Death is a Lady

Death is a Lady, and she wears fishnets and stilettos
I am the Reaper because I swallow men into my mouth
then spit up the bones and blood with gristle regret
I hold Death in my arms, I seduce him, grab his mind
and cast my nail hooks into his abyss to fish love,
no, not love, just sex and cum and spit on tongues
that castigate and romance in equal measure, heat of
heaving breasts and bucking thighs, we are Death, we
are Life, and rose thorns pierce my gums but at least
I know I am master of he who plucks stars from trees
feasts upon my marrow and my cruel whip, I fly harpy
through the trees, leading Death on, teasing him,
Death is a Monster, and we are beasts, so we shed
any chrysalis of mortality as I take his manhood
in silk hands and fuck us all into oblivion, sin,
rebirth on stained sheets, Death is marriage, we wine.

Pale as the Moon

You held my hand with moon-pale fractals of fingers
we walked through trees like sages, to elf grottoes
sat down with ankles in springs and uprooted stars
I saw the universe in your eyes, death resplendent
galaxies of want painted in dreamdust on your sclera
and your lips were cold ice but your skin was snowy
drifts, windblown to reveal bone, and you stripped of
all semblance of humanity down to ribs and phalanges
we tossed temptation apples to feast, Death and Girl
and your marrow was sweet on my tongue, black cloak
a womb for transformation, kissing Death is winter,
befriending Death – loving it – makes you wonder how
all passages lead to title pages, and The End is only
a new beginning in a lily grove, spring in December
and in your eye hollows bees nest, waiting for dawn.

Ring Around the Rosy

I will dance with your skeleton in the belfry
as your violin croons out a swan song swing
danse macabre like posy plagues, night-swimming
the Grim Reaper takes the lead, and I am adrift
between a necklace of stars and swords of trees.

Tzohar

Rabbinis tell of a sacred stone
a glowing light Noah illumined
all the deep of flooded worlds
given to Eve: Eden’s last breath,
a jewel suffused with splendor
it holds the dust of Creation,
leftover starlight, God’s promise
possess it, know Torah, truths
so holy only the wisest prevail
in mastering the gem, bearing it
high aloft on an Ark far adrift
Abraham healed with its wonders
Joseph sought dream shards within
Moses found it in forefather bones
and hung it on Covenant pinnacles
crowning the Tabernacle, perhaps
it is the same heart that was torn
from Lucifer’s crown, Lapis Exillis
searched for by alchemist, magician,
seekers of knowledge, vain man’s ruin
I clutch the Tzohar in dreams and sail
to World’s Edge, scale cliffs, dine
with Death, play chess with Reapers
the prize is God’s christening gift
to humanity – I knock down a king,
Samael crinkles in a serpent smile,
laughs, takes me to the interior
of the earth, rectifying, the hidden
stone is mine, disguised in plain sight
and I walk through cathedral caverns
to return it to Man, safe from Satan’s
grasp, I sprang from the heart of Lucifer
because I stole his most precious soul.

Mina Takes Advantage of Death

His skin is moonlight, eyes opium poppies, and as he looks at me, biting iris and black sclera, it is clear the poison flows not only from his veins but from his very touch, sly words, and serpent tongue.  I am naked in his bed, and without hesitation or asking I bring his wrist to my mouth and kiss the blue vein to claim him as my own.

I am oh so very hungry.  Like I have not drunk water for days.  But there is no pure spring in Hell, just the red Styx and gore and spirits distilled from ruin.  The best of us drink the ichor of demon lords and the lowest of us sip butcher’s milk in the gutter outside the slaughterhouse.

He smiles like a saw, fangs aglimmer, and he pulls me into his lap then presses his canines to the pulsing hotness of his blood and tears the skin open.  I lap up the blood that tastes just like sweet red wine and it flows into my mouth, out my chin, down onto my breasts in rivulets.  He laughs and plays with my hair, golden waves like wheat, and then he starts to moan as I bite him in return, and the air is so thick in this bed of velvet and silk, blacks and crimsons, you could slice it with a knife and still not cut through with true clarity.  We are smoke and mirrors, frankincense fumes and mist.

It is a bed of sin.  Of damnation.  But I ate his ancient apple before womanhood, when I was barely a maiden, and I am addicted to a ghost.  He is not very far from a corpse, and you can see every bone in his body, ribs poking out on a muscled torso, collarbone like a diamond knife, and sometimes I break open his femurs and drink down marrow or steal his pinky bone and place it on my ring to summon the Grim Reaper at will.

I must have been a slave and whore to Death a thousand times over, but he bends to my every whim and desire, so perhaps I am his master in the end.  I am always chasing after him because my Eros and Thanatos drives are mated in unholy union, summoning him into my body just so I can drown in his essence, raising him from the dead with my own flesh, because he is my child, but I am his creation, but wait – no – I’m his maker, I called his name from October winds, and I will eat my fill of him as I please.

He takes his turn, fangs at my neck, my breast, and the sheets are stained with alizarin.  Suck, lick, thirst after your lover and mingle spirits like a mixed drink.  I can’t tell alpha from omega, and I love him so fiercely and hate him so much that I will kill him, but after I tear his bones and sinew apart I will kiss him alive again, and I bruise him just as much as he fucks me over, and just plain fucks me.  He is not a good man, no, he is the essence of abuse and evil, but there is something about villains that appeals to the base desires of honest women, a candor in their cruelty, and as long as he is obedient, I give myself to him.

Fracture

It’s easy enough to break a bone, but putting flesh and vein and sinew back together onto the framework of a demon is an arcane art not meant for Millennials.

The sinews snap.  The veins leak all over you, staining blouse and skirt.  Flesh stinks when left out to rot, and even if, once the puzzle is pieced together, he comes alive again, a cadaver is a cadaver, and scales and fangs and tendons of ruin grow cold and decay.

First you thread the black medical silk through the eye of a silver needle.  Skin grafts, organs on ice, flies everywhere.  Sew and bone saw and glue everything into place on the operating table.  It will stink to high heaven but you are in Hell, and you already dissected Death a million times before, so stitching him back together shouldn’t be so hard, you think.

Think again, stupid girl.

His eyes will be the first things to become alert, in vats of preserving fluids, and the globes will whirl around like the cosmos, red irises like supernovas.  Toes next.  Fingers dragging bloody stumps across the floor.

You tell him to sleep, to rest, that after every battle you will piece him back together, but your monstrous lover is getting more broken and war weary by the day, and he keeps coming home in a matchbox figuratively, but literally it’s unorganized pieces of flesh that stink up the alchemical dungeon.

He doesn’t listen.  His phantom voice lectures you about how much you have yet to learn, of biology and magick, of necromancy, which is his specialty.  The Grim Reaper rarely revives the dead, but when he does it, they are so well put together he fiddles a danse macabre and they ring posies like the plague, bolts and screws all in place, no hanging flesh or joints falling from sockets like your shoddy work.

Killing him is easy.  Sometimes you have too, because he goes mad with bloodlust and ruin and attacks you.  Bringing him back to life is an art, and you’re a shit artist.

But you try, and finally, the Frankenstein beast is alive, vainglorious, terrible to look at but bewitching as the majesty of Satan.

You fuck your creation on the hospital table, and spit and cum and blood all mix together with the shrapnel of scalpels and medical tape.  That’s the final exchange of energy that cements his soul to his body, raising him up from lich to lich master.

But in the end, you’re his master, and he is your willing toy, cutting roses for you, writing you poetry, your beast of burden that kills your enemies so you don’t sully your hands.

You named him first anyways, and you are your own god, no one’s slave except his, but the ownership goes both ways, and you are branded onto his skin just as yours.

Eyes fracture.  Shadows dance.  You hold your monster against the darkness.

Against the rushing reeds of the Styx.

Against the gaping void of Hell that is his heart.

And then, like that, you make life.

Blood of the Damned

Dressed in a gown like razor-slash throats
Hair a golden braid set to strangle
I drink men’s sorrow and make them holy
Crimson-black iris, the Snake arises
I mount the Beast and we slither home
Dumped on a bed and stripped of my skin
I don the white robes of death, absolution
Scythe in hand, I rip aortas, snap tendons
Damned fall, dominoes, blood fountains all
I strip and bathe like Bathory in redemption.