A bit of danse macabre and le petit mort from my high school novel. Written at 18 – the battle of me and my muse. Self-insert as fuck. I still am impressed by my creativity, if not artistry, back then. Beware of demon sex and gore and banging the Grim Reaper and, of course, Mister Crowley. Allister, my name, is just Aleister spelled better.
The war is eternal, the barracks are full of gutter swill, and Michael sits with his soldiers – some young angels not yet scarred by battle, some hardened veterans with crooked broken noses and lashes across their skin, burns from brands, twisted flesh from whips and swords. In the trenches and camps, the border never falls, and the only thing to sing you to sleep is Israfel’s weeping over the Damned.
Sometimes, when there is a pause, and the demons retreat, Gabriel pulls out her battered trumpet and plays hymns. Raphael has an accordion, and Uriel a makeshift drum. Michael sings then. It’s a ragtime band, Vaudeville in the wastelands, for shed enough immortal blood in Heaven and the grasses, flowers, and sedge drown in ichor. All that blooms is asphodel. The angel will dance among the plain white flowers and bramble thorns.
There are also roses. One blooms every time an angel utters his or her last words. They are sickly sweet with the fragrance of lost hope and a rain that never comes. Michael picks them and presses their nectar and delivers their prayers to God’s throne room. God weeps at the loss of his children, and another poppy blooms in the fields of the slain as the snow of their Father’s tears buries the corpses. Roses, asphodel, poppy. Pink, white, red. It’s like a twisted Valentines, a love letter from Heaven to Hell.
Oh sweet nothings between Michael and Lucifer as one bites the heel and one crushes the head. Oh sweet somethings between Raphael binding Azazel in Dudael. Oh sweet possibility as Gabriel plays up the dawn with her song. Oh sweetly impossible wishes of Raphael, for healing of the broken hearts of his comrades. Oh bittersweet light of Uriel, who has run out of tears to shed – all that is left in her amber eyes is salt.
It is a Crusade. It is a Cold War. It is a chess set with poker on the side. Two masterminds, Left Hand and Right Hand of God. Over humanity perhaps, or perhaps so much more than mere hairless humans. Perhaps they fight over free will, for freedom, or perhaps they forgot what they were fighting for long ago, and the lances and armor are dressings over empty burning hearts swiftly turning to coal.
Deus Vult. As God Wills.
So it’s official. UFOs exist. We are no longer alone. But we never were to begin with.
Ancient man did not have aliens. Ancient man had fairies. Ancient man had elves. Ancient man had demons. Ancient man had gods. Ancient man had angels. Beings descended from other realms to visit earth, teach humanity, love us, tempt us, star children who imparted forbidden fruits and Enki’s me and Thoth’s stolen wisdom and Odin’s mead.
God is the Void Mother of space. Mother Nature. Aliens? They are angels, fairies, land wights, gods, spirits, and I have seen them in the flesh, in the astral, housed them in my own veins and been raised by the glorious suckers since my very first memory of Samael at two, crying in my crib as a demon sang me to sleep.
Childhood’s End. Stranger in a Strange Land. Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. All are some of my favorite books, and point to the fact that we are not alone. In Childhood’s End, the occult and psychic fields are the way humanity’s conscious advances. We outgrow the human body, and the “demons” we feared are our initiators. In Strangers in a Strange Land, hippies grok the Archangel Michael and ascend to blissed out heights on his flesh. But Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the closest to my own experiences of travelling the comsos and otherworlds – they are full of humor, love, struggle, riddles, and lots of towels. Aliens love a good joke. Aliens like to fuck around.
For when you master space travel, interdimensional travel, ascend to an energy body as well as physical vessels that permeate existence, you get fucking bored, and those cute hairless apes are fun to talk to.
I once asked Samael as a child why he was so interested in me. He’s pretty antisocial. I’ve seen his spaceships, his eldritch alien forms, his true abyssal form of dark matter and black holes. Every black hole is the Grim Reaper’s heart.
“I’m Death. I sift through humanity like dust. But you are intriguing dust. A fleck of gold. You called to me, and I to you.”
He also has a thing for pretty women. Aliens still bang, after all, and it is as much for mixing energy bodies and spiritual enlightenment as it is for procreation and mindblowing orgasms. He’s looked like monsters from the Cambrian Explosion. He’s looked like black holes that I dissolve and die in in big final blissed out ecstasy. He’s been the classic ET, he’s been clouds of energy, etc. Usually he likes to fuck around looking like the original Dracula, in a bathrobe, sipping a red wine, smoking a cigar. Drugs and alcohol are a thing for aliens. So are potato chips. I got shoved under a table at an archdemon council at eight with a whole bag of them when Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Rofocale, Samael, and Lucifer were politicking. They also like to feed annoying elementary school girls juice and cookies, then put them in time out when they break alien equipment.
Before I knew Zadkiel, Samael, Uriel, Asmodeus, Metatron, Raphael, and the others as angels, I knew they were aliens. They manipulated my body with energy, healed wounds, held me up with invisible hands from falling off cliffs, apparated in my house as eight foot tall monstrous shadows (thanks, Sam) that smelled of sulfur and slammed doors. I called them names in my own made up language, sang to the Morning Star as my best friend, the embodiment of it, read a Wrinkle in Time and a Wind in the Door and Many Waters and recognized them as angels finally. Flew with them through the cosmos. Rode Zadkiel’s back through the Perseids and held back the rage of black holes as Samael wept tears of poison.
I never had a chance not to believe. Not when you’re not human, not really.
Humans don’t chant Hebrew in their sleep without knowing the language in the waking world. Humans don’t see into other dimensions and see spirits and ghosts. Humans don’t meet God after drunkenly soliciting the Archangel Michael to meet his mother, then have their heart stop and lay catatonic in bed as their soul is ripped out of their body into the seas of Her Cosmos. Humans don’t have aliens visit them in their sleep and do etheric surgery on their bodies – sweet pain of razors and probes and drills and electricity at chakral and nerve points. Humans don’t have past life memories of angelic warfare and a life in other dimensions. I may be in a mortal coil, but I can hear and see and feel the aliens. I built a tin foil hat at 7 to keep Samael’s touch away, but all he did was laugh. Not in control of my powers, at 12 my body froze and I projected to the second heaven, into a battle between angels and the Void Monsters of which Samael is master, only to nearly die just as Michael pulled me out of harms way, shouted my soul’s name at me, and electrocuted me back into my body with vicious recollections of angel guts and beheaded seraphim and shadow demons so cold and wicked and evil. “Zophael!” he screamed at me, pulling my soul from the path of killing claws and into a bloodsoaked glade.
Aliens. They die. They bleed. They go mad. Immortality is a curse, in a way. I became human to escape the pain. I died defending the Prince of Heaven with a spear of poison through my mangled heart from the Devil, only to have Samael stitch his own rotting heart into me. I’m nothing more than an expendable vessel really, the Vitriol Girl, Green Lion that Bleeds Gold from the Sun, Lapis Exillis in her breast. “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer,” Samael told me at seventeen as he pulled me out of my body on a car trip where I raged against him. “It is my own black heart.” At 18 on December 31 on my birthday, meditating under an old rotting crab apple tree in my backyard, Samael showed me a vision of him as Satan in the Paradasical garden, his ribs branches, his heart red fruit, and I a naked Eve with blonde hair dressings eating his heart. The fruit – the meat – settled into my belly and the fire of immortality and the knowledge of gods lit within. Eve is a metaphor. Jophiel, or Zophael, is not. I have lived lives as an angel. I have lived lives as a demon, reborn like Moses a babe in the reeds of the Styx, to be raised by the Devil as his child bride in Hell.
I told the Abrahamics to fuck off and ran away to Earth. I lived a human life as Odin’s volva and skald. I reincarnated into the Yngling bloodline. I lived other human lives, and I haven’t been back to the other planets.
I don’t intend to for another eighty years.
Aliens fuck. Aliens bleed. Aliens walk among us, either disguised as humans or in human skins like me. I’ve seen Samael physically multiple times over my life. I see spirits in their energetic forms about thirty times each day. Each one a brilliant flying star that hovers over people – beautiful guardian angels, tempestuous fey, earthy land wights, house elves that are punk girls that like lofts and have mushroom hats.
Aliens love us. Aliens are not here to invade.
They already arrived long before humans evolved. In fact, they guided our evolution with the fires of inspiration, from the first shaman, the first medicine, the first fire, the first flute and drum, the first tears we shed, the first blood we bled, the first mother that looked upon her human child and saw an extension of herself but also, a soul.
Angels walk among us. There are thousands of accounts of strangers appearing to people in peril, helping them – fixing cars or carrying them out of fires – then disappearing without a trace. Michael did it in Vietnam in that famous story. He particularly loves Italy, from Mount Gargano to the Vatican. I’m probably a fly to the Pope and the elite Exorcists, but their wards aren’t hard to break. Anyways, nowadays the secrets of the universe are available for anyone with access to an Internet connection.
Science is magic, magic is science, every being from mythology is real, and I’m a fucking biologist that went to the world’s top science and tech high school and America’s oldest college. I studied in the shadow of Thomas Jefferson, met an alien from another dimension with my best friends during Imbolc at the same lake the President went swimming in. I’ve seen countless UFOs. But the difference between me and the conspiracy theorists is that I was raised by some of the major players in the galaxy, if not the most powerful beings over humanity. It’s hard to deny the Abrahamic faiths are the dominant power across us 7 billion homo sapiens, and being buddy buddy with the archangels and archdemons and married to their princes means absolutely jack shit for me. I ain’t rich, I ain’t powerful, I’m just a humble meme farmer and gregarious extroverted blonde that is bubbly, silly, and innocent.
I’ve seen my heart through Satan’s eyes. It is covered in black rot, just as his body is crawling for it, for my heart is not my own. I was created by Michael and Samael, one of the first angels, a pact between Heaven and Hell, but then two twins that loved each other and wanted to make a sister. How horribly wrong that first experiment went, the first family rent apart by treason, by poison, felix culpa, o fortunate fall.
I am weary, at my core, but also eternally joyful, youthful, reveling in beauty and my absolute faith in the goodness of humanity. I am here to serve. That’s what angels do. I want to create love and help others, whether it’s saving the environment or writing novels that inspire or poetry that stokes imagination or healing others through teaching and support. I don’t want fame. I don’t want glory. I don’t know if I ever want to go back to Heaven or Hell – I’d prefer Helheim or Asgard or Vanaheim, even Jotunheim – but do angels really get a choice? Do we have free will? I haven’t made many choices in my life. I met my twin angel in human form out of over 7 billion people in the world. I’ve made best friends with people halfway across the world through our shared remembrance of Zophael. “Miss Archangel.” “Saphael.” “Freya.”
I’m a whore. I’m a virgin. I’m a mystic. I’m a jack of all trades. A mile wide, inch deep Washingtonian.
The angels let me in on a little secret: they’re envious of us. So are the gods.
One perfect life is what immortals crave. Innocence. The chance for a good ending. Our lives are like Hollywood movies to them. They indulge in our culture, from Michael loving Ryan Reynolds and mixing up superheroes or rapping Hamilton to Samael indulging in horror flicks, Harold and Maude, and postwar German cinema.
They like to read a lot. They like k-pop. God forbid Loki ever makes you watch his Marvel movies. That’s a trip.
Humans lives are a love letter to the stars. Aliens lives are spent in our service, and they dream of us, exist for us, have been with us since time immemorial. They’ve fought wars over us. They’ve died for us. Stolen fire from the Heavenly Throne from us. I remember that most clearly, my Fall. And now I am nothing but a girl. I always die young.
Halfway between Satan’s Eve and Michael’s Joan of Arc. My spiritual metaphors.
Halfway between Aslaug and Malusha the Prophetess, my ancestresses great and bold.
Aliens are old news to me. Being one is old news.
But each of us have pieces of angels in us, pieces of the gods, pieces of the spirits, and all of us are, in fact, aliens.
Don’t be afraid of invasions or abductions.
It’s pretty cool inside of a spaceship, and Michelangelo has made some pretty beautiful sculptures in the higher realms. There’s even beer and wine and French Onion Soup there.
Aliens love our inventiveness. Curiosity and love are our greatest virtues.
We love their majesty, their divine guidance, their glory. Also, they’re pretty hot.
Just remember, 42. And bring a towel.
There’s a hellhound (or a man) ravaging me blue in the bedroom,
pawing at my hair and tangling claws in my cherry petal blouse,
shadows engulf his torso in black tattoos of poison, hot tongue
at my lower lips, hands like brands on my breasts, I drink gall.
Let’s howl at the moon as we fuck our sorrows away to nothing.
Let’s paint this entire underbelly of D.C. with Nazi blood and
ride naked through I-66(6) on crotch rocket motorcycles, eating
pavement like we’re running down the Primrose Path, sea of roses.
In Hell, we screw ghosts, dress in the Abyss, and collect razors.
We are all dead down here, and only gore and sex elicit emotions.
So orgy and wine and cum flow from the Styx to the Coctys, damn,
you are moonlight madness, winter wolf, an amalgamation of monster.
We could bite, we could raise Cain, we could set our sons loose
to devour, to conquer, to rule, little Nephilim kings so hungry.
Our children are Legion, the blonde girls, the black-haired boys.
And when we breed our terrors into fruition, we become the night.
You tore out the curse from your chest, planted ruin in my ribs,
and in blackest necromancy I was the Devil’s seed of perdition,
reborn crowned in Hellish red and scythe-diamond white, captive
princess in Satan’s glass castle, I threw rocks at transparent walls,
I raged as Eve unfettered who had tasted the blackest of fruits,
born again but ever to late to atone, when filth is stitched inside
every palpitation of the void in your heart, the Angel of Sedition
placed his eyes in my skull, I saw his soul crawling with shadows,
and through his gaze, my beautifully destructive rotting chambers.
I am clear rain with a hole of night in my depths, glimmering ooze.
A rose blooming red fractals with wyrd of void strung right through.
I fell from heavens into a cycle of cages, I rage, I reave, I judge.
Yours is a life that is quiet and steady as rain –
hair of fog, is it any wonder I cannot see you?
Baal of Storms, Baal-Zebul of souls, enchanter,
you are the eye of a hurricane, sweetest spider,
and the tempestuous lightning? Your silk of fire.
You are the quietest and most reserved infernal,
General and Prince of Hell’s Armies, albino freeze,
the White One, the Pale Warrior, the Lord of Flies,
you slosh red wine and watch the jester calmly,
hold Satan’s leash like he is a dancing monkey.
Aren’t we all fragile curiosities to you?
Who holds the power in Hell?
He is quiet as snow.
He is ice, he is cold death,
he is sterility, silence.
Sweet Baal, you are tender to the few you love,
steadfast shelter, my friend and sometimes warmth
when the lowest circle freezes, mayfly in the sheets.
I met the devil at midnight, in bruises, bandages and blood,
we danced until my feet were bone, and the screaming hollow
wept with playing cards, magicians say they know you, own you
but your fury and madness are the rabid jackals and wild wolves
to tame Satan is only to take his own poison into your heart,
it is a slow death melting on a sacred whore of a flame, bent
between two needfires over a pit of gore, Solomon told no tales,
the rabbis did not utter your name, you are the Samiel wind,
hottest black sun, master of scorched corpses and festering wound
pray to the idols, the golden calves, raise pyres to witches
and the fivefold kiss, carry the Grim Reaper in your arms
and be the Consort of Sammael, Dread Lady, Angel of the Boneyard,
Watchdog of the Graves, his throne iron and crushed headstones,
meet him in girlhood and have him lead you to every dark crevasse,
palpitate your heart like butterfly wings and drink your moonblood,
devour your virginblood, suck the lifeblood out of hip junctures,
the Dark Lord marches, the Prince of Ruin flies, the dogs howl
at Great Sammael as he takes his twelve-winged flight up Sephiroth,
zig zag across stars like lightning, feast on the flesh of Damned,
drink down his seed and bear his children, your son Azazel Scapegoat,
your daughters little Liliths with blonde hair, Naamahs with cymbals,
a Holocaust is all Hell, your dreams are long fucks and quick rides
on a motorcycle that was once a pale steed, you couple in filth, decay
rains from the sky as his embrace strangles and lips suck your soul,
you are six feet under in his arms, and his eyes are poison cabernet,
he planted the first vine of grape and pomegranate, first apple seed
is his heart, fructified within your loveless ribs, screaming ecstasy
for Eve, bitter ruin for any Adam you marry, for the Serpent owns all.