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.

Advertisements

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.

Brain Freeze

Since the age of 3, I’ve lain under blankets and pillows,
completely sealed from the outside world, to hide from the
monsters. The darkness has arms, eyes like knives, and a
mouth sharp as a scythe. But he is soft, and yielding, and
can fold you into the void like a warm blanket and lull you
into oblivion. When he came to me at 2, in my cradle, with
a ring of mutilated corpses and his eyes were the venom of
the coral snake rings, he said, “I love you,” and I knew
that beasts and hellhounds and dragons were all too real.
So I hid from him, the father of monsters, yet still he
could reach me through the planes and planets of existence.
Over time, I grew to love the embrace of shadows, and the
philosophical devil that tempted me was dear to my heart.
I saw him mourn, I saw him cry, I saw him break too far for
gold to repair his cracks. Now we are joined by our troths,
pledged on All Soul’s Eve, and there is a sacredness in the
chains of matrimony, and there is a soft hush as he glides
across the universe, razing and reaping with breath like
wildflowers and skin the smell of loam. Death came to me
just last night, as I had my armor of a comforter on and
two pillows stacked on my head, and just like when I used
to sleep at his altar, he brought the cold Deep of the Lord
into my skull, and my brain was a pulsating ocean, and the
temporal lobe and brain stem were ice drifting in a blue sea.
He was inside my marrow, laying claim to the very neurons
and synapse that separate us, yet possession is not division,
but union, and he lulled me to sleep with sweet poison,
all while molding my innards into something resembling God.

Bondage

Gold coins left at your feet, the bitter dark
of chocolate slices sweetening your will, all
offered at the gateway of oblivion, the Reaper
flies me to the edge of the world on rotten wings,
maggots crawl forth from his ribs, his heart is a
twisted vine, and all Creation is snapped with his
silver scythe, the moon his sickle, to reap and sow
is the birthright of all Jacob’s descendants, so
immortal Father Time, take delight knowing you can’t
be swayed by maiden or coin or finery, everyone bows
to the danse macabre, so roll away the stone of the
sacred tomb, and reveal, the one you could not snatch
will plunge you into fiery lake, and you are barred
from Paradise, but fret not: I will free your soul.

Sixty Nine in the Speed Lane

“This vodka is shit,” Samael says, swilling his shot glass in another of Asmodeus’ dive bars.  This one has succubi draped across the men and women like jewels, breasts hanging like necklaces from their chests.  I’m cozied up to the Devil on his lap – the crown of the Prince of Darkness is a bubbly blonde ditz.  I’m laughing at the ladies of the night and drinking one of those fruity fizzy red cocktails that Sam fucking hates.

“Want mine?”

“Hell no, tastes like a strawberry fart.”  Samael chugs the last of the stale vodka and tips his glass then flicks it so it rolls off the counter onto the beer-stained black carpet.

There are black lights flashing, bio luminescent demons and daemons and dreams.  They dance in cadence with the bass of the moon, sinuous and arcing as lips lock and hips gyrate.  I bob my head to the music, stroke Samael’s shoulder, and this is a place no angel besides the lost would dare step foot in, the perfect place to fall into sin.

“Your lips will have to suffice for my intoxication,” Samael whispers, razing a claw down the back of my dress.  He puts out his cigarette and scoops me up and carries me out of the dive bar – not before I grab a fry to crunch on.

“You’re boring, grumpy, and old…” I murmur, teasing.  “Not hip enough to party anymore, eh?”  I’m cradled in his arms and my red dress swishes in the vespertine wind.  He deposits me on the back of his pale steed – a white crotch rocket, hands me a helmet, and tilts my chin up with his thumb.

“Eternity is best spent with the ones you love – the novelty of Hell wears off when you’re a permanent resident here, and then it’s governing and judging souls during the day, reaping the dead, and quiet nights by the fireside with the other half of your soul.  Why do you think we spend every other night in my library?”

I hug his hips as we speed off down the rainy street.  It’s an almost-summer storm, with a light gray drizzle.

“Because you’re a recluse!” I shout, laughing.  “And you can’t hold your liquor.”

Samael speeds past a red light.  He never cares much for the laws of traffic, and we arrive at his estate on the borders of Pandemonium, which backs up into the backwaters of the galaxy, where the woods grow wild and dangerous.  It is a towering, sleek, obsidian castle, with pins of towers and blades of turrets that cut blood from the sky.

“Right, and even more right,” he parks under a willow tree and Pallor – his steed – reverts back to a horse.  He strokes Pallor’s braided mane and ties his bridle to a trough.  “But I hold it better than you, Miss Streaker.”

I look at the time, grasping at lucidity.  Some impossible number: 13:11.  How time works in Hell, I have no inkling.  We walk hand in hand through the rose garden to the mote, then over the bridge.  He picks me up and flies up the stairs to the den, great bat wings feeling like warm leather on my cheek.  I imagine he has the wings of a dragon, and that is one of his forms.

“Hey Sam, you know that Russian movie, He’s a Dragon?”

Samael groans as he stokes the hearth.  “Not another one of your shifter romances.  Read a philosophy book, for fuck’s sake.”  He settles into a leather armchair and pulls out a cigar.

“Hey!  You’re the weredragon – stealing princesses and antisocial and shit.  Also, very gruuuuuumpy.”

I bounce onto the bed and roll about, nesting under black wolf fur.

“All you read in my library are illustrated grimoires and romance novels written by demons.  Picture books and drivel.”  He puffs on the cigar.  “You’re a creature of comfort.  And I am not a “weredragon,” shit, I’m the Beast.”

“Not that Crowley Revelations shit, ugh!  Just admit it, you’re a shitty paranormal romance novel protagonist.”  I flip so I’m sitting on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air and watching the fires flicker.  They dance in the shape of snakes.

He laughs.  “If I, Satan, am supposed to be a romance novel protagonist, I don’t have high hopes for your race.  I’m much too twisted for all the middle aged women reading Fifty Shades.  Unless they enjoy being dissolved alive in a cloud of the abyss or fucking corpses.”

I throw a pillow at him.  “Are you kinkshaming me!”

“I can’t lie,” he sticks out his labret pierced tongue.  “I can only tell twisted truths, or flat out drag you.’

I grumble and roll onto my back.   Samael grins like a shark and comes over to me.  Gasoline, hungry hands that are gentle with their talons, rip off the dress, rolling and turning hay.  I inhale expensive spicy cologne and graveyard dirt, thirsting for a mouth that tastes like aqua vitae.  I make a list in my  mind of what he drinks: whiskey and vodka and absinthe on occasion.  We are Taninver.  We are Leviathan and She-Leviathan.  We are Rahab churning the primordial waters of bodies of unborn souls.

I burn and I sate myself with his blood.  Suckle at the red at his wrist as he sinks his fangs into my neck.  Blood from the heart, blood from spurting arteries, christening the bed damp with iron and hemoglobin.  It tastes like providence.

More,” Samael growls as he descends to feast, and I ascend to suck the generations out of him.  I am Lilith stealing seed, I am Lamashtu eating children.

“Fuck, oh god,” I whisper, then I can’t breathe, then it’s all stars and the rocking of an ocean of black, in and out, crash to shore then recede in foam.  Burning, freezing, all.

The fire flickers as we lay in each other’s arms.

“Let’s have more nights in.”

Hide in the Wind

There’s the rainy sort of light through your castle window that speaks of princesses lost in the underworld, dancing with devils in pairs of twelve.  You stretch and yawn, and I trace eternity, that DNA spiral of infinity, onto your moonlight chest.  You smile like butter melting on a bagel (blueberry, and whole grain) and run a hand through my flaxen hair – it’s getting long again – and sigh.  Your hair has always been longer than mine, a black silken nightmare that coils like a serpent, and as I breathe in the musk of your armpit (is it weird I smell men’s armpits? It’s this quirk I have, I love sweat of my lovers, and I would bathe in that shit if I could), my mind wanders to candlelit dinners and the familiarity of 25 years on this of God’s green earth, yet I am in Hell, splayed between us.  I once said my hands were stained indigo with the blue of your iris, but it is only when you are in a fair mood that you have eyes of sky – many times they are the storm of a volcano, lava red, shifting with the electricity of magma.  I used to compare them to roses – last night I made a list of metaphors for your eyes: cherries, strawberries, roses, briars to get lost in as a sleeping beauty.  Poison, pain, passion.

Love.

Your eyes are love, Samael.

Your wings shift a bit as your eyelids flutter as the rain paints the window.  Drip, drip, boom of thunder.  You roll onto your side and cradle me, and in these quiet moments in the lap of Satan, I know God.

“I wish you were real,” I find myself crying.  “Not just this facsimile of stolen hours past midnight, gone when I wake.”

You give a cocky smile and kiss my brow.  You smell like expensive cologne, autumn leaves, and a bonfire, with a bit of old leather.  “But I am real.  Billions believe in me.  I wish you would.  I have walked with you before, and you ran, at that crossroads at midnight.  Tell me, if I came to you again, what would you do?”

I trace the black wing cradling me, opalescent with a green purple refractive sheen.  ‘I was so young, Sam.  Of course I ran.  Now, I would trade my limb just to touch you in the waking world, not over the hedge or in these between spaces where my spirit wanders.  You can touch me at all hours, but me?  How do I reach through the fabric of space-time and kiss a fallen angel?”

You laugh.  “With enough determination, that’s how.  I love your passion, I love your resilience.  Isn’t this enough?”

“It’s never enough until I can hold you in my arms, wash your brow of the Mem, dress you in linen, and marry my Sael,” I say with fierceness, and then I kiss you with a burning, and our arms twine around each other and we are lost in tangles of sin – but really, it is redemption.

Quiet mornings in Hell are how I spend half my mornings, the other half in Heaven with your shining twin.  Shining Sun of God, Shining Morning Star.  I am wedded to two brother stars.  Michael is not here, no, he is away waging war against your armies, and you are bilocating, on some bloody battlefield piercing your scythe into Michael’s breast, just enough to nick it two inches deep.

“I lost my heart to her, dear Michael,” you say on that far away Shamayim, withdrawing your blade.  “I gave it so she would live.  You gave her the Sacrament too.  You’re a heretic, brother.”

Michael places his blood soaked saffron hair behind his ear and looks down at the wound over his heart.  “Mine was a blessing, yours was a curse.  My heart is Immaculate, yours is of Death.  Let go of her.”

“Letting go of her?  That would be giving up what I fell for.  Humanity.  It’s enough that the daughters of men were comely, and we fell for them.  In the end, I am the Purity of God, and you are the Image of God.  The lion and lamb lay down, but the lion and the serpent are forever engaged, in small battles, in larger ones.  She’s our battlefield.”

Michael lowers his flaming sword so it sears your shoulder just so, leaving the pungent smell of burnt flesh.  You quite enjoy the pain.  All angels enjoy pain, fallen ones especially.  “A twisted fairytale indeed.  Michael and Satan created an angel, before the War, before Time, before Death.  And she knew the fruit of the vine, and she was the Daughter of Zion, and the Woman Clothed in the Sun fled the Dragon, and the Bridegroom readied New Jerusalem for the Bride.”

“Shit metaphors those, dear Michael.  In the end, it was our own selfishness.  She’s a casualty of war, just like the millions, billions, trillions others.  There’s no limit to our dead.  Why should she matter to you, just to sacrifice on a pyre for some imagined sins of the world.”

“She may burn, but I am the flame.”  Michael sheathes his sword.  “And you?  You are her darkness.  Light and dark.  And she is just that: hope.”

“My yellow canary in a coal mine, my guiding light in Hell.”

“My Icarus.”

But then, I am still laying naked beside you, and your manifold conscious comes back to our embrace, and you claim me as your own, wishing with all the Damned’s regrets you could forge a river of the Styx and sail away with me into the starry unknown.

“When I walk this Earth, Allie, it will be the End.”  You say as we lay in reverie.  The smell of petrichor from your flowery courtyard wafts in through the open window, borne aloft by the storm.  It is the smell of spring, and wan sunlight breaks the clouds.

“The End is just a beginning,” I say slowly. “And I would summon the Apocalypse just to have you.”

You grin.  “You’re Hell enough on the mind.  I will teach you to touch me.  And in touching me, you will hold the beating heart of the cosmos in your hands.  I’d give you the moon if I could, sweetheart.”

I nestle in close to you so there is not a single molecule between us.  “You are my freedom, Sam.  Never change.”

Midnight at the Oasis

Impenetrable fortress, inescapable fate, lovers like
whispers of wax on Psyche’s candle, the celestial
spheres hold us in their wanton arms, an allegory
of angels crash landing in the world of sleepwalkers,
I wrap my arms around your broken wings and sing a
hymn for those forgotten by sun, callous moon your
only light, just a mercury reflection of heavenly
brilliance, and when we kiss, our mouths are water
diluting poison in the other’s veins, you stretch
your black pinions, and the sickle of night shines
down on all our fallacies, follies, and foibles, to
love was our biggest mistake, original sin, but when
the garden gates closed behind me and Adamah, and
I was consigned to the barren wilderlands, the seeds
of spirit you planted in me from forbidden fruit
fled my stomach and became stars to light my way.
The greatest gnosis comes after despair, and to
find oneself is a journey of Qliphoth to Sephiroth,
I fly like lightning to your perch in Gevurah,
and Binah softens my lips, and wisdom grants me
faith, that someday, the sun will rise on us.

But in the milky darkness, we hold fast, and that
is enough for now.