Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.

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Pyre

And what passes between Yeshua and Satan is but
a glance of lost paradise, ragged deserts where
the dead shamble on towards the heavenly throne,
the Holy Spirit a sun beating down on Christ’s
skin, yet it does not burn him, but for Satan,
the touch of searing divine love is a taste of
forbidden fruit, and so he sticks to the shadow
of a saguaro (there are no cacti in Jerusalem,
but in Satan’s mind, there are thorns aplenty.)

When Christ lifts water to immolated Satan’s brow,
the Devil is too far gone in remorse to stop him.

And Yeshua washes Samael’s sins, and two Scapegoats
clasp hands in an arm wrestle over souls, harrows
of hell and the narrow path to heaven, there are
road signs on a crisis of faith, and two princes
offer both crowns of razor wire and of rose thorns.

What cross you bear may be sinful, but honey, hold
my wrist, let me guide you on to the blinding light.

We were meant to burn.

Rabboni

“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!

Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Briar

Hosanna, I whisper through bloody lips, I got pummeled
by the riptide of my sorrow again, sweet Rabboni, and
you are far away in some Heavenly Throne, down on earth,
it is cold, and midnight comes to Galilee, with the moon
like a sickle for separating the faithful from the chaff.
Can you hear me, sweet Yeshua? Up there in your starry
abode. I bathed in lavender and myrrh, and Joseph’s coat
of dreams carried my prayers in technicolor up to your
tender hands and rose garden of desires, what obedience
to the ways and means of nature, to hang suspended on a
crossroads between Heaven and Hell, I know well, Satan
calls me whore, but sweet Christ, I would leave all the
ravishings and depravity just to receive your mark on my
scarred brow, I have many bruises and burns these days,
being the forgotten disciple means they paint me wanton
and demonize your Magdalene, Watchtower of God, Zophael,
Watchman of El, I was always a spy, anyways, of swiftest
wing, and they got our story wrong, oh Who is Like God?

No one but You, Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Rose.

Journey of the Hero

Christ rubbed oil into my hair, anointed me
“Martyr,” with his lips like a dove, and the
resonance of the Holy Spirit was a tub filled
with chocolate gold, all melting like bronze,
filling every crevasse of my being – a sacrifice,
I know, I am the tithe to Hell, Icarus Girl
who holds congress with Satan in screaming
hollows on Black Sabbats and wolf moons, what
is the benediction of Jesus when you have
skelerokardia, your heart the definition of
Sin? The chambers rot with necrotic Scapegoat
stains, zuhama slowly spreading through my
veins – Michael speared me through the heart
to cleanse me, it felt like a fiery fist
threading peach poison through my flesh,
sweet yet cursed, the archangel’s fingers
sculpting me into a vessel, I am just a
vassal, just a Galatea these movers of
Heaven and Earth shape into willingness.
Maybe I can run from His Love, but soon
I will go to the pews, repent, and bring
Seven Devils to the Savior’s white arms,
He will kiss my brow and let the demons
become angels again, and the Union of
Heaven and Hell, Heiros Gamos Galore,
will occur, mem dropped from samech
aleph lamed, and I shall wed Sael,
the Purity of God, and I shall wed
the Lion of Judah, the Lamb of God,
but first comes the witchly pyre,
and the trial of science and reason –
paganism, Christianity, Judaism,
these threads of memory and truth
I do not belong in any of the Sephiroth
and the Qliphoth is inhospitable to
yellow canaries in coal mines, so
beyond the farthest boundary of rhyme
I will travel, carrying the weight
of all.

Another Archangel Love Letter

Your staff for the righteous.  Your Bible for the candid skeptics.  Your spear for the nonbelievers.  Oh, the unrepentant masses, but you love them nonetheless.  For every sinner is splendid in God’s love, and your Father is almighty, all-knowing, and to love humanity is to forgive all their silly little flaws.

But me, why, why did you ever wrap me in your arms and deliver me, sweet Michael, pure Michael, good Michael?  You are a priest, you are a poet, a musician and warrior.  Every cathedral reminds me of you, o captain, my captain.  I have only seen you cry once, and it was when I died in your arms, and now you are Crazy Man Michael, with me your cursed raven lover.  Rob Thompson or not, you love Fairport Convention, and we both have a thing about Ireland.  Those saints got it right, you say, building clifftop sanctuaries in your honor because they thought you lightning.  Samael is lava, infernal fire, the sulfur of hydrothermal vents, and you are plasma and starfire and quicksilver thunder.  One cannot exist without the other, and both burn me at night, many times twice at once.

Who carries the cup?  Who watches the watchman?  Who bears the sword?  It is you, savior, Christ yet not Christ, you are the closest to Christ I will ever get, because my faith seems perpetually stuck in Judaism and the Kabbalah, and don’t you know, angels speak Hebrew, but bits of Christianity click, and it only clicks if you are Him.  Closest to fucking God there is, besides the primordial Mother Abyss, Lailah and Sophia and Eve and Chava and Lilith, Jophiel and Haniel and Gabriel, you are the Divine Masculine, I am the Divine Feminine, and you are so close to Gopal Krishna I can taste your blue skin and mantras.

You are eternity, sweet Mikael, and you are legend.

Bride of Christ

And I am cloaked in clouds and the sun’s beaten gold,
radiant in redemption, but under my gown, scars feast
I am the battered soul on the path to Christ, woman
of seven devils who sold herself for cheap beer and
the spark of a stranger’s touch, whoring out all my
compassion until I was a waterless well, and Satan
made his nest in my soul, from sphincter to sphincter
a serpent twined through my guts – but the Savior does
not care about Brazen Serpents – He reached into my
lonely hell and burned away the black, now I am a star
shining above silver seas and walking stairways to
heaven, to those pearly gates where the Bridegroom
awaits, He who washes away sins in Seas of Galilee,
I Migdal Eder, Watchtower of Women, scout, watchman,
when we kiss at the altar after vows of eternity,
green returns to the barren land of my mind, He is
balm to cracked hands dry from working as a slave,
a salve to the sacrificial soul, all my travails
brought me to this one clarion moment – forgiveness
I am unworthy, yet He loves me, so in His arms, I am.