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!

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Push

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.

 

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.

Paschal Lamb

The Paschal Lamb lays down with the Lion of Judah,
and I am mystified by bonfires in the Savior’s eyes.
They dance and flicker like the Shekinah’s purifying
flames, drowning Pentecosts in redemption, until the
Holy Spirit stitches together new, manifold bodies
from nebulas, and we eat manna and drink star dew,
and we are walking through Israel’s deserts spreading
the Logos. Christ is blooming with roses from his
thorns, and he parts his robe to reveal the Immaculate
Heart pulsing with infinity, suddenly blood and water
gush from my side wound, his side wound, I feel the
Roman spear puncture below my right breast, in the
rib cage, and is this stigmata or something more? I
am bleeding out into Yeshua’s arms, and we eat each
other’s flesh and drink each other’s blood, he says,
Lo, we are the Feast, and behold, the Bridegroom
nourishes His Bride, and as his heart enters my
teeth, its fragrance is a pungent rose garden and
it blossoms into deliverance, and the petals drown
me with the scent of Heaven, and we kiss, and mingle
the oil that comes from our corpses, just like Saint
Catherine’s relics wept spikenard, and for three days
we descend to Hell as our bodies know death, and the
demons flock around us and say, Why did the Father
deign come here? Carrying the Magdalene in his
snow blossom arms? And I, the woman of seven devils,
look with love upon the Fallen, and Christ leads
the just from Abraham’s bosom to New Jerusalem,
and with a Judas kiss I betray Samael, pointing him
out to this perfected human form of Michael, for
Christ and the Prince of Angels are just different
iterations of the Word, blue light of salvation, and
the Light of the World is all, so Satan weeps, but
out of Pride stays in darkness, and I follow Yeshua
out of the cave, and the garden of Gethsemane blooms,
and I cannot, dare not, touch his flesh, for he is
Ascension descending, sacred fire. Bride of Christ,
he says, and draws the vesica duplus on my brow, the
DNA double tailed ichthyus, and honey, when he asked
me to ascend, to leave my fears behind, Christ was like
the taste of mint juleps on a perfect summer morning,
he is all dawn, all radiance, and to know him is to
love him, and to follow him is to be part of the flock,
but why he keeps manifesting in apparitions and visions,
raising my thicket of cursed roses up to trees where
I sleep, Sleeping Beauty, to have Satan burn the roses
to the ground, waking me up, and the Devil kisses my
lips and says “Angel, it is time to awake. Till the dirt.”

Healer and Death, Michael and Samael, Yeshua and Lucifer.

I do not sleep much anymore.

Love Letter to Pandaemonium

When I think of the City (there is only one true City,
one built out of bone and keratin of burnt feathers,
now bat wings and dragon claws), I think of ruby waters.
The Styx snakes through Pandaemonium like lace through a
fine lady’s corset, teeming with jewel fish, and Mulcibur
saw fit to stretch the ells tall dead (demons were angels
once, and angels are eyes and wings and decapod, trillions
of light years tall, thus do their scales become bricks
and their tears the aquifers and springs of regret). I
walk along the banks of desolate reeds, the skyscrapers
bleed and churling smoke coughs across an anemic sky, yet
still, in this not quite dawn (there is never a dawn, just
stolen light), the City is beautiful – soaring Roman
architecture mixed with sleek high rises and Victorian
mansions. Asmodeus sits in a Parisian cafe and nurses
coffee with a finger of whiskey, the sun that is not a
sun, more a promise of Kingdom Come, put in the sky of
Hell to taunt, when all Satan wanted was darkness, well,
it rises, and the moon’s belfry is the color of Beelzebub’s
silver hair, a spoilage of lunar mercury, and the Fly
himself nests in a web of lost souls, cracking out of his
evening cocoon to go about the day’s business, of training
armies for the War That Never Comes. Satan is hungover and
shooting up with heroin, just to take the edge off things,
for eternal torment of the mind is its own lowest circle,
and the scars on his neck and bindings of Nachash burn,
he lays in bed as the rotting light comes to the window,
stale coffee in his hand amidst papers of late night poetry,
scrawled ceaselessly while drunk off vodka. I’m talking
gallons here, oceans of aqua vitae, for to drown the Devil
in maudlin sorrow takes a whole universe. I make my way
down Main Avenue, where the markets are held, ragtag races
refugees from the mythical lands Christendom and Islam
conquered – there goes an Ifrit, a wendigo, a unicorn
lugging a necromancer’s Hands of Glory – sometimes I
catch up with the werewolf Mafia bartender on Main Avenue,
I mock salute Asmodeus as he eats some kind of raspberry
pastry, he calls me Girl Scout as he has since the age of
eight, Beelzebub is already walking to work dressed like
a New York lawyer, polished shoes and leather briefcase,
he smiles at me slightly and gives passing mention of last
night, just another night between us, and Lilith is at a
go go bar with the other angels of prostitution, half
strip joint, half bordello, I tried dancing there once
on a stardust stage and tripped on stilettos. Samael
is still smoking a cigarette and leafing through the
paper when I enter without knocking, there are bruises
over both our bodies, love marks and knife cuts and
scars on him that will never heal over a necrotic heart.
I can’t go to Heaven even when Christ offers a stairway.
I could never leave this home, I think, as we eat meat
omelettes together (all we can make are eggs and bacon,
Green Eggs in Hell with Samael). Sam smiles a lazy smile,
and its like the floodgates of joy opening up in that
tender recognition of two bodies that would fuse into
the Platonic ideal out of longing for anima and animus.

There’s no place like Hell, there’s no place like Hell,
there’s no place like Hell on a gray rainy morning.

The Kiss of Magdalene

A kiss on the forehead, the laying of carpenter’s hands –
woodworking is much like creating the Universe, and to
raise Lazarus, awaking the dead, is like planting trees.
When I saw you in the vineyard of Gethsemane, I thought
you a gardener, for what is so different from God than
the tiller of soil and man of earth and rains? You said
you had Risen – I never thought you dead in the first
place, Yeshua. Unlike Paul and Doubting Thomas, I had
faith – faith, such a fickle thing, I am a woman of
seven devils, after all, and my little birds in Hell
told me you had descended to free the Damned, what they
never said in holy texts centuries after I was dust
is that you kissed Satan’s forehead just the way you
laid lips on my brow to expunge the seven evils from
my violet breath, blessing the Devil who tempted you
to no avail, for what could the Prince of this World
offer the Prince of Kingdom Come? Lucifer should have
been the Morning Star, and you were ready to give him
your mantle, if only to see your Father happy again,
but Pride is the Original Sin, leading to endless
heartache for Heaven and Hell, and when you gave
Samael the kiss of benediction, he took your rose
blessing and created thorns to flagellate his flesh,
the Devil refused to walk out of the caverns of
Gehenna with you, and so my little birds of Hell
say, you wept, and rose to the Tomb, cast rocks
aside and drank the marrow of this world, I dare
not touch you Christ, in the secret handshake
we once knew, me, your most beloved of disciples.
How I long to sink my teeth into your golden blood.
To taste the manna of your body, my Sacrament
is you, my Redemption. And so you ascend, and I
am on the long road to Hell, to a forgotten tomb,
and they will say we did not love, and that I was
just a whore, but in me, you saw so much more, so
Christ, while I freeze in the lowest circle in
Satan’s arms, his ice lap my throne, and debate
with the Devil his refusal to end the karmic cycle,
assume the mantle of Sael, mem cleansed, please,
spare a thought for your Magdalene when Kingdom
Comes, my damnation is Paradise if you only carry
on a memory of our talks by the fireside, when the
Apostles had fallen asleep to the wheeze of donkeys.

We held the universe on our tongues, you know.

And your laughter? It is the wine of my christening.

Oh Christ, it is lonely being dead, but my faith
in better days keeps me with hope in the harrows
of Hell.

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.