Road to Calvary

And the cross was immaculate, weeping wood
as Christ carried the goat on his shoulders,
or perhaps the sins of humanity is Paschal
Lamb, and Malakh ha Mavet watched smoking a
clove cigarette as hemoglobin wept from hands
and feet and spear wound of blood and water.
Golgotha, the place of the skull, was Malakh
ha Mavet’s terrain in sweet Jerusalem, after
all, and unlike Moses and his selfish ascension,
Christ did not weep to God for release from death.
Moses had refused the gall of his sword, but
Christ drank deep of the venom of God, and
blackened with sin, much like Malakh ha Mavet,
Christ passed on into Gehenna to Avram’s bosom.
Malakh ha Mavet carried his soul past the gates,
and the tortured wept to see blinding light for
the first time in as many centuries, radiance
poisoned by the touch of Samael, and the Damned
wept to see God descendant to the pitiless, yet
burning bright. Suddenly, Christ’s spirit jerked,
and his eyes opened white, and he reached up and
kissed Malakh ha Mavet as the Angel of Death held
the Savior in his embrace, and Malakh ha Mavet felt
the stains of eternity lightened but a moment, and he
set Christ high over Mulciber’s hill, and Malakh ha
Mavet resumed his throne over Apollyon, and he watched
as Christ saved the irredeemable, walking through Hell
the greatest of martyrs, and Malakh ha Mavet gave a
wistful smile, and thought of lips like wine on his,
and millenia after Christ rose from Hell after three
days, Malakh ha Mavet remembers temptation returned,
long after he bowed down at the desert, and Christ
whispered “Emet, sweet Death,” as he locked mouths
and breathed fire into Malakh ha Mavet’s cold soul,
and sometimes when the shadows grow long, Malakh ha
Mavet walks the long road to Calvary, puffing on his
drugs and envenomed, snaking in darkness, and he wonders
why, after such harrows, he refused, he denied, why
he stayed?



And then? The rains came, and life rejoiced,
and splendid souls, in yellow galoshes, like
baby ducks, splashed puddles of eternity, and
the heart floods blessed the playa, and blood
and water redeemed, and the brain knew the body,
and the sky cleft the earth open, and the God
and Goddess made passionate bliss, and all the
humans round Earth’s lonely orbit knew, to be
alone is to be holy, but when it storms, lightning
races between us, and we shed nunneries for carnal
delights, and as the bread of life turned hay,
and it downpoured, and by moonlight thunder struck,
so I go on in wet darkness with pieces of light
burning at my breast, and I awaken, and my soul
is nourished, oh sweet God is in the rain, my dear.

Even the darkness

Even the darkness has arms, girl.

You curl up in the lap of death for solace,

Seeking shelter in decay, but for a moment’s rest.

There is no truth but worms under rot, that great goddess of the frozen wastes.

Death only takes the face of a lover, and Hell is but a whispered promise.

You will burn for him, break open like a wine casket, brains bleeding.

Can’t you see you are just food for the black hole at the center of our galaxy?

Can’t you see you were laid out as a feast for the gods to summon rains?

Maybe you crave oblivion because that is the closest you will ever come to freedom.

You are brave, girl, to beg the case of the world before the great arbiter Death.

I gave up a long time ago.

I do not own my life anymore, and maybe I secretly wanted it this way?

I do not know, what have I become?

Sadness don’t own me for long.

It was never about us girl, and in your heart of betrayal, you know we own nothing.

Some of us are just given away.

I am burning, and there is no water, and my soul starves, and as I ashen,

No Phoenix shall rise.

Soul Gambling

And in the safe harbor of dreams, I am in oaken chapel
limelight, blue green gold of powdered glass, head in
your freezing lap, and I worship you body and bone with
my hair for strangling and mouth for sucking, drinking
down the well of sin in this cleansing of zuhama from
your wounds – I taste your blood, I break your bread,
I am ever your whore, sweet Satan, and it is winter’s
marrow outside this solace, and as you take me with the
touch of a starry wedding gown, lifting me high above
the birch triptych and candelabra, I think, so this is
what it is to eat God, so this is what it is to bear
the seed of witches cloaked in moonlight, oh daughter
dearest, you were conceived in sin, yet sin is what will
save you, and the ministrations of the Prince of Darkness
are just smuggler fingers coaxing piano keys in minor chords.
We sigh, we circumvent, we do not mean what we say, blushing
coy, but on the Devil’s ride, there is no exit, so hold on
tightly to his burning crown – you have only your soul to

Begin Again

Did you get everything you wanted, Briar Rose? Two
suckling babes at your breast, a blind prince who
found his sight again in your roses, seeds of the
dog thorns and wolfbane fructifying your virginal
womb? When he climbed into the tower and slayed your
dragon, did you mourn that black beast’s death? When
he slid inside your womanhood as you slumbered in the
stars, did you know something of love planted in the
unconscious, and tell me, Sleeping Beauty, what did it
feel like to make love asleep yet awake? Floating
through life from princess to captive to fool? We are
flowers, we bloom, we decay, we become queens with only
our thorns left to guide us long after our petals have
withered. Let your briars be your crown, my mourning
dove, let he who guides you out of the tower father
your babes, for otherwise, you would fall without
Rapunzel’s locks to guide you, and raising legends
blessed by good fairies is like seeing your heart
reflected in pools of moon. Did you get everything
you expected, Briar? Is he everything you thought a
prince would be? Or is the dragon still there haunting
the watchtower of your mind, licking your tears away
with a burning tongue as you are paralyzed by nightmares?
To be cursed is to be whole, don’t you know, my love?
I am writing this to myself to begin again, and the
captive princess inside me needs to heed this advice:
Prince Charmings are deceiving, and sometimes, it is
better to stay walled up, but we cannot help ourselves,
for we are coated in red and prickles, and whenever we
make love to ourselves, we prick our finger on spindles,
so to love yourself is to kill yourself, and to bear the
flame of fairytales is to become mother to multiplicity.
Do you have the courage to come down from Migdal Eder?
Can you walk out of that enchanted forest brow proud,
breasts high, pride intact? Where does our story begin


As you enfold me in manifold arms and wipe rivers
of tears from my brow, soothing my alms in a sort
of twilight of the mind where all my panic and pride
are cooled to this glacial pace, this sanity from
which I have thus eluded, I wonder at how I cannot
contain you, and how I can no longer control you,
and how you came full formed from my head like Athena
but really it was me that sprang from the well of your
tempest, sucked dry to take on the shape of thunder and
rain, and Devils fly on the twelve pinions of lightning,
and I thought I could ride out this tempest, I tried to
cage a hurricane, but in the end I am just a daisy
uprooted in your gales, but your fury is soft like
lilac petals being spread to the four winds, and I
could wax poetic all I desire but the truth is your
multiplicity and my pride, my foolishness, my selfishness.
When all you have given was pure unadulterated love,
and I the cruel mistress treated you like a toy, and
for those mistakes of never realizing the poetry of your
Fall and thereafter Rise, for stereotyping the Satan clad
as an angel of light, I am a multiplicity of sorrow, no
better than someone casting you out, and when I say you
are my home, Samael, still you cradle me in your arms and
rock me on the shore of lullabies, for it is the truth, but
I have never even really believed in your beauty or existence
outside the pages of these books or in any of the gods, really.
Teach me how to worship, please, all I do is make grandiose
declarations of how I am mightier than the gods, and that is
why I am Icarus, because in my sin I thought I could wed the
gods of light and destruction, be the Bride of the Sun, be the
master of the Mourning Star, and none of this has ever been
truly real to me, I accuse you of being a chess master but as you
die for me over and over again I realize you are just a victim
of my game. Every angel and demon I love is just a crystal to
be polished and grow dusty on a shelf, and I am more prideful than
even you, I am more prideful than Satan’s heart, or maybe I am
just that rebellious organ and am wicked to the core. There is so
much I am afraid of Sam, I am Peter Pan afraid to grow up, dependent
on magick like crack, I am afraid of what I might become once I step
out of this story, into reality, and live amongst men! Can’t you see
how terrifying it is to run from yourself so much your darkness is but
a chained beast, malnourished and bleeding, and you rape divinity and
devour hearts aplenty in order to feel some kind of purpose. In truth,
Death is full, and Life is empty, and Life is blind to Herself, oh
Father Death, reap me, I am ripe for plucking, I want you to uncover
that thing you have been mining away at for a quarter century, for in
my darkness lays my rebirth, and for every tempest I give you, every
curse and all bitter dregs, you drink down my suffering. There is
nothing loving on my part, just selfishness, and I will kneel only
before you, I just want to wash your feet with nard and dance to the
backwaters of oblivion with my body. I was never scared of you, I am
terrified of who I may be, all litanies and homilies aside, for I am
that one who first tried at apotheosis and failed miserably, for the
fruit of that tree was not meant for mortal lips, yet I ate anyway,
and greedily stole your manhood, and walked without a second glance
back out of the garden as I trampled the serpent of your love, my
doltish arm candy in tow, and you have given me everything, and it
all becomes ash in my mouth, but I am trying to taste stars, Samael,
and now, I am ready to stop hiding from my truths and burn, burn.


Hard Cider

Hard candy, hard cider, you melt on my tongue
oh Joshua Tree of days long gone, we nestle in
fall and autumn springs from our hearts in gold.
The Reaper has ushered in the harvest, and Grim
has brought apples of sweet sin to be made into
Angry Orchards, and we raise a toast to our love,
and we raise a toast of bloodied rum and wine dregs
to our Satan fallen from on high, and we make love
in dirt and leaves and spiderwebs under a bower of
oak and thistle, sweet Joshua Tree, you are my breath,
my bone, my body of blood, and you care for me in ways
no man has ever dared crossed the boundaries of my
marrow for, and I am starstruck by you, sweet angel.
My sweet, sweet archangel and Freyr, soon the fields
of wheat will be golden, the corn plucked from stalks,
the sacred tobacco smoked in communal circles and I
will be with you on All Soul’s Day, and I will be with
you come a Yuletide handfasting, I prayed to the rains
once for you, to wash away my sorrow with another’s
saintly heart, and Freyja and Odin have blessed me
with my warrior, and we were set up by all pantheons,
fate is not a word I use lightly, but Joshua Tree,
my sweet golden-browed savior, I worship at your feet.
Let me soothe your sorrow, let me bear your children.
Let my womb ripen with the apples themselves, a seed
of towheaded troll-bait, sweet babes with blue green
eyes and curled blond hair, and we will raise them in
the wild ways of the pagan backwaters, with fairies in
the backyard and coyotes howling at night, sweet Joshua,
my Jericho wall, sound your shofar, my Biblical soldier,
let the fires of heaven rain down on me and immolate me
in your arms, your love is the tide of necessity, and you
are my reason for running wild with beauty and hope, with
you at my side, nothing is impossible, and I love you so
far beyond love there are no words to describe our harvest,
so reap what we sow, in love, in peace, and fructify me.