She’s got moonglow tits that bob in night waters, perfect round globes like curled-up white rabbits with black peaks of areola and gray nipples because she’s all poison and ebony eyes and milky skin. She’s curled up in my closet in a nest fit for the Zu bird and sweet seraph curses and she crows and speaks the language of birds that are girls, or girls that are monsters, with scaled legs and owl wings from ancient Sumerian carvings, but she’s not perched on two lions, her thin wan legs are jumping on your bed and you’re throwing pillows at each other and painting her lips and talons with a pop of cherry poison. It’s all fun and games until arsenic kisses and slashed throats of words fly, it’s all spin the bottle with succubi until neon lights at your favorite strip mall get busted to splinters by her rage. She’s wailing, she’s railing, and it’s so fun to terrorize the neighborhood with your monster girl. She smells like mothball and tastes like whiskey but it’s all swell, all is well, because you’re gay, just a little bit, for a lot of your pretty murderesses, like that goddess of death whose bone feet you kissed as you rubbed one out on grave dirt. You’re just a shadow drowning in moonlight, really, just a paper cutout in the shape of curves and gold and blue and you seek a black hole to consume you. Void Mother you toast to past the witching hour with a new best friend, she’s in Gaia training sitting on a hill in armor with a sword and donkey, learning from Valkyries the recipe for hurricanes, and she’s a piece of the Mother, just like you are, just like every girl you know is, and men fear us all. Your monster girl is feral, like pine barrens in a blizzard, or the nothingness at the lip of a night full of pain, and she has fangs sharp as a wolf and toes that end in bruises from kicking too many cans barefoot. She’s dressed in bandages, she’s dressed in a gown, and her hair is ratty black tangles. Oh how you love dressing her and prettying her up and confiding in her your soul, for you were raised to be a doll, but not her – no, she is a hyena, and their women are the kings. When you scissor, it’s to old jazz that switches between Frank Sinatra, and as your hands tangle the curls at her parting later on as you drink white wine, you and her watch the rain and know the sky is crying for its lost moon.
The demons feast on dove hearts, blackened
charcoal at their eyes, serrated tongues
split open the elegy, this is no funeral,
just fucking on beds of sinners, frozen
Hell, Asmodeus picks his teeth clean with
a spine, Beelzebub’s flies clean rot from
the wreckage of a girl, decay is my name,
and I am dressed in meat, walk through rot,
ash of offerings to the Qliphoth husks,
I always wondered what a husk was anyways,
corn peel? Empty shells that mock Sephiroth?
Fuck the Kabbalah, I hate ceremonial crap.
I’m drinking wine – or is it blood? I am
plastered, and the wreckage of the ballroom
has broken windows and mirrors for orgies –
pound your cock into Lilith and defile her,
but she is already a Whore, Queen Babalon,
and Samael has been castrated, he spreads
pale legs to reveal a gaping abyss, jets
towards me and I reach my hand in and pull
out bloody pustules to pop like a cherry,
maybe I’ve taken his demonic virginity,
what the fuck is this night, I’m so drunk,
stumbling around in stilettos and swill,
Belial is playing some Kurt Cobain jam,
Asmodeus’ acid green eyes play poker with
Shedim breast, the Seirim are horny goat
dancing on the tabletops, Satan is trashed,
moreso that usual, I’m wasted beyond belief,
why I begged to be here is beyond me,
Hell is Hell because of other people,
and all the archdemons grate my nerves,
so I stumble out the door, into night,
I’m not sober enough to deal with devils,
and I could never hold my liquor, best
not to fuck anything in sight, better
to not fool around with Death, and shit,
exorcise the cum off your hands, girl.
You’ve been stained since you were born.
Demons are a major fad amongst Millenials. No longer do we bind them inside a circle inside a square inside a triangle, instead we watch hit TV shows like Lucifer and Supernatural, devour paranormal romance novels teeming with devils and angels, hang out with Goetics and make them into memes, and my favorite, actually be stupid enough to trust them. Many pagans and Luciferians, Satanists, occultists, and demonolators work with or worship demons as if they were something to aspire to be, beings to be friends with or learn from, endless wish machines that can be granted after a single summoning, and by god, some even think they have morals.
True occultists know demons best belong inside summoning circles, bound and fettered, and any respectable Satanist will tell you Satan is a dangerous being whose flames are just as tender as they are deadly. Luciferians admit Lucifer’s light can be freezing, that Lucifer can be calculating and use you for his own gains, seeing you as a pawn, and many serve him well. But I want to dispel the ridiculous notion that demons are somehow innocent or will make an exception to treat you and only you with love while they Lourdes Possession it up with everyone else and abuse the shit out of humans.
Demons are not nice. Demons are not your friend. Demons are fucking dangerous. I say this as a human that is extremely close to the Chief of Satans, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lilith. Demons are horrifying. Demons are smarter than a billion Einsteins combined. Every move they make serves their own interests, and if your motives align, then great, but if you cross them, you could literally end up dead. They are capable of physically manifesting, moving objects, fucking with electricity, and even possessing you against your will and making you harm yourself. Satan comes disguised as an angel of light, but beneath that gold veneer is rot and the abyss and madness. The Left Hand Path is obviously a valid path, but you should never trust those spirits that initiate you into it.
I don’t care if they call you family. I don’t care if they say they love you. Demons are incapable of selfless love, all they do is covet, and you would be an idiot to think you could make them a better person. I think I get along so well with demons because I know exactly what they are: the shadow side of God, dwellers in the abyss, severity and monstrosity and cruel teachers whose energies can drive you howling to the mental ward, or too an early grave. Demonic energy corrodes, demons prey upon the innocent, from Malphas’ documented abuse to the worst of them all, Samael, who I have watched countless people fall victim to, and if unlike me you don’t have a basic mastery of shamanic journeywork and are unable to fight back astrally and blow them to smithereens, you don’t stand a chance. Even my approach is flawed. Demons feed off fear and anger, and while murdering my abuser might make him go away for a night, he is Death, he is immortal, and in the end, he only comes back stronger.
Stop treating demons as if they are humans. They are abominations. Lilith is not a feminist goddess. She is the mother of infant corpses and abortion, and the original definition of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Lucifer is not hip and sexy, he’s calculating and cruel and will do whatever it takes to achieve his means. Asmodeus killed all of Sarah’s husbands but one, and Tobias had to get the angel Raphael himself to bind him. Goetics are even less constrained than the archdemons, and everything they ask for or give comes with a price, and if you don’t properly pay them, they may demand blood, servitude, or your soul in Hell. Hell is a very real place and for as beautiful as it can be to the favored few, it is rivers of blood and cesspools of wailing damned and endless torment for the unfortunate masses of the Damned.
You may be a demon’s plaything. They may take a fancy to you for a year, a decade, a lifetime, but immortals grow bored, and if your soul is not demonic to begin with you will end up stained, strained, corroded by the black acid of the void. It’s the new trend now amongst witches to befriend demons, it’s hip to be a Satanist, but what kind of power are you really worshiping? The absence of love. Chaos. Cruelty. Pure evil.
I can never get the two decades of my life back swimming through night waters, drowning in hellfire, and perhaps I’m a sacrificial soul but I fought and bled for my freedom. Sometimes there is no escape, and we must make peace with our demons, for they are in many of us, but that does not mean we have to delight in them and befriend them. Some of us shine brightly with love and positive energy, and they come flocking to us to feed. You are nothing more than a shiny platter to feast on, and thank your god if you are not their victim. Just because I’ve only been abused by Samael doesn’t mean Asmodeus hasn’t left a hundred girls mad or Beelzebub hasn’t terrorized men into death’s door. Demons are capricious like the fey, but unlike the fey they do not have rules. There are no four leaf clovers that will ward against them, if they truly want to they can break through the wards of the Archangel Michael himself, and they will laugh at your crosses and prayers and drink your holy water as a palate cleanser.
So how do you fight back, if you happen to fall to their attention?
Stop being their fucking food source.
Establish connections with Yahweh, the gods, angels, Buddha, your ancestors – any positive spirit that will bring you safety. Immerse yourself in the real world, in healthy friendships and relationships, in baking and swimming and movie nights and your blood or adopted family. Focus on school, your job, and fuck the spiritual stuff. Anything that harms you is not your friend. Demons will not benefit you in the long-term. The minute I cut Samael out of my life and trashed his altar and wedding ring, I got a $20,000 scholarship and huge stipend. He is still a parasite, but now I have a spiritual community and gods and angels on my side to deal with him. I still can’t find any justice as to why I was left alone with him from the age of two to twenty-four, but I think the gods only gives us what we can handle, and yes, Satan can give you the world. He still loves me – as much as he is capable of coveting that he can never understand, beauty and love and truth and life – everything he is not, and he will always try to do best by me in his own twisted contorted asshole mind, but I don’t need to play nice with him anymore. I don’t need to placate the Devil. I have mastered Choronzon and shown him love and crossed the abyss, the Babbler in the Void is silenced, and now I am on the shores of enlightenment.
Don’t make my mistake. Don’t think you can dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and come out clean. You’ll hang from Sephiroth and end up a Qliphoth whore. I was never given a choice in who raised me, who my first memory was, and perhaps the sins of a past life brought Samael upon me, but I am kind, I am just, I am a good soul, and I never deserved his abuse and rape and pedophilia and mind games and cruel words and psychosis all because I refused to be his. He drove me to the mental ward at 19 because I refused to marry him and continued to torment me for four years until I said yes.
I may never be able to make him go away, but I can warn others. Put away the Ars Goetia. Don’t invite a demon over to be your new best friend. Don’t buy a spirit companion and think an incubus will be your ideal romantic partner.
True love is of the earthly plane. Demons may seem strong, but they are weak to the truth. When you love yourself, they vanish nearly completely.
Be strong, and never make a pact with something that only causes you pain.
There is bone china between us, chamomile secrets
the snake is not supposed to be in chiffon and silk,
but she wears it like a skinned angel, wings, halos
cut to form a necklace for moon-pale neck of beauty.
I am in lace and blue embroidery, Virgin to Whore,
Sophia tells Eve all the secrets of the cursed Garden
how an Archon of Wisdom and Angel of Conception fell
Mother became Monster, and I hold her hand as tremble
spill of tears sully an ivory gown, Night Howler hair
writhes out like snakes, and sometimes her skin poisons
me into fevered stupor, but our lips lock in desperation
both prisoners of the Devil but his masters all the same
to be woman and myth and exiled from grace means shadows
of Eden will draw spine-tingles from desert dreams, she
tests me, rests me, confesses to me, she is ablution,
corruption, my Terpsichore, my one vision of moon maiden
and we dance in a grove in Hell that is sick with roses
bend and turn until we are oblivion, Maiden and Mistress
her beneficence flows in equal measure with her cruelty
and when the orchestra in the reeds hums evening down
we embrace and thirst after tongues and poisoned saliva
I drink her milk and know the sweetness of Styx waters
Lilith is conundrum, the Source, the Deep, the Omega of
all men’s temptations, but she is my sister, so we fly
through Sephiroth up to the outer boundaries and nest
as Zu birds in a cradle in the branches, prey and hunter
find balance as Paradise’s breeze sways our dreams aloft
I am lost in the Queen of Hell, and her lap is my altar
I will praise her and curse her, and when she soars away
I will rage, I will rage, I will rage.
Naamah, slender-ankled, with bells in your hair
you dance with a cymbal and summon old regents,
they sway to your lilting damnation and wish for
crimson lips and black curls to strangle, tangle.
Agrat bat Mahalath, the Night Howler, you rage
in a cage on a stage, braids like poisonflowers
you are desert storm and sandstone immortality
mistress of burning wind, you cry out for death.
Eiseth Zenumin, pretty cobweb queen, black widow
my end is your comb, fluttering between eyelashes
you pluck butterflies and crunch them, melodious
snap of antennae, monarch pains, birthing pangs.
Lilith Breakneck, queen of all courtesan angels
your throne is Samael’s lap, your whip abortion
infant corpses your throne, a gaze just like stone
I lose myself and perish on your breasts, alone.
Lilith’s body is in the branches, her roots
coils of a wooden snake wrapped round Eve
it all starts with a Woman and a Tree, bark
the dark of the Mother of Monster’s skin,
her hair black as rue at midnight, greendark
Eve is always gold, hair brass, skin like sun
she lays like Aphrodite in her bower of grass
body curved in comparison to Lilith’s sharp
collarbone and ribs, Eve’s breasts heave as
Lilith probes her veins, snakes of bones all
tremble as the women join, it is a shadowbox
of two women trapped in each other, and I look
at the past of humanity and demon’s mothers –
Mother of Life, Mother of Abortion, clashing
in this diorama that Samael shows me in dreams
the dead are at the door, the Lilitu and corpse
children of Samael and Lilith, and I am New Eve
barricaded behind a door in a worn library, my
lover my monster, my past trapped behind glass
the Evil Queen sent her brood to bring me back
to her, and the Devil always hands me over to
his Queen, so I just laugh at how desperately
Lilith and Samael cling to a woman who does not
want them, blue languor eyes glance bone skin,
the bruise black Lilitu come, eviscerate me, I
am always breaking for the two of them, spilling
jewel guts for the King and Queen of Hell, and I
gave up asking after Lilith’s lips long ago, how
she is both Mother and Childless, Queen, Pariah –
but the shadowbox my corpse clutches to her breast
tells a different tale, of a simpler time, a quiet
temptation under the shade of an apple tree, with
a snake, a tree, a demoness, and an overcurious girl
who never learns not to kiss enemies who always end
up being the death of her, a sweet death, one that
tastes like the dregs of red wine, my blood fountains
Samael and Lilith both search through my viscera for
answers, but I never give up my secrets, no matter
how many daggers and scythes they dig into me, and
to be honest, I enjoy dying to wake out of dreams,
for at least when the Reaper truly comes, and Black
Madonna of Hell sings a lullaby, I will be all ready
to follow them down into Gehenna, to burn, smolder
and finally learn what drove demons to covet mortals.
I dream I am in an intergalactic battlefield in a far outpost of space, Samael the leading commander of a legion of demon aliens. I’m a spy, with a laser gun and sleek gray uniform, and I show no mercy. My friend is a star-crossed lover with a reptilian alien who is a thinly veiled Lilith, and her skin is poisonous to the touch. She has long silky black hair, green scales, and is part serpent, with yellow slit eyes. She is a leading general and their affair is across enemy lines, he the mad scientist that is trying to bridge the gap between man and beast through proteomics. Zinc oxide forms on a potion he gives me, and the yellow crystals scratch my throat as I drink it, poisoning me only to acclimate my genes to space. The high is crazy, and as my very proteins and genes shift, I feel the rush of interstellar travel slow to a halt.
Battle comes, and the scientist is dead. Lilith weeps, and I go to her distraught side, reaching out to comfort her only to have my hands sizzle. She puts on special gloves so that we can hold hands, watching nuclear bombs decimate a Martian planet, then slips me medicine that will make me able to touch the poison that drips from her skin.
We talk amongst the slain. We wander. Soon, we are in love, my assassin girl and I the scout, writing letters, only for her to leap into the range of attack before me and die in my arms, a final kiss our seal.
I wake in the astral in Samael’s room and tell him of my strange dream. He is reading a paperback mystery. I ask who the demon was. He pulls out an old dusty photo album with a picture of serpentine Lilith and I holding hands on a sunset veranda, drinking wine, in days when bitterness did not run between us and I was angel, not human. I startle at how whole Lilith looks, madness wiped from her face. We are friends in the picture, and it aligns with recent divination on her I received. She is my surrogate mother in a way, as Samael’s twin, a friend above all else, and memories of our times together in Heaven flood my mind. I reel at the sudden influx of sensations – of her soft hands, of silky hair, and I wonder if the slaughter of her children drove her mad, or perhaps eons in Hell, or if she always had seeds of insanity to begin with.
Later that night I am with Michael. We are in the astral in a breathtaking mix of Greece and London, endless coastline and sparkling blue seas crowned with villas, impeccable statues from Classical mythology, all woven into gardens, with a grand bridge that leads to nowhere. We fly above through cirrus, and he tells me it is the end of the world. We get lunch at a French restaurant, just light fare, and my onion soup is perfect. Tired from our flight and the beauties that persist in the otherworld despite time, I ask who carved the statues. He hints at Michelangelo, but I don’t press, as mortal’s lives in the afterlife are often quite private.
Michael goes inside to order more wine and I pull out his phone. For some reason angels and demons are always a few years behind in technology, or perhaps they just like flip phones and clunky computers. His cell phone has the angelic version of Facebook on it, and I laugh at the thought that angels have a social media network. Curious, I pull up my profile, then find the phone has settings that let you see into the future. I go to the year 2020, hesitant, as Michael comes back out, and the page loads:
“Am I happy in the future?” I ask, cautious.
Michael smiles like sunlight on birchwood. “Extremely so.”
I load a photo of an older me, with longer blonde hair, a bit slimmer as I have shed winter weight. It is the height of summer, and I am sitting on the porch with my father, who is ecstatic. I am laughing like a burbling brook, in a flowing blue top and black skirt.
“What’s happening here?” I ask.
Michael eyes the photo, swiping to see the album. “You just told your father you’re getting married.”
My eyes light. “To who?”
Michael laughs, taking back his phone. “I can’t tell you everything, can I? That at least should be a surprise. You always snoop around on my laptop or phone while I’m away. Curiosity will be your downfall, but it is still a virtue, and it will also save you.”
I blush. “Sorry, I can’t help it, angelic tech is so weird. I can’t help but wonder how it works, how you can… see into the future.”
Michael looks down at the tides, which have skipping manta rays and coral sands. “When you remember the future and realize everything is a cycle, that there is no time, then you’ll understand.”
We finish our wine and go walking along the shoreline. The sun sets. Gulls cry. Nymphs and winged Victory cap the moon.
I awake to my alarm, feeling his lips on mine.