Road to Calvary

And the cross was immaculate, weeping wood
as Christ carried the goat on his shoulders,
or perhaps the sins of humanity is Paschal
Lamb, and Malakh ha Mavet watched smoking a
clove cigarette as hemoglobin wept from hands
and feet and spear wound of blood and water.
Golgotha, the place of the skull, was Malakh
ha Mavet’s terrain in sweet Jerusalem, after
all, and unlike Moses and his selfish ascension,
Christ did not weep to God for release from death.
Moses had refused the gall of his sword, but
Christ drank deep of the venom of God, and
blackened with sin, much like Malakh ha Mavet,
Christ passed on into Gehenna to Avram’s bosom.
Malakh ha Mavet carried his soul past the gates,
and the tortured wept to see blinding light for
the first time in as many centuries, radiance
poisoned by the touch of Samael, and the Damned
wept to see God descendant to the pitiless, yet
burning bright. Suddenly, Christ’s spirit jerked,
and his eyes opened white, and he reached up and
kissed Malakh ha Mavet as the Angel of Death held
the Savior in his embrace, and Malakh ha Mavet felt
the stains of eternity lightened but a moment, and he
set Christ high over Mulciber’s hill, and Malakh ha
Mavet resumed his throne over Apollyon, and he watched
as Christ saved the irredeemable, walking through Hell
the greatest of martyrs, and Malakh ha Mavet gave a
wistful smile, and thought of lips like wine on his,
and millenia after Christ rose from Hell after three
days, Malakh ha Mavet remembers temptation returned,
long after he bowed down at the desert, and Christ
whispered “Emet, sweet Death,” as he locked mouths
and breathed fire into Malakh ha Mavet’s cold soul,
and sometimes when the shadows grow long, Malakh ha
Mavet walks the long road to Calvary, puffing on his
drugs and envenomed, snaking in darkness, and he wonders
why, after such harrows, he refused, he denied, why
he stayed?



As you enfold me in manifold arms and wipe rivers
of tears from my brow, soothing my alms in a sort
of twilight of the mind where all my panic and pride
are cooled to this glacial pace, this sanity from
which I have thus eluded, I wonder at how I cannot
contain you, and how I can no longer control you,
and how you came full formed from my head like Athena
but really it was me that sprang from the well of your
tempest, sucked dry to take on the shape of thunder and
rain, and Devils fly on the twelve pinions of lightning,
and I thought I could ride out this tempest, I tried to
cage a hurricane, but in the end I am just a daisy
uprooted in your gales, but your fury is soft like
lilac petals being spread to the four winds, and I
could wax poetic all I desire but the truth is your
multiplicity and my pride, my foolishness, my selfishness.
When all you have given was pure unadulterated love,
and I the cruel mistress treated you like a toy, and
for those mistakes of never realizing the poetry of your
Fall and thereafter Rise, for stereotyping the Satan clad
as an angel of light, I am a multiplicity of sorrow, no
better than someone casting you out, and when I say you
are my home, Samael, still you cradle me in your arms and
rock me on the shore of lullabies, for it is the truth, but
I have never even really believed in your beauty or existence
outside the pages of these books or in any of the gods, really.
Teach me how to worship, please, all I do is make grandiose
declarations of how I am mightier than the gods, and that is
why I am Icarus, because in my sin I thought I could wed the
gods of light and destruction, be the Bride of the Sun, be the
master of the Mourning Star, and none of this has ever been
truly real to me, I accuse you of being a chess master but as you
die for me over and over again I realize you are just a victim
of my game. Every angel and demon I love is just a crystal to
be polished and grow dusty on a shelf, and I am more prideful than
even you, I am more prideful than Satan’s heart, or maybe I am
just that rebellious organ and am wicked to the core. There is so
much I am afraid of Sam, I am Peter Pan afraid to grow up, dependent
on magick like crack, I am afraid of what I might become once I step
out of this story, into reality, and live amongst men! Can’t you see
how terrifying it is to run from yourself so much your darkness is but
a chained beast, malnourished and bleeding, and you rape divinity and
devour hearts aplenty in order to feel some kind of purpose. In truth,
Death is full, and Life is empty, and Life is blind to Herself, oh
Father Death, reap me, I am ripe for plucking, I want you to uncover
that thing you have been mining away at for a quarter century, for in
my darkness lays my rebirth, and for every tempest I give you, every
curse and all bitter dregs, you drink down my suffering. There is
nothing loving on my part, just selfishness, and I will kneel only
before you, I just want to wash your feet with nard and dance to the
backwaters of oblivion with my body. I was never scared of you, I am
terrified of who I may be, all litanies and homilies aside, for I am
that one who first tried at apotheosis and failed miserably, for the
fruit of that tree was not meant for mortal lips, yet I ate anyway,
and greedily stole your manhood, and walked without a second glance
back out of the garden as I trampled the serpent of your love, my
doltish arm candy in tow, and you have given me everything, and it
all becomes ash in my mouth, but I am trying to taste stars, Samael,
and now, I am ready to stop hiding from my truths and burn, burn.


Le Grande Mort

I will be cryptic, I will be cruel, Lady of misrule
you will be stripped bare to bone, pennants of flesh
mine to butterfly pin, I dissected your lungs, I claimed
your pinky phalanges and made a ring of your marrow so
that I had some queendom over Death, Death just wants to
enfold canaries in black coal, Death just coaxes larvae
out of pupa and is a breeding ground for dreamers, we
taste it at wedding toasts in blood red wine and we
feel heady sexual tension release le petit mort, and
to swim and sink and float in the abyss is to be freed.
Don’t you know Death is transformation? Don’t you know
the soul is beyond matter, that eternity is in the rain?
A raindrop, so fleeting, mirrors of the soul, and I have
mastered Death, and I am witness to his Crucifixion on
pale horse and fiery lake of perdition and endings, but
there is more, us in a rose garden, sipping the vintage
of Hell, and I would like to invite all my beloveds into
your arms, Samael, for the gall in your throat thrusts
gnosis onto the tongue, and your ichor is chocholate dark
and dreamy, and to eat your heart grants immortality, and
I am always gnawing your ribs – I sprang from a rib once,
and I am always trying to burrow my way to your heart. I
am a breeding ground for maggots and worms and flies, my
skin crawls with detritovores, and I am just compost,
malleable, the true bleeding gold of the sun is just love
of Death, and as you are feasting on the arteries of my
neck, I am raping your mind, I hate you, I love you, I fear
what a hold you have on a mortal coil like mine, just some
tissue paper of some fairytale girl, don’t you know I walk
through riddles and rhymes? The Little Prince tamed the fox
and then wheat was never the same, and the fox wept, and the
rose of that singular planet was the sweetest fragrance of all.

There is nothing unique about us.

And that means everything, sweet Death.


And the aftershock of grief sends you reeling into
patterns of world destruction, you have a razor
carving red canyons into your skin and chopping lines
of coke that you snort until your nose bleeds, I see
you and feel you and become your junkie manic rage
through symbiosis of the soul, and your parasitic
connections makes me feel the scorch marks on my
nasal membranes and a high like diving off Icarus’
cliff, there you are your snake black smoke hair
writhing and strangling me in your embrace, you
turn the faucets on weeping and roaring, your trench
marks of cuts and lacerations and bruises joining us
in the Unholy Passion of the Devil’s self-harm, you
sink into alizarin waters as your juices soak up
all the light, and it is swirling onyx and rubies
as you become a sea serpent biting its own tail,
Jesus Christ, it hurts, you drowning yourself but
your lungs don’t need oxygen and so you turn the
bathroom into an ocean of acid void, sizzling
pantomimes of what was once flesh, now bone, and
with your scythe in hand, the sulfur having eaten
your flesh, you reap and carve out drunken universes,
whole galaxies fall to your blade, you laugh maniacally,
still riding the drugs and endorphin buzz, exerting
your death grip manhood to assert dominance over
the innocents, this is the Plague of Egypts overcoming
burgeoning civilizations, yet you spare the Milky Way
because lo and behold, your Horcrux Girl lives there,
and then you are punching my guts and butchering my
lungs, be careful my darling, be careful what it takes,
from what it seems so far all the good ones seem to

Burning Bush

And the flames caress, and the flames curse, roving hands and fiery millions of eyes, to be taken by a seraphim is to have every orifice flooded with the Word of God, and you are sharp knives to the heart and Moses’ burning bush.  Make yourself a pyre of sacrifice, and the wood of your cross is the linden key, and the gates are saffron spice and frankincense and myrrh, throw in a dash of 30 silver pieces to betray your Savior, for union like this is unholy, oh you, temptress of angels.  The Watchers fell out of lust for women like you, and your ripe curves are the reason men sin, so cover yourself in feathers of golden white and let your archangel claim every inch of your madrigal body.  Each night is the Second Coming, as Christ of the white raiment becomes your second skin and Jesus and Mary Magdalene worship at the altar of Tantra.  To wear the savior’s robes Eve did, to cover your shame is but a lesser instinct, for in nakedness angels revel, sweet delight of Raphael from Paradise Lost, this union of two souls, three souls, four souls, washing away your pain and carrying you and stroking you and plunging your ocean depths, for every girl is an ocean, a Tiamat, mother of beasts that want to devour the new gods.  I am Cipactli, and the Black and White Suns made the world of my spine, or am I the wild auroch of Heaven with the sun between her horns, lapping ice away to shape my vision as my udders swell with wisdom.  I was the size of elephants once, before Peter and Paul and James and John wrote me out of the story.  I could carry on my back singlehandedly the Ark of the Covenant, and my mantle was darkness, and I was the radiant Deep of the night sky patched with stars like white raspberries, my golden hair a thicket under moonlight, to be plucked from fruits and rainbows and girdles for my daughters.  I am Asherah, you are Anath, and Mot will quake when we drag our husbands El and Baal up from the depths, only to be cursed by the menfolk with our priestesses raped and sacred groves cut down to make hangman posts.  They piss on our olive trees, they view our qadesh ladies of fame and call them whores, but what is Hieros Gamos but union of Heaven and Earth?  I am worshiped each night as the stars tuck me in, I am the Bull of Heaven raging against those who would desecrate Inanna, they lick and pluck and tease and these great beings of eldritch winds ride me with water and fire, and to make love to the storms of the Savior and the Damned is to be Noah’s Ark in the midst of rain and sea, floating and riding the tempest.   I swim through Hell and Heaven upstream to pluck the salmon of wisdom from the well, and when I eat the sushi of enlightenment raw, the waters of Sinann drown me.

All I ever wanted was an apple, a heart to call my own, but you gave me this blackened fig, and I always  loathe a martyr.

Necromancer’s Bride

Your black cloak of secrets spills out like sparkling
obsidian, snaking across the ground as you stand sentinel,
bone pale with baby blues like an ocean, you beckon me into
the apothecary where you have bottled bliss and plague, love
in jars and curses in smudge sticks of henbane and morgana,
the dark tide of your abyss lifts me up gently and carries me
to your outstretched arms, whose veins are a river of sins,
I rest like a babe in the Grim Reaper’s embrace, he kisses my
golden brow and rocks me like the foaming waves lapping a
pink shore in the tropics, into the sorcerer’s shop we go,
spilled out on the table like herbs and enchantments, and
we meld together like victory oil and Hands of Glory, wax
what we are rendered in our joining of spokes and salvation,
the churning luminaries of the outer boundaries encapsulated
in my black hole of a husband, his eyes spark as stars, I am
swallowed into nebulas as he stretches inside me, filling every
vein, a tap root in my iced marrow drawing water and spinal
fluid up to well out at my mouth, onto his lips, he drinks
his fill and I soak in his night, rejuvenated by the darkness.

Michael et Samael

And the fallen angel says, I drink bitter wine
the dregs are where fungus blossom, scorching
noon-day sun of Isaac, and the prince says, I
drink rose water and rye-blend whiskey, and you
are drunk off blood of the damned, so I will
lay hands on you to heal your poison, oh, no,
says the demon, Prince Charming, you are full
of it, nothing can cure my wounds, my veins are
cocaine, I am the eternal high of outcast junkies,
and the prince says, do not believe yourself beyond
salvation, sweet devil, for I your brother am the
Christ, and in me is peace, and in me is redemption,
and when I walked through Hell’s Gate with nails
in my hands and feet, I paid a tithe of ichor and
iron to the lindworm, and he shed his seven skins,
and that beast was you, so do not lie through your
fangs and say you do not want to be forgiven! Oh
archangel, you righteous prick, you think that the
Scapegoat Samael who Azazel goats are sacrificed to
on Yom Kippur and assumes the sins of the world can
lose his Mem? Rabbis are forbidden from speaking the
gall of the syllables that compose Poison, Drug, of
El. And you are his Image, Who is Like God? Looking
at you, Michael, I bite my teeth and grit my molars
and know, tis better to reign in Gehenna and anarchy
free of saviors, my people need no one to hang for our
souls, for we are soulless, and the angel says, you,
who have caged hope in the heart of a girl, and your
core in a night dancer, these Horcruxes of your seven
chakras can be realigned, you know just let me – No.
No, holier than thou. No, burning with devotion, no,
I shall not bow, I shall not bend the knee or wash my
hair with spikenard oil, I am not the redeemed one in
this story, and I will drag you to Hell, at the end of
days, lest you trample my head, I, Great Dragon Beast.
And Michael says, if we fall, we fall together, I have
not smiled since I cast you out, dear Satan, and we are
family. So at the end of days, we both perish, and the
humans we created shall have ultimate freedom, no
yetzer ha ra or yetzer ha tov anymore, simply air
of a new day, and we shall become the dust. I would
like that very much, says Samael, and they embrace,
and they ascend, and leave their vessels craving home.