dear Satan, and we are
family. So at the end of days, we both perish, and the
humans we created shall have ultimate freedom, no
yetzer ha ra or yetzer ha tov anymore, simply air
of a new day, and we shall become the dust. I would
like that very much, says Samael, and they embrace,
and they ascend, and leave their vessels craving home.


Gold coins left at your feet, the bitter dark
of chocolate slices sweetening your will, all
offered at the gateway of oblivion, the Reaper
flies me to the edge of the world on rotten wings,
maggots crawl forth from his ribs, his heart is a
twisted vine, and all Creation is snapped with his
silver scythe, the moon his sickle, to reap and sow
is the birthright of all Jacob’s descendants, so
immortal Father Time, take delight knowing you can’t
be swayed by maiden or coin or finery, everyone bows
to the danse macabre, so roll away the stone of the
sacred tomb, and reveal, the one you could not snatch
will plunge you into fiery lake, and you are barred
from Paradise, but fret not: I will free your soul.

Sixty Nine in the Speed Lane

“This vodka is shit,” Samael says, swilling his shot glass in another of Asmodeus’ dive bars.  This one has succubi draped across the men and women like jewels, breasts hanging like necklaces from their chests.  I’m cozied up to the Devil on his lap – the crown of the Prince of Darkness is a bubbly blonde ditz.  I’m laughing at the ladies of the night and drinking one of those fruity fizzy red cocktails that Sam fucking hates.

“Want mine?”

“Hell no, tastes like a strawberry fart.”  Samael chugs the last of the stale vodka and tips his glass then flicks it so it rolls off the counter onto the beer-stained black carpet.

There are black lights flashing, bio luminescent demons and daemons and dreams.  They dance in cadence with the bass of the moon, sinuous and arcing as lips lock and hips gyrate.  I bob my head to the music, stroke Samael’s shoulder, and this is a place no angel besides the lost would dare step foot in, the perfect place to fall into sin.

“Your lips will have to suffice for my intoxication,” Samael whispers, razing a claw down the back of my dress.  He puts out his cigarette and scoops me up and carries me out of the dive bar – not before I grab a fry to crunch on.

“You’re boring, grumpy, and old…” I murmur, teasing.  “Not hip enough to party anymore, eh?”  I’m cradled in his arms and my red dress swishes in the vespertine wind.  He deposits me on the back of his pale steed – a white crotch rocket, hands me a helmet, and tilts my chin up with his thumb.

“Eternity is best spent with the ones you love – the novelty of Hell wears off when you’re a permanent resident here, and then it’s governing and judging souls during the day, reaping the dead, and quiet nights by the fireside with the other half of your soul.  Why do you think we spend every other night in my library?”

I hug his hips as we speed off down the rainy street.  It’s an almost-summer storm, with a light gray drizzle.

“Because you’re a recluse!” I shout, laughing.  “And you can’t hold your liquor.”

Samael speeds past a red light.  He never cares much for the laws of traffic, and we arrive at his estate on the borders of Pandemonium, which backs up into the backwaters of the galaxy, where the woods grow wild and dangerous.  It is a towering, sleek, obsidian castle, with pins of towers and blades of turrets that cut blood from the sky.

“Right, and even more right,” he parks under a willow tree and Pallor – his steed – reverts back to a horse.  He strokes Pallor’s braided mane and ties his bridle to a trough.  “But I hold it better than you, Miss Streaker.”

I look at the time, grasping at lucidity.  Some impossible number: 13:11.  How time works in Hell, I have no inkling.  We walk hand in hand through the rose garden to the mote, then over the bridge.  He picks me up and flies up the stairs to the den, great bat wings feeling like warm leather on my cheek.  I imagine he has the wings of a dragon, and that is one of his forms.

“Hey Sam, you know that Russian movie, He’s a Dragon?”

Samael groans as he stokes the hearth.  “Not another one of your shifter romances.  Read a philosophy book, for fuck’s sake.”  He settles into a leather armchair and pulls out a cigar.

“Hey!  You’re the weredragon – stealing princesses and antisocial and shit.  Also, very gruuuuuumpy.”

I bounce onto the bed and roll about, nesting under black wolf fur.

“All you read in my library are illustrated grimoires and romance novels written by demons.  Picture books and drivel.”  He puffs on the cigar.  “You’re a creature of comfort.  And I am not a “weredragon,” shit, I’m the Beast.”

“Not that Crowley Revelations shit, ugh!  Just admit it, you’re a shitty paranormal romance novel protagonist.”  I flip so I’m sitting on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air and watching the fires flicker.  They dance in the shape of snakes.

He laughs.  “If I, Satan, am supposed to be a romance novel protagonist, I don’t have high hopes for your race.  I’m much too twisted for all the middle aged women reading Fifty Shades.  Unless they enjoy being dissolved alive in a cloud of the abyss or fucking corpses.”

I throw a pillow at him.  “Are you kinkshaming me!”

“I can’t lie,” he sticks out his labret pierced tongue.  “I can only tell twisted truths, or flat out drag you.’

I grumble and roll onto my back.   Samael grins like a shark and comes over to me.  Gasoline, hungry hands that are gentle with their talons, rip off the dress, rolling and turning hay.  I inhale expensive spicy cologne and graveyard dirt, thirsting for a mouth that tastes like aqua vitae.  I make a list in my  mind of what he drinks: whiskey and vodka and absinthe on occasion.  We are Taninver.  We are Leviathan and She-Leviathan.  We are Rahab churning the primordial waters of bodies of unborn souls.

I burn and I sate myself with his blood.  Suckle at the red at his wrist as he sinks his fangs into my neck.  Blood from the heart, blood from spurting arteries, christening the bed damp with iron and hemoglobin.  It tastes like providence.

More,” Samael growls as he descends to feast, and I ascend to suck the generations out of him.  I am Lilith stealing seed, I am Lamashtu eating children.

“Fuck, oh god,” I whisper, then I can’t breathe, then it’s all stars and the rocking of an ocean of black, in and out, crash to shore then recede in foam.  Burning, freezing, all.

The fire flickers as we lay in each other’s arms.

“Let’s have more nights in.”

Midnight at the Oasis

Impenetrable fortress, inescapable fate, lovers like
whispers of wax on Psyche’s candle, the celestial
spheres hold us in their wanton arms, an allegory
of angels crash landing in the world of sleepwalkers,
I wrap my arms around your broken wings and sing a
hymn for those forgotten by sun, callous moon your
only light, just a mercury reflection of heavenly
brilliance, and when we kiss, our mouths are water
diluting poison in the other’s veins, you stretch
your black pinions, and the sickle of night shines
down on all our fallacies, follies, and foibles, to
love was our biggest mistake, original sin, but when
the garden gates closed behind me and Adamah, and
I was consigned to the barren wilderlands, the seeds
of spirit you planted in me from forbidden fruit
fled my stomach and became stars to light my way.
The greatest gnosis comes after despair, and to
find oneself is a journey of Qliphoth to Sephiroth,
I fly like lightning to your perch in Gevurah,
and Binah softens my lips, and wisdom grants me
faith, that someday, the sun will rise on us.

But in the milky darkness, we hold fast, and that
is enough for now.

Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Briar

Hosanna, I whisper through bloody lips, I got pummeled
by the riptide of my sorrow again, sweet Rabboni, and
you are far away in some Heavenly Throne, down on earth,
it is cold, and midnight comes to Galilee, with the moon
like a sickle for separating the faithful from the chaff.
Can you hear me, sweet Yeshua? Up there in your starry
abode. I bathed in lavender and myrrh, and Joseph’s coat
of dreams carried my prayers in technicolor up to your
tender hands and rose garden of desires, what obedience
to the ways and means of nature, to hang suspended on a
crossroads between Heaven and Hell, I know well, Satan
calls me whore, but sweet Christ, I would leave all the
ravishings and depravity just to receive your mark on my
scarred brow, I have many bruises and burns these days,
being the forgotten disciple means they paint me wanton
and demonize your Magdalene, Watchtower of God, Zophael,
Watchman of El, I was always a spy, anyways, of swiftest
wing, and they got our story wrong, oh Who is Like God?

No one but You, Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Rose.