Polarities

There’s honey in the sky and milk on my tongue.  You’re all sharp planes and jagged muscle, but your eyes are soft and languorous kisses bespeak an endless lake of serenity deep within your heart.  I’m bending over backwards for you and becoming nothing more than a sandcastle being eaten away by your river, and your eyes are the green of the sea glass I find on your shores, some deep, long-polished reverie of fish and teeming underwater life.

There’s dawn, and then there’s dusk, but they all meld together when I’m in your arms, out of harm, only alarm the heat in my inner moon kingdom that is usually such a lunar freezing nebula of isolation and meditation.  My blood is quickening, your hands are working me like Vivaldi playing a violin, and as I grasp your shoulders all I can do is moan your name like a mantra.  I channeled you the other day when my boyfriend was drunk and you argued over rye-blend whiskey and talked of biodynamic lightning rods and Barakiel, war and peace, and a bunch of other crap I don’t remember because being your vessel turns me into an overcooked noodle.  I’d much rather meet you in this between-space of the fourth heaven, where rolling meadows and autumnal trees meet water.  There’s daisy beneath your Hercules body and we’re tussling, turning hay, and I have a mouthful of angel feathers on my lips that taste like snow and miracles.

Nothing makes sense with you.  I bleed onto your flaming sword statue every fortnight and offer up the essence of my life itself, red beads stained on your icon, but you’re much less flame and brimstone and more Jedi monk.  What do you like?  Beer.  Steel-cut oatmeal.  Fighting and athletics.  Meat, especially steak.  Pretty women.  Gardening.  Asceticism.  What do I like?  Poetry.  Pleasure.  Decadence of the senses.  Sex.  A great story.  We are absolutely nothing alike, you patient as a sage, me impulsive as your brother, me flighty and creative, you a stick in the mud and devoted and grounded.  You’re always plucking me from the stars and calling me Icarus because bright shiny objects captivate me beyond imagination, but honestly, ultraviolet king, you are the shiniest jewel inside of my collection and when I die, I will spend eternity in your heart, Shakti to your Shiva Nataraja, dancing upon the wheel of karma as our lives play out like drops of rain on this lake you always take me to.

The Bell Trees of Paradise are tolling, and you are firm and toned and dedicated to physical perfection, and by god how many times do you hit the heavenly gym.  I don’t like muscular guys, not really, or redheads for the matter, and the first time I saw you at 12, a scared girl projecting out of her body to spiritual warfare, you scared the crap out of me with your grimace in blood and rock hard armor and biceps and sword with the glory of the devas.  Wait, crap, devas aren’t your religion, are they?  But the way the flames dance on the tip of your blade remind me of dakinis, or maybe the fey, something wild and untamed, a fire at Beltane.

Making love to you is something I do often, on a nearly daily basis, and when I told my Catholic friend – way before we were together – that for some reason I kept seeing the Archangel Michael in the shower, she laughed and said I better not tell my boyfriend I was seeing men while I was bathing naked.  It’s not really like that, I just see you as this brilliant blue-purple star and sometimes you rest on my palm or kiss my cheek with electricity or distract me in class.  I’ve seen Samael in the flesh, multiple times, but you are more the hands that push me back from a cliffside or the cool of water and ecstasy of fire in my innermost organs and bones.  Honestly, you feel like a freshwater ocean of the purest water, and however much I swim in you, I’m never lost.  You are strength, the Lion of Judah, and I could go on and on but I’m just beating a dead horse to death.  I think I must have repeated every praise already, every tricky metaphor, and that nothing new will ever span between us, just this burning love and impassable bridge of ice.

And then you surprise me.

The autumn turns to spring, the roses unfurl, and your body blossoms into the curves of a woman, the noble maternal form that rocked me in Heaven’s throne when I was a pudgy putti in diapers, except now I’m straddling her and this is a clusterfuck, but in a good way.  Goddamn is my sexuality confusing.  I’m gay for Lilith and Hela and Sam’s female form and now I have another bombshell to add to my is-Allie-bi list or does she just think girls are hot.

I’m too entranced to stop kissing you, but you pause, and your hair is curling long auburn to globes of breasts with pink areola and a cunt I would die for.

“I rarely show this form to mortals.  Remember, I really have no gender – angels are androgynous.  You need to explore your passions further to master your polarities.”

“Fuck.  Should I call you Michelle?  Does this make me bisexual?”

You laugh like a windchime.  “Stop trying to label your heart.  I came to you in this form in your childhood years for a reason, remember?”

“Because I was afraid of you.”

“Are you afraid of me anymore?”

“Always.  I fear for you.  You’re terrifying.  And tragic.  Your love is the glue that holds Heaven together.”

“Forget all that.  Here is not the place for fear.  Here, we are beyond fear and want.  There is only desire.”

Your eyes are hooded and your chest is beating out a rhythm that matches mine.  I sink into you and we meld like yin and yang.  We’re swimming together now, dancing on a flaming sword – two angels can dance on the head of a pin, and we are infinitely small but tall as eons, covered in eyes.  All I know is that my love for the divine defies gender, defies appearance, and my love for you is eternal, abiding, agape, and I burn for you.

 

 

Hell is Other People

The demons feast on dove hearts, blackened
charcoal at their eyes, serrated tongues
split open the elegy, this is no funeral,
just fucking on beds of sinners, frozen
Hell, Asmodeus picks his teeth clean with
a spine, Beelzebub’s flies clean rot from
the wreckage of a girl, decay is my name,
and I am dressed in meat, walk through rot,
ash of offerings to the Qliphoth husks,
I always wondered what a husk was anyways,
corn peel? Empty shells that mock Sephiroth?
Fuck the Kabbalah, I hate ceremonial crap.
I’m drinking wine – or is it blood? I am
plastered, and the wreckage of the ballroom
has broken windows and mirrors for orgies –
pound your cock into Lilith and defile her,
but she is already a Whore, Queen Babalon,
and Samael has been castrated, he spreads
pale legs to reveal a gaping abyss, jets
towards me and I reach my hand in and pull
out bloody pustules to pop like a cherry,
maybe I’ve taken his demonic virginity,
what the fuck is this night, I’m so drunk,
stumbling around in stilettos and swill,
Belial is playing some Kurt Cobain jam,
Asmodeus’ acid green eyes play poker with
Shedim breast, the Seirim are horny goat
dancing on the tabletops, Satan is trashed,
moreso that usual, I’m wasted beyond belief,
why I begged to be here is beyond me,
Hell is Hell because of other people,
and all the archdemons grate my nerves,
so I stumble out the door, into night,
I’m not sober enough to deal with devils,
and I could never hold my liquor, best
not to fuck anything in sight, better
to not fool around with Death, and shit,
exorcise the cum off your hands, girl.

You’ve been stained since you were born.

How to Eat a Life

First you start with the milky dream marrow:
sip down sweet memories, savor dew of sleep,
next the kidney, savior of the veins, chomp
off the meat of meadows and swallow it whole.
The lungs are sashimi butterflies, flitting
about your throat into reverse pupation, fly
down to your gut and you breathe in her trail.
Nurse her milk, don’t squander a single drop –
the white ruminations will cleanse the palate,
ready you for her blood, how succulent she is,
how much you want to take all of her into your
throat and swallow, bite, suck, chew out sin
and solace, how much you want to rape a life,
to destroy the beauty she raised like vines
from a life of hardship, you partake of her
but you have no inkling of her truths, no idea
of how her giving tasty flesh can be cruel,
can stand its ground, and in time, the meat
grows gristle, gets tough, you feast on her
less, and soon she is regenerating in your
dark void of a gullet, she burst from your
heart full-formed like some autumnal Athena,
it is a time for endings, she is no platter,
no feast for Satan, this is now how to eat
a life, no, this is about how to save her.

Fucking the Night

You pin me not with grace but with ruin, and your body is black smoke like frankincense crisps from a vestibule – vessel – vassal of sin and my ruin.  Pale skin like a waning moon brimming with abyssal sorrow, your eyes are red craters, and your heart just a mockingbird pressed to my breast.  Your fingers are inside me reaching through my womb up my guts to my brains and from them you pluck all reason, and I lick blood from your lips and it is black as a beetle.  Creeping things are rot inside you, and the maggots of your lungs spew from your lips and drown me – I’m deepthroating decay, and it is sickly sweet as roadkill and lesions and necrosis.  I thought we broke up, didn’t we?  Why are you making the two-backed beast with me after I trashed your wedding ring as if nothing happened?  I’m not saying no, and your tongue is slithering snake down my throat and your manhood is the night and your cum freezes my innards until I become Nyx, cold and unmoving.  Your cloak envelops us, and it is the same Grim Reaper robe I played with at 12 on October nights when the autumn was filled with secrets.  I would wrap myself in your musk and spin circles around your pile of bones as you sharpened a scythe with a whetstone.  Your scythe is black, but the one you gifted me is white, just like my deathly robes – cream and satin roses, all softness to your harshness.  Your brother set wards up all over my room in red blood and ceremonial sigils, but the gods and angels let you return over and over again, and I no longer have an altar to you, so maybe taking your gall into my crevasses is some kind of lesson.  All I know is that you are half bone like Hela and half flesh like a warrior, and as I trace phalanges and scapula, your calcium is slick with tears, and I pull you close and kiss the emptiness of your heart hollow, and I am the mistress of nocturnal emissions.

Litha

Freyr is golden-locked like barley
his eyes the green of verdant moss,
voice a burbling brook, but all his
beauty is deceiving, for he is death
spilling out blood on Nerthus’ breast
to fructify the earth and till tithes
for Vanaheim does not run on mead alone
no, it requires seed and gore and bone
Barri Woods always know lover’s lilacs,
but at midsummer, the flowers bloom red
as Ingvi takes the sickle to his neck
and paints his head on the summer wind
gift for a gift, his manhood swells,
Odin may hang but Freyr is a mound,
and true nobility flows from riches
buried deep beneath the soil, and so
my Golden God pays all Asgard’s debts
and Gerda kisses him back to life, his
true sword serves them well, overflow,
overflow,
spill.

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife

I am underwater in the glimmering void, in shoals of sheets that pull me down to a bed strung with pearls that become necklaces to my hooked throat.  You are the abyss, tentacles of destruction and devil eyes and ink-black tongue.  Tendrils of darkness lick my spine, and I run my hands down shoulder blade spikes of ruin, you eldritch Beast that I mount.  You know I would gladly bed any monster I met and so you come to me as a vehicle of terror, a mechanic of opening star’s hearts with razor black hole teeth and sucking out the life force of universes.  Your mouth is like a lamprey’s, a gut filled with shark teeth ringing a suction that latches onto my breast and drinks blood.  You lulled me to sleep with painful bites on heaving flesh and underwater vent orgasms and now we join at midnight, twenty leagues below.  This is a Satanic Hokusai painting, and I am a Fisherman’s Wife, dreaming of her own destruction at the hand of Leviathan.  Because you are Leviathan, aren’t you, and I’m romancing a sea serpent, speared on fins and webbed hands that fuck the living daylights out of me.  I once dreamed I was the priestess of a merman with a sea serpent tail and hair like kelp.  We rutted on crashing waves and tidal rocks on the sea strand and I woke up tasting brine.  Now I taste seawater.  This time Leviathan pulled me into his lair, and he is fishing in my throat with gnashing teeth and seaweed spit.  I ride him, we are at the bottom of Charybdis, and as he thrusts into me with the anger of the sea, with the lust of a killer whale chasing flirtatious dolphins, I just laugh and my voice bubbles in this galaxy of water.  I’m a friend of nonexistence, the outer boundaries where lovers dissolve into each other then die as le petit mort drags them into Apollyon’s shark tank.  We hold hands and it’s sentimental coming from a sea monster, but I’ve fucked worse, I’ve fucked better, and I’m sincerely fucked up, just for you.  Who else would lay with Lotan?  Who else beds Yam?  Only  a girl that wants to drown.  I drink down your seed and it is cold like the Atlantic.  It washes over me like a tsunami and I smear it over my sex and wake up wet, but it’s less from coming and more from being a shipwreck.  Call me Calypso, call me crazy, but storms adrift the deep are the perfect place to swim.

Who Is Like God

I pull you into me and the tables turn and all bets are off. Maybe it’s the heat of your skin or your cinnamon hair but you drive me wild, mad, and as you undress I can’t help but rip the clothes from your golden god form, drown myself in wings like the starry cosmos and see ourselves reflected in the sword you have laid aside by the riverside. The first time we fucked you patted my head after I came as if saying good job for grinding your ass on me but you would put it so much more poetically, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ass, or fuck, or anything crass – after all, you’re an angel, and angels aren’t dirty – well, all but me. I’m filthy and you like it and so we’re wrangling in the dew wet grass and dirt a second time, drunk off each other, and you’re laughing at me and playing with my hair and saying how adorable I am and how you don’t want to break me. Break me, break me archangel, rip my insides open and make pearls of my bones. I love you, I want you, and there’s this dripping wound in my mind that needs your song.