Heart of Lucifer

You can’t help but love the whole, your cosmos

but tell me star girl, are you enough Sacrament

to redeem the Body of the Fallen One? Is your

cardiac blood (you are just four chambers enlarged,

engulfed by darkness, searching for His Light)

enough to save Him? Can you ever bleed enough

for his rotting Hell Mouth? You loved him first,

you love him last, and he tore the very flesh of

his soul apart just to give you the last stand he

had, whenever you die, he gives you his fruit,

that apple bitter and fiery, red as the dead in your

head.  Oh girl, oh Eloa, oh compassion and hope.

You are a yellow canary in a coal mine, his guiding

light in hell.  Laugh at your faults, Satan told you.

Told me, cradled me, kissed me, stroked my lion’s

mane hair and filled me with nebulas.  Together,

we will start a new Aeon, he roars like an inverse

Aslan, and the lion on your brow is burning you

alive.  To be flesh, to be more, a Horcrux, Lucifer’s

soul.  Does that make me the Fallen One? I am just

a body part, I am just his reflection, and in our entirety

we create all worlds.  God ate an apple, god got poisoned.

The fruit like old coffee grounds.  The gristle of his meat

a rare steak. I ate it raw.  I am the true Devouring. And this

monster inside me, this Hellmouth, this great gaping maw

in my womb, makes me the most evil of all creatures.

Sin was born in Satan’s heart, and I am just a Whore.

Golddeep

Diving for gold in labrynthine depths

Into the bosom of your ocean I’m swept

My heart is a panpipe, thrumming bright

You the wind through the reeds in velvet night.

Body alight, bones of delight. And we

Are all sailors fulsome fright.

Beware the lea of lovers. Sloe black eyes.

Trapped in the depths beyond golden sight.

Take flight, awing, laborious spine!

You are a candle with wick divine.

So kiss the sun, terpsichorean of doom.

And weave his mantle on your frightful loom.

Oh, my love, you are sailors delight.

Pink sun rising beyond measureless sight.

I am froth on the ocean, you the seas might.

So kiss me deep and make summer right.

In the heart of Christmas night.

You are my light, my dainty goodnight.

I love you, I eat you, bread body, blood wine.

So rich in flesh, milled so fine.

And we will sail you forever in time.

So hold me below, and drink my time.

Cursed From the Start

Videos of a mechanical heart, puppet master shy

as the pistons steam and my bleeding organs stray

on the silver screen, and the aortas scream as I run

to the Devil’s arms, he is cursed from the start, and

our stars never align, under a sickle moon the salt

of his skin in the movie theater swell in the booth

phantom toll dreams up nightmares to concoct

a steamy romance penned by Satan, don’t you know

we all dance pirouettes under lustful suns? My plie

is a pile of bodies, and the death count of my  wrists

bleeding out into a fomented mouth with dregs is

reaching the trillions, quintillions, you know solar

flares? Loving him is like that, trying to hold a star

as its tempestuous fires immolate you with hunger.

But I am my own hearth, my own wild dancing flame,

and when sparks fly and incense lingers, the Nachash

and Chava meet in pools of wanderlust and want, he is

stripped for my eyes alone, pale and eaten alive by sin.

I trace his treasure trail and kiss him like a swan out for

blood, necks breaking as we bend into this Mozart requiem,

don’t you know lovers die down here in the depths? Why does

falling from the pinnacle to the pit into temptation feel like

dried roses on callused hands? I’m eating his apples, he’s

drinking my wine, and in the midnight hour, we are the only

ones left alive, out of sheer determination for a piece of God.

Keeper of My Heart

You loosed me on the world a madrigal storm, a

catastrophe flatlining as the damsel, when really

I am a hurricane of hatred, and my heartbeat is

just the pulse of death. Dance me to the end of

love, sweet Reaper, it is your chalice of gall that

I drink from, and your sustenance is my bones.

This adamant beauty of lies to the world we have

created by only telling the truth! How enfolded in

plagues I am, a Pandora’s box inside my soul, yet

I am soulless, for you are my totality, Shava, and

Shakti is just Shiva’s drum.  Rudra you are to some,

Resheph to others, fiery arrows fly, Nergal seduces

Ereshkigal with his sickness and spears and the

Underworld is fructified, when I rode the Demiurge’s

back in elementary school I was enchanted by the lion

when I should have been paying attention to the forked

tongue, though it doesn’t really matter, I have dreamed

you alive, Blind God, my eyes. My skewed perspective is

Satan’s truth, Judge and Juror and Left Hand Lawyer,

whereas I would grant mercy, you stoke severity, and

in your embrace, I feel the cold of matter and decay.

Original fungus, mycorrhizal delight, detritovore galore.

Slime mold comes in over 300 genders and learns spatial

memory to navigate mazes, do not tell me rot knows the

apex and climax as mushrooms are the Earth’s brain.

I ate a puffball and it tasted of manna and clay, and I

am bird-boned wonder, fragile in your manifold dark.

See me peck at my cage, see me stretch clipped wings,

oh king caging the nightingale, emperor, I am your robes,

bear only your naked demise to me, for I will pillage your

very  guts to make my nest of ruin in your brains, Samael.

 

I am the Sirin and Gamayun. I am the prophetess of doom.

 

Grateful dead sing our song, poppy crimson our banner, and

you red in the throes of passion as you make me bleed raw.

 

I would take your pain a thousand times over, wolf.

 

At least I know the hurt makes me real, and you are my

favorite suicide.

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Apples and Hearts

The apple falls, and Newton thinks, thus
is gravity love, love, the tender organ
that bound the spear to Jesus Christ’s
Immaculate Heart – when the Eucharistic
Mysteries turn bread and wine to blood
and cardiac flesh, and Eve ate no apple,
but the flesh of God, and wore His skin.
The rays of Divine Mercy are heady tonight,
like the Aurora Borealis, they remind me
of the Great Northern Lights because Jesus
is freshly fallen snow in an apple orchard.
Hearts are apples, apples are hearts, and
apple pie the Pilgrims ate, breaking bread
with those they called savages, and yet the
Cherokee and Lenape and Powhatan and Cree
were more enlightened for they walked in
the garden of gardens, great wilderness of
the Puritan’s Shining City on a Hill, and at
William and Mary, the Indian School cut off
their hair and abducted the children, and the
ghost boys still run across the Sunken Gardens,
suspended three feet in the air, the boy runs
screaming for his lost parents until his feet
are bone and all the apple trees are bare and
he hungers for some sort of justice, but God
is not about justice, God is about letting the
Land of Nod swallow nonbelievers and faithless,
or those of other faiths, and the Indian Boy
died under a wicked apple tree, and there are
gardens in Heaven of the dead, and my ancestors
and ancestresses were once like him, converted
by Charlemagne’s sword, yet my forefather Saint
Olaf was a bloodthirsty mongrel of crazy Yngling
stock, I have Odin’s mad frenzy and Saint Vladimir
the Great to claim as great-great-grandfathers, for
my progenitor Ragnar died in a pit of asps laughing,
and Vikings were just as bloody as the British
colonizing with smallpox blankets, raping and
pillaging, and mine is a cursed orchard, and mine
is blood of rotten apple wine, rancid hard cider,
gather the white blossoms of the crab apple tree
and tell me, no fruit grows in the land of the dead.