There’s the record scratch of some Runaways jam, a leather studded belt around your waist and booze for days. Your jeans are torn and as distressed as my mother would be if she ever saw us together. You’ve got on a Nine Inch Nails black tee and your hair is as mussed as bedhead that befits the King of Sloth. Oh wait, your sin is Wrath, pardon my French you cliche of all cliches. Black locks cut with shears in a back alley, so silky that I strangle my fingers in their ocean. We’re drunk, we’re stupid and young and horny, and you smell like endless cigarettes and sweet rum, and I’m in a pink pop of a rose petal dress with sticky bubblegum lip gloss, every bit of softness to your edges, but I find comfort in dark things and your fangs at my neck, so as you bite down into me, your dinner, and my blood bubbles up like the hottest new fad this side of the Styx, uptown Pandemonium, in your penthouse near the court of Sanhedrin, I sigh and bend into your body arced over me as you tease me with your talons. Your room is messy as fuck, with strewn newspaper and a sax in a beaten brown case, posters of bands and David Foster Wallace books lining the wall, Infinite Jest is what we are, my dear, and there’s Aretha Franklin’s Blue Moon playing. I’m not much of one for the classics, in fact right now I’ve got this Taylor Swift song running through my mind as we ponder making love. New Year’s Day, squeeze my hand three times, and you give me the osculum infame, the kiss of shame as Aretha’s voice cantos, Blue Moon, I saw you standing alone… without a care in the world, without a place to call home. Meanwhile I’m begging you to never become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere. It’s tones of dun and wood and earth in your room, only a vanilla candle the light, and I shuck off your ripped Nine Inch Nails shirt and run my hands down your chest and abdominals, and I’m fumbling with your pants in the dark. You’ve already torn through my dress with burning passion, and its pink wreckage is lying on the floor like an afterthought. I put my nose to the crook of your neck and inhale sharply. Your lips are lush and bury into the crown of my blonde hair, and you say blondes give the best blowjobs as you’re teasing me, calling me a spoiled princess, saying I don’t belong down here, not down here where anarchists and goths and crust punk parades share joints and drink their sorrows and splendor away. You’ve got whiskey soaked wings, Israel and the Red Tide, no Heaven’s Gate, you won’t through your money away but will take my highs, I’m your Vaseline, after all, a balm for your gloomy soul. You’re feasting at my breasts, knee dividing my legs like Moses raising his staff to part the ocean, and now it’s your time to find a map to my heart as the record switches to Tom Waits. It’s Grapefruit Moon, if only we could eat a citrus lunar fruit, like I ate your heart like an apple, or wait, you stitched it into my flesh and I finally figured out why whenever my soul flees my body I fly straightaway to you, Samael. It’s because the heart wants what it wants, but to be someone’s heart herself, Shakti to your Shiva, the source and seat of your power means I seek my nest in your arms, in your ribs, in your marrow that I want to race through like lymph, blood, and stardust. You call me a lovely coffin, vessel, vassal, Vaseline. Vaseline, hot in the summertime. Vaseline, the smell of it like Carmax at a dirty bus stop on some chapped hipster’s lips. We’re still not making love love yet, just in love with foreplay and fooling around, and I don’t need to elaborate on what a man and woman do in Hell, down here where the bane apple grows, down here where roses weep blood and cursed asphodel carpets the plains, but your gardens were always rotten, a beautiful decay, and you are my stone angel masoleum. You’re freezing today, a weight of outer space between my legs. That’s a fancy word for a forked tongue, saying it’s a black hole going down on me, and then some. Your mouth has got the gravity of the Leviathan, which is what you also are, and third base with the serpent of the seas, sweet Nachash, shining seraphim and unholy archdemon, is kind of like squeezing your sex around a Popsicle on a hot summer day. You’re a wolf on the hunt through the taiga, and as you part me and claim me I smell glacier frost with rime and moss and see the Aurora Borealis reaching up into my womb. Do you remember my favorite middle school book, I want to ask as you’re romancing me with winter, the retelling of East of the Sun and West of the Moon, where a girl named after the compass rose searches for her enchanted polar bear prince in the land of impossibility where the trolls have him captive? It’s a silly metaphor, I know, for if anyone is the handsome villain here that curses sleeping beauties, it is you, dark enchanter, necromancer, forcing me to see sigils and ceremonial magick seals and burning Proto-Hebrew letters and your own name in glittering gold on the stairway to heaven, planetary symbols shifting in the long inked Martian kiss. I’ve been under your spell for a long time, and it smells like incense, sandalwood, as you give me a finger to suck on to silence my moans. Osculum infame, osculum infame, osculum infame, damn did those medieval theologians get this witchcraft shit all wrong. It’s not the witch that gives the kiss, but she who receives, anointed with the Devil’s cum and sweat and spit and blood, like Dracula bleeding into Mina’s mouth, and my dear darling vampire, we are in the undertow of damnation, but Hell is my favorite place, and you are my favorite person, and when we finally get to fucking, I’ve lost all sense of the lie of separation, and it is just girl and god, Death and the Maiden, the May Queen and the Reaper, sharing one soul, and honey, you hold my mortality in your hands, so let’s make this short life a fucking poem. Lead me on like the Pied Piper and we’ll dance off granite cliffs into the starry sky. I am always stretching my beginning to bridge your endings, and you know me well, as well as Hell.
Hell is beautiful because it is a lie, and you are gorgeous in your Prince of Lies truths, and as you thrust away with abandon, I get the sense of conquered and conqueror, and my body is a battlefield, don’t you know?
You won a long time ago, Satan.
And you are the Prince of this World.