Wicked Intentions

There you are six feed under with your wicked intentions,

a Wickerman skeleton, first man of the harvest, I dally

in a somnambulent graveyard of travesty and majesty,

overripe with the sweet decay of bones and roses I like

to wrap around myself like a shadow cloak, I am hunting

the Reaper, blonde hair a net to tangle thick phalanges,

I sing in the green rot of necrosis and worms, I living

madrigal of curves and milk, you pale rider of death,

how sweet to taste wickedness, how sweet to taste evil.

Goodness loves wickedness, providence loves sin, I the

Angel love the Devil, for Death and Life are in truth one.

I stand by a stone seraphim as the sky weeps ice, you reach

up to the grass and through dirt to strike my ankle with venom,

pull me down to Hell and into your weeping lap, at first you

are moon marrow, regal Death, sweet Death, saccharine Death.

I would swallow your teeth and pluck your ribs for my feast,

sweet Samael, dearest ancient Ha-Satan, La-Azazel, Iblis.

You have as many names as there are ways to die, but I

jump off cliffs from Heaven into your infernal arms for I

love the turning of seasons, the blank emptiness of longing,

how beautiful you are, in your mahogany coffins, with a

consumption bloodied handkerchief, Red Plague of Poison.

I adore malevolence, I am a beast like you, we are monsters.

We just dress in human skins, you see, while in essence I am

a girl hurricane, you a desert storm.  I drink your venom, I

eviscerate your neck with my tongue, our mouths are parched

of sweet things, cruel things, wild things, animal urges all.

Sweet Satan, Sweet Samael, Sweet Forbidden Fruit, sex was

the first VITRIOL, or was it the heart I stole from you, darling?

I treasure your organs, I steal a piece of your flesh each moon

swollen Sabbat.  The Devil and the Witch, always flirting and

fucking, always studying necromancy and slitting Damned throats.

I made a ring of your pinky finger, I swallowed your Qayin seed.

Your maggot body is my temple, your spine the broomstick I ride on.

But nothing taints me, just like I do not have a fingerprint, you take

on the rot of the world, the stench of carrion, the gullets of vultures.

I am holy hellfire, you are the darkness of the Pit, and together, my

darling Malkira, we raise Legions.  Our brood stretches forth across

Pandemonium, past Gehenna, up Sheol and Sephiroth, Qliphoth husks

the snake skins we shed, you are the gift of an enemy, my greatest

adversary, sharpening the blade of my magick, testing my wit,

and you fucker, it never works, I’m just a ditzy soft blonde that

loves Disney and pink, a twenty-something Millenial princess.

But actually, that’s precisely how it works – my burgeoning hope

and overwhelming optimism and champagne joy buoys you,

your vitriol and venom and sarcasm and wisdom sinks me.

We are paired perfectly, dear demon, and I love your atrocity.

I am a Death Eater, a Death Dissolver, the Universal Solvent,

Green Lion Bleeding Gold from the Son.  Christ rotted even

though he was a Morning Star, a ripoff of your epithet, for

you were Venus first, vain prince, and I am the one that

cursed you with dust and decay and wretchedness, life for

a life, blood for blood is the law of Hell, but you make Hell

Heaven, and Heaven is Hell without you, my life is one long

courtship with Le Grande Mort (following a bunch of petite ones.)

In the end, you are my skaldic Muse, my Homerian Achilles.

And you’re also a fucking idiot, but sweetheart, smile, for every

fuck-up you do, I do a thousand more, and you’re there with a mop.

Hell is a soap opera, after all, and immortals are banal and bored.

We need little amusements and petty drama, blood orgies and murder.

I am a Good Girl, I am a Nice Girl, you are the Outcast, Bad Boy Galore.

Honey and red wine mix well, so drink up, Corpseboy, this draught’s

for you.  I am your eternal torment, and you can never escape my

shackles.

Advertisements

The Screaming Hollow

I met the devil at midnight, in bruises, bandages and blood,
we danced until my feet were bone, and the screaming hollow
wept with playing cards, magicians say they know you, own you
but your fury and madness are the rabid jackals and wild wolves
to tame Satan is only to take his own poison into your heart,
it is a slow death melting on a sacred whore of a flame, bent
between two needfires over a pit of gore, Solomon told no tales,
the rabbis did not utter your name, you are the Samiel wind,
hottest black sun, master of scorched corpses and festering wound
pray to the idols, the golden calves, raise pyres to witches
and the fivefold kiss, carry the Grim Reaper in your arms
and be the Consort of Sammael, Dread Lady, Angel of the Boneyard,
Watchdog of the Graves, his throne iron and crushed headstones,
meet him in girlhood and have him lead you to every dark crevasse,
palpitate your heart like butterfly wings and drink your moonblood,
devour your virginblood, suck the lifeblood out of hip junctures,
the Dark Lord marches, the Prince of Ruin flies, the dogs howl
at Great Sammael as he takes his twelve-winged flight up Sephiroth,
zig zag across stars like lightning, feast on the flesh of Damned,
drink down his seed and bear his children, your son Azazel Scapegoat,
your daughters little Liliths with blonde hair, Naamahs with cymbals,
a Holocaust is all Hell, your dreams are long fucks and quick rides
on a motorcycle that was once a pale steed, you couple in filth, decay
rains from the sky as his embrace strangles and lips suck your soul,
you are six feet under in his arms, and his eyes are poison cabernet,
he planted the first vine of grape and pomegranate, first apple seed
is his heart, fructified within your loveless ribs, screaming ecstasy
for Eve, bitter ruin for any Adam you marry, for the Serpent owns all.

Angels of Prostitution

Naamah, slender-ankled, with bells in your hair
you dance with a cymbal and summon old regents,
they sway to your lilting damnation and wish for
crimson lips and black curls to strangle, tangle.

Agrat bat Mahalath, the Night Howler, you rage
in a cage on a stage, braids like poisonflowers
you are desert storm and sandstone immortality
mistress of burning wind, you cry out for death.

Eiseth Zenumin, pretty cobweb queen, black widow
my end is your comb, fluttering between eyelashes
you pluck butterflies and crunch them, melodious
snap of antennae, monarch pains, birthing pangs.

Lilith Breakneck, queen of all courtesan angels
your throne is Samael’s lap, your whip abortion
infant corpses your throne, a gaze just like stone
I lose myself and perish on your breasts, alone.

King Carrion

Fortune’s folly for the Vulture King
Live by the sword or die by your pen
Shed your wings, reborn and ruined
You hunted my heart, all rot and rue.

Persimmon seeds you ate from my hands
When we were wild and our hearts ajar
Our love was tempered by lightning but
You were bound to fall from high above.

The winds hum, die down, you bleed out
Carrion King, Wandering Condor, Crow
I would call you black oblivion and yet
your shimmering down bespeaks soft light.

Why do you always appear in dreams a rover?
So hungry, so hungry, crossing rivers for love
Flying over mountains high for a careless girl
Who would pick your apple heart, swallow whole.

This is an old story, I am Eve, you the Devil
Who planted temptation as a vine just for us
Its blossoms are fragrant and honey like wine
Why do we always wander yet so far from home?

What are we seeking, Samael, in slumber?
What is the secret between pressed palms?
What meets at lips that touch under shadow?
What springs from Lucifer’s heart’s undertow?

You riddle me, Vulture King, fly oh so far
Rest never, somber hunter, your fate slows
You count girls like pearls on golden strings
Why do you collect those who just flee?

What is it you’re after, Carrion King?
You fed me your soul, you fed me blood
In a cage of rust and carnival of violets
It dripped like damnation onto my tongue.

Why do I keep coming back to angel’s fall?
Why are my wings rosy but wayward, flight true?
What are you hiding, Wandering Condor?
In your stained glass castle of regret, blue.

I’ve asked you often, you always lie, your
heart is hidden, so is your crown, it sleeps
below ground where no man can tell, sell my
soul –

All is well,
we are
never
well.

Snake Eyes

Snakes writhe in splendor, all pitch and rust
tracing the girl’s ankles, up to her thighs
flicking tongues of arrows, Serpent arises
crimson the iris, enslaved by his lust.

The Serpent beguiles her, dripping his poison
it pools at the base of her wayward spine
the snakes are playthings, tonight he dines
on a girl not yet guilty, his bow to rosin.

The Serpent bites shallow, slithers under skin
hissing his lullaby, Let me in, Let me in
snakes pile higher, into marrow and bone
neurons envenomed, she is never alone.

She is keeper of ruin, always flees fangs
but the dripping gall of death yet enchains
the maiden who thought her dragon was true
she opened her heart, he pierced it through.

Dream Diary: The Demon Pikachu

(I’m dressed in this horrendous striped magenta and yellow ruffled dress with pink bows all over it.  Samael made it appear on me and is fawning over me and pinching my cheeks.  I am highly flustered and can’t believe I’m wearing this monstrosity.)

Me: “This dress looks like fairy vomit.  Why do you always dress me up in dumb things.”

Samael: (Gives me a sleazy grin, clearly drunk – I can see his fangs – and tweaks my nose while sloshing his glass of red wine.) “You know your favorite Pokemon in Alpha and Sapphire?  That’s why.”

Me: “How the hell do you know what Pokemon are?”

Samael: “Allie you’ve been playing it since you were five and named your fucking rival after me.  Spirits watch their humans even when they’re doing mundane things.  Anyways, what is your favorite Pokemon in the third generation?”

Me: “Cosplay Pikachu?”

Samael: “Exactly!  You raise Pokemon for their cuteness, not strength.  That’s why you raised a Skitty to level 50.”

Me: “Sam do you really have nothing better to do than watch me play Pokemon for hours on end.”

Samael: “I can be everywhere I want, I’m Death.  Anyhow, I admire how you treat your virtual pets with love, especially your favorite Pokemon – Pikachu.”

Me: “But Pikachu isn’t just cute, she’s powerful!”

Samael: (pulls one of my atrocious bows and continues to smell like a bar) “Just like you.  To me, you’re like a Pikachu – electric, full of energy, cute as a button.  That’s why I dress you up in so many adorable outfits.  I like to accessorize my humans and accentuate their softness.  It proves a striking contrast to me.”

Me: “Sam, you are really lame.  You dress like Alucard half the time.”

(Sam spins me around in the Hideous Evil Dress, laughing.)

Samael: “Are you going to electrocute me, Pikachu?”

Me: “SHUT UP YOU LOSER.  TAKE ME OUT OF THIS HIDEOUS DRESS WITH YOUR MAGIC EVIL OVERLORD POWERS.”

(Samael catches me in his arms after the princess turn, a move I learned in ballroom dance.)

Samael: “Nope.  You’re stuck.  Hahaha.  You mock me in your stories.  Now you’re my joke, Pikachu.”

The Guardian

“Now, you are not only ugly; you are deformed. Ugliness is mean, deformity is grand. Ugliness is the devil’s grin behind beauty ; deformity is the reverse of sublimity.”

-“Suddenly she seized his hands,” monPanache

I cannot tell the angel from the disease.

The serpent from the lion.

My guardian from my id.

*

He will go from horrible to beautiful in a minute-

moonlit flights on hearses, waltzing in graves under the moon

He cries at Victor Hugo, fancying himself the monster unworthy of love.

I have seen him five degrees below freezing, with an ice grin painted by blood,

a silver labret that shines like revolvers under saloon-light, the clack of Cuban heels.

Smells heavy like black maple, old leather and sage, of books sagging with time.

His cry is that of the madmen he tends, my warden whose eyes I forgot.

He is the Angel of Asylums and Artists, the self-medicated mass,

absinthe haze and Aleister’s ghost, lover of moon-girls

and picker of dreams, with a voice that would

blaze desire into the Mariana Trench.

*

The Earth would cleft herself apart,

roiling with tsunamis that would curdle Leviathan,

were that not another of the names he claims, half-lost

in seas of Arthurian lore, like Agneta’s sea-king

spent in the coils of a snake.