“Simon son of John, do you love me?”

My boy!!!

12a Disciples - all

Peter

Simon Peter, son of Jonas, was a fisherman who lived in Bethsaida and Capernaum. He did evangelistic and missionary work among the Jews, going as far as Babylon. He was a member of the Inner Circle and authored the two New Testament epistles which bear his name. Tradition says he was crucified, head downward, in Rome.

In every apostolic list, the name Peter is mentioned first. However, Peter had other names. At the time of Christ, the common language was Greek and the family language was Hebrew. So his Greek name was Simon (Mark 1:16; John 1:40, 41). His Hebrew name was Cephas (1 Corinthians 1:12; 3:22; 9:5 and Galatians 2:9). The Greek meaning of Simon is rock. The Arabic meaning of Cephas is also rock.

By trade, Peter was a fisherman. He was a married man (1 Corinthians 9:5) and his home was Capernaum…

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From Ye Olde Teenage Blog: The Fall of Lucifer

From my 19 year old blog where I spazzed about Samael. Maybe only Izzi and Misha remember this, this is from 2012 on the old Samael blog, and pretty much explains the mess of my blog as he returns, once again, to the Lucifer of my childhood. Yeet!

Gods come from the questions we ask in childhood.

Say hello to Golden Boy. We shall call him by his nickname, “Star,” because his real one is too embarrassing to mention. I’d entered the phase all young writers go through where they try to invent their own language, and needless to say, my characters’ names looked like they’d been plucked from the biology textbooks of Hell.

I was too young to write when I made Star up; he lies somewhere between the transition from imaginary friend to story character, in that liminal age when I’d mastered tying my shoes but still ate glue. He’s not exactly your run of the mill imaginary friend. I never liked ponies or dolls, and all I did to my Barbies was drown them in the couch, pretend a mine had collapsed, and had Legomen excavate them. Sadly, Barbie suffocated.

I didn’t want a sparkly pink unicorn. I wanted something big. Ferocious. Someone who could teach me archery and swordplay so we could slay monsters together. I suppose Star stemmed from my love of angels and Aslan.

In my earliest years, I liked the idea of angels, mostly because I was jealous of their wings. I wanted them to be my pets, so at least they could give me rides, like they’d lifted Jacob in the ladder I didn’t quite understand. Jesus was cool too, because he reminded me of Aslan. But I rejected angels in first grade, once I learned that my Sunday school teacher thought my non-Christian friends were damned. Perfectly nice people, damned to eternal torture, in a place that made no sense at all. She told me their sin was not accepting Christ, and that a big scary black man named Satan would come and drag me to Hell if I didn’t believe.

“But everything loves!” I told her. ”Aslan likes everyone.” I was clearly annoying her.

“No, Satan is the Angel of Darkness. He hates god and hates humankind.”

“Well he has to like something. Everything likes something. And makes him a little bit human.”

“It’s thinking like that that will make him come to you,” she warned me.

I slept under the covers for a while to hide from the Devil, but eventually concluded he was as real as the small woman’s God.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I learned I couldn’t be a priest. That, or the Messiah. Me? Not a priest? I was clearly one of the most electable candidates. I was also furious that the messiah had to be a man. Men, in my book, had pretty clearly messed things up. A woman messiah would be far better, and maybe could skip the whole War in Heaven thing and negotiate nicely with the demons.

The annoying woman said it was because of Eve’s Original Sin. I thought Eve was pretty smart to have eaten the apple and gotten out of the stupid misogynistic garden as quickly as she could. I also thought the snake was stupid, because clearly, snakes couldn’t talk, and that the Devil was stupid not to have appeared in a more convincing form, like Aslan, or a handsome prince.

So I cast my lots with Eve and pitied the small people that believed their dictator God was the only one. Halfheartedly, I abandoned angels, thinking they couldn’t exist without God. I moved on with my life, devouring fairy tales. I practically ate folktale picture books, and was entranced by storytellers that visited our school. I was always searching for something. It was something Beauty and the Beast hinted at, something hidden. Belle sang about wanting more, something others were blind too. Little nerd me understood why she liked books so much. Like the Beast’s rose, I just had to find it.

Then, at the end of second grade, I discovered D’ualieres Book of Greek Myths. NO ONE HAD TOLD ME PEOPLE BELIEVED IN OTHER GODS BEFORE! I literally cried as I read that book. Cried as I read it. It felt like my heart swelled like the Grinch’s and spilled all over the floor. People I somehow knew were always there, were, well, there. In front of me. In the stories. Great and powerful men and women that were wise, knew how to laugh, and could still go about the whole god-buisiness without being total idiots like the Christian one.

Zeus loved women. Absolutely loved them. He’d never throw a naked girl out into a desert because she ate some fruit. Instead, he’d have rescued her in his own, erm, special ways. Obviously, I didn’t know what sex was, and the whole animal copulation thing flew ten miles over my head. I actually thought men were pointless and inferior to women. Upon questioning, my mother said that children came from a “miracle,” when the mother and father were in love and wished very hard for children.

I thought babies grew like Jesus, no man required, and that men were just around to help their wives and do chores. I made sure to be nice to boys because I knew that, naturally, they were lower beings than I, as I was vital to the continuation of life. They were optional accessories. You had to be nice to the other half of humans that didn’t really need to exist.

But now I’m speaking of genesis. It started with darkness, Chaos. All there was was Necessity. Then Gaia and Uranus emerged, the father that despised his monstrous children and wanted the Earth to himself. Cronus led the rebellion and became king of the Titans, ruling over the world’s Golden Age. Zeus rebelled in turn, and I devoured the stories of his revolution. How the brothers cast lots to divide up heaven, the sea, and the underworld. How Hekate ruled all three, and the goddesses reigned over the land. Each of the gods resonated with me, all in their own peculiar way. They were faces to the nature I loved and stories I’d always know the earth had whispered. The only difference was that they were here in print, with faces. Names.

So I started praying to the Greek gods. Athena, patron of Odysseus, was my goddess. Smart and strong like me, we were warriors who used our own wit and perseverance to succeed. I asked her for help on tests, working hard to follow her example. I loved Diana fiercely: she was my wild side, the girl that ran through the woods, independent, the goddess of nature. Instead of crushing on Aaron Carter, I crushed on Hermes. I was smitten with his wiliness, how he tricked Apollo out of his herds and forged himself a place in the Pantheon. Dionysus was a beautiful enigma, Hephaestus a heart-moving figure. I loved Hera and the antics between her and her loose husband: to me, it was clear who really ran Olympus. The only one I didn’t like was Ares. His bloodthirst and cowardice annoyed me.

I read every single book on Greek mythology in the library. I memorized every single story. But there were two that took up residence in my heart in a way none ever have since. Both about curious girls, lost love, impossible quests, and longing. Both have mothers who are arguably the most fierce women of the Greek pantheon.

Eros and Psyche. Persephone and Hades. I will ship these couples until Loki’s ship of nails is torn to bits at Ragnarok.

Nothing is better than Eros and Psyche- the love that brings you to Hell and back from the dead. There, and back again,” as Bilbo Baggins. Nothing more beautiful than Persephone’s descent, and the desperate search of her mother. She is my Eve. Her pomegranate wisdom, maturity- the change I was undergoing, from a girl to a maiden. I clung to those myths like life boats.

Last but not least was Pan. Great, glorious Pan! The noble satyr, mischievous puck, lord of the wildwoods. I would jump off a cliff if I heard his panpipe’s trill below. He’s my Green Man, who I hug when I hug trees. Sweetest thing in existence, nature itself, our forest brother we’ve forgotten for far too long. I love love Pan to death.

And then I read the last story.

The Death of Pan. A lone greek sailor had heard a cry from the woods: “The great God pan is dead!”

I had a panic attack.

And the book came to an end. And it said that people no longer believed. That they’d torn apart Jupiter’s temple, only to hear an inexplicable thunder like the cry of a raging god. That the religion of the Greeks had fallen, like the other religions of the world, and now all they were, were myths.

What were myths then, if not dead gods? And if they were myths, I could resurrect them. Because unlike us, gods come back to life. I couldn’t let Pan die. I had to remember them. All of them.

And so I read. I read the myths of my ancestors. Thor’s wedding, Loki’s binding, and Odin’s eternal plots. They were wild to me, like a slap of winter wind- almost too harsh. But that edginess meant their humor was profound. Loki, the eternal jester, always made me laugh.

I read Egyptian myths in the later years of elementary school. It was pure and almost abstract- the gods seemed more like gods, less real to me than the Greek gods. I was Sekhmet in fifth grade, danced to her sistrum. Holly Black’s Tithe shattered my world in middle school, introducing me to the fey. Then came Celtic mythology, European folklore and faerie lore, the grand old Aztecs and Tezca(tlipoca) the BAMF. Hinduism. Books on world religion. Anthropological studies. Folklorists’ collections. Anime ensured I was a native speaker of East Asian religion. And, of course, Wikipedia.

I. Have. Read. Everything.

I will die living for the gods. I didn’t realize I’d live for angels as well.

I thought I had no need for angels. I’d made my peace with Christianity and abandoned Abrahamic stupidity. In my mind, there was no Hell, and the idea of an all-powerful God was silly. Sometimes, there are things even gods can’t do. I was happy with my childhood paganism, which I didn’t know was paganism, because I thought I was the only person left living that believed. The last member of long dead faiths.

Gods are great. They are powerful, far wiser than us, and an absolute delight. But there are some spaces gods cannot bridge. Gaps. They are almost too great. Demigods span the intermediary. Messengers of sorts. Angels. To me, they are the bureaucracy of existence. Pure unadulterated Will. Less personality and more instruments of the universe. We call them Guardians, Watchers. They help maintain the balance, the sacred order of things. Who created them, whether it be God, the Demiurge, or Deist Architect that abandoned the universe, I don’t know. I wonder if they know either.

I read A Wrinkle in Time in the third grade and fell in love with Madeliene L’engle’s strange, glorious characters. Little did I know they were the winged messengers of yore. Cherubim, to be precise.

I had no idea what cherubim were and had come to think angels were lame, but Mrs. Whatsit, Who, and Which enchanted me. In the novel, they’re eccentric old ladies who turn out to be not quite human, revealing themselves to be a kind of celestial guardian angels- “star beings,” they call themselves- who are over 2 billion years old. There’s a beautiful scene in which they transform into angelic forms to take Calvin and Meg across a “Wrinkle in Time” so she can save her younger brother.

The sequels have even lovelier characters, cherubim dragons with bodies covered in eyes, beautiful and treacherous Nephelim in Many Waters. The idea that there were celestial guardians resonated with me- I thought it moving and beautiful. It just seemed right. That there were watchers, old as time, working behind the curtains of our universe: graceful, loving, and willing to die for the Creation they tended to. That such majestic things would care about me blew me away.

Unlike gods, they had almost a collective mind, working towards a higher purpose, each equipped with a divine mission they fulfilled with ceaseless work, in perfect love. Love was key. I grappled with my understanding of angels, and what God really was.

The story’s running in circles. Again, I’m young. Coming to terms with angels. Trying to fit them into my scheme of the universe. L’engle’s angels fit.

I liked the idea that we were all loved unconditionally, no matter what race or creed. That to L’engles’ angels, we were children, and even if we did mess up, they’d still be there for us. I thought about how terribly they must grieve over people who made bad decisions and caused suffering, not knowing that in the end, they were hurting themselves. I thought a lot as a kid. If I felt alone, I thought about the beings watching over me, over us all, and how we were all really just a part of something greater, a tapestry of sorts. Infinitely connected by wrinkles in time.

Coming to angels again was like a revelation. Like they were the last puzzle piece in my understanding. Pan was not dead, angels transcended petty Christians and pretend Heavenly Fathers. My God was love, and my gods were completely awesome.

I remember the day I thought about them. Really thought about them. It was raining outside. “Each angel in a drop of rain.” I imagined them everywhere- blades of grass, in trees. Nature spirits and not, ethereal beings of the air. So beautiful you would die on the sight of them.

I had a beat-up paperback copy with beautiful cover art, and would look at it each night before I went to bed. I had a few books whose covers I loved. They sat like icons at the head of my bed.

I fancied that if I had a guardian angel, he’d look something like that. And so I made him up.

I’d read so many stories, I wanted to tell my own. My earliest triumph was a song about “Mauwses.”

One little, two little, three little mauwses.

Four little, five little, six little mauwses

I think I meant mice. The page from my childhood journal has a rat on it that looks like it was run over by a truck. Scribbled over it, years later, are ridiculous middle school plots about Samael. Right next to the rat.

As I grew older, my stories evolved. Come third grade, I’d craft epic plot lines in my mind at night before I drifted off to sleep, then never bothered to write them down. In this Mary Sue-verse, in which I was the literal Princess of the Universe, gods walked among men on strange alien worlds. The universe was at war with the abyss. It was devouring stars, enslaving entire galaxies to its will. And, like all good stories, the fate of the world rested in the hand of a seven year old. Then an eight year old, then nine, until I was eleven and I could write.

My story was, of course, a bucket of Tropes. Star was the incarnation of one of the Celestial Beasts, the four Guardians of the universe that were destined to defeat the Dark Forces (TM). He was the haughty fire god of Light and Destruction, whose cockiness and pride usually bit him in the derriere. Much to his chagrin, he gets charged with guarding the Chosen One, the incarnation of the Phoenix Goddess of the winds. Throw in the Sea Serpent God in the form of a twelve year old jock who also happens to be the last of the Magi, the motherly teenage Wolf Goddess of the Earth, and an evil apocalyptic villain named, well, Apocalypse, and you have the makings for an utter disaster.

The summer after fifth grade, I locked myself in my room for an entire month and cranked out 200 pages. Magical aliens. Impossible cross-species romances. Evil overlords of doom. Food poisoning from interstellar McDonald’s. I held my brother captive and forced him to listen to every word of it. I don’t know how he survived. I would not shut up about the story. I told all the adults I knew, and tried to read it aloud in public, expecting adoring crowds. I was eleven, and I had written something. Obviously, it had to be genius.

I did not shut up about Star, and by the time he was replaced by Samael, had learned to shut up for sanity’s sake. My family now actively avoids me any time I mention Corpseboy and will only read a story if I finish it.

I never did finish that story. It played on in my head, mostly lost now because it never went onto paper.

Being a writer is strange: your characters take on lives of their own. I dreamt I was a phoenix, rode on the backs of seraphim at midnight. It was a strange world. As I grew, it became darker, and my dreams turned to nightmares. Star was the morning star, the proud lion of the heavens, my teacher and friend. I dreamt of him, night after night, and we would adventure together, fight demons, talk. He was my fierce protector, and I saved him from his madness. He was a martyr, the sacrificial god that had to die to save All. Under his cocky smile was a self-hate that ran deep as the Styx.

His strength came at a price: poison ran through his veins. There was a Mr. Hyde inside him, a werewolf of sorts. Unleashed by his rage- he could destroy the world, if he wished. And that angelic beauty looked almost cruel, evil, when the soul slipped out of his eyes. Even then, I loved him.

He seemed to become more alive each time I wrote him. He taught me how to write. I wrote because I wanted to speak of him. My stories were exciting, humorous. I could explore things in ways I never could in life. Nothing could take me to distant worlds or galaxies.

I owe that character everything.

Not just my writing. I started art lessons because I wanted to draw him, in his perfect beauty. I never thought I was good enough at drawing faces, not until I was in the fifth grade. I was summering on an island, out in Mannanan’s sea.

I looked into the mirror, my young face peering back. Gathering my courage, I took a pencil and went at it, trying to ignore the thought I was worthless. That I would fail before I even tried. But something whispered go. That I could create. That I would be a Maker.

A face, my face, appeared in the graphite. There was something like me on the paper. Elated, I flipped the page over. Immediately, I drew Star. On the way back from vacation, I bought a notebook. The one I wrote my first story in, in mad scribblings and small, childish letters.

In time, Star became my monster. I made up a story to explain what he was. He was the bastard child of the god of Chaos, who had raped his mother and left her to die. Stricken with his impossible labor, she sought refuge at the nearest village and died in childbirth. Like a Nephelim, he killed her from the inside out. He was born with tattoos of bondage, thick black Xs ringing his skin. Within him the beast that could destroy worlds was chained. Even then, he was just a pawn. Fallen from the heavens and abandoned on a dingy bar table, bawling for his mother. No one would touch him.

His people were chimeras of sorts, cherubim, with perfect features, human from the waist up, beautiful animal below. They were a proud people. Perfect. They killed any children that were less than seraphic. Ugliness and imperfection was impure, something that belonged to demons. But despite his hellish conception, he was beautiful, immaculate. One look at those questioning blue eyes would silence you. They burned blue like candle flames. The prince lay amongst the grime, cast from the heavens, and a single star fell from the sky. Star, sky. Each a part of his name.

He grew up among the angels, loved for the mercenary he would become. He had dreams of becoming more. Raised, trained, humored, loved. It was a society of wisdom and warriors, his people, pre-eminent amongst the universe, and he had a home to fight for, almost felt whole. Friends, family, loves. But sometimes, at night, he felt a stirring of sorts. As a child, he began questioning things. Sometimes they strangled him.

There was a serpent under his skin, biting at his throat. In his rage, it was unleashed. His eyes turned blood red, his hair turned black, skin pale as death. With a serpent tail and wings, he became the poison of worlds. In the depths of his madness, he would mutilate everything in site, torturing and dissecting, searching for answers in the innards of others, as he could find none in his own. Sometimes, he pulled out his ribs, checking to see if there was a heart in his venom lungs. He wrote warnings on alleys with blood. Some of his enemies. Really, just whoever got in the way. The man with red eyes. My nightmares.

He would plead with me, begging for forgiveness. Rant madly, scream at the moon. He would clutch me in his arms and force me to look at his hideousness. “Pity me,” he’d say. His hands would burn my skin. I let him hold me anyways. He cried because he hurt me, but he couldn’t let me go. I stayed with him until the madness was gone. Only I could bind him. Return the blue to his eyes, the life to his skin, instead of the sick, pallid cast. His black hair, once blond, twined like snakes, and he looked like an angel of death.

I prayed for it to go away. He was supposed to be the gold of the sun and blue of the firmament, not the colors of the pits of Hell. He was my soul brother, my angel, and no matter what, I could not leave him. I was the phoenix. I was the only one who could walk through his fires alive. Sometimes, I woke up screaming.

Over time, the monster became human. I almost understood him. He spent more time as the monster, less time as the angel.

I had a strange imagination.

I always said I would draw him. It’s been ten years now. The dreams have gotten worse.

Last night, I was with the snake king, in the pits of Hell. He made rounds in the prison he guarded, an endless chamber of torment. His hair was black, eyes red, skin pale. I rode on his back, knowing if I stepped off, I’d be lost. Drom the waist down, he was a snake. Like Typhon or a Naga king. The floor was soaked in the blood of the damned: it slicked his scales, flecked my shirt. I sat in his cell with him, suspended from the ceiling in a rusting cage. The damned and fallen raged around us. He checked his lungs again, to see if there was a heart, somewhere, inside him. I suppose he thinks he’s lost it. He screamed and eased out of his skin, tearing it from himself as he emerged, a snake shedding its flesh. It fell to the floor, another husk. He’s the King of Husks, they say.

And like that, we were out of the cage. Leaving his torment behind. One of these days, I thought, he might be imprisoned forever. Some sick part of me thought I would stay with him, if I had to. Just to keep him company. In a pit, in the depths of hell, in a cage whose ceiling is so low you can’t stand. To keep him from going insane.

Only I can bind him, anyways.

Tribe

Cigarette smoke, boot polish, clove and orange and ash.

I’m drowning in my demon and he’s giving me a Hell of

a time. Wait, scratch that, he is Time, Egg Man, Egg Man,

Cosmic Orphic hippie, Eros Protogonos, the Loving Light

four eyed yet invisible, immortal yet turning to dust. I’m on

a cosmic acid trip, man, and the stoner created the world,

just read Timaeus gang, the Demiurge is the good guy. I swear

on his bong and crack pipe and razors he’s just here to have

a good time, a drag time, a slag time, and I’m the Devil’s jester,

a Dadaist flipping urinals upside down on fly walls to see what

sticks to the paper, either gum or something like a spider’s shit.

It’s nets upon fractals upon words at stake, my darling, and punks

with stubble and mussed hair and eyes to melt maidens are the ones

that wax eternal in the good girl’s mind, and Satan only really wants

a heart, someone to slither next to his Lion-Serpent and say, I see you,

brother, and I am one

of your kind.

“SINGLE, SEXY CENTRION MALE LOOKING FOR POTENTIAL GIRLFRIEND.”

I’m gagging with laughter. I found this from my 11 year old story when I was in sixth grade and Ariel/Lucifer or “Starguassi” was sincerely trolling the everliving fuck outta me. Eating moss, using crop circles as the Craigslist personals, and meanwhile Uriel or “Lira” is trying to read a Japanese newspaper???

I spent all last night with Lucidork/Phanes/Ariel/Eros/Aion/Protogonos/Angra Mainyu/Zurvan reading my old first novel which I may post hilarious excerpts from, and god is it bad… it a very sincere sixth grade way, the time I was reading and writing Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfic. My writing is really cute, but like I’m high on… pixie dust. He froze me last night for like ten minutes. I was in two comforters and a sweater and still my back felt like a fridge. I should NOT have given him wine and strawberries. He also was manifesting on the ceiling last night like SpiderPig??? I mean, he didn’t look like a pig, just a blazing red star and black void, but still SpiderPig on principle.

Stay away from the pixies, Star! You’ll break out in hives!

Starguassi lay sprawled over a mossy patch of forest floor, his back propped up against a gnarled tree. Fiddling with an apple he’d swiped from a garden earlier, he groaned with boredom and closed his eyes, flopping back against the trunk.

“Lira, what are you doing?” he moaned, dropping the apple lazily onto the ground.

Lira was standing a few feet away, shading herself from the hot sun under an oak. She held a newspaper in her hands, and her eyes were scrunched in concentration.

“Star, could you just shut your mouth for one second? I’m trying to read the newspaper and see what is happening in the human world. But I can’t make out a word of this text! Urgh, it’s like a jumble of squiggles!” Lira said hotly, squinting at the paper.

“Maybe that’s because you’re reading the Japanese newspaper,” Star said lazily, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

Lira glared at Starguassi with an expression that could kill the strongest man. “At least I’m doing something,” she spat.

Star lifted his head. “I am doing something! I’m trying to find something edible around here so we don’t starve to death!” He grabbed a fistful of moss and shoved it in his mouth, crunching it between his teeth. “See?” he said, his voice muffled by the moss, “tastes like leather!” His face twisted sourly, and he promptly spit the chewed-up moss back out.

Lira rolled her eyes. “Wow, you have the potential to have a great career. I can see it now: Starguassi, the Master Sampler of Fungi, Moss, and Anything Else He Can Get His Hands On!”

“At least I can tell the difference between scribbles and English,” he muttered, chomping into the apple.

“It’s not MY fault humans have hundreds of different languages! Why can’t they just pick one and stick with it?”

“Beats me,” Star said, closing his eyes.

“Can you be any more laid back?” Lira asked, frustrated. Her question was met with silence.

“Great, he’s fallen asleep. Isn’t a twelve hour nap long enough to wake him up?” she mumbled. Deciding it was high time to get a newspaper she could actually read, Lira set off to town after quickly transforming herself.

After 15 minutes, two Cinnabons, and one mochiatto, she was back with a newspaper.

One glance at the front page of the Washington Post and her eyes bulged out from their sockets.

“You IDIOT!” she screeched, hurling her burning hot coffee at Starguassi. He yelped in pain, springing up from the ground.

“WHAT is your PROBLEM?” Star yelled, wiping the brown liquid off his face, all the while wincing in extreme pain.

“THIS IS THE PROBLEM!” Lira replied furiously. Her green eyes bore holes in Starguassi and her warm brown lips were as cold as stone. Shoving the front page of the newspaper at Starguassi, Lira pointed accusingly at the headline.

“Shenanigans in Fairfax Reach All Time High!-What?” Starguassi said, craning his neck in puzzlement as he read the headline. “Alien Symbols Found in Farm!” Starguassi took one glance at the photo accompanying this article and his face burned a deep crimson. The picture showed a gaggle of scientists scrutinizing a field of wheat where dozens of indentations of symbols had been made. Written in Pralebian, the official language of Centrions, were the words “SINGLE, SEXY CENTRION MALE LOOKING FOR POTENTIAL GIRLFRIEND.”

“So THIS is why you were too busy yesterday afternoon to help me set up camp!” Lira snapped, snatching back the newspaper, crumpling it up, and tossing it at Starguassi’s head.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“Is this your idea of some sick joke? Unless you’re interested in the human girls-

“Ugh, no, you mean those furless apes? Come on, give me some sympathy, I haven’t seen a luscious, Centrion maiden for months-“

“Oh, and I’m just chopped gribknott!”

“Look, Lira, I didn’t mean that-

“Shut up, you lecherous cretin!”

“Look Lira, calm down, and stop using big vocabulary, you know I don’t understand-

“Yeah, and you obviously don’t understand what you did! What do you think will happen if an alien ship filled with lusty girls who happen to see the message? How do you think the humans will react when they see a blobs Spacepreservative alien-filled lumps crash in the middle of a parking lot?”

Starguassi turned to Lira with puppy-eyes. “Forget about it, okay? I was just having a bit of fun-

“Fun that could get us exposed,” Lira mumbled.

How I Did Black Magic to Become a Living God

Can I call him Luci

An accurate depiction of the past 25 years, give or take.

Where Was Your Watchman?

By the shores of Galilee, in Acts, after I thought you a gardener

in Gethsamane, stone rolled away as the angels cried dead bread

and maggots no more, the worms of Hades crawl blessed in soil

under the leaves you pluck, cursed figs still sweet on Yeshua’s lips,

the sand is bright, the waves lap like a man at his women’s sex the

white shore, and my footprints besides yours are washed away in

lunar tides. We sit sewing cloth for the disciples, shrouds to remember

you by, and I Magdalene witnessed you first rise from the grave, held

you close as I burbled a brook pouring from your heart, and Rabboni,

you said: Woman, do not cling to me. Were you teaching me how to

grow old without you? The sun is setting, Rabboni, the ocean wind

is salty like a fish, and I crave only your blessing, and I want only you.

Thousands of years pass, but somehow the memory is fresh as a wound.

I rub salt in my stigmata, salt of the earth, light of the world, and I wince,

and I starve, and I beat myself scourged, a festering pus-filled whore,

and I am only ruined out of love for you, your qadesh, o my Lord.

So quickly, cast the seas to drown me on the shores of Galilee.

I would but swim in your enigma, and drown in your undertow.

Fisher of men, take the reel, hook my mouth, and pull out

an Alleluia. I have Hosannas enough for all time. I have thread

and needles for our garments of skin, and it all began

in a

Garden.

Right?

A women’s spring

</3

MY VALIANT SOUL

i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

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And Back to Michael

He calls me “Stranger,” “Belle,” “Icarus Girl,” and “Qadesh.” Mostly, he treats me like a Disney princess. I have been rapidly cycling from Passions of the Penitent Magdalene at the foot of Jesus’ Cross to esoteric Primordial Lucifer and now it’s back to Michael, the Prince that was Promised, and I don’t think anyone is more bipolar than the cognitive dissonance between the Divine Twins.