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.

Moonshine, Sunshine, Placid Rain

It is the time when dawn is still drunk after a long night of sleep with star-grit in her eyes, and I’m comatose in my bed waiting on you to call through gates of ivory – or do true dreams come from the gates of horn – there you are as a star blink blinking like a headlight about to crash into me, the lusty deer.  Maybe I’m the moth to your darkness and I sip nectar from black flowers and live in your evenings, but I say your name and mumble I-love-yous and all you do is not appear, distant moon man, your shit in the cosmos from a tipsy escapade and you are so wonderful your excrement the rabbis wrote about probably formed the stars.  You haven’t visited in a week, just sent your wife to drain me with kisses that aren’t you, and though I love Lilith of the Desert I need Samael of the the Storm, seed to be planted in me to fruition into poems.  I wrote words to summon you, and now you’re dancing on the page, pressure of angel on my eyes – I would think you would be Bowie’s black star but you shine like a diamond.  You bathe me in starlight before bed and promised you’d be my paramour, but it’s almost daybreak, so I become lucid and take matters into my own hands.  I drank so much I’m a bar, swimming in tequila shots, and I’m so weak and comatose and hungover that I drag myself out of bed murmuring your name like counting rosary beads and I know, if I summon you, you will come.  So I whale across the room like a big fish out of water in my sweatpants and oversized sweater and once I hook the doorknob through my hands, I’ve opened the portal to Hell.  It’s morning in Pandemonium and the gates between worlds shift – there’s some Lilitu that wander through, a kid that looks like Chuckie, but I shoo them away back into the wildwoods of the underworld and call out your name.  You show up with Asmodeus and you’re dressed like a lawyer in business casual and you both are ten, no nine, no eleven feet tall so you have to crouch under the ceiling and you laugh and are sober for once in your life and your eyes are filled with love and sunlight and summer and I straddle your ribcage and face-forward piggyback into your kitchen.  Sometimes we’re in your palace, but a lot of the time we’re in the stainless steel kitchen overlooking the Styx with alcove pictures of us on vacation to distant shores, be it Asgard or Avalon or Abraxas.  There’s one of me on a sunhat and us on a beach and you’re so goddamn pale it’s funny.  All you do is hold me and I sigh and breath in your aftershave and Asmodeus fixes us coffee and you somehow manage to make toast and eggs with one hand while holding me with the other.  You’re completely human for once, and Deus has on shades for a hangover and a Jim Morrison haircut, but you look like Pete Steele meets Slenderman meets God’s Left Hand Lawyer.  I’m sleepy and teasing you about how you burn omelettes when really it’s me that can’t cook for shit and you always feed me, anything I want, and instead of mixing us drinks Deus pours sweetener and sweeetener and creamer into my coffee because as my friend once said, do you want coffee with your sugar?  You two take it black and talk of business and the daily grind as we sit at the countertop and I’m in your lap eating deliciously runny eggs and pecking you on the lips like a hungry duck.  You pet me and play with my hair and wish me good morning and say of course you were coming, you just had errands to run, because the afterlife doesn’t run itself and the Grim Reaper gets busy.  We make small time in quiet hours, and we have enough inside jokes to fill 25 years.  All I know is that the kitchen is warm with friendship and love and that I’ve never seen sunrise in hell, so I watch the star of Hell kiss the horizon pink and purple over skyscrapers and you carry me out to the porch and rock me to sleep, kiss my eyelids shut, and send me off to start the day back on Earth.  It is so rare to see you whole, not strung out, not the Devil, just a man, just my man, and I awake with a smile on my face and bruises on my heart because I am an overripe pear just waiting the day you sink your teeth into me later tonight, when we are wild and not tranquil as the new moon.

How could I think you would ever forget me?

Addict

It’s evening, and we’re both drunk as stoned birds, and you look like a young Hannibal Lecter and stink of corpses and rotting roses.  I’m in bandages and heels, I cut myself on your broken bottles again, maybe because I hate myself or maybe because I hate you and I want you to see your precious little canary bleed red, dead, showing the coal mine of your palace is stranger danger.  There’s needle pricks along your forearm and you’re ranting and raving about how I left you for your brother, the Prodigal Sun, and you’re the fuckup your dad kicked to the curb into a joint you call Hell with your bachelor buddies where all you do is fuck and kill and get high any means possible.  I say your twin is worth a thousand yous and I’d rather you were dead by my hands than calling me jezebel and heirodule and all your pretty words for whore.  Maybe you get off on me sleeping with all your friends and enemies – no, I know you do, because you own me and I own you and I only do as we please and you’re a manwhore that likes used goods – but for now you’re pretending it’s only us at night, not succubi or angels of prostitution or all the fancy terms rabbis came up for cheap ladies of the night that dress up in oxblood lipstick and leather and decorate your palace.  I tried to join in on one of your orgies once and you laughed to high heaven at how innocent I was, too pure, and your wives stroked my hair and tweaked my nose and then you got back to your fucking.  So much for sharing.  I don’t know a damn thing about drugs and all the shit you drink and snort and smoke and siphon through your veins but silver daggers are pumping this clear heady substance into your banded arms and I’m cornered, horny, and pissed.  I imagine you are the same, because what fucking loser castigates his wife for straying and throws temper tantrums then comes crawling back drunk for forgiveness and pleads for a second chance, a millionth chance, just take my poetry and books and roses and shittily made tacos and let’s pretend I’m the dragon, you’re the princess, and your fucking knight brother was burned to a crisp.  You grab me from behind and I hike up the bandages and you talk about kids and how pretty I would be pregnant and I tell you to fuck off as I cum and you’re still snorting coke off my spine and we rut until I bleed and you’re raw.  You mock me for missing a spot waxing but I know you’d fuck me if I had a sixties porno bush.  You’ve made it a point to fuck me however I look, lathering me up to a soap with compliments and moaning and weakness as your seed spills out and I could sink my teeth into your manhood and drink down all the black sin inside you.  You’re crying again, sobbing into my hair, saying how could I have left you for the better half, the sober one, the brother you hate and love in equal measure.  I tell you to shut the hell up and let me sleep and that I only keep you around because you’re hot when you’re not an abomination.  I’m pretty sure you raised me to kill you, and you love watching me in other men’s arms, but then you go and haunt my boyfriends and fuck me in their beds so who knows.  All I know is that you think you have me figured out, but then I go and surprise you and you lose your shit and rant and rave like a rabid dog.  Watchdog of the graveyard, you called yourself.  The Scapegoat.  Samuel the Judge.  I hope the whole fucking Internet reads this and the Satanists know what a pussy their god is.  The Devil’s a cuckold and cries at Victor Hugo and beats his women and is as disturbed as his favorite eponymous band.  Addict Angel Extraordinaire.  Waste of Space Junkie.  This is just me spewing shit on the page to see what sticks but isn’t that what I always do?

I learned to write from you, after all.

Dandelion

Freyr shapes me into a fragrant yellow flower
at first I am a green bud, ripe with possibility
next, gestation, my pistil and stamen stretch,
bees grace me with honey kisses, each fertilization
a dream of mine petaled out in glory like the sun
fall comes, he plucks me with the harvest, blows
my hopes and desires and wishes across the fields
my dreams are carried to far shores, and I live on.