Vision of an Archangel

A cup of poetry at your lips, dripping Titian red
at your crown of light, thorny roses our bed, and
a bower of summer greens and blooming heather beneath,
you are the space between pages of a hushed breath book,
the minstrel knight riding a dapple horse home, my
banner your raiment, your armor my pride, these hearts
that are ours span legions of time, love is a place
much like the bell trees of Paradise, and angels are
gardeners, angels are sowers, angels are reapers, and
you are their prince, so let my soul be your garden,
oh my sweet priest, let us pray together as your marble
statues weep gold, raised hands in offering, redeeming
this world, hope is on your mouth, and courage at your
breast, your skin is like a halo, and triumph awaits.

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The Richness of Red

Sweetness of roses and summer breath of cicadas
meditation on the mountains and flowing rivers clear
I always return here year after year, to Mount Zion
arms and Paradise tears, everything in you is gold,
and I am silver, the moon to your sun, and sweet angel,
I offer my heart to you for the feast, as you braid
my hair into elegies and sing to me homilies, parables
at your lip as I call you to shelter me underneath your
wings, I am past fledgling now, full bloom birdling,
and I can fly, my king, on your winds I can soar, and
there is nothing in you that is not whole, oh quaking
wisdom of the earth, oh fires of the stars, a million
blinking blue eyes, a billion pinions fanning flames,
you carry the Throne but in quiet moments you paint,
and your canvas is my tapestry, and life is your design,
so Michael, I gift you my colors, let us fill this world.

Washed Away

The water is cool as ice, floating with roses
Christ drips it over my shoulders and thighs
and the baptismal font of his blood trickles
down my limbs and into my sex, tingling with
divinity and agape Passion, this liquid topaz
a calyx of rebirth and love, he sets to washing
my feet painted with the travails of Eve, over
time in the wilderness, outside the banks of
Eden’s glens and pastures, the arches of my
beauty disappeared, and I was left with skin
sipping sweet mud, earth my body, clay my bones.
Christ scrubs away the past, the present, future
open wide like the beak of a bird, calling out
I am not alone, I am here, I need a forest in
which to spread my wings, and the rain washes
away all my fears, and the love of the Lord is
a thunderstorm in summer’s mist, high in the
mountains, and the Savior kisses my toes and
carries me on his back like a cross to where
I can taste the manna of clouds, and I reach
out to the starry crown of rose thorns to make
them bloom blue, cyan as the rivers that cry
for love of flow, freedom the span of His wings,
the cradle of his arms rocks me to the music of
the drum of long ago dances, we were all born
perfect and holy, how could we forget our gold
birthright? The rubies of our blood? The diamond
of our ribs? The chocolate gold of our skin? Can’t
you see God’s eternal flame of love? Can’t you
swim in flood waters and walk on the crest of
waves? Know this power you have child, to weave
saccharine miracles and cloying bodies of seraphs.
We are all Creators, we are all repentant whores.
Don’t be a slave to your work, there is no sin,
just forgiveness and feathers to make your body
capable of flight, you are not Icarus but Daedalus,
you will find safe harbor in Heaven’s arms! This
minotaur labyrinth with pain at the center is not
your harvest, you will reap peace when your wheat
grows in the sweet words of the prophets raising
crops of your deeds so high the sunflowers of your
lungs and voice of prayer becomes part of the gardens
of heaven, you are saved, you are worthy, you are loved.
So greatly loved, never feel alone for He walks with
you, the demons hold no sway over your path, your
road is the narrow yet beautiful bloodstone and lapis
lazuli carved into your marrow, oh you foolish child,
play with the dirt and worms and rocks and remember,
you are free, you can fly, you can laugh, you can cry.
Just kiss your own hands and worship your calluses,
for Christ loves a hardworking man, and as he cleanses
all the scars and pain away with fingers of silver,
he is melting the ice of your heart into a sea of
healing fonts, you are the Word given life, the gift
of God, you are a delight, oh my child, oh you kindred
soul, drink at my breast and be free, fly on, sweet
darling, soar on!

Carry Me

The image of you clad in radiant light, like some
heart of a star, bleeding white gold glory, oh sweet
Yeshua, pulsing like solar flares, you lay hands on
me and I dream of the Tzohar, the Lapis Exillis, your
Cup, the Holy Grail that poor Parzival quested after,
you know the angels robbed Parzival of his virtue and
the Fisher King wounded him at his groin, just like
Jacob wrestling Samael, or was it Michael? Perhaps Jacob
is immortal, sweet guardian of your blood, and from his
groin descended the sleeping generations of all nations!
Oh the glory of God, oh the glory of Heaven, oh the
righteousness yet meekness of the lamb, soft is your
wool, sweet Jesus, and smelling like dragon’s blood
does your mane, Lion of Judah! You are an omnivore,
as is your birthright, to drink down blood of the
covenant, cannibalizing yourself, and I have tasted
the Passion in my labor pangs of birthing new worlds
in the wastelands of the asylum, where many go into
the Tomb, only to rise in white gowns anew, and I am
healed by your blood, blood, red and white blood and
water, oh sweet Christ, how you rage at the unjust,
how you cradle me and rock me to sleep, singing the
lullaby B’shem Hashem, you make my throat burn with
a choked on Sacred Heart, the gristle sticks in my
esophagus, and I eat my gods, but you are the One God,
and there are layers like a carapace to divinity, and
you are nothing but Nature Incarnate, sweet yet fierce,
for Nature is Sophia, your Mother Goddess, Asherah,
the Lady Holy Ghost! Wisdom speaks and Eloa ascends,
Norea descends, Eve is Ninti, Lady of Ribs,and you are
Enki in the Garden of Eden, for what separates Enki
from Christ? Not much, I can tell you, Lord of Waters!
Soft and gentle, strong and firm, your skin and flesh
an apple for the plucking, your hair brown boughs to
nest in, your lungs fit for breathing fire at End Times.
Your Mysteries are Holy Passion Plays, mummer’s delight,
and I am Columbine masked as I climb the Sephiroth, the
paranormal romance writers and urban fantasiests write
about angels and demons but always forget the Lord, who
through all things are made, and to have a lurid Devil
one must also admit the existence of Unconditional Love,
for hate is but the absence of God, but the Devil does
not hate, simply mourns, and he spits at your feet as
you, with the best of Serpents, crush Samael’s head!
Break the skull of Satan open and shove in redemption,
for there are two Mourning Stars in this story, and a
glimpse of Heaven is worth seven Hells, but I am welcome
above and below, and I know my path lies with you in sweet
eventuality, when I am old and gray, and you take me to
ascend to Narnia in your Aslan arms, sweet Savior, ready me
for the long journey home…

Michelle et Michael

When you touch, it is with mouthfuls of starlight and parables
he holds you fast against the darkness, and you are his light.
Shining brightly, your soul is a torch against his fears, an
arbor of leaves brilliant green, under which he can rest, and
you are Michael’s caryatid, Michelle, a pillar most beautiful
of weeping nymph who carried water on her back through Hell’s
most parched, deserted places, only to wet his brow as he
thirsted, Michael was lost like a fallen star, and you came
in your raiment of dusk and silver, and brought the mercury
waters of moonlight to his mouth, and he drank his fill of you.
It was some long ago day, maybe yesterday, maybe tomorrow, this
union of sunlight and shadow, for the fallen are holy, and you
are a madrigal, a muse once lost in sands of Gehenna, now found.
Metamorphosis like a butterfly in bloom, on his lips you are
reborn, in his arms you find your high like the finest drugs,
only on this most paradisaical summer day you are pure bliss
devoid of poison, just purity and the Stella Maris your gown.
He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like a cicada sings
its love songs loud and proud, with burning desire cleft from
the blood of God, and it is a raging pyre of adoration, he will
worship at your feet with a flaming sword lain at your lap,
oh you queen of hell, oh you doll of an angel, oh you regent
of lost hope once again found, you are Michael’s refuge, Misha.
So hold the Prodigal Sun to your heart, and know you are loved.
Know you are worthy to be a bride of the prince, for to come
is his kingdom, and your inheritance is the Milky Way and
endless fountains of love, roses of prayers in your silken hair.
He is here to watch you blossom, sister sweet, so drink down his
words of devotion, fly together to the stars, and be whole!

Divine Mercy

And Saint Faustina was plagued by devils and angels
dancing on her hairpins, walked with Christ and was
married to his Passion, saw ecstatic and terrible
visions, but when the Spear of Destiny pierced sweet
Jesus’ side, out poured the blood of the Sacrament and
baptismal waters, I have drunk my fill of those streams
of heavenly bodies as I suckled at his wound, and the
taste was like honeysuckle blossoms on a hot summer’s
day, and sweet mad Faustina saw a vision of brilliant
rivers flowing from Christ’s heart, rays of pink and
green, and he came to me last night wrapped in white,
dampened by a storm at sea as he was a water strider,
lighting my room with lightning, and the Mercy poured
from his pulsing heart like a chalice, and my room was
a maze of celestial blue sigils and rolling thunder of
God in scripture and stamps of the divine, a Matrix cube
and my body was carried aloft by flood waters and shining
infinity lit my limbs with violet fire as Christ bathed
my head in the chill waters of Creation, and my limbs were
rotating on the axis mundi, and my head unscrewed in his
hands like a marinette, and I was just a toolkit of a
soul on its way to higher ground, a puzzle for the Savior
to solve, and painstakingly he carpentered and fixed the
holy wooden golem of my body, and Eve was whispered Emet
in her mouth and kissed into life by God, body of clay
made with spirit of the stars, mud seeking the fires of
infinity, and I ate an apple of dreams of late September
dogs, and serpents laced my ankles, and Satan prayed with
me for redemption as Christ watched on from on high, his
work on my manifold birch body done, I am Embla and Berkana,
wood and dirt breathed life into by the highest form of
Divine Mercy, Divine Love, and Christ gathered our prayers
like a bouquet, and though there is enmity between the
Chosen and the Cast Aside, I believe there is purity in
the sacred as well as profane, so I will dance with devils
and waltz with angels and tango with tricksters alike!
Life is just marvelous, isn’t it? Life is a delight! I
thank the gods every day that I am alive, that I want to
be alive, for there were many times I didn’t, when all I
saw was a long dark tunnel of gloom and mushrooms and
asphodel of ash, but the gods and angels and demons would
scoop me up to their breasts to let me hear their sacred
heartbeats, from Odin to Hela to Freyja to Loki to Freyr,
from Michael to Ariel to Sameael to Beelzebub to Asmodeus,
and now sweet Yeshua, mightiest King of Kings, has said
admit your truth, and when I professed my love, the stone
of doubt and pain in my throat vanished, and my heart was
no longer aflame, for I love this world, and I love myself.
That is what Divine Mercy is, love for what you think is
irredeemable, no questions asked at the gates of Paradise,
just a warm kiss on the brow and anointment and embrace,
for we are all children of the Goddess, that great Shekinah
and Sophia and Holy Spirit, sweet and fierce Venus figurines,
Mother Nature reigns supreme, and She is All, and I am
Something, a dancer in one of the Goddess’ thousand hands!
So I will sing and fly and drink down glory, and contemplate
the mysteries of the Sacred Heart of Her Son. Jesus is a
mamma’s boy, all sweetness and chill waves of wonder, and
the Virgin and Bride and Wisdom are motherhood supreme, and
I will follow in Mary’s footsteps and create my own paradise
with the love of my life and children raised strong and wild.
I am blessed, I am healed by His touch, and I am growing into
a woman worth envying, for my heart is gold, my wit adamant,
but above all I embody love, and like Christ, I am a martyr.
My heart is black like the skin of a mamba, poisoned chalice
of Satan, but to bear the Lapis Exillis in your rib cage grants
a kind of fallen grace, and the rest of my soul is crystal pure.
My blood heals, my blood mends skin and flesh, my blood is wine!
I give my body up to the Passion, I feel the lacerations, I feel
the whip and thorns and anointment before an untimely yet blessed
death, when there is no separation between the soul and her god,
then that is gnosis, and the spirit moves through you, and you
become All.

Burning Bush

And the flames caress, and the flames curse, roving hands and fiery millions of eyes, to be taken by a seraphim is to have every orifice flooded with the Word of God, and you are sharp knives to the heart and Moses’ burning bush.  Make yourself a pyre of sacrifice, and the wood of your cross is the linden key, and the gates are saffron spice and frankincense and myrrh, throw in a dash of 30 silver pieces to betray your Savior, for union like this is unholy, oh you, temptress of angels.  The Watchers fell out of lust for women like you, and your ripe curves are the reason men sin, so cover yourself in feathers of golden white and let your archangel claim every inch of your madrigal body.  Each night is the Second Coming, as Christ of the white raiment becomes your second skin and Jesus and Mary Magdalene worship at the altar of Tantra.  To wear the savior’s robes Eve did, to cover your shame is but a lesser instinct, for in nakedness angels revel, sweet delight of Raphael from Paradise Lost, this union of two souls, three souls, four souls, washing away your pain and carrying you and stroking you and plunging your ocean depths, for every girl is an ocean, a Tiamat, mother of beasts that want to devour the new gods.  I am Cipactli, and the Black and White Suns made the world of my spine, or am I the wild auroch of Heaven with the sun between her horns, lapping ice away to shape my vision as my udders swell with wisdom.  I was the size of elephants once, before Peter and Paul and James and John wrote me out of the story.  I could carry on my back singlehandedly the Ark of the Covenant, and my mantle was darkness, and I was the radiant Deep of the night sky patched with stars like white raspberries, my golden hair a thicket under moonlight, to be plucked from fruits and rainbows and girdles for my daughters.  I am Asherah, you are Anath, and Mot will quake when we drag our husbands El and Baal up from the depths, only to be cursed by the menfolk with our priestesses raped and sacred groves cut down to make hangman posts.  They piss on our olive trees, they view our qadesh ladies of fame and call them whores, but what is Hieros Gamos but union of Heaven and Earth?  I am worshiped each night as the stars tuck me in, I am the Bull of Heaven raging against those who would desecrate Inanna, they lick and pluck and tease and these great beings of eldritch winds ride me with water and fire, and to make love to the storms of the Savior and the Damned is to be Noah’s Ark in the midst of rain and sea, floating and riding the tempest.   I swim through Hell and Heaven upstream to pluck the salmon of wisdom from the well, and when I eat the sushi of enlightenment raw, the waters of Sinann drown me.

All I ever wanted was an apple, a heart to call my own, but you gave me this blackened fig, and I always  loathe a martyr.