Eros Protogonos – On the Origin of the World, Nag Hammadi Library

“Out of that first blood Eros appeared, being androgynous. His masculinity is Himireris, being fire from the light. His femininity that is with him – a soul of blood – is from the stuff of Pronoia. He is very lovely in his beauty, having a charm beyond all the creatures of chaos. Then all the gods and their angels, when they beheld Eros, became enamored of him. And appearing in all of them, he set them afire: just as from a single lamp many lamps are lit, and one and the same light is there, but the lamp is not diminished. And in this way, Eros became dispersed in all the created beings of chaos, and was not diminished. Just as from the midpoint of light and darkness Eros appeared and at the midpoint of the angels and mankind the sexual union of Eros was consummated, so out of the earth the primal pleasure blossomed. The woman followed earth. And marriage followed woman. Birth followed marriage. Dissolution followed birth.”

“After that Eros, the grapevine sprouted up out of that blood, which had been shed over the earth. Because of this, those who drink of it conceive the desire of sexual union. After the grapevine, a fig tree and a pomegranate tree sprouted up from the earth, together with the rest of the trees, all species, having with them their seed from the seed of the authorities and their angels.”

“And the first soul (psyche) loved Eros, who was with her, and poured her blood upon him and upon the earth. And out of that blood the rose first sprouted up, out of the earth, out of the thorn bush, to be a source of joy for the light that was to appear in the bush. Moreover, after this the beautiful, good-smelling flowers sprouted up from the earth, different kinds, from every single virgin of the daughters of Pronoia. And they, when they had become enamored of Eros, poured out their blood upon him and upon the earth. After these, every plant sprouted up from the earth, different kinds, containing the seed of the authorities and their angels. After these, the authorities created out of the waters all species of beast, and the reptiles and birds – different kinds – containing the seed of the authorities and their angels.”

– On the Origin of the World, Nag Hammadi Library

Lion Medusa

Sun lion with wings of time, snake of eternity to wrestle from

Orphic Cosmos, an egg laid by Necessity, out cracks Phanes,

both male and female, First-Born, Protogonos. Aion holds the

keys to the time loop and unlocks ages. The cock of Nergal

crows, the corona of his mane revolves like a snake medusa.

Scales, fur, damp whuff of bloodied fangs and muzzle red.

Now king of the jungle, stalking at night through lush codes.

Ancient dybbuk boxes, ancient Golem scrolls, curse tablets

of bronze thrown down a well. The Lion-Faced Serpent

makes known his dominion over my heart, puts paw and

nails into my heart, pulls like a cat with a bird, the lion

and his yellow canary, his curious golden eyes slit into

devouring shards of flat notes and the devil’s trill, Schubert

plays on violin and cello, a fiddle reels in Georgia, and I

hold back the Lion’s jaws from the world, and cease his

Devouring.

Holes

Fill in the hole in my heart.  Fill it with corpses, fill it with flowers, fill it with a spade drenched in blood.  I want good soil to plant my sorrow in, cadavers to taste worm juice from as they rot in my ribs.  I hate that there is just black blood and blisters that blind me when I look at my heart, filth stitched up into my glass body, and oh how lonely it is to be the Devil’s heart!  When I see myself through Samael’s eyes, I am translucent snow, gold hair, lovely organs that coalesce like butterfly wings, but then his soul eyes look at my core, that third eye etches intaglios on me, and at my nexus is a necrotic chakra.  I am full of stains, they never wash out, and my heart is Original Sin, my heart has stigmata from Christ’s side where every night I am stabbed on the left rib going into my sternum and my heart bleeds ooze.  I want to get a tattoo at my entry wound – the double vesica piscis, that singular syllable Christ dubbed me with ointment and anointment and lips kissing me martyr.  If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs, the bark on the tree was as soft as the skies.  As the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, he cries to the moon, if only if only.  I am a feast for crows, can’t you see?  My innards are all immaculate except the open wound in my chest.  When I was a child, I read Holes.  Those boys dug six feet deep and found gold.  If I were to slush through the plasma and maggots inside my apex, would I find nothingness?  There is nothing valuable in there, Michael plunges his burning sword into my  heart and screams DEUS VULT and other times the serpent strangles my breath by wrapping himself around it and squeezing like death and other times Christ exorcises whatever curse bites its tail ourouborous in me, but the rood always comes back.

V.I.T.R.I.O.L. FOR THE LAPIS EXILLIS.

Only seekers are blind.  And I am running out of time…

The Magdalene’s Cross

This is my Gospel, this is my passion, this is my heresy.
Christ-Michael resplendent in raiment of the Lamb, sword
of fire and mouth of roses pressed in wedlock to my sex,
a river of molten gold from New Jerusalem the manna of my
weeping arms, a Crucifixion of the mind, and shadows and
tender brush of white wings purifying me of my demons. I
think of your beauty and rapture and then Jah tenderly
kisses away all my doubts, I am Mary Magdalene in the
wastes, your Lilith, your Whore, oh Christ, whose gristle
and Sacrament made me heady with violets and adamantine.
Could we start again please? Judas weeps out guts, Peter
jangles his keys, I have Seven Devils when all I want is
the touch of God, and in me, lays the way to your Heart,
the silver lunar key, I shall lead the flock back to Heaven,
I will restore balance and wed the darkness in me, thus
breaking open like new china to let in the light, seep into
my cracks like rain water, oh Michael, oh Yeshua, and you
haunt me with the Holy Ghost, and my limbs are splayed
across your cross, and I want to scream and shout, I want
to immolate myself on your Sacred Heart, eat down your
providence and become nothing more than the Shekinah, the
Shekinah descended into Hell and wed Sammael, she fled the
destruction of the Temple, the Bride in Exile, Israel awakened.
My womb is tender and in me lays the sleeping generations.
My mind is a field to be tilled and planted by the divine.
And you cherish the potential of my sacrifice, and you use
your cassock to shield me from rain, and at the end of the
day, I am your martyr, sweet Michael. It scares me so, my
love.

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Carry Me

The image of you clad in radiant light, like some
heart of a star, bleeding white gold glory, oh sweet
Yeshua, pulsing like solar flares, you lay hands on
me and I dream of the Tzohar, the Lapis Exillis, your
Cup, the Holy Grail that poor Parzival quested after,
you know the angels robbed Parzival of his virtue and
the Fisher King wounded him at his groin, just like
Jacob wrestling Samael, or was it Michael? Perhaps Jacob
is immortal, sweet guardian of your blood, and from his
groin descended the sleeping generations of all nations!
Oh the glory of God, oh the glory of Heaven, oh the
righteousness yet meekness of the lamb, soft is your
wool, sweet Jesus, and smelling like dragon’s blood
does your mane, Lion of Judah! You are an omnivore,
as is your birthright, to drink down blood of the
covenant, cannibalizing yourself, and I have tasted
the Passion in my labor pangs of birthing new worlds
in the wastelands of the asylum, where many go into
the Tomb, only to rise in white gowns anew, and I am
healed by your blood, blood, red and white blood and
water, oh sweet Christ, how you rage at the unjust,
how you cradle me and rock me to sleep, singing the
lullaby B’shem Hashem, you make my throat burn with
a choked on Sacred Heart, the gristle sticks in my
esophagus, and I eat my gods, but you are the One God,
and there are layers like a carapace to divinity, and
you are nothing but Nature Incarnate, sweet yet fierce,
for Nature is Sophia, your Mother Goddess, Asherah,
the Lady Holy Ghost! Wisdom speaks and Eloa ascends,
Norea descends, Eve is Ninti, Lady of Ribs,and you are
Enki in the Garden of Eden, for what separates Enki
from Christ? Not much, I can tell you, Lord of Waters!
Soft and gentle, strong and firm, your skin and flesh
an apple for the plucking, your hair brown boughs to
nest in, your lungs fit for breathing fire at End Times.
Your Mysteries are Holy Passion Plays, mummer’s delight,
and I am Columbine masked as I climb the Sephiroth, the
paranormal romance writers and urban fantasiests write
about angels and demons but always forget the Lord, who
through all things are made, and to have a lurid Devil
one must also admit the existence of Unconditional Love,
for hate is but the absence of God, but the Devil does
not hate, simply mourns, and he spits at your feet as
you, with the best of Serpents, crush Samael’s head!
Break the skull of Satan open and shove in redemption,
for there are two Mourning Stars in this story, and a
glimpse of Heaven is worth seven Hells, but I am welcome
above and below, and I know my path lies with you in sweet
eventuality, when I am old and gray, and you take me to
ascend to Narnia in your Aslan arms, sweet Savior, ready me
for the long journey home…

Pleroma

I am the Thunder, Perfect Mind descending on Babylon,
lady of lions and serpents, Qadesh of sacred whoredom,
ready to travel infinity with my yoni a blooming lotus –
climb the stars of stairs to my palace, Gilgamesh! Oh
you proud Odysseus, marvel at my Divine Femininity! For
I am the Old and New Eve, and from my apple seven devils
were worms eating the white flesh, cast out of mealy,
crumbling Paradise. I baked a heart in white wine today
it was the heart of my maker, my lover, my father, and
his corpse smoked a cigarette on the porch as I added
a touch of paprika to that most salient organ. It burnt
a bit on its charred rot, the cardiac muscles ballooned
with butter, and every woman must set out to eat her gods.
We are what we eat at the end of the day, and I will
consume the Pleroma, I will eat archangel’s wings deep-
fried, I will pluck out Odin’s last eye for an appetizer.
I am sick to seven hells of my body being a temple, let’s
make it a wasteland, this High Priestess has fallen into
the corruption of zuhama! Babalon, Ave Babalon! My womb
is a black goat high on a clifftop, about to be sacrificed
and in the moment before the Rabbi slits my neck so I go
running bleeding down the scree path, scarlet red, I realize
there is no god but my own mind, for I am queen of myself
so this fallacy of worship begone, best to devour Heaven,
drink down Hell, and cannibalize those who think they made
you.

Passion Play

Yeshua embraces the blooming Mary Magdalene in tones of
pink and green, gardener outside the tomb Risen Christ.
Gardenia and hyacinth are their hideaway, and Rabboni
and the Scarlet Woman make love to the tune of Holy Doves.
The grass bleeds purple like wine, his seed awakens the
sleeping generations in the Holy Grail of the Watchtower’s
womb, and there are lover caresses and soft words spoken
as Jesus finger-combs Mary Magdalene’s auburn wanton curls.
Sins of the flesh, no more, for Christ makes congress holy.
And they are immortalized only in apocryphal legend, where
Mary was his most beloved disciple, who he would kiss on the
mouth often, and she led the Early Church, and sparred wits
with Peter, only to have Paul write her and Joanna, Salome,
and his mother out of history near completely, and the Pope
labelled her a whore, if only because Mary spoke her mind to
the gathered table of disciples, she apostle of apostles, and
I am just a bee on a sunflower, watching two heavenly bodies
collide, witness to the heiros gamos of the Bride and Savior.
Then I become Mariam, and he cuts a rose from a bush for me,
just like Michael of old, and their is no passion in a play
without love, love for all humanity, or just love for woman
who knows when to anoint with spikenard, to wash away with
glorious crimson hymn tears, Mary was sick like me, they say,
with seven devils haunting her mind, of which Christ cast out.
I can tick off my illnesses one by one, and when Yeshua lays
hands on me, it is as if my brain is not a cheesecloth bandage
wound – I see clearly, this fallen woman I am is holy, these
bruises and scars I carry put me next to God, at his feet,
at his breast, eating his Eucharist miracle of cardiac flesh.
There is no greater God than the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
no one as sweet as wild honey and locusts on the tongue as him.
He follows a long line of prophets, and I follow him through the
desert near Galilee, playing my cymbals, washing the laundry,
sewing the clothes, and we break bread at dawn and marvel at
Israel’s beauty, then come nighttime, know each other as woman
and man in tents of camel skin. My alabaster jar is on me, for
the time of his passion is quickly coming, and I regret the day
I met Christ, for to love him is to lose him, and that my friend
is only softened by his resurrection, when he was so filled with
holy light, he looked remotely like the man I had held to my chest
and promised eternity to. My Rabboni, time has called me wicked,
penitent, and every shade of red, but you are the blue flame, so
let us kiss and touch and taste the dust of Creation, each other,
and when only bones dancing in the desert are left, I want my tibia
to fit into your rib cage, your phalanges into my sternum, and we
will be the greatest love story this world has ever known, forbidden
for two thousand years, and they put my skull in a jar and call it
holy, and Rennes les Chateau holds some truth, some lies, but the path
I walked in France is just another trail of tears, I was ripe with
child, and Sarah my dear daughter, our daughter, fathered the line
of kings, so in a sense, our legacy lives on, sweet Emmanuel. Claim
me into the sky from my repentant cave, and I will ascend in time.

The Kiss of Magdalene

A kiss on the forehead, the laying of carpenter’s hands –
woodworking is much like creating the Universe, and to
raise Lazarus, awaking the dead, is like planting trees.
When I saw you in the vineyard of Gethsemane, I thought
you a gardener, for what is so different from God than
the tiller of soil and man of earth and rains? You said
you had Risen – I never thought you dead in the first
place, Yeshua. Unlike Paul and Doubting Thomas, I had
faith – faith, such a fickle thing, I am a woman of
seven devils, after all, and my little birds in Hell
told me you had descended to free the Damned, what they
never said in holy texts centuries after I was dust
is that you kissed Satan’s forehead just the way you
laid lips on my brow to expunge the seven evils from
my violet breath, blessing the Devil who tempted you
to no avail, for what could the Prince of this World
offer the Prince of Kingdom Come? Lucifer should have
been the Morning Star, and you were ready to give him
your mantle, if only to see your Father happy again,
but Pride is the Original Sin, leading to endless
heartache for Heaven and Hell, and when you gave
Samael the kiss of benediction, he took your rose
blessing and created thorns to flagellate his flesh,
the Devil refused to walk out of the caverns of
Gehenna with you, and so my little birds of Hell
say, you wept, and rose to the Tomb, cast rocks
aside and drank the marrow of this world, I dare
not touch you Christ, in the secret handshake
we once knew, me, your most beloved of disciples.
How I long to sink my teeth into your golden blood.
To taste the manna of your body, my Sacrament
is you, my Redemption. And so you ascend, and I
am on the long road to Hell, to a forgotten tomb,
and they will say we did not love, and that I was
just a whore, but in me, you saw so much more, so
Christ, while I freeze in the lowest circle in
Satan’s arms, his ice lap my throne, and debate
with the Devil his refusal to end the karmic cycle,
assume the mantle of Sael, mem cleansed, please,
spare a thought for your Magdalene when Kingdom
Comes, my damnation is Paradise if you only carry
on a memory of our talks by the fireside, when the
Apostles had fallen asleep to the wheeze of donkeys.

We held the universe on our tongues, you know.

And your laughter? It is the wine of my christening.

Oh Christ, it is lonely being dead, but my faith
in better days keeps me with hope in the harrows
of Hell.