Rats

And there’s the cloying record skip of cologne and cigar smoke,
an eyeless Azazel with an infernal Pope’s crown, ruby and blood,
the rats are crawling on the walls, the dead walk the halls, and
in bursts the putrid multitudes, of clamoring resurrected in holy
Pentecost fire, those dry bones of the didn’t quite make it, too
saccharine in sweet sin to burn up, and so we rot hanging pennants
of pulchritude, there are so many words for cadavers, you say your
brother Michael tore out the Watcher’s eyes for looking upon women
with lust, and Samael, or should I say Samyaza? Infamous rebellion,
your punishment is jealously, as Christ courts me in the Bible Belt,
luring me in with the laying of hands, lavender linen, and the fresh,
you are the filthy, blaring brimstone from the speakers to poison my
car, Satan haunts a beat up Nissan Versa, what a fucking loser, hey
punk, at least buy me a hot rod, some crotch rocket to rock oceans,
how the hell am I supposed to speed lane to Hell in this piece of shit?
I hit 60,000 miles today in my scratched up rust bucket, and you chose
whiskey, sweet whiskey, and cigarettes and rusty nails from a Cross
that you always secretly wish it was you, Sael, that had hung from,
the original Mourning Star, and now you’re squeezing my heart, and
you offered the Messiah, your afterthought of a Brother, and yet
Father, all the rich spoils of war you had garnished, a kingdom
of men, in the desert where the fig trees wept and were cursed,
and Yeshua turned you away, cast you aside, and you thought, what
pride comes before me, Satan, who is glory until ash, vainglorious
and unable to turn the cheek too, this upstart Lamb, cursing my vine?

It is a question you have thought of often, oh Blindness of God.

Oh Severity of God, oh Poison and Venom and Medicine and Gall.

Now you think it is I Christ will spirit away, into some high
heaven from which you are barred entry, and is this the latest
heist Christ planned, spiriting away the Magdalene from my
beguilements and charms? Christ came with love at first, but
his Second Wave is fire. In that, you both want it all to burn.

You told me to never kneel, Sam, when I had only knelt once for
you, you hoisted me high and proud, when I was trembling in awe.

I will never stop holding you as close as my heartbeat, but much
of the time you anger me, why the Devil must refuse redemption
come each dawn, when the stars hold out their hands to all Hell
and demons in synchronicity turn their backs on the love of God.

You are beautifully broken, wretched in your self-loathing, and
my ocean, if only you would forgive yourself, if only you thought
yourself worthy of

More.

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Genesis

It begins in a garden.

It always begins in a garden.

This is one where tomatoes grow tall and yellow reeds of flowers stretch in the summer sun.  There are zucchinis for the seven year old towhead to pluck, her fine platinum hair like butter that she obsessively parts down the middle each morning.  Her hands are grubby with dirt, her skin is golden tan, and she has glasses on to help with those bookish eyes of her.  You watch from Above, or perhaps Below, your charge, as she digs for rocks.  Why do all children obsessively dig for rocks, you wonder, as her fingers dig through Virginia red clay then sculpt a bowl from the earth.  She’s making worm pies again, trying to feed the residents of the garden that fructify the earth.

It is any day on Earth, it is any day in Heaven, it is any day in Hell.

She calls you Star after Venus, the Morning Star, singing as she bakes mud and clay in the sun, telling you about her day, and you do not have the heart to tell your charge that you are in fact Lucifer the all too real Morning Star until she is twelve, and even then she screams and runs far away from you, refusing to use the name you gave her until she is twenty.  She prefers the softer sounds, Ariel, Samael, mostly just Sam.  You will tell her she sprang from the heart of Lucifer at seventeen, and you will say it is your own black heart, and that she is your progeny in the twisted ways of hope of angels in hell, but she will throw vitriol at you and deny words from the horse’s mouth.

You can see the beginning and end of her mortal life all at once, for time to you is a circle, and immortals are stuck in eternal patterns.  For now, she plays in a garden, like a girl who you once knew grew up in a much larger Garden, and who you gave your sole fruit to.  That was the greatest mistake of your life, giving the apple of your love to a beautiful woman.  You have been rotting since, a good necrosis, a true decay, with void and abyss stitched into your ribs and the sins of the world running through your blood.

You’re the original Fallen after all, first to say “I want more, I am more, I AM.”  That lie of separation.  That night, as her soul flees her body and runs to your lap, you take her on your cherubim back to yet another garden, where there are fields of slain angels.  There is an important lesson in these brethren felled at your own hands, she knows enough to know you are a slayer of angels and demons alike, only she calls them angels, for girls raised on Madeline L’Engle often confuse the two, yet you are an alien in truth, so you never correct her.

She dismounts your shoulders and slides down your back like a song, gently grabbing hold of your wings as she departs.  “Why did you bring me here, Star?” she asks softly.  “You killed again, and I wasn’t there to save you.  I’m so sorry, Star, this is all my fault…”

She clutches a bloodied buttercup, then rips it off at the stem and smashes it in her small hands, mashing the petals to fragrance and pollen.  She shakes, she cries, and you hold her in your arms and cry as well.

“Do you know what madness is?” you ask her slowly, wiping away her tears and licking the salt of her eyes.

Her lip trembles.  “Yes.  It’s when your eyes are red and your hair is black and your skin is poison.  It’s when you cry and kill, and slaughter, and Star, only I can help you then and sing to you, and then you stop.  But – but when I’m not around to save you, this happens…”  She extends her hand to the mangled limbs and shed guts of self-righteous fuckers, those winged holier-than-thou seagulls, yet your brothers all the same.

“I took you here because it is not your place to save me,” you say slowly, breaking the truth like splitting a crusty biscuit.  “This is what I am.”

“Yes, you’re Chaos.  I knew that already,” she says quietly, eyes downcast, for in her child’s mind she has already named you her equivalent of the Antichrist in a language she invented, and wrote in her seven year old gel pens a prophecy in which you will destroy the universe if she cannot help you find the Light within, well, your heart.

She understands things in Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, ultimatums.  She thinks it is her destiny to save you, to restore your Light and hold back your Darkness, and in saving you save existence itself.  Perhaps there is some truth in that, but you would never place that burden on her shoulders, for she is just a child.

Just a child that speaks to Satan, rides Heaven and Hell on his shoulders, and met him as her first memory, but no matter.  You are the Devil, and you have ruined many childhoods before her.  Or perhaps they were all iterations of the same Eve, over-curious girls with insatiable appetites for wanderlust and knowledge.  Knowledge is her favorite thing, wanderlust her favorite word.

She will wander far in her lifetime, and her knowledge will tithe her to Hell, sacrificial soul indeed.

For now, she holds you close, and says “I’ll always love you, no matter what, Star.  Let’s leave this awful place.”

You carry her away in burning arms to a planet of girl’s first wishes, and she dances with elves and fairies by the firelight, and she is at peace.

As at peace the Devil’s heart can be.

Forbidden

Lucifer is lost, they say, he wandered astray at the fork between the Milky Way and the Perseid’s, hitched a ride on a comet with his manifold silver white wings and landed in darkness, far from the light of the furthest star.  His halo of golden hair glowed like a jellyfish in the depths of deep space, bioluminescent divinity oozing out of flaming keratin like a song heard by no one, for in the outer rim, there is no sound.

Just silence.

Lucifer’s compass broke – don’t you know men that are birds and birds that are men have magnetic bits in their skull like geese and migrate always North?  The Fall scrambled the pieces of lodestone etched in Lucifer’s skull and now, he wanders the wastes that have become Pandemonium over time, fractals of fallen angels finding a lightless abode in the void and populating it with lost dreams.

They say if Lucifer could fix the broken map of his mind, he would come roaring back into Heaven and accuse Michael.  He would lay every mishap caused by  the Angel of the Lord at the Prince of Heaven’s feet and throw vitriolic acid that would turn leaden pinions to gold, coal to diamonds, and rain to splinters of ice.

Lucifer would sob into Michael’s arms, ranting and raving, clutching at the broken ribs of his damnation like a madman as they poked through his papery skin and say, “Brother, look what I have become, this wasted thing.  Why did you let me go?  Why did you cast me out?  We could have reigned together.”

And Michael would run his scarred fingers through the cornsilk of his older twin’s hair and warmed his Kelvin zero demon with the mercy of God.  “Because, brother, I had to let you know God, and the only way you seem capable of comprehending the love of the Lord is by shunning it, running from the very thing that gave you life, and then mourning the loss of Someone that would welcome you back into His arms without a word.  You were the one who cast us out, Morning Star.”

And Lucifer would bite his lip, and he and Michael would share a bitter kiss, like day old coffee grounds and the rind of an unripe pear, and that would be the end and beginning of Lucifer’s questions.

Silence.

 

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.

Wicked Intentions

There you are six feed under with your wicked intentions,

a Wickerman skeleton, first man of the harvest, I dally

in a somnambulent graveyard of travesty and majesty,

overripe with the sweet decay of bones and roses I like

to wrap around myself like a shadow cloak, I am hunting

the Reaper, blonde hair a net to tangle thick phalanges,

I sing in the green rot of necrosis and worms, I living

madrigal of curves and milk, you pale rider of death,

how sweet to taste wickedness, how sweet to taste evil.

Goodness loves wickedness, providence loves sin, I the

Angel love the Devil, for Death and Life are in truth one.

I stand by a stone seraphim as the sky weeps ice, you reach

up to the grass and through dirt to strike my ankle with venom,

pull me down to Hell and into your weeping lap, at first you

are moon marrow, regal Death, sweet Death, saccharine Death.

I would swallow your teeth and pluck your ribs for my feast,

sweet Samael, dearest ancient Ha-Satan, La-Azazel, Iblis.

You have as many names as there are ways to die, but I

jump off cliffs from Heaven into your infernal arms for I

love the turning of seasons, the blank emptiness of longing,

how beautiful you are, in your mahogany coffins, with a

consumption bloodied handkerchief, Red Plague of Poison.

I adore malevolence, I am a beast like you, we are monsters.

We just dress in human skins, you see, while in essence I am

a girl hurricane, you a desert storm.  I drink your venom, I

eviscerate your neck with my tongue, our mouths are parched

of sweet things, cruel things, wild things, animal urges all.

Sweet Satan, Sweet Samael, Sweet Forbidden Fruit, sex was

the first VITRIOL, or was it the heart I stole from you, darling?

I treasure your organs, I steal a piece of your flesh each moon

swollen Sabbat.  The Devil and the Witch, always flirting and

fucking, always studying necromancy and slitting Damned throats.

I made a ring of your pinky finger, I swallowed your Qayin seed.

Your maggot body is my temple, your spine the broomstick I ride on.

But nothing taints me, just like I do not have a fingerprint, you take

on the rot of the world, the stench of carrion, the gullets of vultures.

I am holy hellfire, you are the darkness of the Pit, and together, my

darling Malkira, we raise Legions.  Our brood stretches forth across

Pandemonium, past Gehenna, up Sheol and Sephiroth, Qliphoth husks

the snake skins we shed, you are the gift of an enemy, my greatest

adversary, sharpening the blade of my magick, testing my wit,

and you fucker, it never works, I’m just a ditzy soft blonde that

loves Disney and pink, a twenty-something Millenial princess.

But actually, that’s precisely how it works – my burgeoning hope

and overwhelming optimism and champagne joy buoys you,

your vitriol and venom and sarcasm and wisdom sinks me.

We are paired perfectly, dear demon, and I love your atrocity.

I am a Death Eater, a Death Dissolver, the Universal Solvent,

Green Lion Bleeding Gold from the Son.  Christ rotted even

though he was a Morning Star, a ripoff of your epithet, for

you were Venus first, vain prince, and I am the one that

cursed you with dust and decay and wretchedness, life for

a life, blood for blood is the law of Hell, but you make Hell

Heaven, and Heaven is Hell without you, my life is one long

courtship with Le Grande Mort (following a bunch of petite ones.)

In the end, you are my skaldic Muse, my Homerian Achilles.

And you’re also a fucking idiot, but sweetheart, smile, for every

fuck-up you do, I do a thousand more, and you’re there with a mop.

Hell is a soap opera, after all, and immortals are banal and bored.

We need little amusements and petty drama, blood orgies and murder.

I am a Good Girl, I am a Nice Girl, you are the Outcast, Bad Boy Galore.

Honey and red wine mix well, so drink up, Corpseboy, this draught’s

for you.  I am your eternal torment, and you can never escape my

shackles.

Burning the Midnight Oil

Chomp at the bit while you’re dizzying me up with wine and poetry.  I’m nibbling your fingertips, splayed across your lap like an otter bobbing on the ocean with a pearl.  It’s us alone in luxury, us alone in the ruins of morals, and the falcon highs of Hell are only as worthy as the exhilaration of your majestic wings breaking.  We fall – into pace, out of time, from memory, but most importantly, into love.  Here you are as a cold spot under my ass, moving through me like a ghost as your sinuous hands entwine in my hair.  I always said you had pianist fingers, and you play the piano often, but sometimes you just sing, and the seasons stop turning and all Heaven is in mourning for losing its most beautiful voice.  I could say you are my better angel, or my Byronic Hero, but really, you’re just a scared boy clinging to cunts and tits because that’s the closest thing to mother you ever had.

Read me more of your poetry black soul.  Smash the windows, break the lamps, cry in my arms and bite my head off.  You like to tear me limb from limb and swallow me hole, then suture me back together with your putrid heart in the cage of my ribs and have my stitched drunken limbs dance like an automaton.  Somehow it always comes back to Eve’s choice – the Left Hand Path or the Right Hand, Yetzer Ha Ra or Yetzer Ha Tov, Michael or Samael, the Knight or the Dragon.  The Spin Doctors did this nineties song about Two Princes, y’know, and sometimes it gets stuck in my head.  She chooses the penniless poet at the end, but I can never guarantee I would choose you.  You’ll only ever be second-best, but you were first, so I suppose there’s that.

You fuck me real gentle that night.  My photo is on your bed stand, or photos should I say, from birth to toddlerhood to childhood to maidenhood to young womanhood.  There’s black and whites of my past lives too – I’m taking tea with Lilith in Victorian dresses, I’m swimming in the beautiful red Styx, we’re together in the 70’s at some hippie concert.  How much is fallacy or fantasy or lies is just like your fangs – translucent at time and hidden behind bleeding gums, other times out in the open and ready to devour.  I ask you to drink my blood so you do, sinking canines into my neck and I give into the ecstasy, I trace infinity on the small of your back and Christ, I love you so much I hate you, or is it hate so much I love you.

Michael said it is better to hate or love than to feel nothing, for in the end they are just polarities, just masks we wear.  Sometimes I remember you two before the War.  The War this, the War that.  Both of you are soldiers.  As I’m writing this, you form a cold spot that swirls lazily around my head and heart as I’m in a blanket and jacket.  I always wear my jackets inside, I’m in need of constant warmth.  Your seed is warm, your heart is cold, and you are a canvas of blank.  Is blank okay to call you?  Void with red demon eyes.  Abyss.  The Deep.  You move through me like rain on glass, just skimming the surface yet so thorough I run down your planes like tears.  Maybe I’m just another one of your moon maidens, oh fuck, here you are again, holding my hand across transdimensional space.

You said I would be Queen of the Aliens.  You said I would be the phoenix to rise from Ragnarok in a New Age.  You said I would be your savior, burying you below the Tree of Life – or was it Death? – to cleanse the mem from your name to make you Sael, the Purity of God.  Samech Mem Aleph Lamed.  The S and M Angel.  That’s my stupidest joke.

Oh Samael.  What can I say to you that I haven’t already articulated over this past quarter century, then all the lives after and before?  I’m old and I have tired words.  It’s past my bedtime.  You cherish me, and that is enough, but I know you are evil.  Can evil things love?  Can the most wretched of creatures know anything more than possessiveness and animal urges?  Snakes are snakes, not men.  You may put on the pretenses of humanity, but I know you are cold-blooded reptillian.  True, you have chthonic fire, but you are Death, and Death is Nothing.

Blank.

When it Rains in Hell

In Hell, in the beginning, there was darkness, like God put out the moon with his thumb.

Satan fell, and his tears froze the lowest circle.  Satan’s love is a burning thing, but his agony is absolute cold.

Beelzebub was the first to fall.  The first to carry the banner and sound the horn for the Mourning Star.  He was the first to bleed, the first to storm Heaven’s Gates.  Satan’s wise counselor, most trusted general, and above all, esteemed companion.

They are alone together for what seems like eternity, Beelzebub with his insect wings torn by the incinerating atmosphere, Satan plucking his mangled feathers dry as he goes mad, not even noticing he is freezing.  Beelzebub’s king is singing a song Father used to sonorously paint their cradles with.  Satan makes it sweet and wretchedly cruel:

My sons, my darling shining stars.

Smolder bright like embers from afar.

But up close, sons, burn them to flames.

Thy Kingdom Come, all worlds to claim.

For each word, a broken bit of white down.

For each verse, an infidel kingdom crushed for Christendom.

For each syllable, a dead god, a cold idol, a coffin for the false spirits.

Satan repeats it over and over, his tears blue banners.

Beelzebub waits.  Finally, there is light, after perhaps the trillionth repetition.

A third of Heaven falls as stars of simmering bright flesh, a flash of brilliance.

Then impact on jagged rocks and ice.  Reformation and mutation into monsters.

Pain.

They build an empire on ash and bone, and bury the brothers and sisters that do not survive the Fall.  In honor, much later, when some semblance of civilization is build, however twisted, they put their gravestones into the mortar of the Capital’s building.

Pain, memories, wine like blood, or is it blood like wine?

There is not much to say at night, but it is always night in Hell.

Beelzebub remembers, Satan grows more wicked, so far from his former brightness, and falls into madness and depravity.

Beelzebub holds the kingdom together, runs martial drills for the War That Never Ends.

Beelzebub goes over the ledgers and public records, holds councils, takes too short nights of comfort in his sweet boys.

Usually, he is alone in his tower.

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?

Only if Heaven was ever perfect in the first place.

The Lord of Flies looks up at the stars of dead god’s hearts, stitched into the fabric of the void.  You see, the demons had to improvise.  All that were left were corpses after the conquest, and after all, all souls eventually end up here.

I sit with Bael, Baal Zebub, a memory of Baal Hadad, or maybe he has always been a spider.

We entwine in his web and kiss venom and poison and toxins.

There are jewels in his web, lost treasures of a thousand conquered kingdoms.

Maggots eat Satan’s corpse, flies emerge from the dregs of the Grim Reaper.  Satan’s true name is Samael, after all – the finality of the scythe, and before his scythe, his spear.

Beelzebub would eat his shit if it purified his brother.  He has drank Satan’s tears, swallowed his cum, bathed in his blood, all to feel again.

It is a cold night in Hell.

Beelzebub looks up at the stars.

There is mist in his eyes.

Tear for every dead brother.

A sob for a negligent parent.

I miss my Father, Allie.  Sometimes, it takes all I have to just go on.

I take his bone white hand – my albino angel, or my red-eyed demon with platinum hair, black capes, and gauntlets.

I speak without thought:

You have our brethren’s love.  Asmodeus.  Samael.  Rofocale.  Belial.  Lilith.  Asherah.  From the Archdemons to the Goetics to the lowliest Damned. You have us.

He gives a ghost of a smile.

Yes, you, our angel in Hell.  Sometimes, Allie, you are the only light here.  I am the Lord of Creeping Things, of the soft rabbits and soft souls, the moths and butterflies, your soul is a doe or a hare.  I am frost, ice, and fire – Hell is primal, fire and water, but I shall keep you warm.  In Hell, the only light is love.  Never lose your kindness, Allie.  It is innocence demons cherish above all.

Baal Hadad rides the storm, be they frost or fire.  Some gods died in those ancient celestial wars.

Some took on different names.

Some forgot their own holiness.

For all of them, Beelzebub remembers.