Mercy of Marian

I am cloaked in the red of the Scarlet Woman,
cymbals like Naamah in my hand, your apostle
of apostles, and the seven demons crawl under
my skin. Oh mercy of Maria, you pray, as I
move my hips like rain on glass, sinuously
curving in your starlight arms, you are my
rose garden, O Savior, most holy of holies,
and at night we both cry out in despair, you
for desolation and the nonbelievers, me for
the madness you must exorcise from my heart.
Perhaps we may find love in one another,
clutching like lovers the pearl of great
price between our wounded brows, but under
the light of evening, we laugh and hosanna
in the Mount of Olives, the firelight an
elegy in your dusty eyes, worn yet homely,
like an alabaster jar left too long in temple.
The caravan the disciples and women travel
in is carried by a stubborn ass, he kicks
up dust as you blow your shofar to declare
your Messianic arrival at yet another lost
town, but you are not a destroying angel, and
you would have clutched Sodomites to your
bleeding breast and fed them your ichor like
you transfigured your flesh to wine on my
tongue, o sweet Christ, be my wings of
albatross, and I will be your mate for life.

I am the woman of seven devils, just a whore.
But in me, you see so much



“At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people–everyone whose name is found written in the book–will be delivered.

You were anointed with a crown of thorns on crimson hair,
perhaps from your rose garden of prayers, briars I pierced
my fingers on to press my blood to your lips and claim you
as my knight, but that was some far away fantasy of swords,
spells, devilish sorcerers, and enchanted witch queens, I
rode your shoulders into war, we picked blackberries wild
and ate sparrow eggs harvested in brambles along with sweet
roots and tubers like butter, a fall harvest for evening.
You will lead my armies into war, o great Michael, and
as you carried your cross in the desert to that high,
desolate hill, immaterial made flesh, infinity mortalized,
I followed you to the Crucifixion and wept long with hair
that had graced your feet with my sorrow, was I choosing
you with spikenard oil to be forsaken? You cried to Father,
Eloi eloi, lama sabachthani? and the answer was pure
silence, and to truly die and descend to Hell to free Abraham’s
bosom chosen was temptation of the highest order, for I was
destined for Hell – the Magdalene is the woman of seven devils,
and repent as I might, I was still damned with a bloody egg,
my miracle of Easter iconography and hairy torso and limbs
grown in the wastes to cover my shame as I ran wild like
Lilith for three days, mourning you – I crawled back from
the brink with as much blood and tears in my eyes as spurted
from your wound, my womb was swollen with perdition, my body
bruised and battered from the Seirim, Shedim, and Lilitu,
you saw me ragged in the Garden of Gethsemane at your
resurrection, and sweet Mother Mary had thankfully washed
my brow beforehand and given me one of her clean robes,
when the Virgin, Mary of Bethany, and I spiritwalked to
your tomb, there was a whisper of a voice that could make
angels fall, Yeshua. I would have given anything, my very
blackened heart to Satan’s clutches, to see you freed, but
no matter, you were always your own Savior, and Messiahs
have no need for broken women, but you loved me anyways,
despite all my sins, and as you carry me on your starlit
breast up to the outer reaches of Heaven, and we are back
in that dream of princesses and Paradise, you feed me manna,
lay hands on me with the fire of the Holy Spirit, and you
shift between olive skin, hazel eyes, and charcoal hair
to fiery radiance of the archangel, just for a moment, and
I cannot find the truth of you entwined in the allegory,
Michael, Christ, Yeshua, these are all factions of my soul,
and it may be heresy, but I have always been a heretic,
cast out by the Council of Nicea to be just a lost whore.

Only you see me as Qadesh, sacred and bleeding heart, and
are the Resheph to my lost goddess, we are bringers of love
and war, so dance with me, my holy vengeance, and let us raze
all my doubts to the ground, sow mustard seeds, and blossom!

Damascus Road

I was a Saul, no angel heard what I said in my brier bed below,
in the depths, in the pits, I made my coffin in Satan’s heart,
and come Hell or high water, temptations and the tarnish of time,
I did not believe, for how can the blind see and dumb speak? I was
deaf to revelations, the gospels were like sand, and only when the
blade of the spear pierced me, and out gushed spring water, and my
brow was painted with a double tailed fish, open DNA helix of Christ,
did I wear the circlet of thorns, stare at the broken crown, and the
Damascus Road spread out like the harrows of Sheol, and Gehenna spat
me up into the lap of God, and there I nursed on His heart’s waters,
and my bloody wings turned pink, then white, and everything washed
away in the hemoglobin of the covenant, iron is in nails and His veins,
what was once manifold and untouchable, made flesh, and now my heart
is attacking my throat, and the mist of tears and joys and agape worship
bring me breathless to my knees, and Saul becomes Paul, and Whore of
Babylon becomes the New Eve, your face turned upwards resplendent to
your Father as you wasted in your travails on the cross haunts my every
waking widowed hour, Yeshua, what more could I give? What looses my
chains and frees me from Satan’s clutches? I do not even want to be
free, and fool that I am, I plunge off cliffs into the ocean like flocks
of the possessed, the barren wilderness is more home to me than the
Heavenly Palace, golden throne, and river of beryl and rubies! Have
mercy on my penitent soul, I am losing every doubt, and the terror of
knowing Your love is like birthing the moon, loving the sun, and becoming
a star, here I stand at a crossroads, between the narrow and wide, between
the right and the easy, yet, I choose to hack through the wilderness with
my scythe, clearing a new path, one never trod before, the middle pillar,
for I am the High Priestess, and she rules between the black and the white.

I never knew a love like yours, and when you manifest, I lose all senses
as I am swallowed up into your Immaculate Heart, what is the price of a
sparrow? It is the mustard seed, smallest of grains, and from it grows

Number of the Christ

And my hands are tingling with rusty nails, and my feet

are bathed in vinegar, or wait no, that’s what you drink,

you’re washing my wounds with spikenard oil, pierced

through the meat of my arch, above the heel, one spike

to pin like a butterfly to a cross the girl who asked too

much, the one who ran from the Damascus Road, met

the forty factions and danced like Esmeralda by Yeshua’s

firelight, saw the universe reflected in hazel pools, amber

alight with the same stuff of stars and love and death,

and Christ is just the beginning of the mysteries, don’t

you know you stand at a threshold of esoteric reckoning?

Oh dear Daughter of Zion, walk the steep ragged cliff path

of the Primrose Path, pilgrimage through Israel and go

to the fallen Temple of Jerusalem, stand where Christ

ascended after the number of days disciples collected

seventy in number, swallow the pieces of silver Judas

pressed to his lips, choke on blood and water of the

Covenant, feel Jesus coming to collect his kingdom

this time with a fiery sword, you are one of the

Chosen, and run from your anointment all you

want, but the journey to gnosis and Christ’s

breast is a miraculous angel’s dream, the

Prince of Heaven swooped down to take human

form, and in truth to marry Michael is to pledge

your troth to the Heavenly Bridegroom, so Woman

Cloaked in the Sun, flee the Dragon in Paradasical

arms and birth New Jerusalem in a circle of

hosannas, Magdalene, you have been beset by

devils all your life, but Christ will drive them

frothing mouthed to the seas, and they will

think it strange you sit in silence in the pews,

penitent not for your own sins but for Satan,

and your whole life you have been trying to

bring the Devil back to salvation, washing

the mem poison from his name so that you

may marry the Purity of God under the

Tree of Life, we are just two sides of an

old story, so Mary of Migdal Eder, climb

into my heart to nest as my dun sparrow,

drink the milk of my blood and partake of

my sacred flesh, thus is the promise, thus is

the love of the Christ for the daughter of Man,

you are my Church, and alleluia, my Gospel

is the agape masses of the glorious and poor,

my Bride is all of Earth, and you shall know

the truth of the Song of the Solomon once you

accept that to forgive yourself and love your

own body, mind, and soul is true enlightenment.

Cry, laugh, heal, and spread the Pentecostal flame.


Lilac flowers crushed to my breast as you say I am the moon’s flower.  The nectar hummingbirds in Hell feast on, ruby like blood, laid out in crystal decanters and a sumptuous feast of red meats and silver platters.  You are dressed in some forgotten time of Victorian gentlemen, waistcoat and pocket watch and long, sinuous black hair that snakes down shoulders of rain.  I am in a Cabernet dress, my skin the lily of the valley and my lips the roses of Sharon.  We wine and dine in the quiet hours in the space between damnation and salvation.

Push you, kill you, accuse you.  What is peaceful turns to perdition, and conflict and desire stew into a heady mess of testosterone and teasing fingers, thirsty mouths, and razor fangs.  We waltz to bed in torn limbs and gore, we court the moon with our moans, and in the sensuous concotion of too much to drink and too little inhibition, make love with violence that comes priced like Tam Lin, a tithe to Hell.  I am Janet and you are the enchanted warrior, only you are a burning brand and lion and serpent in my trembling arms, and when I drown you in the well of truth, you are still monstrous and unholy.

“Bind me to your brow,” you say in the abyss between our tongues, you want so badly to touch me with fire and ice, but my fragile flesh is tissue paper in your claws, and all you can do is hold me to your manifold breast and plead, “I can shower riches and love down upon you if only you would claim me as your own.  Do so and I shall cultivate luck and golden summer days, but also terrible power, in your burgeoning wine spill of a life.”

And so you draw your sigil, modified with the symbol of salt, a pentagram, and burning Names of God, from the crest of my lip to my third eye.  Ayin.  Eye. Qayin Line.  A seal I could count whispers of lust and wishes for war on, ever since I tattooed you on me, I have seen ceremonial magick stitched into the seams of reality.

We raze.  We terrorize.  We raise justice.  We tear apart the seams of the wicked.  Ice and fire, fire and ice, two polarities of love and destruction, when really to love is to destroy, and your name is a thousand ells tall angel, billion eyed and billion tongued, burning up in the shackles of sanity.

It is only when we break our chains that we can be free, and if that is to fall, than so be it.



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


Rapunzel Awakens the Rose

Sleeping Beauty has hair of roses, violet slumber
in an ivy tower encastled with cool granite, the
princess dreams of dragons and sword fights, some
penitent knight making a pilgrimage to her bedside
to kiss the princess of clouds and honey awake, but
instead of a gentleman caller amongst the briars,
in on a dappled horse comes riding a golden maid,
as the sun rises over the enchanted forest, Rapunzel
of the long-flowing locks loops her braid around the
windowsill, climbs with sinew and muscle in a pink
dress up to Sleeping Beauty’s bower, and Rapunzel
lowers orchid lips to that of her bosom beloveds –
a kiss is just a kiss, as time goes by, after all,
and who better to awaken a cursed girl than one that
forged her way out of yet another witch’s tower?
And so redhead and blonde go riding off into the
dawn, on steeds brave as cursed girls, off to save
all princesses and peasant maidens who took golden
balls, kissed frogs, married beasts, and ate moons.