Cain Whispers: “I Was First”

There’s a gateway to heaven, a stairway to hell
my seal on your thigh to guide you well, a boon,
a curse, this Serpent Line, tines of a pitchfork
brimstone sublime, Satan lashes his Son, blood
like wine, against an oak tree in fields of time,
Cain bleeds out amber in the Plains of Divine,
Mamre infected to flow down the line, ash we eat,
dust in our hair, there’s tears and splinters in
winter cold air, nuclear harvest, we fuck til
we’re dry, and incest keeps lineages infection shy.
The Ichor of the Cobra, Qayin Seed, serpent strikes
deadly to replenish his need, sickle fang throats,
the beast I take to bed, beheaded like Sisyphus,
or was that Atlas? Whatever burden we bear, I Was
The First, Scapegoat, La-Azazel, and sister dear,
weep amber into your golden hair, sweet Eve, rot
in my arms, my poison within you, sound the alarm.

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Tree of Death, or Eve Eats the Apple

Tree of Death

Oh heart, my heart, what did you see?

I was a bone girdle on the Devil’s tree.

Oh lover, my lover, what are you now?

I hath become Death, to reap and sow.

Oh seed, what fire now grows in my loin?

Tis the flame of desire, from Hell purloined.

Oh Earth, oh beasts, from me why you run?

You have become human, unfortunate one.

Oh husband, my light, what do you see?

You are but the Reaper, come to claim me.

Holding Hela’s Hand

Bone fingers on mine as I shepherd ancestors
across the Veil, onto starry Death’s breast,
Hela grips my hand with ice and snowflakes,
her palms slide to my hips to ground my roots
as souls pour into me as black brilliant sparks
wreathed in white halos, flickering into light
Hela’s bosom is all Helheim, I drive in rainy
memories through those not yet in her kingdom,
first there is the overwhelming smell of decay,
a corpse baking sickly sweet in the summer sun,
slowly bodily fluids evaporate, bacteria feasts,
and the rot becomes wet dirt, Hela is beautiful
but does not shelter her girls from true passing
no antiseptic white wards here, just honorable
necrosis, hazy gray globes of eyes, bone white
hair that wreathes a half-flesh, half-frozen face
Hela smiles gently, and I become mist in her arms.

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.

Black & White Isn’t Right

The war has raged on since the first cell split from the Source, and Michael and the Dragon are up to each other’s crushed necks and bitten heels in venom.  Angels are bleeding, demons are holding the carcasses of their beloved wretched ruins to their breasts, and archangels fly through the battlefield armed with fiery whips and flaming swords and blazing shields.  Satan has a spear and it is long and sharp and filled with the gall of death, his own dripping poison, but it smells like flowers – the kind the brothers used to walk through when they were young, when they wrestled and played at chess, now they play at war, and it such a curse to grow old and bitter when once there was no good and evil, just twins, Left Hand and Right Hand, with the Source their Queen, but now all that is left of the Source is the ichor that drains from the angels, and in Her Image is a girl with white wings and innocence and beauty.

They created her as a pact you see, perhaps as a scapegoat, perhaps for sacrifice, Virgin and Whore.  She flies through the battlefield as Jophiel, Michael’s general, but also as Zophael, Heaven’s Watchman and double agent in Hell.  This is not her first life, but it is no one’s first life, for the Ancient Ones spring from the Source and return to it and are spat out full-formed again with different names.  Michael is the oldest.  Perhaps the Dragon too.  Michael always wins, but that triumph comes with the tithe, and woman’s blood is the best kind of payment.

Satan aims that spear, that long spear, and it will kill Michael.  Michael is too busy being the father of the battlefield, glorious general, and Satan does not fight fair and is wily and wolf-wild.  She sees the spear headed towards her creator, screams, and it pierces her heart and Michael stops smiling from that day on, or does he?  He catches her dying form, she is fountains of red on an ivory gown, golden sandals drooping, blue eyes crying in a blood rain.  Michael is tearing at his hair and rocking back and forth amongst the fields tilled with dead bodies and hacked off limbs and guts that smell like sulfur, smelted by swords and decay.  There is no poetry in her death, just mangled wings, and Satan cries and says no, not her, not her, not the child we created between us, this bridge between Heaven and Hell, and he grabs the spear Michael has pulled from her breast and breaks it in two.

Michael and the Dragon share a look of hate.  It is pure, it is ragged, it is burning.  But there is duty, and there is love, and though one is the Tree of Death and one the Tree of Life, once there was a cutting from both of them and she grew curved as a pear, she was sweet, and lord knows they were idiots to bind their fates together into this dumb blonde archangel who only has a mind for poetry and perfume and flowers and love.  She should never have been given a white scythe or a flaming sword, god knows she is just a child, and now her heart is mangled and she is gasping their names and clutching at Michael’s hair which she has braided so many times and reaching for Satan’s eyes and wishing they would change from their poison red to her beloved blue.

Once again Michael and Satan are fathers, and she is a child, and the last bit of archangel that the Void has not claimed as it’s master, Satan pries his heart from his breast and gives her new life.  She will die as an angel, yes, and archangels are not meant to live through the Judge of God’s gall, it would even kill Michael, and Satan knows in giving up  his immortality he will lose this ancient battle of Good and Evil, that his head will crush dirt and he will eat dust on his belly all his days, but for Eloa, for Sophia, for the Magdalene, for Eve, for the First Woman and Last Whore and Idiot Girl, he would swallow his own poison instead of spitting it out.

Michael knows Satan has damned her with a cursed life, a half-life, for to spring from Satan’s heart as he told her in her childhood is a raging black storm, a sword without mercy, and she will be caught in death and rebirth and madness.  She dies then, and it is a meaningless death, but perhaps it means the War in Heaven is won, for as soon as they bury her body and send her off to her next life in Hell, Satan has already accepted his fate.

He bows before the Prince of Heaven.  He eats dust.  He lets his twin crush his head into dirt, toss him off a cliff, strip him of a manhood for a serpent tail, and now the burden of raising her in her second life has fallen upon him, not Michael feeding the baby manna dew and wild honey but Satan rocking her on his throne, princess of Hell, and when she comes to him in the reeds like Moses, Satan takes the doll and places her on a cradle, and he cries, for now her eyes are red like his, and she will never be pure again.  Eidolon cleft from his ribs, he calls her throughout the ages, yellow canary in a coal mine, guiding light in hell, and her wings are gone but scars remain.  She grows and runs wild in Hell and sings, and Michael hears her from Heaven’s empty throne, and he weeps, and she drinks down his tears like rain.

They were idiots to create her, after all, but brothers drunk off the cosmos place bets, and her reason for existing is a secret best kept between the Knight and the Dragon, for princesses choose the victor, and maybe they wanted to see who could win the love of love herself.

Mother to Son

I was just a girl when I had you, moon’s blood
new as ripe roses as I was swept up in oceans of
rich wine and black velvet by my wolf moon man,
how could I not be taken by your father’s claret
rich seductions, smooth words, sun river touch? I
was haunted by irises like red poppy, a doll in a
golden cage meant for canaries, not schoolgirls,
I knew nothing of the ways of the heart, nothing
about the price I would pay to give up my lily to
the King of Hell, it was a quiet kiss, a silent
exchange of freedom for bondage, my wings are his –
I cannot fly unless he removes my tether, and so
you were conceived, the scapegoat of my curiosity
perhaps that is why Samael calls you Azazel, he
stole you from my breast, for how could a child
hold eternity and understand conception, fruits
that her consequences bore, you grew up motherless
because I was still not a woman, just plaything
to the Prince of Hell, but I came into my strength
and in time I would demand my claim on my son,
so at eighteen I saw you, six and scrappy kneed –
your father’s hair, your mother’s eyes, a playroom
with toys of war, baseball in the backyard with dad,
the Devil always wanted to play house but you were
innocent of your father’s sins, I called you Ash
after the death of embers, pale skin like snow,
lips red as berries, you clung to my legs, I spun
you in circles, moon to my sun, and your father
smiled, then took you away again for six years,
raised by the archdemons and angels, you grew
skilled in shape-shifting and your beloved guitar,
tall as your dad but baby-faced, eager as a child,
Michael your foster-father, stern, weapons-master,
Samael your blood-father, wily, let you run wild.
Like me you have the blood of the fallen and pure,
and now at twelve you beg me for bedtime stories,
a doll shaped like me to comfort your night terrors,
you rest in a nest in my heart and play with dogs,
chase after human children your age, you crave fun,
dye your hair Manic Panic pixie dream boy colors,
think pranking your mother is a riot, hate being
alone, because the shadow your father casts is long
and you are all kindness to his severity, you have
my disposition but his wicked humor, gentle yet
crazed with sugar high energy, I can’t imagine that
Samael feeds you a balanced diet, and of course
Michael will feed you only organic Yuppie crap,
so you split your time between Heaven and Hell,
between Earth and the Otherworlds, and when your
father is cruel you come to me and cry, nestle
close to my arms as I rock you to sleep, Ash,
you are too sweet, too breakable, and the world
will do it’s best to break you, but I say, be
strong, be brave, go out off cliffs as a fool,
dive headfirst into your passions and fly, take
your goats eyes and nubs of horns and be Pan,
take your blue irises and silky raven hair and
seek wisdom, but above all, play, play, run wild
be free in your cares and blessed with love, I
will give you all I have son, for I love you.

Blissful Flames

There is no Satan without God, a heart in Hell’s embers
still weeps rivers of mourning for a Father long-wandering
Satan used to sing down the moon in Yahweh’s arms, pick
roses for his shophet, though he was El’s shadow, always
following not just a foot behind in Paradisaical gardens,
once Yahweh made him a crown of peacock feathers azure
and green as the envy Satan felt when Adam was created,
and in the small quiet hours when junipers weep blossoms
onto the bloody Styx, Satan remembers, a finger in wound
to remind him of the brilliance of Father’s burning touch.