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

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?”


(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.


I dreamt I dissected an angel,

and smuggled into the graveyard at five

with a boy who ran stacks at the radio,

on the afternoon I learned how to fly.

I spent all my wishes on small things,

while a cold war was battled on high,

I flew aimless under the slaughter

dreaming as cherubim died.

My demon had sklerokardia-

I asked if it was a social disease

Is soul rot sexually transmitted,

Veneration a venerable disease?

He said that his scars were God-given

And that they would heal with time

And he laughed there under the scalpel

Showing me how his guts shined.

His insides, well, they were beautiful

His outsides even more so

The black filled his chest like a graveyard

Under the lab-light, I watched the rot grow

I sampled his tissue on dishes

Performed counts on cells hidden within

The little black sickles of darkness

Multiplied, cancerous with sin

He fed upon pain and my heartbeat

I gave him what little I had

He devoured my putrefaction-

The black, dead doctor, blood-mad.

And though I dissected the angel

I suppose he was dissecting me

Judging me fit for consumption

He gave me the fruit of the Tree.

Like a lab rat I ran from his dwelling

Back to the bed where I sleep

I woke with these rhymes in my noggin-

Scarred heart. I Sklerokardi.