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.

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To Be Flesh, To Be More

In the end you’re just meat, girl, a doll of blood and bone,
thus decay goes to flowers, and hellscapes bloom in snow, I
was born when ice and fire sparked into existence’s black maw,
but you are almost as ancient, the union of water and lightning,
amino acid dance into DNA, primeval ribonucleotides, a swimming
single celled blossom, fruiting into multicellular, now limbed
and mouth and anus and past blastocyst, oh bodily bearer, your
nightmares and fantasies are just projections of reptilian brain,
you know your biology, Krebs cycle from tired muscle, cytokines,
we are the stuff crocodiles are, time trapped in our gullet, so
as I finger and devour and eat and kiss and fuck, know death is
also a dance, bow, plie, caress, and don’t ever open your eyes,
because if you do, I will disappear to the shadow of nothing,
past the edge of midnight, where monsters belong, and I only
live as long as you believe in existence beyond the flesh.

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.

Cain Whispers: “I Was First”

There’s a gateway to heaven, a stairway to hell
my seal on your thigh to guide you well, a boon,
a curse, this Serpent Line, tines of a pitchfork
brimstone sublime, Satan lashes his Son, blood
like wine, against an oak tree in fields of time,
Cain bleeds out amber in the Plains of Divine,
Mamre infected to flow down the line, ash we eat,
dust in our hair, there’s tears and splinters in
winter cold air, nuclear harvest, we fuck til
we’re dry, and incest keeps lineages infection shy.
The Ichor of the Cobra, Qayin Seed, serpent strikes
deadly to replenish his need, sickle fang throats,
the beast I take to bed, beheaded like Sisyphus,
or was that Atlas? Whatever burden we bear, I Was
The First, Scapegoat, La-Azazel, and sister dear,
weep amber into your golden hair, sweet Eve, rot
in my arms, my poison within you, sound the alarm.

Deus Vult

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.

God left

a long

time

ago.

Childhood’s End

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.