Rats

And there’s the cloying record skip of cologne and cigar smoke,
an eyeless Azazel with an infernal Pope’s crown, ruby and blood,
the rats are crawling on the walls, the dead walk the halls, and
in bursts the putrid multitudes, of clamoring resurrected in holy
Pentecost fire, those dry bones of the didn’t quite make it, too
saccharine in sweet sin to burn up, and so we rot hanging pennants
of pulchritude, there are so many words for cadavers, you say your
brother Michael tore out the Watcher’s eyes for looking upon women
with lust, and Samael, or should I say Samyaza? Infamous rebellion,
your punishment is jealously, as Christ courts me in the Bible Belt,
luring me in with the laying of hands, lavender linen, and the fresh,
you are the filthy, blaring brimstone from the speakers to poison my
car, Satan haunts a beat up Nissan Versa, what a fucking loser, hey
punk, at least buy me a hot rod, some crotch rocket to rock oceans,
how the hell am I supposed to speed lane to Hell in this piece of shit?
I hit 60,000 miles today in my scratched up rust bucket, and you chose
whiskey, sweet whiskey, and cigarettes and rusty nails from a Cross
that you always secretly wish it was you, Sael, that had hung from,
the original Mourning Star, and now you’re squeezing my heart, and
you offered the Messiah, your afterthought of a Brother, and yet
Father, all the rich spoils of war you had garnished, a kingdom
of men, in the desert where the fig trees wept and were cursed,
and Yeshua turned you away, cast you aside, and you thought, what
pride comes before me, Satan, who is glory until ash, vainglorious
and unable to turn the cheek too, this upstart Lamb, cursing my vine?

It is a question you have thought of often, oh Blindness of God.

Oh Severity of God, oh Poison and Venom and Medicine and Gall.

Now you think it is I Christ will spirit away, into some high
heaven from which you are barred entry, and is this the latest
heist Christ planned, spiriting away the Magdalene from my
beguilements and charms? Christ came with love at first, but
his Second Wave is fire. In that, you both want it all to burn.

You told me to never kneel, Sam, when I had only knelt once for
you, you hoisted me high and proud, when I was trembling in awe.

I will never stop holding you as close as my heartbeat, but much
of the time you anger me, why the Devil must refuse redemption
come each dawn, when the stars hold out their hands to all Hell
and demons in synchronicity turn their backs on the love of God.

You are beautifully broken, wretched in your self-loathing, and
my ocean, if only you would forgive yourself, if only you thought
yourself worthy of

More.

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Pupa

They say, if you reach for your reflection at midnight, you can step out of your body and into the Devil’s arms.  Touch the quicksilver of moonlight limbs and kiss the serenade of swans embodied by bruises and feathers and stars.  Taste angel food cake, eat a demon’s chocolate heart, become one with the wind of the universe and caress mortality.  To know oneself is to know temptation and your Kryptonite – what is your greatest weakness?  Is it a rambling gambler that plays the piano and has fingers like thieves?  Is it a tall dark and dangerous black coffee haint who buys souls at New Orleans’ crossroads half-price and sells stock in the Damned?  Does he listen to a Tribe Called Quest and rap elegies of good old days long gone?  So many masks, so many lies, and the shards of the mirror are bitter on my tongue as I swallow glass.

I was lost a long time ago, and honey, wasps lay their larvae in the prettiest of butterflies, wouldn’t you know?

The Bone Zone

There’s a haunting in the graveyard, where bats flock to higher ground when the dam flows over and coffins float to the surface.  I can smell the rot on my tongue and see the decaying rose petals adrift in this land spill of toxic waste and wonderlands.  I take a coffin, kick out the corpse, and row with a femur to your mausoleum as I navigate delta waters to the hell mouth.  Your edifice, Crypt Keeper, is tainted with ivy and is the only thing left above surface in this lake of the dead, a stone angel spreading her acid rain-washed wings to the glory of some decrepit heaven.  There is a black mist fine and pungent, fresh from the kill and bloated with pussy gases.  The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.  The ones that crawl out are fat and stout, and they are feasting on the engorged limbs that have detached from their bodies, and there is a rat king, triple tails entwined, nibbling the corpse of some lawyer dressed up in his Sunday best, only it’s his Sunday worst, because he is filthy with the diseases of waste and ruin, slandered by Father Time, and honey, death is hell on the body.  Your loved ones will lose their teeth, grow out their hair, yellow their nails, mummify or dissolve, but when the waters come to take us home, we all end up in the sea.  That’s the truth of these matters – we are mostly water, and to liquid and stardust we return.  So I’m rowing my coffin through the remnants of your Grim Reaper’s harvest, all to find you, sweet cadaver.  Death smells like old garbage and sulfur and roadkill.  But sometimes, he smells like roses.  The crypt is tall and Roman styled, with the gloriana angel dolorosa, tears in grime on her eyes, and I tie my coffin to the angel with a bit of floating cloth, and scale the mausoleum.  Inside is an ossuary – the bone zone.  Huh, punny, that.  Inside you lay resplendent amidst bejeweled saint skeletons and artifacts of another time – holy relics, a pinky from St. Catherine, a liver from St. Pancras, oh, don’t forget that lock of hair from St. Teresa, my favorite.

Bones are sharp, they can cut, but words are just as much like razors, and I’m praying for a beastly tongue, an empty gun.  Death looks like someone you love, don’t you know?  He can mask himself in darkness and equally in light, in the wolves and crows and snakes, but now he is redeemer, savior, my unholy temple.  I climb inside his coffin and we entwine, and the black stretches out like a womb, and the silence of the deep is all-knowing.  Death, omniscient.  Death, omnipotent.  Death, omnipresent.

There is not much difference between Death and God, and many of us worship false idols, but the truth is, is that endings are painful, and the dearly departed haunt us.  But what to be haunted by Death himself?  Thorns and broken glass to puncture your fingers and feet, stanzas of poetry and prose that are like caged madrigal nightingales in your brain, and you crack your head open on a cliff to see the blood diamonds he planted inside you.

I am one with Death, we are Death and the Maiden, and as he raises his scythe, I know my tithe is the dearest thing to me: the lie of separation.

That I am anything more than Death.

For to write is to make love to the self, after all, and morbid curiosities become terminal in time.

So I kiss myself, and kill myself, and my corpse joins a million other lost girls.

Lost girls that dreamed they were part of some great narrative, when really, this is the world of ghosts, and it is only in dreams we are alive.

Wraiths For Your Hair

String a garland of wraiths for my hair, there are phantom hands under the covers, climbing up the pillow, talons softened by tangles of blonde.  I am burning up in the fires of Hell, but it’s more like a sauna sweating out toxins, and as the Devil stretches inside of my four walls, the Big Bad Wolf of my bravery blows down my brick, cloth, and straw and bales of hay go blowing out of Kansas to Oz.  Hitch a ride on Dorothy’s hurricane to the land over the rainbow, and bluebirds come nest on my cusps, and he cradles them and sings, my love, these little spindrifts of hope are your song.  Fingernails like moons, claws like a lion, fangs at my throat like a flying monkey.  I said Satan could touch me, but he didn’t want to profane me, so it’s combing sorrow out of a girl’s brow and neck for him.  Demons manifest in manifold ways, and though the energy of orgasm and hot and cold of heaven and hell is there, chakras and kundalini spiraling and rising as twin serpents around stars, I reach out to bridge the gap between us.

I touch a fallen angel’s face, and he is mighty, and my heart is a river.

Drunken Hysterectomy

Skull breaker, marrow sucker, lover of lies and the wetness of spilled blood.  Bite me, fight me, delight me, speared on you is the perfect way to let viscera hang from your impalement, and as you fuck the wound I wonder, is death so exotic as to be cheap as the whores of Mammon?  You know, those cocksuckers Lilith, Agrat, Eisheth and of course cymbal-banging Naamah, who drank her fill of the Grigori and Tubal Cain and found a perch in Azazel’s soul.  Sell your soul, rent out your body, isn’t that prostitution?  I write these jagged words and my fingers on the keyboard rival the greatest of magicians, summoning the caterwaul of the abyss as we’re making love, but only in my mind.  I feel fingers, tongues, hair, more, sweet seed like a hot summer night and saliva that burns with enmity.  Curses between Eve and the Serpent, Nachash shed his skin, don’t you know?  The Shining One is king of husks, but he flies up the Sephiroth zig zag like lightning, and the first step to enlightenment is to fall from high above.  Heaven’s a lie, Hell’s a lie, all there are are orifices of Hellmouths and Heaven’s Gates and Zion and Pandemonium are just mirrors of states of mind.  Beelzebub said, Mulcibur, build a castle for Satan’s coal mine canary, to cage his yellow bird, for hope perches in the soul, and to spring from Lucifer’s heart as the Lapis Exillis makes you the incestuous daughter Sin, who in Paradise Lost (and Paradise Eventually Found) is serpent from waist down with guts chewed on by wolves.  Their progeny Death, their son Qayin, the Bloodline of the Dragon you won’t shut the fuck up about, Christ to Cathars to Merovingians and Samael, you’re a fucking troll, so shut up about Anunnaki.  I gave a tithe to the Witchfather and all it did was make me realize Hannibal Lecter is the perfect Satan.  Cannibal, eater of women, you played Type O Negative’s Wolf Moon and jeeze, you’re a walking stereotype.  I can taunt and tease you but really you’re the one chewing on me, crunch of phalanges, sucker of spirit (Souls through the eyes, Spirits out the mouth, you said) and my  heart is on loan from the Devil, and babe, as long as I live, you die.

 

Osculum Infame

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.

Roses on Rot

Camera shutter shade, I am three-fourths drowned,

image in glass slivers of quicksilver mirror, black.

One quarter livid, barely alive, my wine runs dry.

Toe broken, I cannot walk, so I fly past pins and

needles meant to sew filth into my side stitches,

I am a doll, I am a saint, an angel, just a whore!

You are a nightmare dressed in white feathers,

cobra eyes and hiss click of a fanged lisp, I cry

out in the tongues of the Elder Gods, but only

the lonely graves hear my name, as down into

the marrow of the coffin I go, a lily my heart,

a rose my sex, my eyes nightingales, to soar,

to stifle, the Judge is architect of nightmares,

the Lawyer would leave me for a prettier girl,

for the clients he takes are trapdoor spiders,

hiding in glass Snow White cages, poison apple

lips and mouthfuls of worms, down here flesh

is shades of gangrene and dribble of putridity,

pulchritude, multitudes, passing glance at fate.

I seek my Death, I drink my Death, I kiss Death

and as he strangles me with silence and bruises

I wake, I quake, I shake, I make love to myself

and wonder in the midnight hour why he let me

go.