Number of the Christ

And my hands are tingling with rusty nails, and my feet

are bathed in vinegar, or wait no, that’s what you drink,

you’re washing my wounds with spikenard oil, pierced

through the meat of my arch, above the heel, one spike

to pin like a butterfly to a cross the girl who asked too

much, the one who ran from the Damascus Road, met

the forty factions and danced like Esmeralda by Yeshua’s

firelight, saw the universe reflected in hazel pools, amber

alight with the same stuff of stars and love and death,

and Christ is just the beginning of the mysteries, don’t

you know you stand at a threshold of esoteric reckoning?

Oh dear Daughter of Zion, walk the steep ragged cliff path

of the Primrose Path, pilgrimage through Israel and go

to the fallen Temple of Jerusalem, stand where Christ

ascended after the number of days disciples collected

seventy in number, swallow the pieces of silver Judas

pressed to his lips, choke on blood and water of the

Covenant, feel Jesus coming to collect his kingdom

this time with a fiery sword, you are one of the

Chosen, and run from your anointment all you

want, but the journey to gnosis and Christ’s

breast is a miraculous angel’s dream, the

Prince of Heaven swooped down to take human

form, and in truth to marry Michael is to pledge

your troth to the Heavenly Bridegroom, so Woman

Cloaked in the Sun, flee the Dragon in Paradasical

arms and birth New Jerusalem in a circle of

hosannas, Magdalene, you have been beset by

devils all your life, but Christ will drive them

frothing mouthed to the seas, and they will

think it strange you sit in silence in the pews,

penitent not for your own sins but for Satan,

and your whole life you have been trying to

bring the Devil back to salvation, washing

the mem poison from his name so that you

may marry the Purity of God under the

Tree of Life, we are just two sides of an

old story, so Mary of Migdal Eder, climb

into my heart to nest as my dun sparrow,

drink the milk of my blood and partake of

my sacred flesh, thus is the promise, thus is

the love of the Christ for the daughter of Man,

you are my Church, and alleluia, my Gospel

is the agape masses of the glorious and poor,

my Bride is all of Earth, and you shall know

the truth of the Song of the Solomon once you

accept that to forgive yourself and love your

own body, mind, and soul is true enlightenment.

Cry, laugh, heal, and spread the Pentecostal flame.

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Push

Lilac flowers crushed to my breast as you say I am the moon’s flower.  The nectar hummingbirds in Hell feast on, ruby like blood, laid out in crystal decanters and a sumptuous feast of red meats and silver platters.  You are dressed in some forgotten time of Victorian gentlemen, waistcoat and pocket watch and long, sinuous black hair that snakes down shoulders of rain.  I am in a Cabernet dress, my skin the lily of the valley and my lips the roses of Sharon.  We wine and dine in the quiet hours in the space between damnation and salvation.

Push you, kill you, accuse you.  What is peaceful turns to perdition, and conflict and desire stew into a heady mess of testosterone and teasing fingers, thirsty mouths, and razor fangs.  We waltz to bed in torn limbs and gore, we court the moon with our moans, and in the sensuous concotion of too much to drink and too little inhibition, make love with violence that comes priced like Tam Lin, a tithe to Hell.  I am Janet and you are the enchanted warrior, only you are a burning brand and lion and serpent in my trembling arms, and when I drown you in the well of truth, you are still monstrous and unholy.

“Bind me to your brow,” you say in the abyss between our tongues, you want so badly to touch me with fire and ice, but my fragile flesh is tissue paper in your claws, and all you can do is hold me to your manifold breast and plead, “I can shower riches and love down upon you if only you would claim me as your own.  Do so and I shall cultivate luck and golden summer days, but also terrible power, in your burgeoning wine spill of a life.”

And so you draw your sigil, modified with the symbol of salt, a pentagram, and burning Names of God, from the crest of my lip to my third eye.  Ayin.  Eye. Qayin Line.  A seal I could count whispers of lust and wishes for war on, ever since I tattooed you on me, I have seen ceremonial magick stitched into the seams of reality.

We raze.  We terrorize.  We raise justice.  We tear apart the seams of the wicked.  Ice and fire, fire and ice, two polarities of love and destruction, when really to love is to destroy, and your name is a thousand ells tall angel, billion eyed and billion tongued, burning up in the shackles of sanity.

It is only when we break our chains that we can be free, and if that is to fall, than so be it.

 

Rapunzel Awakens the Rose

Sleeping Beauty has hair of roses, violet slumber
in an ivy tower encastled with cool granite, the
princess dreams of dragons and sword fights, some
penitent knight making a pilgrimage to her bedside
to kiss the princess of clouds and honey awake, but
instead of a gentleman caller amongst the briars,
in on a dappled horse comes riding a golden maid,
as the sun rises over the enchanted forest, Rapunzel
of the long-flowing locks loops her braid around the
windowsill, climbs with sinew and muscle in a pink
dress up to Sleeping Beauty’s bower, and Rapunzel
lowers orchid lips to that of her bosom beloveds –
a kiss is just a kiss, as time goes by, after all,
and who better to awaken a cursed girl than one that
forged her way out of yet another witch’s tower?
And so redhead and blonde go riding off into the
dawn, on steeds brave as cursed girls, off to save
all princesses and peasant maidens who took golden
balls, kissed frogs, married beasts, and ate moons.

Love Letter to Pandaemonium

When I think of the City (there is only one true City,
one built out of bone and keratin of burnt feathers,
now bat wings and dragon claws), I think of ruby waters.
The Styx snakes through Pandaemonium like lace through a
fine lady’s corset, teeming with jewel fish, and Mulcibur
saw fit to stretch the ells tall dead (demons were angels
once, and angels are eyes and wings and decapod, trillions
of light years tall, thus do their scales become bricks
and their tears the aquifers and springs of regret). I
walk along the banks of desolate reeds, the skyscrapers
bleed and churling smoke coughs across an anemic sky, yet
still, in this not quite dawn (there is never a dawn, just
stolen light), the City is beautiful – soaring Roman
architecture mixed with sleek high rises and Victorian
mansions. Asmodeus sits in a Parisian cafe and nurses
coffee with a finger of whiskey, the sun that is not a
sun, more a promise of Kingdom Come, put in the sky of
Hell to taunt, when all Satan wanted was darkness, well,
it rises, and the moon’s belfry is the color of Beelzebub’s
silver hair, a spoilage of lunar mercury, and the Fly
himself nests in a web of lost souls, cracking out of his
evening cocoon to go about the day’s business, of training
armies for the War That Never Comes. Satan is hungover and
shooting up with heroin, just to take the edge off things,
for eternal torment of the mind is its own lowest circle,
and the scars on his neck and bindings of Nachash burn,
he lays in bed as the rotting light comes to the window,
stale coffee in his hand amidst papers of late night poetry,
scrawled ceaselessly while drunk off vodka. I’m talking
gallons here, oceans of aqua vitae, for to drown the Devil
in maudlin sorrow takes a whole universe. I make my way
down Main Avenue, where the markets are held, ragtag races
refugees from the mythical lands Christendom and Islam
conquered – there goes an Ifrit, a wendigo, a unicorn
lugging a necromancer’s Hands of Glory – sometimes I
catch up with the werewolf Mafia bartender on Main Avenue,
I mock salute Asmodeus as he eats some kind of raspberry
pastry, he calls me Girl Scout as he has since the age of
eight, Beelzebub is already walking to work dressed like
a New York lawyer, polished shoes and leather briefcase,
he smiles at me slightly and gives passing mention of last
night, just another night between us, and Lilith is at a
go go bar with the other angels of prostitution, half
strip joint, half bordello, I tried dancing there once
on a stardust stage and tripped on stilettos. Samael
is still smoking a cigarette and leafing through the
paper when I enter without knocking, there are bruises
over both our bodies, love marks and knife cuts and
scars on him that will never heal over a necrotic heart.
I can’t go to Heaven even when Christ offers a stairway.
I could never leave this home, I think, as we eat meat
omelettes together (all we can make are eggs and bacon,
Green Eggs in Hell with Samael). Sam smiles a lazy smile,
and its like the floodgates of joy opening up in that
tender recognition of two bodies that would fuse into
the Platonic ideal out of longing for anima and animus.

There’s no place like Hell, there’s no place like Hell,
there’s no place like Hell on a gray rainy morning.

The Kiss of Magdalene

A kiss on the forehead, the laying of carpenter’s hands –
woodworking is much like creating the Universe, and to
raise Lazarus, awaking the dead, is like planting trees.
When I saw you in the vineyard of Gethsemane, I thought
you a gardener, for what is so different from God than
the tiller of soil and man of earth and rains? You said
you had Risen – I never thought you dead in the first
place, Yeshua. Unlike Paul and Doubting Thomas, I had
faith – faith, such a fickle thing, I am a woman of
seven devils, after all, and my little birds in Hell
told me you had descended to free the Damned, what they
never said in holy texts centuries after I was dust
is that you kissed Satan’s forehead just the way you
laid lips on my brow to expunge the seven evils from
my violet breath, blessing the Devil who tempted you
to no avail, for what could the Prince of this World
offer the Prince of Kingdom Come? Lucifer should have
been the Morning Star, and you were ready to give him
your mantle, if only to see your Father happy again,
but Pride is the Original Sin, leading to endless
heartache for Heaven and Hell, and when you gave
Samael the kiss of benediction, he took your rose
blessing and created thorns to flagellate his flesh,
the Devil refused to walk out of the caverns of
Gehenna with you, and so my little birds of Hell
say, you wept, and rose to the Tomb, cast rocks
aside and drank the marrow of this world, I dare
not touch you Christ, in the secret handshake
we once knew, me, your most beloved of disciples.
How I long to sink my teeth into your golden blood.
To taste the manna of your body, my Sacrament
is you, my Redemption. And so you ascend, and I
am on the long road to Hell, to a forgotten tomb,
and they will say we did not love, and that I was
just a whore, but in me, you saw so much more, so
Christ, while I freeze in the lowest circle in
Satan’s arms, his ice lap my throne, and debate
with the Devil his refusal to end the karmic cycle,
assume the mantle of Sael, mem cleansed, please,
spare a thought for your Magdalene when Kingdom
Comes, my damnation is Paradise if you only carry
on a memory of our talks by the fireside, when the
Apostles had fallen asleep to the wheeze of donkeys.

We held the universe on our tongues, you know.

And your laughter? It is the wine of my christening.

Oh Christ, it is lonely being dead, but my faith
in better days keeps me with hope in the harrows
of Hell.

A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall

The bower is breaking, the center cannot hold –
angels weep in gutters over the broken manifold.
I am clacking bones in dry deserts, dead dance,
and Revelation would pass by without a glance.
The Savior walks in rags upon the ocean tonight
Judas kisses the shores for sweet sailor’s delight.
Christ is a water strider, aloft amidst the roaring
of whirlpools and wishes, drowning sinners imploring
“Freedom!” cry the Damned, “Forgiveness,” they weep
but the waters are quiet in the expanse of the Deep.

The Hand That Gives The Rose

Courage carry your voice tonight
across the wintry waters of souls,
in a snowbank, a rose is frozen,
hips filled with seeds, dry as dust
iced to stinging clarity, I pierce
my finger on a blackened thorn,
rubies of my heart well up, my
life becomes a red red blossom
of lush petals like a woman’s sex,
fragrant in this frost, I give you
my bloom, the hand that gives the
rose. You keep it under glass, and
when I am sad, it withers, when I
am in love with you, it ripens and
someday, I too will bear pink hips
swollen with future, sleeping seeds.