Prince of Tides and Flames

You marvel at Creation, spindrifts of cosmos
each contain a sea of souls to swim and sink
through, lives of each sacred flock your palm,
in it you hold nations, on your fingers worlds,
in your eyes I see the deep and bubbling bright
joy, you first came to me a wise warrior, scars
across your brows, but now you are all wonder,
just a young soldier, just a miracle maker, clay
of my bones and silk of my flesh your coaxing,
I am Galatea brought to life by archangel breath,
I slept in your arms for eons, learned to fly on
shoulders like oak hollows, you my falconer, I
your red-tailed hawk, always return to my general,
you gave me your blue cloak, your sword, your life
just to weave my wyrd with the light of all worlds
sweet angel, you are soft where so many are thorny,
and you have every right to be hard, yet you give
and sing, pluck a guitar of galaxies, dance under
candlelit ballrooms with me your terpsichore, lift
a girl blossoming up to taste moonbread, autumn
follows us, you rock me to sleep with the sea, sing
B’shem Hashem with a tenor like a songbird, Michael,
I cannot thank you enough, my verse cannot capture
my ardent devotion, how it feels to immerse myself
in you, to become one with the sweetest archangel,
and I will plant roses for you, I wear your mark
like the most beautiful of adornments, you are my
flesh, marrow of my bone, sun of my sleepless nights
and you fend off the dark, a lion noble as Judah,
and I am still discovering intricacies of infinity,
so let us dance, and break fast, and dissolve
into arms of gold, locks of fire, I burn for you.

Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Angels resolve into air, and Judas
betrayed with a kiss, roses only
blossom at midnight in Eden, and
I am damned off silver Roman coins.

Be gentle, angel, make peace, devil,
splayed between two swords are moons
spent crying over knights and dragons
I enchant with words but bleed regret.

I will serve no master but the mother
of all life, all death, all kennings –
brothers of good and evil, child’s play
can lovers fathom a girl of two worlds?

The Creator is bread unto dust, I eat
at her breast, I die in her arms unmade
for I could spend all my life chasing you
two, pinning feathers on boards, for what?

Black and white make a mobile of wishes,
but there is no clear victor at the end,
just pain, just sacrifice, just decisions
that shatter all worlds: I forgive, forget.

I rush to one’s arms, then the others’,
find solace in the Styx and Euphrates,
swim and burn and fly and sink into wax
for candles reveal broken promises vast-

Vast as oceans of time freewheeling across
clash of ego and chains and bindings, both
wolf and lion serve the same king, so why
should I prostrate myself before a beast?

Yeshua hung, but I burned, the Antichrist
bled, but I fractured, and New Eve weeps
at all the failings of her children, still,
she gives, and gives, and sings lullabies

as her heart breaks open

and shatters like glass

and the past is gulls

crying nothings

over an empty



Cloak of Blue

You are the violet ray, Atlantic chill
in my womb, you plant seeds in my spine
they are cold and dense as neutron stars,
shiver as you pluck melodies on my bones,
thrum through me like I am your weathered
guitar made of oak, polished to gleam in
twilight, it is past midnight, but your
sweet nothings and laughter invigorate me
I asked to nestle next to you like a bird
you gave me your cloak of blue rapture, I
ascend like the Virgin Mary in golden arms
it is so strange to kiss the immaterial,
to love invisible Cupid by candlelight,
but we thrive, and we sink, and we are.

The Mist, the Waves, Cruel Tides

You reach into me with the ocean and the gyre of your love is a terrible thing to behold, like a pearl among a crown of spiny coral, and if I reach for your Mariana Trench heart I will offer up blood to you.  But I take you into me, the celestial sponge, and soon I am breathing underwater and we are listening to Vance Joy, riptide or not, and you are laughing with wild abandon as we embrace in the flurry of a nacreous snowglobe.  I channel you at all hours, the violet flame, blue cloak of protection that I wrap around me as your warmth and waves meld with my marrow.  I love you, I need you, there’s this point where I break open like a shell and just bubble your name into the silent waters and my prayers and agape yearning join air, rise up, become mist.  I want to dissolve like calcium carbonate on a hot day into you, so I bottle you up like sand in my vessel but really I’m only holding a few granules of an endless beach.  I could never contain you, never fathom your depths, and you must be a great beast of the deep, some kraken or cetacean, for we swim and we sing and we are a pod of explorers unto ourselves.  They say there’s a whole world under the sea, and I suppose it’s the same in your mind – dead ship captains and ghostly jellyfish that tangle their tentacles into my brains and brass hair.  How very noble of you, to wash your tides over me and let me float, say I am no burden but an Aphrodite foam blessing – did you help Christ walk on water or was that you all along, clothed in linen and myrrh and oiled locks and gold skin, the Son of God, Prince of Heaven?  I’d rather not be a nun, but for you, I would don the habit and lock myself in a cell Carmelite-style and compose verses for the rest of my mortal coil entrapment.  Michael, Michael, Michael, you play with me like an otter its rock, and I suppose I’m good at cracking demons open for their meat but that’s just my day-job, my liminality is yours, and you drive me mad with tsunami imaginations.  Pour me out like a triton shell and just let me be the virginal mermaid who becomes a veil for the sea.  I want to be your crown of turquoise, your light in the depths, to dance in the palm of your ineffable hand scattered with pieces of the moon, our mistress, our queen, and I will be your terpsichore, just hold me close at the prow of your ship, and I will be barnacle wood with bare breasts – I will guide your voyage home, and you will never run on sharp shoals or lose your lighthouse, for I am a brass-polisher, a salt wife, a Lorelei, and I will be the siren of your sailor delight sky.  Just drown me.  My heart is strange with bells, and yours is thick with secrets, and only the deep truly knows us.



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


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