Cain Whispers: “I Was First”

There’s a gateway to heaven, a stairway to hell
my seal on your thigh to guide you well, a boon,
a curse, this Serpent Line, tines of a pitchfork
brimstone sublime, Satan lashes his Son, blood
like wine, against an oak tree in fields of time,
Cain bleeds out amber in the Plains of Divine,
Mamre infected to flow down the line, ash we eat,
dust in our hair, there’s tears and splinters in
winter cold air, nuclear harvest, we fuck til
we’re dry, and incest keeps lineages infection shy.
The Ichor of the Cobra, Qayin Seed, serpent strikes
deadly to replenish his need, sickle fang throats,
the beast I take to bed, beheaded like Sisyphus,
or was that Atlas? Whatever burden we bear, I Was
The First, Scapegoat, La-Azazel, and sister dear,
weep amber into your golden hair, sweet Eve, rot
in my arms, my poison within you, sound the alarm.

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Draculina

Crooked teeth, or maybe they’re just my busted fangs honey, sinking into the meat of my back to make me your little Draculina.  I’m the demon in your mind, the devil at your ear, wolf mother at your door and poison cobra curled around your wrist.  I lick your pressure points, I devour you in one sitting, and as my poison sinks into you, you wonder.

Will her tortures ever end?  Will she keep flirting with my blade, courting my punches, crawling broken footed to my arms and crying me a river of joy?  Forget about wounding me.  She is always crumbling around me, like a stone fence bent by age, rocks scoured by wind, salt licked clean bare by deer.  She is the eidolon cleft from my ribs, but really, she is my own heart, weeping aorta the color of black lichen.  You know, the kind that grows on cliffs in the farthest reaches of Hell and feeds on blood, or is it wine, or is it blood?  Down here getting drunk off your wives is in fashion – a spritz of lung, a nibble of the ear, a bit off the waist, all to make you thinner, love.

I only eat you because I believe I can save you.

Whatever happened to Wonderland?
And where’d Alice go? Oh.
I took a night train with knife in hand,
And cut out to the next show
Back in her living hell.
I wish to dwell, I long to be,
In the blood and the guts
With the birds of prey and the stinging of bees and bullets maybe.
Leaving heaven behind for good this time, the angels can keep it.
I’ve got a demon in mind and she’s standing behind my dark secret.
Draculina.

Yes, That Apple

Samael and Jophiel

Claws on my back, fangs at my throat.

Musk mixed with cologne and the ashes

of a pricey cigar.  Rumination, ruin, these

plots of fallen angels with loss in between.

In Hell, all there is to do is think, dream, and

you have been cast out of Paradise in body

only, so your mind wanders back to Eden

while you explode inside of me and drain

my blood dry, planting seeds within of

a faraway redemption, Death was the first

poet, and I shall be the last, so the Reaper

sighs into my arms, spent, helpless, and

after he falls asleep with the softest sigh,

I snap his neck, eat his brain, and harvest

his Creation.

Wicked Intentions

There you are six feed under with your wicked intentions,

a Wickerman skeleton, first man of the harvest, I dally

in a somnambulent graveyard of travesty and majesty,

overripe with the sweet decay of bones and roses I like

to wrap around myself like a shadow cloak, I am hunting

the Reaper, blonde hair a net to tangle thick phalanges,

I sing in the green rot of necrosis and worms, I living

madrigal of curves and milk, you pale rider of death,

how sweet to taste wickedness, how sweet to taste evil.

Goodness loves wickedness, providence loves sin, I the

Angel love the Devil, for Death and Life are in truth one.

I stand by a stone seraphim as the sky weeps ice, you reach

up to the grass and through dirt to strike my ankle with venom,

pull me down to Hell and into your weeping lap, at first you

are moon marrow, regal Death, sweet Death, saccharine Death.

I would swallow your teeth and pluck your ribs for my feast,

sweet Samael, dearest ancient Ha-Satan, La-Azazel, Iblis.

You have as many names as there are ways to die, but I

jump off cliffs from Heaven into your infernal arms for I

love the turning of seasons, the blank emptiness of longing,

how beautiful you are, in your mahogany coffins, with a

consumption bloodied handkerchief, Red Plague of Poison.

I adore malevolence, I am a beast like you, we are monsters.

We just dress in human skins, you see, while in essence I am

a girl hurricane, you a desert storm.  I drink your venom, I

eviscerate your neck with my tongue, our mouths are parched

of sweet things, cruel things, wild things, animal urges all.

Sweet Satan, Sweet Samael, Sweet Forbidden Fruit, sex was

the first VITRIOL, or was it the heart I stole from you, darling?

I treasure your organs, I steal a piece of your flesh each moon

swollen Sabbat.  The Devil and the Witch, always flirting and

fucking, always studying necromancy and slitting Damned throats.

I made a ring of your pinky finger, I swallowed your Qayin seed.

Your maggot body is my temple, your spine the broomstick I ride on.

But nothing taints me, just like I do not have a fingerprint, you take

on the rot of the world, the stench of carrion, the gullets of vultures.

I am holy hellfire, you are the darkness of the Pit, and together, my

darling Malkira, we raise Legions.  Our brood stretches forth across

Pandemonium, past Gehenna, up Sheol and Sephiroth, Qliphoth husks

the snake skins we shed, you are the gift of an enemy, my greatest

adversary, sharpening the blade of my magick, testing my wit,

and you fucker, it never works, I’m just a ditzy soft blonde that

loves Disney and pink, a twenty-something Millenial princess.

But actually, that’s precisely how it works – my burgeoning hope

and overwhelming optimism and champagne joy buoys you,

your vitriol and venom and sarcasm and wisdom sinks me.

We are paired perfectly, dear demon, and I love your atrocity.

I am a Death Eater, a Death Dissolver, the Universal Solvent,

Green Lion Bleeding Gold from the Son.  Christ rotted even

though he was a Morning Star, a ripoff of your epithet, for

you were Venus first, vain prince, and I am the one that

cursed you with dust and decay and wretchedness, life for

a life, blood for blood is the law of Hell, but you make Hell

Heaven, and Heaven is Hell without you, my life is one long

courtship with Le Grande Mort (following a bunch of petite ones.)

In the end, you are my skaldic Muse, my Homerian Achilles.

And you’re also a fucking idiot, but sweetheart, smile, for every

fuck-up you do, I do a thousand more, and you’re there with a mop.

Hell is a soap opera, after all, and immortals are banal and bored.

We need little amusements and petty drama, blood orgies and murder.

I am a Good Girl, I am a Nice Girl, you are the Outcast, Bad Boy Galore.

Honey and red wine mix well, so drink up, Corpseboy, this draught’s

for you.  I am your eternal torment, and you can never escape my

shackles.

Burning the Midnight Oil

Chomp at the bit while you’re dizzying me up with wine and poetry.  I’m nibbling your fingertips, splayed across your lap like an otter bobbing on the ocean with a pearl.  It’s us alone in luxury, us alone in the ruins of morals, and the falcon highs of Hell are only as worthy as the exhilaration of your majestic wings breaking.  We fall – into pace, out of time, from memory, but most importantly, into love.  Here you are as a cold spot under my ass, moving through me like a ghost as your sinuous hands entwine in my hair.  I always said you had pianist fingers, and you play the piano often, but sometimes you just sing, and the seasons stop turning and all Heaven is in mourning for losing its most beautiful voice.  I could say you are my better angel, or my Byronic Hero, but really, you’re just a scared boy clinging to cunts and tits because that’s the closest thing to mother you ever had.

Read me more of your poetry black soul.  Smash the windows, break the lamps, cry in my arms and bite my head off.  You like to tear me limb from limb and swallow me hole, then suture me back together with your putrid heart in the cage of my ribs and have my stitched drunken limbs dance like an automaton.  Somehow it always comes back to Eve’s choice – the Left Hand Path or the Right Hand, Yetzer Ha Ra or Yetzer Ha Tov, Michael or Samael, the Knight or the Dragon.  The Spin Doctors did this nineties song about Two Princes, y’know, and sometimes it gets stuck in my head.  She chooses the penniless poet at the end, but I can never guarantee I would choose you.  You’ll only ever be second-best, but you were first, so I suppose there’s that.

You fuck me real gentle that night.  My photo is on your bed stand, or photos should I say, from birth to toddlerhood to childhood to maidenhood to young womanhood.  There’s black and whites of my past lives too – I’m taking tea with Lilith in Victorian dresses, I’m swimming in the beautiful red Styx, we’re together in the 70’s at some hippie concert.  How much is fallacy or fantasy or lies is just like your fangs – translucent at time and hidden behind bleeding gums, other times out in the open and ready to devour.  I ask you to drink my blood so you do, sinking canines into my neck and I give into the ecstasy, I trace infinity on the small of your back and Christ, I love you so much I hate you, or is it hate so much I love you.

Michael said it is better to hate or love than to feel nothing, for in the end they are just polarities, just masks we wear.  Sometimes I remember you two before the War.  The War this, the War that.  Both of you are soldiers.  As I’m writing this, you form a cold spot that swirls lazily around my head and heart as I’m in a blanket and jacket.  I always wear my jackets inside, I’m in need of constant warmth.  Your seed is warm, your heart is cold, and you are a canvas of blank.  Is blank okay to call you?  Void with red demon eyes.  Abyss.  The Deep.  You move through me like rain on glass, just skimming the surface yet so thorough I run down your planes like tears.  Maybe I’m just another one of your moon maidens, oh fuck, here you are again, holding my hand across transdimensional space.

You said I would be Queen of the Aliens.  You said I would be the phoenix to rise from Ragnarok in a New Age.  You said I would be your savior, burying you below the Tree of Life – or was it Death? – to cleanse the mem from your name to make you Sael, the Purity of God.  Samech Mem Aleph Lamed.  The S and M Angel.  That’s my stupidest joke.

Oh Samael.  What can I say to you that I haven’t already articulated over this past quarter century, then all the lives after and before?  I’m old and I have tired words.  It’s past my bedtime.  You cherish me, and that is enough, but I know you are evil.  Can evil things love?  Can the most wretched of creatures know anything more than possessiveness and animal urges?  Snakes are snakes, not men.  You may put on the pretenses of humanity, but I know you are cold-blooded reptillian.  True, you have chthonic fire, but you are Death, and Death is Nothing.

Blank.

Blood Drunk Love Drunk

The snake is a snicker-snack Vorpal blade fanged with moonlight.
My kingdom is ashes and wine. My neck a fluted glass smashing
open to welcome incisors to drink ruby red time. Counting stars
in Hell is like pulling teeth. If I dress in taffeta and lace,
am I a ballerina or backstage whore? Glamorous slut of indulgence.
A Jezebel to the prince, courtesan to the king, the general’s girl.
This year was the year of excess, this year was the year of ruin,
of IV drips through lover’s lips and crystal palaces of danger.
Fuck me harder, love me softer, crack my ribs and make a corset.
I’m blood drunk love drunk stoned as a bird falling slap dash
into your arms, my angel, my demon, so bang me high and holy,
scratch the chromium paint off my mouth, and unearth my lost air.