Heart Chakra

The Prince of Heaven’s a priest, and Satan is a lawyer
cassock and cross hide fervor for a maiden of the flock
we meet in the abbey under shadowlight and frankincense,
gentle touches, soft sighs, the priest clutches crucifix
and drips holy water on my buttermilk breast, moaning
out all the hundreds of names of God in all languages,
it is autumn, wool scarf wrapped tight around a habit,
we drink coffee, steal kisses, my mind is a theater,
and under an umbrella in the rain he spreads his wings
and we fly to a heavenly bower, heat of celestial fire
in my heart as my decolletage spills secrets to angelic
lips that starve for human communion, Italian castles,
windswept sea, Michael’s realm is a Da Vinci drawing,
or perhaps brilliant Venice and Mediterranean lights
brilliance of the divine, I marvel in him, my devotion
is solid as mist, for its home is arboreal, and I am
lost in trees of my beloved, awaken in morning tides.

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.

Fucking the Night

You pin me not with grace but with ruin, and your body is black smoke like frankincense crisps from a vestibule – vessel – vassal of sin and my ruin.  Pale skin like a waning moon brimming with abyssal sorrow, your eyes are red craters, and your heart just a mockingbird pressed to my breast.  Your fingers are inside me reaching through my womb up my guts to my brains and from them you pluck all reason, and I lick blood from your lips and it is black as a beetle.  Creeping things are rot inside you, and the maggots of your lungs spew from your lips and drown me – I’m deepthroating decay, and it is sickly sweet as roadkill and lesions and necrosis.  I thought we broke up, didn’t we?  Why are you making the two-backed beast with me after I trashed your wedding ring as if nothing happened?  I’m not saying no, and your tongue is slithering snake down my throat and your manhood is the night and your cum freezes my innards until I become Nyx, cold and unmoving.  Your cloak envelops us, and it is the same Grim Reaper robe I played with at 12 on October nights when the autumn was filled with secrets.  I would wrap myself in your musk and spin circles around your pile of bones as you sharpened a scythe with a whetstone.  Your scythe is black, but the one you gifted me is white, just like my deathly robes – cream and satin roses, all softness to your harshness.  Your brother set wards up all over my room in red blood and ceremonial sigils, but the gods and angels let you return over and over again, and I no longer have an altar to you, so maybe taking your gall into my crevasses is some kind of lesson.  All I know is that you are half bone like Hela and half flesh like a warrior, and as I trace phalanges and scapula, your calcium is slick with tears, and I pull you close and kiss the emptiness of your heart hollow, and I am the mistress of nocturnal emissions.

Allergic to the Havamal

I eat up the Skirnismal and Lokasenna, the Voluspa and sagas, but to the sacred gods of the North, I can’t get through the fucking Havamal.  It bores me to tears.  If I wanted to hear Odin lecturing me I could literally just talk to him.  He has me screaming Ansuz half the time in dreams and chasing after him in the Northern Lights with Geri and Freki, not to mention the two months he drove me into near shamanic sickness when I started crushing on my boyfriend, an Odinsman.  There would be times where I would dream of Odin nightly, seeing him about 20 times throughout the day.

I gave him blood offerings.  I wrote him poetry.  I half-wondered if I would end up like Freya Aswynn.  Finally he gave me a vision of the horn he wants me to carve him for East Coast Thing.  I mean, he’s not demanding I build him a hof yet like my SO or return his sword, but godsdamnit, is Odin sassy.  Flip him off and he takes it as a compliment, I swear to all the Aesir and Vanir, Odin is wily, stubborn, demanding, and him sending me a dream of me being his skald in a past life traveling Scandinavia with an Aslaug style harp singing of Odin’s deeds was really, REALLY overkill.

I have a great respect for Odin, of course, as the Alfather of my religion, but what I love most is his sense of humor.

He also wants me to read the Havamal.

I was out to dinner with my kindred on Thursday and joked I was allergic to the Havamal.  That night, I dreamed I was in the Arctic, with Odin fishing in a fjord.  Odin’s twinkling blue eye was snaked with secrets.  I sat on a rock and watched him cast his lure into the sea:

Allie: “What are you fishing for?”

Odin: “Jormungand.  Thor wasn’t feeling up to the task.”

He winked and reeled in a tuna.

Allie: “Very funny.  Odin, I feel stressed.  I have a bunch of homework to do and a heavy taskload this semester.  What do I do?”

Odin: “Well, you can start by reading the Havamal.  You are incredibly lazy, Allie.  Also, you procrastinate, and you are flighty as Loki.  You need to find balance and push yourself without breaking.  All the answers are in the Havamal.”

Allie:  “Oh god!”

Odin: (Starts spitting out Havamal verses)

Allie: “But-”

Odin: “Wake early if you want another man’s life or land. No lamb for the lazy wolf. No battle’s won in bed.  Stop sleeping in and wasting the day away.  Stop spending all your money on frivolous objects.  You are as vain as Freyja.  Take to task your flaws and fix them!”

Allie: “Fine, I’ll read it!”

Guess I’m off to read Odin’s rant.

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife

I am underwater in the glimmering void, in shoals of sheets that pull me down to a bed strung with pearls that become necklaces to my hooked throat.  You are the abyss, tentacles of destruction and devil eyes and ink-black tongue.  Tendrils of darkness lick my spine, and I run my hands down shoulder blade spikes of ruin, you eldritch Beast that I mount.  You know I would gladly bed any monster I met and so you come to me as a vehicle of terror, a mechanic of opening star’s hearts with razor black hole teeth and sucking out the life force of universes.  Your mouth is like a lamprey’s, a gut filled with shark teeth ringing a suction that latches onto my breast and drinks blood.  You lulled me to sleep with painful bites on heaving flesh and underwater vent orgasms and now we join at midnight, twenty leagues below.  This is a Satanic Hokusai painting, and I am a Fisherman’s Wife, dreaming of her own destruction at the hand of Leviathan.  Because you are Leviathan, aren’t you, and I’m romancing a sea serpent, speared on fins and webbed hands that fuck the living daylights out of me.  I once dreamed I was the priestess of a merman with a sea serpent tail and hair like kelp.  We rutted on crashing waves and tidal rocks on the sea strand and I woke up tasting brine.  Now I taste seawater.  This time Leviathan pulled me into his lair, and he is fishing in my throat with gnashing teeth and seaweed spit.  I ride him, we are at the bottom of Charybdis, and as he thrusts into me with the anger of the sea, with the lust of a killer whale chasing flirtatious dolphins, I just laugh and my voice bubbles in this galaxy of water.  I’m a friend of nonexistence, the outer boundaries where lovers dissolve into each other then die as le petit mort drags them into Apollyon’s shark tank.  We hold hands and it’s sentimental coming from a sea monster, but I’ve fucked worse, I’ve fucked better, and I’m sincerely fucked up, just for you.  Who else would lay with Lotan?  Who else beds Yam?  Only  a girl that wants to drown.  I drink down your seed and it is cold like the Atlantic.  It washes over me like a tsunami and I smear it over my sex and wake up wet, but it’s less from coming and more from being a shipwreck.  Call me Calypso, call me crazy, but storms adrift the deep are the perfect place to swim.

Ariel

Dawn breaks over the sea strand, the Lion of God
is lord of the sun and the waters, elemental king.
Fire is also his domain, and as flames lick feet
his mane is bright bonfire, shift from beast to
man, man to beast, blond hair a windswept halo,
tanned as wood grain, eyes the blue of lost days.
We walk amidst the strand, froth kisses our ankles
hand in hand with my childhood idol, morning star
Ariel, Ariel, you were always there in my girlhood
I rode your wings through Milky Way fractal spills
you taught me to hold a sword too large for a child
to fight for my passions, to salvage the ruins of
war and find beauty, you were there in the torments
of playground battles and cruelties of childhood,
“Be strong,” you would say, “Be brave, I love you.”
I sang songs to you before I knew what worship was
just that you were my better half, master defender,
older brother cut from the same quick-kindle cloth
I was in such awe of you at seven, moreso at twelve,
for by then I knew you had your own monsters, and I
would hold back your hair as you cried into Hell,
comb girlish promises of spring into a soldier braid
you’re always the first on the battlefield, brash roar
of courage and recklessness, sometimes we would crash
and in the ruin of our blood and feathers, we laughed.

Freyfaxi

Seven white horses, tails with bells
barley and heather, midsummer smells,
we roll in the fields, sunshine bright
boar for the feast, mead for the night.