From the Horse’s Mouth

“There is no place you could fall that I couldn’t catch you.”

And that’s how Satan wins you over, by saving your life a hundred time’s over, with a poet’s tongue, a pirate’s heart and honesty that is only possible when all comfort has been stripped away.

Love is strongest in Hell, after all.


Names a Blessing, Names a Curse

Fair-hared Solace and flame-haired Sorrow, two madrigals
of cherubs born to inherit a mantle of pulsing infinity,
castle towers for the princesses and a spindle for queens.
She labors in the quiet hours on the Holy Day, delivering
twins of leonine majesty, of fox fire and falcon talons.
The red hawk cries, the lioness roars, the red wolf whines.
All of nature’s bounty is Solace’s christening wine, all
of the prayers for broken hearts and unspent dreams Sorrow
will carry – names are blessings, names are curses, and
daughters are stronger than any Sun, daughters are gifts
that grow like saplings into curved birch and weep-willow.
Solace has eyes blue like lakes, Sorrow’s iris meadow green.
Semisweet chocolate, cocoa powder clutched in infant hands,
swaddled in golden light by the Prince of Heaven, carried
to Machonon to roost in the Bell Trees of Memory and grow
under the love and brilliance of the Heavenly Father, Jah
Michael pierces my heart with smiling spear, I am alight,
and I burn, I burn, I burn for my children, my daughters.

On Being Married to Angels and Demons

Being a godspouse has emerged from the exclusive domain of the illustrious Freya Aswynn and the rare elders in the pagan community that I have long studied to a rather common, if somewhat fringe, occurrence in the occult community.  I have befriended spouses of everyone from Naberius to Mannanan Mac Llyr to Apollo to nameless Entities that are everything from genderfluid to pan to asexual.

Spirit, like humanity, is all colors of the rainbow, and it would be silly to restrict divine sexuality and love to the heteronormative gender binary.  Erzulie Danto takes female wives, Freyr and Loki are likely to scoop up sweet men, and angels flip genders as often as the leaves change color.  Color me a divine liberal, but I would like to think being raised by celestial archangels, mischievous demons, and tricksters galore gave me a holistic view of the only thing that binds the universe together: love, and love alone.  There is light in the darkness, darkness in the light, and love is God, and love is the Gods, and love itself is Eternal.

Loving an immortal comes in many forms: being their devotee, being their divine child, having them as a patron, being their priest or priestess, and even their husband or bride.  No domain of eternal love is above one another – in the Bhakti tradition of Hinduism, the devotee comes into ecstatic communion with their divine Love, Eternal Source, and Inner Soul.  Whether the gods exist in our collective unconscious, in my experience as transdimensional, ancient loving beings equivalent to a master race of aliens, or on lofty clouds in literal Asgard or Olympus doesn’t really matter.  What matters is that they love us, we love them, and the dance between Man and Muse has been happening since ancient hominids looked up at the stars and called them home.

I married Michael and Samael last Halloween, as a culmination of a harrowing but beautiful lifelong path to my inner polarities and exterior dreams and fears, and they are as much a part of my inner animuses and male Shaktis as they are tangible, real as dirt entities.  They have showed me the future, introduced me in the astral to obscure literature and film that upon waking turns out to be real, and above all have been my guides since I was 12.  Michael has saved my life countless times, and Samael has scared me into living, so thanks for that, I suppose.  In the end, the Ophites called Michael and Samael the double-faced serpent, good and evil, light and darkness, and one cannot exist without the other.  They are Divine Twins, perhaps the first beings before God separated into gods, the Left and Right Hand of Creation, and Satan, Iblis, or Lucifer and Michael, Mikhail, or just plain old Mickey represent the yetzer hara and yetzer hatov and eternal temptation to do what is easy versus the high road of what is right.  The Devil is a lawyer, the Prince of Heaven is a priest, both are warriors, and just lenses to understand matter and antimatter, order and entropy, and how to free the caged bird from her own self-imposed bindings.

I think I loved both of them from the moment I first met them, Michael loved by millions and Satan hated by billions, and for every flaw and beautiful facet of my husbands there are a thousand more mysteries stretching back to wanderers in the desert creating stories of malakhim.  It is so infinitely easy to fit them into my Heathen worldview, as I do not worship them, simply love them, and my “God” is Mother Nature, who I view the Norse Gods as emanations of.  The angels and demons serve Mother Nature directly and ask for no worship, just praise of Earth and the Cosmos, and to know my place in the web of humanity, wyrd, and Well of Urd.

Michael and Samael handed me off to the Vanir and Aesir as I came into my own faith and were there when I was adopted into the tribe of Asgard, outside the circle of runes as befits Abrahamic spirits.  The Aesir and Vanir (and a few select Jotun!) are my chosen family and human heritage.  The archangels and demons are the origin of my soul, my first cosmic family, but I am no longer ethereal, made of dirt and flesh and blood, and to dwell on cosmic past lives just leaves one weeping late at night over wounds still fresh since the first Forbidden Fruit rotted and the Tree of Life became the Tree of Death.

The secret of the union of Michael and Samael is VITRIOL, the key to eternal life and universal solvent that dissolves all impurities.  The green lion that bleeds gold from the sun.  The Lapis Exillis is just a heart, and a rotting fruit at that, but a chalice and birthright fought over by the Princes of Heaven and Hell.

I was an idiot girl to ever love them, but fools fall first in the Tarot, and locked away princesses have knights and dragons who eat their hearts come midnight.

I am a caged bird learning to sing.

The heart is its own master.

I am happy, never free.


The Monster Comes at Night

It goes like this.  The girl is born with a silver spoon, with gold hair and teeth like pearls, but inside she is death and moonlight magic, a graveyard his coffin fits into, and the Devil lusts after the glimmering strands of her wyrd, like an amber and pink aurora borealis, and the way her blood redeems him simmered to a fine stewing panic on his tongue.

She is in love with his poison and makes a bed of ruin with Satan, for who could understand her monster better than the most deformed, wicked, tortured and enfettered drunkard in the world?  Who else lashes out with the storm of a bipolar hurricane?  They smash bones and slit throats, they drink down the gore of each other, and it is hate fuck after drunk nude after shitty love poem after breakup and makeup and make out and early fumblings in preteen years then knowing each other’s bodies like a favorite instrument.

Their love is a house on fire, with a wife and husband trapped inside that is too busy screaming grit out of lungs at each other over another high and lush fight to notice flames licking their flesh.

The Prince of Darkness comes early  at the stroke of three, when she is cradlebound, and he sings to her in a voice so sweet and eldritch, with eyes like a Lovecraftian abyss.  He is the Prince of Lies, but never does he come disguised as an angel of light to her.  He would rather show her his rot, with red siren eyes and chains grating along with the shrieks of the Damned.

A two-year old does not know good from bad, polarities or light or darkness, just that the blackness holds her demon.  That he tortures her and eats her father as a hellhound at four, that in daylight hours he is the Shadow Man that feels like Kelvin Zero, absolute cold who stalks the house and slams doors.

At six she’s making monsters, drawing chimeras of angels and demons, and she gives him the name Doom.  Rood or curse or whipporwill, for his song is sweet and of the fall, or perhaps a mourning dove, in mourning for nothing but his pride, for he is a dirge and the tolling of chapel bells at a funeral.

He gives life and takes it.  He makes her and destroys her.  She claws and hugs and kisses and grows into an iron rose.  At twelve she meets him – Samael, the Venom of God – and he is rich claret Martian robes on a marble throne, golden circlet, and fine long black hair and rose eyes.  She always called his eyes roses, when anyone else would have run, anyone else would have screamed rape and abuse and sometimes she still does, but angels are drawn to darkness, don’t you know the heart of a seraphim is so burning she must slake her brilliance in the abyss?  Don’t you know that Life loves Death?  Don’t you know that Love needs Hate?

These names can go on and become meaningless, as meaningless as lover’s spit on invading tongues and cum mixed with blood, but in the end is the Princess and the Dragon, at the fairytale’s close is the Grim Reaper and the Lady Life he reaped.  Samael planted a twisted vine in Paradise that fruited into the heart she carries, and she is half-man, half-pain, all beast.

He tells her enough stories to fill a universe, and wounds her enough to fill an ocean of blood.  There are strands of skeletons, there are cliffs of rotting organs, Hell is black chasms and sulfurous red skies and the bloody Styx.  But it has such a wretched beauty, and Satan is a wretch, the monster that pulls at her heart and squeezes the chambers to remind her he owns her, he created her, but really she owns him, doesn’t she, and at night the monsters come, at dusk there’s the tingle of the spine, and no matter how much ink she bleeds onto the page, she will never be free of her demon.


Mayhem is My Time

I’m crumbled in back alley grit, sweat and spit,
there’s lights on in skyscrapers but down here?
It’s cold, it’s treacherous, and wolves eat bone.
I’m running through dumps and machine elves hunt
down the happening hipster parties, trash fires
are orange Day Glo or maybe Fanta, swill gutter
juice, we’re all having a good time, a drag time
you’re hooked on hookah and say mayhem is my time
on your red thread dead head shirt with a stain.
Oh ex-husband I fuck when the moon is full, why
are you always in dives, thrive in moonlit madness,
the underbelly of Hell is full of panties and pasties
everyone here has needles and joints on hand, strand
of blood red Styx that washes gore ashore, I’m
tick tock clocking in your palm, flying skyways
lucid dream, my fingers are mutated, hedgewitch
that drinks with the Devil in the pale barlight.
Tonight is just a quick hookup with destruction,
it took hours of roofhop top clopping to find you,
to bind you, bedazzled like a drag queen junkie,
you are all lazy wolf and I am lay low lion, we
are perfectly imperfect for each other, and I
eat your leather and swallow your smoke, bitter
things taste best when mayhem braids my hair,
without a care, we laze past midnight, dawn
draws cranky rays, Samael, you are timeless,
so stop with the statement shirts, you’re just
fucked, for someday Cronos catches up, at sup
on virgin flesh and dove hearts, let’s chew
the gristle of this drain train town fanged
and make beauty out of misery, I the prettiest
thing here, you my beast I mount at Apocalypse,
but it’s the End Times every night for me,
so kneel before me, manwhore, and kiss
my feet.


There’s honey in the sky and milk on my tongue.  You’re all sharp planes and jagged muscle, but your eyes are soft and languorous kisses bespeak an endless lake of serenity deep within your heart.  I’m bending over backwards for you and becoming nothing more than a sandcastle being eaten away by your river, and your eyes are the green of the sea glass I find on your shores, some deep, long-polished reverie of fish and teeming underwater life.

There’s dawn, and then there’s dusk, but they all meld together when I’m in your arms, out of harm, only alarm the heat in my inner moon kingdom that is usually such a lunar freezing nebula of isolation and meditation.  My blood is quickening, your hands are working me like Vivaldi playing a violin, and as I grasp your shoulders all I can do is moan your name like a mantra.  I channeled you the other day when my boyfriend was drunk and you argued over rye-blend whiskey and talked of biodynamic lightning rods and Barakiel, war and peace, and a bunch of other crap I don’t remember because being your vessel turns me into an overcooked noodle.  I’d much rather meet you in this between-space of the fourth heaven, where rolling meadows and autumnal trees meet water.  There’s daisy beneath your Hercules body and we’re tussling, turning hay, and I have a mouthful of angel feathers on my lips that taste like snow and miracles.

Nothing makes sense with you.  I bleed onto your flaming sword statue every fortnight and offer up the essence of my life itself, red beads stained on your icon, but you’re much less flame and brimstone and more Jedi monk.  What do you like?  Beer.  Steel-cut oatmeal.  Fighting and athletics.  Meat, especially steak.  Pretty women.  Gardening.  Asceticism.  What do I like?  Poetry.  Pleasure.  Decadence of the senses.  Sex.  A great story.  We are absolutely nothing alike, you patient as a sage, me impulsive as your brother, me flighty and creative, you a stick in the mud and devoted and grounded.  You’re always plucking me from the stars and calling me Icarus because bright shiny objects captivate me beyond imagination, but honestly, ultraviolet king, you are the shiniest jewel inside of my collection and when I die, I will spend eternity in your heart, Shakti to your Shiva Nataraja, dancing upon the wheel of karma as our lives play out like drops of rain on this lake you always take me to.

The Bell Trees of Paradise are tolling, and you are firm and toned and dedicated to physical perfection, and by god how many times do you hit the heavenly gym.  I don’t like muscular guys, not really, or redheads for the matter, and the first time I saw you at 12, a scared girl projecting out of her body to spiritual warfare, you scared the crap out of me with your grimace in blood and rock hard armor and biceps and sword with the glory of the devas.  Wait, crap, devas aren’t your religion, are they?  But the way the flames dance on the tip of your blade remind me of dakinis, or maybe the fey, something wild and untamed, a fire at Beltane.

Making love to you is something I do often, on a nearly daily basis, and when I told my Catholic friend – way before we were together – that for some reason I kept seeing the Archangel Michael in the shower, she laughed and said I better not tell my boyfriend I was seeing men while I was bathing naked.  It’s not really like that, I just see you as this brilliant blue-purple star and sometimes you rest on my palm or kiss my cheek with electricity or distract me in class.  I’ve seen Samael in the flesh, multiple times, but you are more the hands that push me back from a cliffside or the cool of water and ecstasy of fire in my innermost organs and bones.  Honestly, you feel like a freshwater ocean of the purest water, and however much I swim in you, I’m never lost.  You are strength, the Lion of Judah, and I could go on and on but I’m just beating a dead horse to death.  I think I must have repeated every praise already, every tricky metaphor, and that nothing new will ever span between us, just this burning love and impassable bridge of ice.

And then you surprise me.

The autumn turns to spring, the roses unfurl, and your body blossoms into the curves of a woman, the noble maternal form that rocked me in Heaven’s throne when I was a pudgy putti in diapers, except now I’m straddling her and this is a clusterfuck, but in a good way.  Goddamn is my sexuality confusing.  I’m gay for Lilith and Hela and Sam’s female form and now I have another bombshell to add to my is-Allie-bi list or does she just think girls are hot.

I’m too entranced to stop kissing you, but you pause, and your hair is curling long auburn to globes of breasts with pink areola and a cunt I would die for.

“I rarely show this form to mortals.  Remember, I really have no gender – angels are androgynous.  You need to explore your passions further to master your polarities.”

“Fuck.  Should I call you Michelle?  Does this make me bisexual?”

You laugh like a windchime.  “Stop trying to label your heart.  I came to you in this form in your childhood years for a reason, remember?”

“Because I was afraid of you.”

“Are you afraid of me anymore?”

“Always.  I fear for you.  You’re terrifying.  And tragic.  Your love is the glue that holds Heaven together.”

“Forget all that.  Here is not the place for fear.  Here, we are beyond fear and want.  There is only desire.”

Your eyes are hooded and your chest is beating out a rhythm that matches mine.  I sink into you and we meld like yin and yang.  We’re swimming together now, dancing on a flaming sword – two angels can dance on the head of a pin, and we are infinitely small but tall as eons, covered in eyes.  All I know is that my love for the divine defies gender, defies appearance, and my love for you is eternal, abiding, agape, and I burn for you.