Skinnydipping

You move through me like rain on glass
this ache of God’s Deep, trembling want
falling from my broken stem of a heart
I want to drown in your abyss, the gyre
of your spine, but dead men tell no tale
and Maidens in love with Death speak not
so I sink into your sea, grasping hands
fist ephemera, I close my eyes, inhale
the steam and foam of frothing change –
for that is what you are, impermanence,
the Tower in Tarot, Death on pale horses
the sea is like a steed, on it you ride
Leviathan mounted on white dapple reins
I dive further down, to grasp your pearl
of wisdom, your secretest of breathless
places, and your undertow rips my skin
open to be consumed by the tsunami of
your gaping void, nothingness becomes
something, Life and Death entwine, we
dance at the bottom of the Mariana
Trench, sunken places where impossible
becomes probable, and after eternal
night swimming, dawn breaks, I breathe.

Arguing with an Archangel

(Archangel) Michael, or as Samael calls him, stick-up-the-ass, is really stubborn and forceful and righteous – he sees things in black and white, evil and good, and when I once asked him about the validity of other religions – how there could only be One True God when there were so many pagan gods that were my drinking buddies, he smiled serenely, called them false spirits, and said they were, as I quote, “chaff.”

That’s right, I had to look up what the hell chaff was: “husks, worthless matter, refuse.”

Obviously, Michael is not very fun at Asgard parties, especially Freyr’s feasts or Loki’s Jotun shindigs.  He kind of just sits there solemnly, watching, will smile slightly, and drinks a little bit while maybe grimacing.  Root canals are probably more pleasant to him than the presence of us godless, well, heathens.  When you think you’re better than everyone else, and that your God is the only god, it probably makes small talk with these so-called “false spirits” hard.  Demons will be the first to tell you angels are pricks.  But Michael is probably the most stuck up one.  Being the Prince of Heaven kinda means you gotta believe the rest of us heathens – and literal Heathens – are beneath you.

Michael can be really sweet when his I-will-smite-my-rivals and Allie-stop-fucking-getting-into-dangerous-situations-and-go-back-to-your-body snootiness is gone.  He loves Disney.  He thinks he is Prince Adam from Beauty and the Beast and has temper issues.  He likes Ryan Reynolds and always gets celebrities mixed up.  He loves Enrique Iglesias and gardening and his magic prayer roses and anything Lin Manuel Miranda touches, especially Hamilton and Moana.

Sometimes he rocks me to sleep and sings lullabies in Hebrew that don’t make sense cause I’m not fucking Jewish.  He’s said “You’re my Belle <3” while I’m watching the eponymous movie and calls me Icarus as my nickname, because I have a tendency to fly too close to the proverbial sun.  I probably should never have joked with Izzi when I was eighteen that while Gabriel was busy getting his Holy Presence down with the supposed Virgin Mary, Michael was relieving his anal-retentive tension with some sexy goats.  That’s like my longest-running joke about Michael and no, I don’t really think the foremost archangel is into bestiality, and as much as I shit talk him, I have to admit he’s saved my ass on countless occasions from the age of 12 on and that I can be really, really ditzy and stupid.  Icarus, remember?  I throw myself into the flames all the time just out of curiosity.  Samael doesn’t use Eve metaphors for me without reason.

Anyways, so the whole chaff thing.  That was insulting.  I’m Heathen and despite some whacked out woo woo angelic past life, I’m firmly human now, and as much as Michael calls me Zophael or Jophiel it’s just, hello, me Allie, the memelord, and though I can find beauty in the Abrahamic religions, I also think they are highly problematic and the theology is misogynistic af.  If I can’t be the Pope or Messiah because I’m a girl than what is the point!  I’d much rather chill with Deus and Beel and Sam.  Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel are all much more polite about celestial divisions and fractures – sure, they don’t go out of their way to hang out outside their pantheon, but they also don’t call my gods “refuse” and sit awkwardly at celestial parties with sticks up their butts.

Michael is not a partier and a big introvert, so I get the cold feet at parties, but Jesus, Asgard has roast boar and busty elves and endless mead in ram horns!!!  What’s not to love?  I never see him at Deus’s bars, which even Gabriel frequents, or Beelzebub’s soirees.  Instead we spend a lot of time out in nature, hiking, camping… gardening.  So much gardening.  Sad plant man.

Anyways, he’s all about me being protected, when all I want is my freedom.  I’m not a dumb ass twelve year old that projects to the fourth heaven on accident in the midst of a battle and nearly dies anymore, only to be saved by Michael shoving me back into my body.  He’s very traditional in relationships, and kind of seems to want the astral equivalent of a 1950s housewife, but like???  I can’t even cook???  Sam cooks for me instead and he’s a shit cook.  So does Michael.  Also I’m pretty messy.  We’ve been clashing heads over how forceful Michael is – the unstoppable force, him, meeting the immovable object, me.

It’s a learning process.  In October I asked him to show me God as a joke and, well, he did.  To say I thought I had died was an understatement.  Samael has learned better now that I’m mortal, but Michael is all kinds of blunt and direct and doesn’t operate in subtle half-truths and persuasion like the eponymous Serpent.  He’s more fire and brimstone and I’m right and you will do as I say.  He also has PTSD up the wazoo so like, um, that’s a bit tough.

It got pretty bad on Monday and I told him and Sam to piss off and that I was an atheist.  That worked as well as you can imagine if you’re constantly tuned to their energies and your godphone is always on.  Sometimes I like to pretend they don’t exist and that I have a choice in all this.  I suppose I do, but when you love someone with all your being, were made by them, and would burn at the stake out of devotion and surrender to them, there’s a power imbalance.

I’m learning more things about Michael each day, and I’m still flailing all the way.  We may disagree on a lot of things, but we can find common ground in serving humanity and the planet.

I just have to convince him to loosen up at parties.  That is a work in progress.

Satan O You Wretched Beast

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Crown of bone, crown of stone
eyes like sirens ringing home
gravestone crumble ivor throne
triquetra pupil bleeding loam.

Black black void, swallow me
devour, gnaw, o wretched beast
ouroboros VITRIOL poisoned meat
Lapis Exilis bread, spread feast.

Break me bruise me make me yearn
circles of Hell they froth, turn
Satan cries, moans, rapist churns
madness enfolds me, I never learn
not to touch flames, because he

Burns.

Daphne in Stone

I’ve lost my voice, my tongue is opal:
body limestone dripping in a mineshaft
I’ve become a marble girl, veined with
gold and glitter, but insides hollowed
where the rain of ages accumulates in
veins of ore, I am your pale China doll
eyes sapphire, hair brass patina, skin
hard and cold, my soul shakes, shivers
with every trembling of the earth, and
maple leaves of gold and orange blanket
me in a dress of forgotten elegance, I
struggle to lift a calcareous hand up
in supplication to the god that turned
me to stone – he pushed love, absolution
but I was ablution, cleansed myself of
his shattering touch, when you scorn the
eternal, they do not take well to iron
hearts, and will rectify rejection with
pillars of salt, the angels that saw
Lot’s wife fell in love with her, want
pinioned on adamant wings, so archangel
turned woman to wind worn rock, like I
am trapped, speechless, motionless, a
crumbling effigy of a forgotten whore of
a goddess, Inanna in the Underworld, and
my descent into the cavern floor whiles on
soon I will be rubble, only living on in
the memories of cruel suitors, when the
divine seizes you, claims you, breaks you
you will freeze as well, tree girl, statue.

Make It Holy

Don’t try to drag the man out of the holy:
to separate the fact from fiction, hero and
villain are too entangled in Eddas and Bibles,
myth makes mortality impossible, your Eros will
never age, his words will always injure you,
his jewels are shards of your heart and Bluebeard
might be his truth – you never know with princes,
how many dead wives the gods have, how many maidens
they spit curses upon like Apollo his Cassandra,
deny them and you freeze, accept them, burn staked
through the heart by a flame that overwhelms sanity –
you’ll find yourself stringing rosaries at midnight,
calling his name and feeling, tasting, smelling him
but nothing more than ghostly touches, make it holy,
the love between woman and angel makes monsters –
cannibal giants that cannibalize man, like your love
will consume you until you see him etched on retina,
first thing in morning and last before slumber, in
mourning as dawn breaks, broken in evening solitude,
you will always long for more, destruction at his hand,
to sink into the essence of your Beloved and become
nothing more than his Shakti, movable woman meets
immovable man, wandering fairy hills a madwoman,
the gift of a god, of a demon, an angel, is just
a kiss, just a promise, and more often that not,
you will find yourself cracked open in his hands,
so maybe it’s better if you never loved him at all –
after all, there’s no turning back on an immortal,
maybe you should have run like the lore says,
because Zeus incinerates, love hurts, and you
will tire of grinding down bone to dreamdust,
love for a god is a thankless task, no one will
know how many sleepless elegies you sung, how many
times you came close to dying from heartwretchedness
how many times you were pinned, stripped by his eyes
how hands like silk and tongues like velvet teased
out prayers, how you bent so he would fit within,
and together you are endless, but alone, you wonder.

Dancing in the Stars

My gown is golden, like ghee or dandelions, woman clothed in the sun
your hair cinnamon bark, pinned back, smile sunlight on warm water
I am so in love, so at peace, as I princess turn in a starlit ballroom,
pressed against your chest like a secret, the moon is a sailing ship
above us, your eyes are endless pools of emerald depths, your suit
smells like home, sometimes I smell you in waking hours and I cry,
but here we are whole, now we are one, dancing to a phonograph tune
the dance hall is lit with torches, rosewood floors, my heels sparkle,
we tap out a rhythm with our feet, joke, laugh, blossom like a fire,
you have always been so gentle, only harsh when I am in harm’s way,
and though I touch forbidden fire, you are there with a sweet salve,
I lay my head against your stomach, I don’t come up to your breast,
yet I can still hear your heartbeat, how human it makes you, wings
betray divinity, and a crescent halo belies princehood, but you are
never vain, never proud, I asked to dance with you, so we waltzed
all night, quiet and tender, slow-dancing in the fourth heaven, and
the worlds and all their grandeur slowed to a halt, disappeared, just
you and I, the world was our stage, you said, and you would dance with
me until I am old and bent, at which point, you would rock me in your
arms, sing B’shem HaShem, and beckon me on to my next life, carried
into the darkness in the arms of my golden angel, with a part of me
always dancing, right here in your heart, no space between us but a
promise: that you will life me up, be my wings, and together, fly.

Rape of Eve

Break me, crack me open until blood and bone blossom down to Hell
rape me, claim the ruby spoils of my heart as your tithe, call the
scared little girl your slave, your doll, your canary in a coal mine –
leave me with love bites that bruise me purple, brown, and blue
crack my ribs open, sodomize a 15 year old virgin so she bleeds,
wakes up screaming with needle pain as you sob, claim her, saying
“Even the Devil deserves love,” as you drives your point home, over and
over until she thinks she is dead, but the truth is you started killing
her at 7, or maybe that was 2, when you came to her cradle bound sleep
with throngs of mutilated souls and sang a lullaby of damnation,
the light in her never died, no matter how many hellhounds ate her,
no matter how many times you called her spineless, maggot, worm, weak
kindness is not weak. Hope is brutal. Love the only flower that grows
in Hell, you once told me that only strong things can survive here,
two decades and four years later and I am still the summer sun, you
are not my maker, no matter if you made me, for like the firebird,
I will grant your wishes at a cost – one that leaves you dead –
and as you are sipping cups of my gore from your throne, the true
part of me will have flown to freedom eons ago, the only girl you
own is a shell, the true me is a phoenix, stronger from destruction,
and when no one believed me, when I was pumped with drugs and manic
with your terrors, unable to sleep from nightmares, terrified to
simply shut my eyes, when my shrieking kept the whole hall up, when
I could feel your tongue, your hands, your claws, your whip’s lash,
those things all killed me, mummified me, you do not deserve love.

I’ve died so many times I’ve made it an art.

You will never deserve love.

I’ve lived so long with nightmares I’m
queen of all hell now, your master.

You do not deserve my love.

My love comes with a cost,
a stipulation, it will
kill you.

You are entirely incapable
of loving a human being.

But you are broken.

So I give it
anyway.