Pleroma

I am the Thunder, Perfect Mind descending on Babylon,
lady of lions and serpents, Qadesh of sacred whoredom,
ready to travel infinity with my yoni a blooming lotus –
climb the stars of stairs to my palace, Gilgamesh! Oh
you proud Odysseus, marvel at my Divine Femininity! For
I am the Old and New Eve, and from my apple seven devils
were worms eating the white flesh, cast out of mealy,
crumbling Paradise. I baked a heart in white wine today
it was the heart of my maker, my lover, my father, and
his corpse smoked a cigarette on the porch as I added
a touch of paprika to that most salient organ. It burnt
a bit on its charred rot, the cardiac muscles ballooned
with butter, and every woman must set out to eat her gods.
We are what we eat at the end of the day, and I will
consume the Pleroma, I will eat archangel’s wings deep-
fried, I will pluck out Odin’s last eye for an appetizer.
I am sick to seven hells of my body being a temple, let’s
make it a wasteland, this High Priestess has fallen into
the corruption of zuhama! Babalon, Ave Babalon! My womb
is a black goat high on a clifftop, about to be sacrificed
and in the moment before the Rabbi slits my neck so I go
running bleeding down the scree path, scarlet red, I realize
there is no god but my own mind, for I am queen of myself
so this fallacy of worship begone, best to devour Heaven,
drink down Hell, and cannibalize those who think they made
you.

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Dragon’s Blooms

Amongst the sage and heather, I fly in open skies
my soul is a spirit dancer, suspended from on high!
Oh wind! Oh wake of dragons! Take me to the mountain!
Where in the hot springs dally wyverns in the fountain.
Dragon’s nest in onsens, dragon’s nest in hot delight,
and they are jewel-toned wonders, a most peculiar sight.
Scales burnished rose and emerald, wings the span of planes,
they breathe a fiery furnace, and my spirit is enflamed.
I am the dragon’s keeper, amongst the dragon’s blooms.
These fields are rolling lavender, we play along the tune
of mating calls of madrigals, high lindworms and serpents
gold, winged elegies to the wake of God, angels usurpant.
I think the greatest thing of all is a dragon, and you
would say the same, if you could dance in fire, so true
to the core of the Earth, molten nickel and magma, churning
gullets volcanoes, and as we fly stupendous, I am learning:
dragons used to live here, dragons used to fly, high above
Earth’s mountains, spirits in the sky, knights slayed many
mothers, kings crushed their bones to clay, so a penny
is worth more than a dragon now, in man’s imagination,
we do not remember the dragons, greatest of God’s creation.
But if you visit a mooonbeam and hitch a ride on Milky Ways
you can still live amongst the dragons, as their memory decays.
Honor children who speak to dragons, they adore a child,
dragons will raise the children to be beautiful and wild.
Let’s invite the dragons back! To parks and mountains high
there’s still room on Earth for dragons, room left in the sky.
When dragons left, miracles, and unicorns followed their flames.
But with their return, a veil of magic, majesty their claim.
Believe in dragons, sister. Brother, be their keeper, dragons
are the cosmos awakened, real as angels and God, let them in.

Heaven a Hell of Its Own

It is Paradise for the Chosen Few, with verdant
terraces of wildwoods that stretch on forever,
board games to staunch the boredom of Heaven,
how many times can you play Risk and Parcheesi
until Lilith runs out of the stable lusting
after freedom, for the punishment of Belial,
Lucifuge Rofocale, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and
Samael are to be guardians over the good, to
pretend to be better angels and chaperone the
contentment and lazy summer days of New
Jerusalem, bottle all your ids down, tamper
the urges of lust and cannibalism and fucking
good and hard in a shattered medical ward.
For in truth, the Saved and Chosen by Christ
have been put here to torment the archdemons:
provide on hands and feet kneeling every whim
for those Saint Peter admitted with gold-drip
arms to the Seventh Heaven, near the seat of
God, where Metatron scribes the Sefer Ha Chaim.
I am one of those that taste salvation, and in
this bucolic, idyllic countryside palace where
the archdemons would rather drink themselves to
death than spend another minute playing Parcheesi
with better than thou, long-suffering disciples,
turn the other cheek crew that is so much more
enlightened than the demons of vices, who despise
virtue, which is what the Blessed are, I run wild
through the woods that are ever-changing, with
diamond fruit and jewel leaves, fly stupendous
in the clouds with the archangels while my demons
are confined to babysitting the faithful, they
are slowly going mad playing Monopoly in the Good
Place, where everything to them is boring and
nothing bad ever happens, all is sunshine and
ice cream stops on a choo choo train and rainbows
after beautiful storms that grow the verdant flowers
of Heaven. For Heaven is torture for my demons,
they are growing mad, counting ceiling tiles,
peeling away at the 80’s carpet in the guest
room, passed out monotonously catatonic as the
peacefulness and perfection tease and tempt them
to defile this perfect place. Samael talks to
Asmodeus in hushed tones: if I have to play
another round of Life I will gut these holy
neerdowells, Belial moans and wishes for his
guitar, for rock music is too loud for the
blessed dead, Beelzebub spins a toy top over
and over again, steely look on his face, I
realize my demons have been put in what is
essentially time out in Heaven, and taking
pity on them, I utter the ineffable name of
God and break the curse laid upon them, give
them back their wings, the demons hightail it
out of mundane, beautiful Paradise and soon
we reach Hell, I along for the ride for shits
and giggles, happy to have freed the demons
of my inner menagerie to their sins and
supplications, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Samael
and I enter a medical laboratory with shatter
glass and mercury and blood and dead rats,
it is a wrecked dungeon of mad experiments,
and they take me there on the stainless steel
counter top next to a chemistry set, every
orifice pounded raw as they draw lacerations
with fangs and claws, and I laugh in delight
at the wild unleashing of desire and bloodlust,
filling with the seed of the Satans, for in
Heaven, they were not allowed to lay hands
on women or men, and now all that pent up
rage is turgid inside me, the whips and knives
emerge, the wings lift me up off the medical
supplies and when they are spent, my consorts
cradle my bruised and battered and satiated
qadesh body in their boiling arms, and I make
my nest with the Damned archdemons, and I pity
any demon stuck in a Millenial hell of board
games, endless soft serve, perfect summer days,
vacation for the residents of Heaven, and
sheer torture of perfection for those of us
who require a bit of marrow in our coffee,
bite in our whiskey, and blood in our cups.

Ezili Freda

Freda is doing her honey brown curls up
in a lace net with pearls, “Honey, you
need to pretty yourself up with lipstick.
Pink!” and she paints her nails ivory
then draws them through the sea for Met
Agwe’s bounty, her husbands are fickle
things. Damballah rains riches down on
his mistress and Ogou swings his machete
and cuts a clear path for her carriage.
Freda goes to Rada Island resplendent,
a queen, sends me dreams of nail salons
and hot wax and pink and gold yonis
yawning open with Mother, “It’s a girl’s
birthright to be beautiful,” she sings.

Oh Lady of the Fans, dance with me.

Judex Crederis

And at the table there is no bread to break,
for to dine with enemies and Samaritans is sin.
In the temple, the wine is rancid, the offerings
have maggots, and the false prophetess sits at
the head with a mouthful of flies. Christ rebukes
them by the fire: “Your legacy will wither at the
root, your falsities will lead to ruin. Cursed
are your generations, no succor will they find,
though they seek water, no food shall they eat,
though they hunger. Cast out of Paradise and
exiled from grace, your covenant is broken, and
your temple is swiftly crumbling. Never shall it
stand again, but the feast will be perdition,
and the crops you reap dusty and not filling.
I condemn you, false flies, I cast you out.”
And Christ walks on water onto a burning sea,
and the false prophets are cast into flames,
and Judex Crederis sing the angels, glorifying.

The Bear that Swallowed the Moon

Mei moves with her family to the hinterlands,
where cold gods reign, and colder climes draw
hoarfrost on her coal black hair, this is the
first time the girl, barely a young woman, has
seen snow. The peaks of the mountains are like
icicles piercing the sky, and at night, the moon
is the brightest she has ever seen, like a bright
silver coin, nestled at the crest of the ridges.
One night, the bear that swallowed the moon comes
and bids her “Ride my back, Mei. I am Bei Ling,
the Moon Incarnate, and I shall show you the
majesty of my frozen kingdom.” It is a wooing
of love, and Mei climbs aback the bear and
they rush through pine and red panda up the
slope, in his throat is the lunar disc, shining
every time he growls or opens his mouth to speak
in a tongue not human, but bestial, and that night
Bei Ling digs her a bed of snow and moss, and she
sleeps on his breast, white fur like a blanket,
and the moon in his gullet warms her. “Bei Ling,”
Mei says the next day, riding his star crossed
back, “should not the moon belong to everyone.”
Bei Ling grunts with laughter. “Then I would be
but a man, not the Bear Moon of the Mountains.”
But there is a look in Mei’s eyes like a promise,
so Bei Ling spits out the moon and it sails away,
to crest those mountains he used to reign over,
and then he is tan skin and a cloud of black hair,
he looks down at opposable thumb and bipedal leg
and Mei gives him a blanket to cover his nakedness.
Bei Ling laughs mightily “To give up immortality
for the woman I love, who would have thought a girl
would change the mind of the Moon Bear.” And they
kiss, and they set off to plant dreams across the
world, and sometimes he is Bear Moon, but mostly,
just Bei Ling, the man who swallowed the night,
fell out of the stars for but a girl, and into
love.

Spice Cabinet

The woods are holy, and wholly haunted.
A witch in a wicker hut with poison herbs.
Hyssop, yarrow, nightshade, chrysanthemum.
In her spice cabinet, she takes the ointment
of anointment and greases her eyelids to
fly over the hedge, to the Fairy Reel ring,
where the Horned God dances in mushrooms
and toadstool, moss is her dress, dew in
her gold hair, and the young enchantress
holds congress with the Beast, mothering
millions of fallen souls, born into this
imperfect enchantment of a world, spices
stop, she is sleep-struck and flies away
to the land of dreams, where the Tuatha
de Danaan hold court, and Thomas the Rhymer
flutes a verse in her honor, the witch
curtsies to the fairy queen in her rags,
and all the changelings drink her milk,
and she is wetnurse to the wilderness,
and the Horned God returns from the Hunt,
and summer is high tides of solar seas,
and we are but vision quests of shamans
reaching to grasp runes and ogham from
specks of dust, our souls, we are the
stuff witches hold in spice cabinets,
each of us a tincture of magic, and
nature will reign long after we are
gone, so breathe in fairy dust, love,
and know your ghost will haunt me.