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Dark Enlightenment

This ones theme is fairly apparent. 


Creepshow - Creatures of the Night

No Doubt - Sunday Morning

The Cranberries - Salvation RIP


The Vincent Black Shadow - House of Tasteful Men

* I want very much to be the girl in this song... Oh, limitations.

Blondie - Atomic

Garbage - I Think I Am Paranoid

KT Tunstall - Suddenly I See

* If I ever managed to impregnate a woman (using ferry dust possibly) I would imprint her with the message of this song.

Squirrel Nut Zippers - Danny Diamond

* It passed by without any attention drawn.  She got to live her dream of being a Billie Holiday-esque Jazz singer.

Breeders -  Cannonball

* Fun Fact - If you listen closely you can hear the true birth of what would later be called "grunge" carried on into Kim Deal's other work.

Halestorm - I Miss The Misery


The Heir apparent of Pat Benatar...


Pat Benatar - Hell Is For Children


Dresden Dolls - Girl Anachronism 


In This Moment - Sex Metal Barbie 

Babymetal - Distortion

Arch Enemy - Ravenous (Angela)
Arch Enemy - This Eagle Flies Alone (Alissa) 



AK Mod
*I should hope you're reading this*


Why would anyone want to do that? Bring the best minds of today into a quorum? quorum? Do you know what that means in the corporate world? 


How diametrically opposed to Robert's rules "Satanism" by at least 9 out of its 10 definitions is?


Now, truthfully, how you managed to put up with me for___ years!___ is beyond me. 


And I saw what you tried to do for the site on the periphery. It can be said that your only fault was caring TOO much.


Though you and I are certainly not the best-of-buds by a long shot, the reality is "fuck m!" you were de-modded and basically told to kick rocks on account of what you thought to be (and rightly so) a solid maneuver. 


Why apologize? Why explain? It's just a DNS resolution to a service running on a server - nothing more. The people___ they know where to find each other___ it's probably only 40 of "us" out there, anyway. They'll turn up eventually.


Personally, I think the whole "going back" thing is___ well___ undignified. 


Who does that? If a mod bans me, I don't care if that mod gets de-modded himself, I'm not contributing to that site's SEO by one single byte ever - I'm going to work on projects that don't randomly kick me in gut when I get too far out of line. In fact! I'm going to work on projects that encourage me to get out of line!


Why would anyone do otherwise?


Why would you?


The way I see it, you did get burned. 


<Long rant redacted, concluding: what happened at 600C stays at 600C> 


And now you're contributing to forum that basically told you to go kick rocks with your initiatives and forward thinking! Explaining shit? And to who??? Even I know you're better than that. We all saw it. Everyone with eyes saw it.


Hey, I know you and I don't and probably will never see eye to eye, Fnord, but I can tell you one thing: I know you have heart, and I sure as fuck wouldn't humiliate you by demoting you for exercising your abilities over here.


Just sayin' - I "asked for" what you did to me - and I know this - I wanted it since I changed my avatar to that goofy yahoo emote: signifying that the endless and cyclical pedantry of the place was of the eye-spiraling variety.


You, however, did NOT deserve THAT. Not even by a long shot. That you would go back justifying it to THEM is as well beyond me as it is well beneath you. 

AK Oct 19 · Comments: 44
Baphomets

What Does Satanism Mean To Me?

S.D.H.

October 15, 2018

 

 

Childhood

                I grew up much like any other upper middle class white kid in the South; I was spoiled beyond belief and got almost anything that I ever wanted.  We had a nice house, nice cars and both parents were highly educated with good jobs.  We had a really tight knit family and extended family.  Everything to everyone on the outside seemed picture-perfect.  Many even envied me and the means of my family. However, from the inside of this picturesque façade, there was me ; me and my two siblings.  I am the middle kid (older sister, younger brother.)  I was much of a perfectionist who measured my worth by what I could accomplish and achieve.  I strived to be the best at everything that I did, and most of the time, I was.  I’m not sure why this drive was in me, but it was quite different from my two siblings, who always seemed to sit back and happily receive, but never strive for greatness within themselves.  My mom apparently married my dad before she became a christian, but was a devout christian by the time I came along.  My dad is an atheist who looks to science to explain everything.   I remember so many arguments between my parents and painful nights.

                I struggled so much early on with my emotions and felt that no one ever understood me.  Most never did and I was a very introverted and quiet as a result.  I was different from other kids in that I would deeply analyze anything and everything and my emotions were overpowering.   I remember lying in bed at night and literally thinking too hard about anything and everything that ever was going on at the time.  I also had a wild imagination and could literally see myself in the future doing whatever that I may want, and being successful.  These were the things I would spend my time thinking about.  Middle School for me was a game changer.  My struggles throughout middle school were real and I had no one to talk to that would not judge me.  I would cry so much.  My mom’s only answer was always “you need to pray about it.”  “You did something wrong that caused this to happen…” etc.  See, my mom is what they call an “independent, new testament, missionary baptist.”  Really old-school way of thinking; women were to submit to their husbands and to “god,” could not speak out in church, closed communion, and church “discipline,” which consisted of the church voting to no longer allow you to participate in church activities and from taking communion.

                As a musician, I began playing the piano for that church around the time I was 13 (which I just so happened to be forced to attend every Sunday morning and night, and most Wednesday nights.)  One time, I was brave enough to confront the youth minister at the time.  I asked him “if jesus is the supreme judge and the bible commands us not to judge, how can we as christians ever practice church discipline?  To decide when someone has sinned and can no longer associate, isn’t that judging them?”  Ah, you know, he pulled out the bible and started reading scriptures that justified that nonsense.  He got so angry at me just for asking and for challenging his beliefs!  I clearly to this day remember how red his face got and how pissed he was at me.  I was a bit scared at the time.

                Something else about my youth – I have always possessed a bit of extrasensory perception and dealing with these abilities on a daily basis probably also contributed to my awkwardness.  I would have feelings and visions and dreams that would come true and I was extremely empathetic and full of the discernment spirit.  I achieved very high grades, set cross country records in running and also achieved very highly as a musician, earning awards and privileges in school up throughout high school and college.  Still, I was a loner -an outcast, someone who was afraid to really speak up and who really only had two good childhood friends ever.  Sure, lots of people liked me and wanted to be my friend, but I didn’t really like anyone back.  No one was enough like me for me to enjoy being around.  So I chose loneliness.  I, still to this day, prefer to do things on my own versus with someone.

                I could go on and on about my childhood and my influences, but instead, let’s fast-forward to where I am now in my life. Thirty-three year old teacher.  Music teacher by trade, kindergarten teacher by default.  Been married twice and two kids to show for it.

                Everything in my life has been a struggle.  My mom of course said it’s because I removed god from my life.  What I realized almost exactly a year ago was that I never had.  Once I recognized and praised my god for who and what he was, the blessings have been countless.

Interest

                For as long as I remember, I’ve had an uncanny drive to find truth in everything.  I have constantly been reading literature on ancient cultures, the beginning of time, secret societies, pagan practices, etc.  I’ve always been very interested in religion, I believe in everything paranormal (because of so many personal experiences with it).  I have a lifelong drive to seek and to find.  I’ve often wondered why not more people seek the way I do.

 

Baphomet

                Enter Satan. I’m not sure what it was at first.  Was it all the mystics I had gotten myself into?  Or was it the intriguing image that I visited regularly on the internet that aroused me to the point I would touch myself?  Whatever it was, I became his slave.  His as in, yes Satan’s - as a divine creature.  After months and months of being aroused, masturbating with him in mind, I went further.  I started wearing a Baphomet necklace to work under my clothes.  When no one was around, I would pull it out, rub it, touch it, and hold it.  The truth slowly became revealed to me.  I realized that I am my own god.  Satan is the one who has given me power.  Once I accepted this as truth, acknowledged him and thanked him for it, the powers within myself and mind grew tenfold.  Every little thing in my life got better.  Even to the point of card games and dice games I was playing, uncannily going my way always.  It scared me early on, but comfort came once I realized it’s nothing to be scared about; that it is just Baphomet providing for me now that I had him in my life personally.  I ended up getting the job I want, and everything started changing directions for me.  This is when my unhappy home life became the most apparent.

Dark and Light

                It has occurred to me that since there is a balance in everything; a positive for every negative, an in for every out, an up for every down, existence and non-existence, that that is true also for the divine.  For a perfect balance in the universe, there has to be good and evil.  While some choose to serve that which they perceive to be “good,” others choose to serve that which is perceived to be “evil.”  Interestingly enough, what we have been taught is “bad” is actually good and what is “good” is actually bad.  This concept provided ancient leaders with a way to control others.  It gave them true knowledge while it was forbidden from those they needed to control.  So, the controllable were lied to.  And believe it or not, this practice is still done today!  Those who are taught to follow christianity, much like most of our society has for way too long now, are being lied to and controlled with this idea of heaven and hell – right and wrong, etc.  When in all actuality, they are one and the same!  To come to this understanding, one must be strong enough to separate themselves and to seek the truth.  People will never find enlightenment if they never look for it, and search for it.  It has been a lifelong mission of mine.   I have read so much literature and studied this topic for years and years.   I came to the complete understanding and enlightenment a year ago.

How It Happened - Testimony

                So, because of my “alternative ideas” and different “lifestyle”, I struggled to get finished with college (my bachelor’s degree).  I was in school off and on from literally 2003 to 2016, when I finally graduated with my bachelors in music education.  It was a dream of mine from early on to teach music.  I wanted to teach band, but teaching any music was ok with me.  After struggling and plugging away for so long, I saw my graduation as my ticket to a new life – an answer to all my problems.  Boy, was I wrong!  I tried so hard to find a job teaching music right after graduation and it was not good.  No job offers.  I did have a few interviews, but none of them landed me the job.  So, I did the next best thing and became a substitute teacher - guaranteed pay by the day, flexible schedule… right up my alley!  I enjoyed subbing very much and found aspects of it rewarding , but still, my life was missing something.  I would cry a lot and try and figure out why no one wanted to hire me as a full-time music teacher.

                In the city I live in, most of our students ( 75 percent or so) qualify for free or reduced lunch.  The schools are very much districted in areas of wealth or areas of poverty.  The poorest schools in our county have the largest Hispanic and African American populations.  Unfortunately, most substitute teachers will not sub in those particular areas and schools.  Luckily for me, I graduated from a college that prepared me to teach these populations and in these urban areas.

                So here’s where things get interesting.  I accepted a substitute assignment one day at one of these urban schools that no one wants to go to.  I had subbed there before during the previous year and never had any problems out of it whatsoever.  What I didn’t know was that they had hired a new principal and that new principal was someone that I had run into problems with at another school.  Mainly over just student teacher duties or some shit like that.  She and I have always been civil when our paths crossed, but I probably would not have accepted that job if I had known she was there.   I remember that first day running into her in the hallway.  It was so awkwardly sickening that I had to sit down and think.  I literally had thoughts like “I can say I’m sick and leave for the day” or “just get through this day and I never have to return here again.”  But when I was having all of these thoughts, a new thought popped into my head.  She had done me wrong in the past.  I will not let her conquer me or bring me down ever again.  “I will keep this assignment and I will rock it out and will come here as often as I can and she will see who I truly am.”  So guess what, I did just that.  From that day forward, I gladly accepted any jobs at that school.

                My spirituality came into question at this same school.  One day, I was subbing for one of the first grade teachers that I had subbed for quite often.  It was early morning and no students had entered the building yet.  When this big, sexy Latino hunk walks in, and he introduced himself with his accent.  “I’m Jesus,” I’m the new para that will be in this class.”  OK, so initial reaction was: my face turned red and I began to get very jittery and stumbled over my words.  Not because he was THAT hot, but for some other unknown reason.  The day went smoothly, but I kept noticing his peculiar mannerisms and behavior.  I immediately got a creepy vibe from this guy.  Well, during our break together we started talking.  He asked me what I am certified in, etc.  When I told him I was a certified music teacher, he was astounded.  “I am too,”  he says.  Ok, strange coincidence, but what the fuck.  Who cares?  Well the more we talked,  I started to feel compassion for this person and feel sorry for his family’s circumstances back in Puerto Rico after the hurricane, etc.  All that shit he had been talking about.  Well, lo and behold, he’s an ex-catholic priest.  AH-HA, no wonder I got that creepy vibe.  His stares from across the room now, were really weirding me out and now making me angry. 

                I returned to sub at that same classroom several times after that, and the same thing happened every time.  He would act like he didn’t know who I was, and we’d “meet” all over again.  Something just wasn’t right.  I know I do not have a photographic memory, but SHIT, you can’t remember me when I was just here 2 weeks ago!!??  I dunno.  It got so bad that I felt something spiritually firing up in me.   I needed some kind of “shield” or something to block what he was sending.  I went home one of those days and ordered a Baphomet pendant necklace off of amazon.  I felt like I could cling to this and fight evil with evil and we will see who wins.  Well, I wore that necklace from the day I received it, until today. 

                The first day wearing my necklace was scary.  Bad things happened to me the first two days of wearing it.    First day, I stopped into a convenience station to grab a jarred Starbucks coffee on my way to work.   (I was very jittery and felt weird wearing the necklace so this may have had something to do with it.)  But somehow, on the way to school, I “forgot” to put the lid back on my coffee and literally picked it up as I was driving to shake it, and it went ALL over me and my car.  I started really freaking out then, because I have NEVER done anything like that before.  I’m always very thorough.  And me being a teacher, I always look my best and care about my clothing and appearance.  Well fuck.  I don’t have enough time to go home and change.  I’m on the other side of town.  BUT WAIT – I’m wearing yellow/brown pants so when it dries, no one will know.  I continued wearing the necklace.

                Second day on the way to work, I back out of my garage and get halfway out of the neighborhood when I remember something that I forgot.  I turn around and go back home.  Literally turn the car off, run into the house, come back out, start the car.  Car won’t start.  I started panicking.  What am I going to do?  Is this necklace that I am wearing cursed?  Is it evil?  Should I not wear it anymore?  I proudly continued wearing it daily.

                Once I became used to wearing my necklace and comfortable with it, things started to change everywhere.  I had realized that there is power in it and those unfortunate events were just a test.  What I thought would be “evil” actually was something very good.  I channeled that energy that could have led to misfortune and used it in a different way and got wonderful results.  I’m not saying that there is power in the necklace by itself, but this is how I got started with Satanism.  I often would rub my necklace, cling to it, ask it for wisdom and power.  Knowing that there was power associated with that pendant and if I had faith and believed in it, I could have anything I wanted.   Well guess what, I got all of that.  Within the next few months, I had grown to be one the preferred substitute teacher for that same school and teachers would regularly brag on me to the principal (ya know, the one that I didn’t mesh with).   The kids became soo attached to me.  Always hugging, etc.  No one could understand why I was so good with this population of students with these demographics.  I had been feeling an overabundant amount of love, light, weightlessness pouring from my soul.  It has never stopped since then.  Wearing my necklace made me feel so bright and weightless.

                I could go on and on and on but I must stop at some point about my story.  I’ve got so much more to share and to talk about, so if you want to know, I will answer any questions.

Why I Am Luciferian

                It didn’t make sense to me.  If Baphomet was a devil symbol and he was used in the church of satan, he must be telling me by what he’s doing for me, that I am a Satanist.  But no, looking in to Satanism, it did not fit my experiences and things happening in my life.  I remained in limbo for a year.  Not knowing what any of that meant and confused as to what is now inside me.  Why I have this power now.  I just had no idea.

Until…..

I joined satanicnetwork and saw that there are so many types of satanism.  Well, which one was I?  After doing all the research, I now can gladly say I found my place and calling in life.  My belief in Baphomet and satan as a deity that gives me strength and power of mind and soul.  He gives me the ability to control those around me.  He gives me the strength and knowledge to manipulate anything and all things to go my way or the way that I want.  He’s given me this light that everyone gravitates toward now.  Most teachers.  Most students.  The hugs every day are limitless.  These kids cling to me, and I feel good about it.  I know they are feeling his love through me.

                So here’s where I leave off.  I am luciferian.  What next?  Where do I go from here?  Is there a church?  I have not ever done rituals or magik, but I know personally, this may be my next step.  Part of me even wonders if I need to.  He has given me just about as much power and knowledge about life in general, and the origin of everything.  My discernment is on steroids.  Do I really need rituals and magik?  Just wondering.  I’m not saying that I won’t ever do it, because I am leaning towards that now.  I’m just saying, I believe within my experience that I just described, that there is something special about how satan came to me.  While other luciferians may strive through ritual magik, to be like him or to be enlightened, I didn’t need any of that!  I have a personal relationship with him.

I would love to know if there are any other luciferians within the vicinity of the Ohio River Valley, willing to meet as a group, or church.  I feel that I have been called to lead through my enlightenment.

Please don’t hesitate to ever contact me or ask questions.  I honestly should have made a video instead of a blog post, because I have so much to explain and talk about, about how He came to me.  I am very happy with my enlightenment and I know that I will continue to be shown what I need to see.  He is guiding my life in every way.  No magik.  Just me recognizing him and thanking him for what he has done and his blessings are countless.  Every day. 

Baphomets Oct 18 · Rate: 3 · Comments: 14 · Tags: luciferian, satanism
Dark Enlightenment
You have it and then you don't.

As of now it seems to work for every walk of life I think of.  When the switch flips begins the slow denial/acceptance process in a world you can no longer hack it.  Think the degeneration process of Geico's commercials from actually funny to painful.

Examples:

Metallica -  The Day That Never Comes is great at first, it has that 80's vibe, but it's still  new Metallica. Death Magnets, Hardwired to be forgettable, and that minimalist one they still owe me an apology for. 

EXPIRATION DATE: 11-23-1998

Ton's more in music and entertainment.

Athletes - Who remembers when Emmett Smith played for the Arizona Cardinals? Exactly.

EXPIRATION DATE -  Currently being determined by Tom Brady and LeBron James.  GO WARRIORS.

Pimpin' His Game and Other Casanova's - This one is a cumulative effect of being a lying shitbag and the fucked up shit you incur.  A great example of the perils of this is a hybrid of the last two examples, Tiger Woods. How fucking shitty did his game get after he could no longer hack fucking whores behind Swedish Supermodel wife's back?

EXPIRATION DATE - When they can't stay out ahead of it anymore. Baby Mama retribution. 

Writers - Some burn out way quicker than others. Some so quick they had one brief moment of capturing something. Very similar to Hollywood and Dan Brown. There is George Lucas giving the world Episode one, and then there is M. Night. Shallamallamadon and everything he wrote after The 6th Sense. There is Hunter Thompson being so blown he had to have an assistant remind him what he was writing.  


"Isn't it true you wrote it over a weekend and told people you had been sitting on it for years."

- Randall Graves questioning George Lucas on Episode 1.

EXPIRATION DATE - You know it when you don't finish it.

White Women - That total lack of melanin shows. The genetic predisposition is not one of keeping in shape. Having children speeds up this process.  Unless you fight it. No,  you are over 60 and nobody wants to see your bony bulemic ass anymore.  In fact that 30 something size 14 over there looks like she digests her food and is far more pleasant looking in designer yoga pants. Please, give it up.  

EXPIRATION DATE -  Age 49 or second child. Whichever happens first. 

Gangs (every race) - Principled anger and neighborhood or ethnic pride only get you so far. Slowly as they age, see more bullshit and have more anger they reach a street-life crises. The anger is something to be let go of for being trivial needless violence. (See Ice Cube)

EXPIRATION DATE -  Capital gains tax eligibility, burnout, children reach middle school, jail, death.  

There are tons more I could think of, and like even more that contradict. I personally feel with denial one becomes immortal. 

Dark Enlightenment Oct 16 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 1
AK Mod
Let's start with the beginning. This is the best place to start. 


There was a Satanic Bible. It was written in 1969. Now, I don't know about you, but I wasn't even a gleam in my father's eye when it was written. It was written for an audience that wouldn't know what to make of Pearl Jam or Nirvana or whatever was popular at the time you read it. 


That needs to be understood. the "you" that was influenced by the Satanic Bible was not the "they" they were trying to influence. It was well before your time. It was well before my time. And I don't think it's a "timeless piece" - it just happened to strike a chord in the mid-nineties as did grunge... possibly for the same reasons.


It was written as a reaction to a time and place "we", unless we are very old, just were not a part of. In this way it's like reading the Old Testament - you have to understand that yeah! now a days stoning a woman for adultery seems a bit cruel, but we're talking about an ethos that prevailed when electricity and running water were centuries yet to come. In the middle of the desert. Where "fuck you! I can barely survive on my own as-is I am NOT raising some other guy's child on account of your indiscretions!" 


The time and the place is important. It's important both to understand what they're saying and also to understand how it may no longer be applicable. 


So anyway, so far as I can tell, the Satanic Bible was to the Occult revival (read: Acid wave of the late 60s / early 70s) as Trump is to SJWs. And the Satanic Bible could just as well have been 272 pages of "lorem ipsum" repeated over and over. The message WAS the medium. The message was that: there is a book. Its name is The Satanic Bible. Says so right on the cover. See? And a certain type of person, being disenfranchised at a very young age from everything else will buy it, read it, and risk having to hide it from prying eyes no matter what it said. 


It was forbidden fruit. 


Partaking of it was the initiation. 


Owning a copy was the message. 


The contents? It actually didn't matter. 

It doesn't matter. And there's where ToSers totally miss the point! It's a psychology thing. Making it a spiritual thing concedes a complete and total lack of comprehension. 


We all know it's mostly plagiarized. And you know what? That also doesn't matter. It never did. What matters is that there's always going to be a certain type who, for example, study the female orgasm, proper ways to defecate, halal methods of slaughtering animals, how the allegorical sausage is made, and anything else that just isn't suited to converse about in mixed company. These people are "Satanists" - they just, by definition, have that morbid curiosity regaring how the world really works, and they don't need a church to re-affirm their place in society. They get along quite happily on their own. 


Pick something you have a hard time talking about, study it, compare it to prevailing sentiment, and there you go. 


i.e. Maybe eugenics is a good idea. Perhaps NAZIs were a lot less dangerous and far more sensible than communists. Maybe black people just aren't as smart as white people. Christ may have been terrorist. He also may have been a pussy. Perhaps - just maybe - there are only two genders, and people who think otherwise, just might have a few screws loose. Maybe there's no real difference between crack and cocaine other than the stigma. Flat out murder was normal in the US until the early 1900s. Heroin was legal up until the mid-60s in England. 


Whatever compels you to entertain radically unacceptable notions is what, I think, contributes to being a "Satanist". Having the gonads to act upon said entertained notions is what will, when society has its way with you after the fact, be forever considered Satanic. 


"We", unfortunately, don't get to pick or choose this mantel. Someone has to witness what it is you've done and called whatever that is or was the work of the devil. 


Member of anything? Absolutely not. You don't "belong" to a church... or a temple... or an "us". You don't belong to anything. Fundamentally, you don't belong. You're an outsider now and you always were. You don't pay dues, and you sure don't kiss any rings. You do as you do with neither compulsion nor justification. 


And if enough people keep doing as much, as bog intended, the devil will emerge - I promise you this.



AK Oct 14 · Comments: 3
Masaji
Hello, I am curious what religious groups members
here were in before they became Satanists. Please
reply to this message (^^)
Masaji Oct 12 · Comments: 2
AK Mod
A very long time ago - just shy of 22 and a neophyte to the corporate world - I was introduced to the corporation's long range planning team. These were old folk. In fact they were, at the time, still older than I am now by about 15 years. 


These were not the most tech-savvy people, but they knew things. They knew business. They knew operations. They knew the cycles. They've been around a while. They weren't schmoozers, either. These were veteran industrial engineers. Quick with numbers. Could dissect a trend graph just by looking at it and go "no, that doesn't look right - it says 3.5 million - 'can't be more than 2.7" and not just by pure numbers, either, but by actually having worked in said facility. They knew the outputs and building capacities cold. 


They lived, drank, ate, and breathed trends. Quantitative literacy the likes of which I haven't seen in anyone of my generation ever. They did stuff on regular calculators that you'd probably need a spreadsheet and some macros for.


What they did as a hobby was build classic cars - an endeavor that, in case you were not aware, takes a normal person 4-5 years from start to finish - sometimes even a decade. This is as important as it is relevant. 


They were surprisingly cool people - the sort of strange hobbit references and senses of humor you'd expect of any shy genius. I asked them what do you do? 


"We do long range planning" 


"Oh, what is that?"


"well, this is a multi-billion dollar corporation, and while there's an army of us handling the day to day / month to month / quarter to quarter operations, we here - because we've done the day to day / month to month / quarter to quarter deal - handle the longer term projects. Acquisition of aircraft, building of new facilities, expansion into other countries - things that take___ mmm___ more than a year to get done. We operate on seven year timelines. Every initiative you've ever heard on your level supports this broad picture - that's how we've stayed in business for over a century" 


At 22 I'm thinking that it's been forever since I was 15. I couldn't even relate to the person I was back then. If 15 year old me had a "long-range plan" for 22 year old me to follow, I'd go tell that virgin weirdO to kick rocks and go fuck himself. 


This is also why this "long range planning" group was populated by only a few and far older than I. You can teach a lot of things. How long a year really is isn't one of them. 


Hell! The 29 year old version of me would tell the 22 year old version of me also to go roundly fuck himself were he ever to come at him with a seven year plan. 


The 36 year old version... eh not so much. It's around then one starts getting a feel for the scope of what seven years really means. Its not a lot of years. There's understanding and there is wisdom. 


Everyone understands what seven years is. Not everyone is wise to it. That takes a few cycles. Sort of like running a marathon: we all know the distance, quantitatively - as an abstraction. ~26 miles. Qualitatively, not many could tell you as they've never done it. 


What's interesting about the seven year thing is that it also came up when I was 17 and very interested in this Earth Force environmental protection thing (which is normal for an adolescent, I think) - that both fortune 50 corporations and a sort of terrorist organization agree on the seven year rule is "neat" - but what they say is, as a rule of thumb, don't trust anyone you haven't known for more than seven years. 


My addition to this is this: if seven years is a long time for you, you're too young and stupid to even know what you're getting into. Seven years is nothing.


This also applies to relationships - the simple lovey dovey stuff.


Of course! When you first meet fireworks will go off and it'll be revelations times 20 every time you hit the sheets... for about nine months. As it turns out, this corporation that I more-than-work-for doesn't have a "short-term-planner" group. They afford seemingly good ideas to bubble up and dissolve on the off chance that something may stick and on the definite chance that there will be a whole write-up regarding lessons-learned when it inevitably doesn't. They also profit from mistakes. Thoroughly. It's the new entries with low pay that make them. 


What makes a relationship - in broad terms, be it man to woman, or innovation to function work, is___ years... (you're literally looking at years)... two at minimum. At least as many years as it takes for you to start looking at other people and still choose the option you previously selected. At this stage, even two is a little iffy - especially if at 0.8 you already started planning the wedding. That's a bad investment. You need someone - or an idea - or a concept - that's held solid for about three to four years. Something you're really "about" enough to have put a dent in your time on this planet for. 


And this all has to do with___ what's his name? Gott! With his Copernican Principle. If you do not know what this is, the gist is that you can determine how long something will be around with x percent of confidence by virtue of how long it has already been around. If you are intelligent and capable of long-range planning, you base your models around this and not what is new and fancy at the moment. 


If it's been around a while, it'll probably continue to be around awhile. If it's something new, well___ it might work, but not with any amount of confidence at first, and it's only time that builds confidence. 


Faith is anathema here as is elsewhere. 


Open question: what is your seven year plan? What was your seven year plan seven years ago? How did that turn out?



AK Oct 12
Dark Enlightenment
Either I'm completely and totally missing the point, or almost every god damn person that thinks they are doing it, is doing it wrong. 

There's no praying in Satanism. There's no mysticism, occultism, spiritualism, or the dark imagery associated that weird smelling store you never realized you were being taken to.

Conflation. Confabulation. Immersion into other forms. Yeah, I know how it started. With an initial crop of Hollywood congiscenti singing pretty songs and not knowing what they mean.   

Oh sure, my fellow 'satanist', nothing is more satanic then licking my asshole. Oh, you have an altar you say? Did you put the white candle to the right?

The most respectable thing about Anton LaVey is his ability to pwn people posthumously.

What was hinted at, what he plagiarized Might Is Right for, the whole crux of all he intended was lost by the last half of that book when consumed by those without an ability to recognize Irony, which turns out is almost everyone. 

From the "proto-popular-satanism" it evolved into the divergent thing it has become. A joke in and of itself, where ability to step back and note the irony of even the "ritual psychodrama" evaporates into the same old horde gathering upon the same altar, only this one is painted black.

The original model, the one Anton ripped off from; Nietzsche, Redbeard, Crowley, Rand, Jung, a demonology index, Dianetics and turned it into a 'way' that you either got or didn't - now has demoninations, obviously the later sculpted it from 1969. 


It became things that frighten the mother in Detroit Rock City, which at least has the right spirit, but hot topic has that 'spirit' too.  And that doesn't do anything anymore. Oh, you played D&D, neat!

It doesn't really need imagery anyway. That just leads to it becoming a philosophy of swinger orgies, cocaine, ans macabre ceremonies.  Fun, but..

Well maybe this image:



And it needs no explaining. You can take from the imagery of the painting what you wan't and form your own subjective opinion, but I am willing to bet among the former all interpretations would be compatible.

But that's a few courses away, Non-Linear Esoterics and Anarchistic Associations

First you must kill this fact: It's not whatever you want it to be because it doesn't deal with ideas but actions. Exoteric dogma is a non starter.

To put it in metaphor: It is every fucking fight for independence from an authoritarian figure or nation state, and the motivation to fight for independence reduced to a single person.

Skepticism, non-belief, selfishness, a need to be left to captain your own ship, entertaining even ideas that beg to be discredited, trial and error. Doing anything and everything it takes to keep the horizon in front of you open to the destination of your choosing.

And even now the latter are still saying, "I don't see how that is any different". Probably a feel thing.

Vegetables and such.

Dark Enlightenment Oct 11 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 1
EpicFail TITS
The human mind seems nearly incapable of accepting that one day we will return to oblivion. Perhaps it's that survival instinct we all have-- that natural drive to cling to life even when we know death is imminent.

Maybe most of us can't grasp the probable reality that this is all there is. Certainly there must be some kind of meaning.. most people grow up, reproduce have mundane jobs and expire. 

life in and of itself is void of meaning.  Human existence in its entirety has no core significance. So yes, this is it.

However, meaning can be created.  One must focus on him or herself. Finding their own little piece of secular paradise.  

Fuck the idea of an uncertain at best afterlife. No speculation on the reality of here and now is necessary. we need to focus every moment possible on things that are significant to us-- make the most of each minute. We have choices. The three obvious ones are, pretend this life is only a bridge and put your faith in a likely imaginary entity, or live a life void of meaning ..a life of simply existing or make the most of it and enjoy.

End of rant
EpicFail TITS
Why do cats purr? 


Most of us assume that cats purr because they are content.  It seems like a logical explanation, after all we hear them purr when their mothers nurse them or when they are being social with humans.


But on closer observation, domestic cats(purring is not completely unique to domestic cats. There are a few other members of the Felidae species that purr.)  seem to purr in stressful situations like going to the vet or when they are in pain. Some research suggests that purring can be a healing mechanism.

what makes the "purr" more distinctive than other cat sounds, such as the meow, is that is produced with the entire respiratory cycle.(Inhaling and exhaling.) The meow is limited to the expiration of breath. 

It seems likely that the purr comes from the laryngeal muscles and probably involuntary. 


EpicFail Sep 29 · Comments: 2 · Tags: random, mystery, cats, domestic cats, purr
Dark Enlightenment

There was a squirrel living with criminal and drug addict squirrels. A shit job and in a white squirrel trash den of epic proportion. But the squirrel could hear the ocean at night so the squirrel overlooked those other shady squirrels.


He also wasn't one to judge, for this was a paranoid squirrel. A Squirrel positive he was being fucked with.

Everything was passable until the day the squirrel took his broke ass to that sad grocery store where nobody speaks english and everything expires tomorrow.  But you could do a lot with 25 dollars. 25 sad 99 cent store dollars.

Keep his head up and nuts protected.

The squirrel was walking his sad ass to his car.  Then he saw a pygmy hippo exiting another car. Damn, that hippo looked familiar, almost like some bitch hippo who always gives him shit. 

"It couldn't be", he thought, "Why the fuck would that pygmy hippo be here? There is no reason to be unless the other animals are fucking with me. And did you see that look? Definitely being punked here. DON'T REACT, DRIVE AWAY."

He looked back once to watch the pygmy hippo's body language change to slouching.

"Weird, that was like the pygmy hippos doppelganger. But I had no forehand knowledge that the real pygmy hippo was coming, so that's gotta be those local animals fucking around."

He was a fixated one. Always seeing the forces lined up in opposition.

But why was this pygmy hippo sighting so important? Of all the meandering arcs life takes why focus in on a singular pygmy hippo sighting?

As it so happened the sighting was just the tipping point for the squirrel. This piled atop many similar situations in which the squirrel knew the other bitch ass animals were playing, but also knew he could never beat them.

He couldn't beat the pygmy hippo.
He couldn't beat the seagulls.
He couldn't even beat the dyslexic fish.

So he snapped.

He used delusion to say, "You don't really need to know what the other critters were about, just assume never getting explained means you beat them."

It helped the squirrel keep moving in his own stagnant way, but only for so long. Nothing MUST be better than what they wanted.

So he let slide all the obvious bullshit. "It will be like a UFO abduction no one believes happened, because you like talk to yourself now and shit", he thought.

Crazy.

"Ok, I can do crazy", he thought.

It was at that point the squirrel went crazy. He turned his car towards a crosswalk filled with pedestrians in a muderous blind rage and killed (along with several others) the DA's daughter's best friend.


"It was all that fucking pygmy hippos fault. Also the other animals and MKUltra."


After he was charged with 7 counts of first degree murder he found out the truth. He was never being fucked with at all. There was no great big conspiracy everyone was in on including Rita Hayworth. 


 No, he was just a deranged psychopathic squirrel that drove over a bunch of people and then died in prison.


THE END.

Dark Enlightenment Sep 28 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 2
EpicFail TITS
I really don't like people in general and try to avoid them as much as possible. so of course I have severe social deficits.  

I avoid looking people in the eye, I say weird and inappropriate things. And I am completely unable to put other people before myself


but still have no idea why anyone would be offended because I told him he reminded me of a leprechaun? 


Dark Enlightenment
This way allows the listener to pick amd choose their tracks, like 'on demand'. This is a very Metal Heavy episode.


Episode 2  (Day and Night)

Day:

Cannibal Corpse - Hammer Smashed Face

Five Finger Death Punch - Way of the Fist


Godsmack - I Fucking Hate You


Slipknot - Surfacing


Damageplan (Featuring Corey Taylor) - Fuck You

Slayer - Exile

Children of Bodom - Hatebreeder

Lamb of God - Redneck

Marilyn Manson - Fight Song


Night:

Bad Meets Evil - Echo


Bad Religion - No Direction


Cake - Frank Sinatra

Bad Wolves  - Zombie


Incubus - Drive


* The greatest part of this song is people too stupid for metaphor think it is about drunk driving or loving jesus. 


So if I decide to waiver my chance

To be one of the hive

Will I choose water over wine

And hold my own and drive?


The Offspring - Smash

Corrosion of Conformity  - Dance of the Dead

A Perfect Circle - The Doomed

Tool - Opiate (Extended Live San Bernardino)


Because the opposite of emotion is indifference to the trigger. Or so I have heard. I think they both have a balancing effect on each other.

Dark Enlightenment
It was strangely suggested to me that i should do an online radio station, cuz apparently I am also the Lester Bangs of this site.  Though Lester would probably vomit on my choices and say I am on drugs.

Anyway, here are some songs, not so obscure or up its own eclectic ass, that I think everyone should hear if they haven't already.

Primus vs. Rush - YYZ


Type O Negative vs. Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath


Cradle of Filth Vs. Ozzy Osbourne -  Mr. Crowley

Rage Against The Machine Vs. Cypress Hill - How I Could Just Kill A Man

Echo & The Bunnymen Vs. The Doors - People Are Strange

Avenged Sevenfold Vs. Pantera - Walk


Pantera Vs. Black Sabbath -  Planet Caravan

The Offspring Vs. AFI - Total Immortal

Lemonheads Vs. Simon and Garfunkel - Mrs. Robbinson

* Fun Fact - Despite this songs use in The Graduate, it is in fact about Jackie-O.

Stone Temple Pilots Vs. Led Zeppelin - Dancing Days


The Vincent Black Shadow vs. Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit


Halestorm Vs. Lady Gaga - Bad Romance


Toto Vs. Weezer - Hash Pipe


Nirvana Vs. Meat Puppets - Plateau 


*They should sing this song to toddlers in day care.


Nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds
You see a lot up there but don't be scared
Who needs action when you got words


Johnny Cash Vs. Soundgarden - Rusty Cage


Megadeth Vs. Metallica 

Mechanix  Vs. The Four Horsemen

And a satirical cover to end it.

Enimem Vs. The Zombies -  No Rhyme or Reason (Time of the Season)

It's the time of the season, when hate runs high
And this time, give it to you easy, when I take back what's mine
With pleasured hands, and torture everyone, that is my plan
My job here isn't done, cause there's no rhyme or no reason for nothing

Dark Enlightenment Sep 25 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 3
EpicFail TITS

A dim red light glowed softly, gently, as not to disturb the perfect darkness. An ancient silence whispered in my ear, “nihil hic vivit, neque etiam te….”
As if painted on the tail of a lost memory, the words came from within. “Nothing lives here, not even you.”

 

   I had no recollection of being elsewhere, but a faint murmur, echoed songs from another world. A dense haze blanketed the bridges connecting this realm with others.  A million miles of blackness stretched from far below me to infinity. It seemed I looked down from space at a world long forgotten, and saw a much younger me. She returned my gaze, pleading urgently for something I couldn’t recall. It occurred to me as she stared at me with hopeful eyes that she hadn’t a clue that she was wishing upon a dead star.  

A steady “thump-thump” drummed through the atmosphere. That rhythm lived here in the shadows, sleeping with its red night light. A cozy warmth enveloped me.  I thought that perhaps I might just stay here forever, in blissful nothingness.

 

An unwelcomed light appeared, making its way through the fog, relentlessly pushing itself out of the dark.  From the empty came swarms of insects, beetles perhaps.  Magnetically drawn to the fluorescent beam, the insects terminated themselves.  One by one, obliterated like fallen soldiers on enemy turf.

 

 

The light forced its way through the empty until there was only brightness.  I floated on gentle waves of sparkling, blue water.  A slight scent of salt tinged the mild breeze.  For just a moment, things were perfect.

And just before I was about to slip into dumb complacency, a glistening wall of water appeared. A Trojan horse barreled towards me at a super-sonic speed. Death wrapped in a sparkling box, with white ribbon, engulfed me. It felt like I was tumbling around in a washing machine that I couldn’t turn off.  Lost in the infinity of an abyss, the dwindling remains of my conscience short circuited.

 

            A faint “thump-thump,” rolled through a familiar void.  It appeared a living entity, who came from within me and outside me; protected me perhaps. Steadily the drumming began to crescendo. No longer could I distinguish myself as a separate being.  The tempo remained steady, while a pressure grew around me, and became progressively more intense.  The red light dwindled and merged with a new white light.


The piercing rays glowed more intensely as I made my way through the cramped tunnel. People cooed at me and made funny faces at me. I let loose a reptilian cry. Eventually I escaped into daydreams.

  A still emptiness held me, begging my attention.  And from within, a film began-    a collage of memories.  “Make it stop,” I cried into the deaf ear of infinity. 

 

Remembering my childhood, the awkward tensions of early adulthood, and finally sometime near the present. I felt violated.

 

Through a veil of condensation, an inner reflection escaped into the night.   Everything was so hazy. 

 

Nightfall lurked nearby.  Although cloaked with trees and pine needles, a surreal realm of familiarity merged with an uncertain forever.  Not so far away, an outline twisted and turned into the present.  Someone was drowning in a small body of water that was otherwise stagnant.

 

In the murky night, I saw her submerge into the water. Darkness swallowed her and she was gone.  The sobering recollection pushed its way forward; my dear little sister.


Again, I was consumed to vacancy… loneliness concealed in a dense fog. 
Sadness resonated from the mist--- a wailing wall of grief, pain and isolation

A dark figure emerged. It appeared feminine, clad in long flowing black robes and a hood that hid its face. 


 The figure spoke. Its voice confirmed that it was undeniably female.

"I've been waiting for you." She said, in a soft almost melodic voice. 
I paused, baffled.
Only a soft, “why is that?” escaped my lips.

“I've come to collect you."


An anvil of dread dropped on me.


"come. Walk with me.”

The apparition woman remained calm. “There is only one way out,” she whispered.

She motioned me to follow her into the fog.


I followed her down a windy stairwell that never seemed to end. The fog seemed to be getting even thicker. Sorrow lived here.


After decades of descending steps, we finally reached the bottom. There was nothing there--- just a door. From it, darkness tinged with a reddish glow, seeped through its cracks.

Perspiration dripped down my face. I wanted to run but there was nowhere to run. I wanted to get out of there.

I forced myself to ask, “Where does this door go?” 

“I think you know the answer to that question,” she said. 

The concept of hell had always fascinated me, although I didn’t really believe it to be real.  I assumed that the idea of a “nether world,” was a scare tactic used to hinder people from doing pleasant things.

 

I pinched myself, half-believing I’d wake up. A foul taste filled my mouth and for a moment, I thought I might vomit. 

A dull state of awareness found me in an overflowing bathtub.  Unable to move, I felt a beast known as panic pounce on my submerged head.  Little waves of thought crashed undistinguishably.  I thought to myself, “this is what it’s like. This is what it feels like to die.  Fading screams, begging me to fight for survival reverberated through semi-consciousness.

             

            Without warning, my last recollections waltzed in.  The bottle of sedatives the running bath water.  I planned this. 

 

         The bathroom fogged from the bath’s evaporation. It blurred into misty grey. Breathing proved an impossible task. My survival instincts dulled.

 

       The condensation grew thicker.  And from it, the lady in black emerged.  She took my hand in hers, almost comforting me. A dim red light glowed through the crack in the bathroom door that was no longer the bathroom door. 

 

      I turned to take one last glimpse of my lifeless body. The over flowing water sparkled deceptively. Warm water splashed in my exhausted lungs.

I turned back to the woman in black.

“Come it is time,” she said.
  and I followed her into the immense nothingness.

 

EpicFail TITS
so.. There was never any doubt for me that the disney films that most of you enjoyed as kids are pure evil. I could never tolerate them.  animated characters bursting out in song every five minutes, annoy(ed) me with their subliminal messages.. damn them to hell!


only thing I have in common with bible thumpers is that I 100 percent agree that these films are heinous.(but for very different reasons.)  Take beauty and the beast for example.  The beast supposedly portrays the anti-christ. Xians take a literal approach. The world's most well known antagonist is called the "beast" in the final chapter of the world's most notorious book of hatred.  

walt disney likely meant no correlation between his film and the "good book." I do wonder sometimes if Disney himself was affiliated with something real and truly nefarious.  

Beauty kinda symbolizes the following of Christ.  When the alleged apocalypse happens (hypothetically speaking of course,) the epic conflict between team jesus and team lucifer will occur. Of course in both the bible and the film, beauty prevails. sigh I hate happy endings.. and I especially hate it when they burst into sappy disney style tunes or boring hymns. 


so anyone here team jesus? team lucifer? mostly don't give a fuck.. but interesting allegory

Dark Enlightenment


Sometimes an interesting screen shot makes for a funny bit of rambling thought. 


I was looking up something in google, and stopped after writing 'the' plus a space. 


 I had to laugh.


The top one is relatively recent, not the most recent search starting with 'the' though.  But I did search that. Then it got a little screwy.  I referenced that demonology shit once. And obviously I must have searched Israel at least once. And then the Rage Against The Machine songs at the bottom for the win. 


As I am stoned, I decided to put a conspiracy spin on this strange grouping of things to come up randomly. Put it to an esoteric puzzle only a schizophrenic would understand. 


Ok. I think I got it.


The US really is a Jew loving ZOG nation. By making fun of that demonology, and probably somehow q'ua'b'allah I angered an occult taskforce, like in Arabia. 


I am having trouble working in a simple question about magnitude. Maybe wrath of Jew God?


Anyway, by not taking all that occultnick retarded whatever shit (like demonology) seriously I bring upon myself the Zionist wrath of an incidious furnace incendiary that is going to get me for posting song lyrics in an unnecessarily large or italicized font. 


This time the bullet cold rocked ya
A yellow ribbon instead of a swastika
Nothin' proper about ya propaganda
Fools follow rules when the set commands ya
Said it was blue, when ya blood was red
That's how ya got a bullet blasted through ya head
Blasted through ya head, blasted through ya head
I give a shout out to the living dead
Who stood and watched as the feds cold centralized
So serene on the screen, you was mesmerized
Cellular phones, soundin' a death tone
Corporations cold turn ya to stone before ya realize
They load the clip in, omnicolor
Said they pack the nine, they fire it at prime time
The sleeping gas, every home was like Alcatraz
And mothafuckas lost their minds!

Dark Enlightenment Sep 25 · Comments: 2
Albert


You can find anybody on the internet.



Albert Sep 24 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 2
AK Mod



This is a derivative of a conversation I had with my younger, equally as capable, fearless, and intelligent little sister which I'm only bringing up because it only just occurred to me a month or so ago that there are some youngin's about here too (by young I mean 19 well into 31) and sometimes I lose perspective. I just “assume” everyone's been around the sun as many if-not-more times than I have solely on their ability to formulate complete sentences and have to be reminded that I do have an informal fraternal instinct.


-By the age of, say 29, you're going to have accumulated a very, very long list of names who you will never speak to again. Some of them might be your own family. This shocks people as soon as they get out of high-school, and it only gets worse after college. It sort of hurts at first, but you have to learn to discard things. People are also things. You get better at it with time. Unfortunately, it does take practice. You're looking at about 5-6 years of hard slams until the callouses build up.


-Loyalty isn't an actual thing. We're not dogs. It's mostly antidepressants the human animal seeks, hunts, gathers, and uses to stay alive. Everyone is at it. It ranges from hook-ups to prescriptions. If you do not understand what I mean by this, here is a music video to illustrate https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RuQy8sKKak


-Suicide contemplation is basically pretty normal. Talking about it isn't.


-Women don't get along with each other as much a guy would suppose. We don't know the actual answer to this. It's obscured by the fact that males are a thousand times more apt to swing fists and belt it out. Maybe this is the issue, but don't quote me on this.


-People you do not expect to die might very well die in front of your own eyes tomorrow. You actually might walk into the bathroom and find your mom dead on a toilet like Elvis. That's a reality you end up living with sooner or later. You can adjust to this reality as well, but it's harder than the whole “I met a girl/boy once when I was 23 and it ended bad”


-Stabbing people is only fun if it is justified and you can get away with it and you can run. It is not easy to cut people from your car... unless they are already in your car... in which case, that's a terrible way to treat a passenger and you should be ashamed.

a) Don't give rides to people you feel as if on-the-fence about doing that that to. Not ever.

b) Do work on your cardio. Aim for a 7 minute mile, bang out 4 miles in under a ½ hour, then go shower and start your day. It has so many benies.

      1. If it really bothers our conscience then pick one single charity. Donate a bit to it yeary and tell everyone else to kick rocks. There are Mosques and Churches up the street no matter where you live. Point them that way.

      2. The only thing anyone asks for is more.


  • Guns are also great, but FFS learn to aim (it's not easy). Also don't tie your name to any piece of equipment unless there are insurance purposes at work somehow. Why would anyone do otherwise?

-wear gloves a lot more.


-use and discard ASAP.


-There's an upside to every drug. The down-side is always worse.



-Unless it's your friend or attorney, go mime status. You don't “need” to talk to anyone. You do because you feel like it. Sometimes you don't. That “don't talk to strangers” instinct applies across the board no matter what.


-As soon as they say “Let it” drop it. Drop everything about it with 0 by way of hesitation. This goes through the whole range from women with men problems to men with women problems to criminality. It'll suck. No one wants to kiss an XXX amount of something good bye, but you need to learn to do that or you're going to find out real quick how snitches are made if you don't.


There is 1. 0. and null. Learn to juggle those.




It's the only direction I have to provide. Do you. Keep your eyes open and ditch whatever isn't working as quick as possible. Hanging on to it causes all sorts of problems. 

AK Sep 21 · Comments: 8
AK Mod
There are two legitimate definitions of it floating out there, and a another third one that doesn't really mean anything. The former two are related, but you have to have an exceptionally high IQ to grok it. The latter is a bunch of whatever.


There's what Bhattacharya nailed (if you haven't read anything by him, come back when you have): that society went all from matriarchal to patriarchal - the same thing the Book of the Law runs-through only with a sharper and less drug addled mind. Revering the feminine is and will hence-to-forth be counter-current for reasons no one really has any answers for other than that this also demarcated the shift from material / earth based cultus to the more spiritual.  You get your father's last name but why? Short of orphanage, there's never any doubt as to who your mother is. Paternity is questionable. That's the "horned god". The father who never picked up the slack. There's a lot of that as an undercurrent, I think stemming from this.


The other one is this: There is the path of law and Torah and obedience (right) and there's the path of suffering (left). This is what "free-will" costs. If you "sin", it's going to hurt, I've run the numbers and it just does. Sooner or later. 


It gets darker every mo(u)rning. 


I can't and won't speak for anyone, but the general idea is that autonomy trumps legislation. That sort of attitude is what makes you human. It's NOT antinomian. Antinomian is a faith vs works issue that leans to a sort of Pauline slant I just can't get behind. I've tried.  "Criminal" sounds better anyway.



AK Sep 20
AK Mod
This comes up a lot (<-fine, Albert, you win).


Not a lot of people like me. We get complaints galore about what an awful person I am to be running this site. I read some of them. 
So tell me about it! Tell me what exactly I am doing to piss you off. Let's dicuss. 
I've known worse people. 
By all known standards, I'm actually polite. Most actual Satanists would criticize how soft I am. It's a fraternal instinct. Not that we're brothers or sisters. You're not on that level, I promise. It's just a habit. I coddle. Sometimes. If you seem worth it. I enjoy watching people evolve. This is a hobby of mine. Not many people do it. They usually go away. Snuggle in their Wiccan covens, drum circles or whatever. 


So, ok. Does AK believe in / worship the devil? He doesn't. He becomes it. Namely out of boredom. Do you have hobbies? I also have hobbies. To him it's an ideal. An asymptote. A mask. An aspiration. An extreme. An idea. An impetus. An itch to scratch. Etc. That's all there is to it. Something to do. Somewhere between a philosophy and a religion. A way of going about things. Not a pleasant one. In a word: visceral. 


It is attitudinal. 

Descriptive. 


Like awful enough to probably end up in prison, but smart/quick enough for that never be a problem. Repeatedly. BAMFs. I don't think I'm the only one.


I don't believe in anything. We certainly don't push that around here. 


So if you come at me with your "LadY Astorath"s, Lilith, Azazle, or Jesus or (worse) the G-man himself. I despise you on principle alone. I think you're out of your mind and should seek professional help. I have no other way to explain it. I've been "cursed" since February. It's late September now. It won't work because it just doesn't. 


Do you know how "we" curse people? Work. Hands in the dirt work. Bury a body six (ok fine four feet) types of work. 


This is not a cult. "We're" not going to hold hands and prance around. We're going to throw rocks at each other, and it will be fun. 


"we're" also not going to do political activities. The reason that "we're" not going to do that is because its going to hurt whatever cause it is. I've done the math. It's suicidal is what that is. Prove me wrong. I promise you, if you're about any political swing, the devil is the very last thing you want to associate with it. It's a stupid idea. Moronic. If you don't see that, then chances are very high that you might be indescribably histrionic and probably don't actually care about anything but the sound of your own voice. "We" actually have a place for you. 


Anyway, it's not "devil worship" - its admiration of the___ ummm___ not-quote-unquote-good inside. If you have a different opinion, I am all ears, but I haven't heard an importation one yet. All I hear is complaining. 


I've heard nothing but womanly complaints. Educate me. Tell me why your altars mean a single thing. I don't think they do. Maybe I'm wrong. State your case. I'll listen. 


Now, the terrible people. The truly awful. Legitimately degenerate. *smirks* I like them. I like them more than the moralfags. I encourage and harvest them. The genuinely awful. 

If, for example, you think "Satanism" is about being the best that you can be: I say "join the army". Find a cause to applaud. Be all you can be. Win that trophy. That's not what I'm doing here. It's mostly visceral and somewhat sexual. Religious in a way that other religions don't want to touch. Because whether you admit it or not, your only wants of this world are sex and violence. And again, if you have better ideas I'm all ears. I haven't heard any yet. 

I'm still waiting. 


 Surprise me. 

AK Sep 18 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 14
AK Mod
This guy. Who is he? He's president of the Philippines. He's everything you like about Trump to the nth power. He's a lunatic in literally all the best ways. You know what he does? He just orders shabu (shabu is meth, btw) pushers killed. No trials. Absolutely not. That costs money. You wind up shot with some tape over your mouth - likely with your stash stolen. 


This crazy, demented man is my hero. I can't go a single day without stumbling upon something awesome he's done or said. And you know what's more messed up? He's actually making Manila safer! Have you been to Manila? Life is really, really cheap over there. He cleaned it up super quick. And how, you ask? Just by being a lunatic. The type of lunatic you want in positions of power. Who doesn't give a single fart about human "rights" violations. The man is awesome, and if you haven't been following him, you should start following him. He's my adopted grandfather. Totally out of his mind, but in this sort of hyper-productive way that has the gonads to threaten his own military(!) - this guy is literally my favorite person ever.


And I quote: "Incites sedition and rebellion against himself" and he's the leader of what would have been the 51st state. Pay more attention to this guy, you will not be let down. He's like a Stalin, only funnier, Catholic-ier, and also alive (somehow... I don't understand that part, either, but it's super amusing)



AK Sep 16 · Comments: 3
AK Mod
Finality and such. It doesn't matter as much to one who keeps in motion. Just don't give yourself the time to reconsider, wax-nostalgic. Sh!t don't even apologize. Just keep moving. Lose the notion of re-dos or do-overs. You're either going to make it or you're going to fall, and either way the end is the same - keep moving. Fell and busted your ass? Wipe that scowl of your face. Keep moving. Land it with authority? Wipe that smile off your your face. Keep moving. 


Gravity won't defy itself. 


"can't just go skating through life, son"

"I can and should"

AK Sep 12
AK Mod
Amaroli, it's called. Well___ that's how I learned of it. What struck me about it, though, wasn't its dubious health benefits at all. What struck me about it was how repulsive I at first found the practice. 


All the other mudras, shatkarmas, whatever - were met with a "yeah. sure, fine." - it's yoga. The body can do a ton of things one wouldn't expect if you treat it like the cadaver that it is, and there's value to this. Swallowing a piece of cloth while holding one end to clean out my esophagus is one thing. I am my own well-oiled gun in this regard. So too it goes with the warm water up the butt. The tongue scraping. Neti pots. etc. Think "clean the cadaver" and you get the gist. 


The piss drinking. Ah. That took a while. That was one of those "yeah, everything but *that*" type of deals. Piss smells like piss, and the health benefits seem... eh... unlikely. I still don't buy into them. 


What it was was that I saw a hang-up, and hang-ups are the things you want to probe. Those are the territory markers. 
"Well why not drink your own pee? You do literally everything else *but* that... and even the butt stuff is kind of weird. Besides, it's yours and it is sterile"
"but it's gross and it smells!"


"Fucking Nancy"


So I peed into a cup, and took a sip. It was warm. It tasted not at all like it smelled. It tasted simply like the sea only less salty. It reminded me of home.


  *turns out you spend the first nine months of your life swimming in your mother's proto-pee. It's pee. "Amniotic" is just a polite way of saying it. Leave the mysteries of Uranus to the cryptically and poetically inclined - we know what's what. 


So now I do this every morning, but not for the reasons one might think:


I do not stand-by any health claims. As far as I'm concerned it is still toxic. 


What I do stand by is this: that if you start your day downing a gulp of your own pee, no matter what happens - anything at all - it cannot possibly get any worse. Know this. Do this. Go forth into the world. 


Start every day from the bottom. Staring at the bottom of a glass of your own pee. It only gets better by noon.



AK Sep 12 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 7
Dark Enlightenment

Stolen from this youtube video, posted for future reference.



The time it will take Voyager to leave solar system 



Stellar Neighborhood



The reach of earth's first broadcast (yellow dot).



99% of what we can see.



54 local galaxies.


The arrow points out the local group.


Local group of superclusters


Many groups of superclusters



What it says. Everything not moving away from our relative position faster than the speed of light.



The rest of the universe put to a ratio comparison.


Winning powerball twice in a row = 7.89x10^16:1

Entire vs. Observable universe = 1.5×10^23:1


Fun Fact: Everything in all this vastness is subject to the same mythology. As it turns out everywhere in the universe there are anthropocentric winged bitches fighting chimeric monsters. 

#FightPBDS.org

Obscura TITS

“Maybe you’re not the hero you thought you were.”


I sit with scarred, armored, war-torn Zadkiel on a threadbare couch, my twin angel and second-in-command general of Michael, of whom we are both standard bearers, I reconnaissance, he defense.  We are reminiscing about the War (there is only ever one War, don’t let mortals fool you otherwise) and Zeke’s eyes are alight with fire and rambunctiousness.  He clutches his sword between his kneecaps, driven down into the wood of the floor, and chortles like a jackal.


“Gaby kept running around delivering messages he didn’t see my infantry plowing through him.  That was the first time he died.  Oh, what a little bird flitting about, unaware he’s in the way with those high falutin messages straight from Mikey himself.”


I bring my knees to my lap and nestle against his wing.  He has a familiar face lit with fire, like the gentle soul that houses him is in vengeance mode.  The night before I fell asleep, I saw him in pointed spidery silver and gold armor with gauntlets and lamellar plating and a visor that hid darkness and burning blue eyes that would flicker to red like coals.  Zadkiel kept cutting the air with his flaming sword as if to spell betrayal out for me, only I couldn’t catch on, not in the awake state at least.


“How did you die, Zadkiel?” I ask, hesitantly.


Zadkiel gives  wild laugh.  “Oh, how didn’t I die?  I bled out in the trenches.  I took bullets through the heart.  Stabbed by an underling that didn’t like my iron fist.  The question, my dear, is that I always die, it’s only a matter of time.  Some more gruesome than others.”


I think back to my death, that first fall from grace, and can’t help but ask: “Do you remember me, Zad?”


Zadkiel sighs like wind through an empty carnival.  Like he is haunted by me, which is likely the case: “You were put on trial for corrupting demons during your reconnaissance missions, Jo. Up to scale 11, you ruined the . At the end, we couldn’t tell whose side you were on but your own. You were judged as a traitor.  Due for execution but you died anyway in one last coup d etat.  Always the wild child, Jo.”


There are tears in his eyes and he doesn’t look at me.  I can barely look at my own legs.


“Oh…” I speak softly, remembering the lore.  Zophael, the Herald of Hell, with sympathies towards the fallen.  Zophiel, the fallen angel of Maria del Ocidente’s poem.  Zophael, the one who took the side of the fallen and rebelled against heaven.  Zophiel, Heaven’s double-timing spy that got in too deep.


Three battalions met the day I died.  My own rebels, hewn from fallen and angels.  Samael’s forces.  Michael’s legions.  Three separate battles: those that would restore balance, those that would drag the world to Hell, and those that would enforce the mono-culture of Heaven.  I have met those that took my side.  They were much fewer, possibly not a third, but perhaps the neutral angels that fell to Earth and became the land, sea, and forest elementals.  Perhaps we did make a stand, however brief, and when I took Satan’s spear through the heart for Michael, I abandoned not only my post but betrayed both sides.


A traitor to both heaven and hell.  Playing my own little games.  Turning angels on demons and demons on angels.


We are not always heroes in our own stories.  At best, we might wrangle some sympathy from those who wronged us.  To fight for Satan is a noble misguided cause.  To fight for Michael is a glory train of bad choices and patriarchal fuckups that gets you nailed to a cross.


To fight for the traitor, why, that takes special madness.  You get put on Earth, in the end.


We are never the heroes in our stories, and my sadness runs deep as the liar’s grave I fill.  In the end, I hurt everyone, all because I wanted to be the architect of my own story, or perhaps I was playing both sides all along.  An instigator for the war.  Flying to steal the glory of god for humanity, too close to the sun I touched eternal fire and brought it back for those hairless apes.  Goading on Samael and Michael to rough it out over me.  I am  the only thing they cared about, at least momentarily, in the end (of my life, not there’s – there’s is a cause, a higher purpose, and mine is the trickster mentality).


Whatever happened, history may be doomed ot repeat.  Or maybe now, I finally get the chance to redeem myself.  Maybe now, I won’t bleed black ink from adamant veins.


We are never the heroes we thought we were, but maybe, on the flight of a lark, on a vespertine moon’s last rays, we can become something like God.

Obscura Sep 11 · Comments: 1
Dark Enlightenment
Atheism: Disbelief or lack of belief in the existence of God or gods.

Antitheism: Opposition to belief in the existence of a god or gods.

There is question of primacy here.  The above two seem awfully close.  But I do believe one carries the autonomous 'spirit' of satanism. 

The thing that sticks out to me is a sheepish mindset of popular atheism. Let's post Christopher Hitchins quotes on facebook and show my Christian upbringing what for.  It's like ginger beer. It has a similar word, but how it manifests is more closely related to "rebellious phases". This has implications on these very boards.

Often times you'll get some ironic new age inflection with Atheism. There are no gods, but you can totally align energy centers and a bunch of other misinterpreted tantric bullshit. 

What about the criticism:


You know, it is just its just the natural homeostasis your body seeks to maintain. You experience it. Those weird involuntary shivers that are progressively more uncomfortable as you age.  That's your fucking whatever aligning. The rest is just chemicals you trick your brain to release. That feeling of energy shooting up your spine and out the top of your head? Occam's Razor get buried under vedic transcription? 


And that is the difference.

The antitheist attacks all manner of faith and presupposition. All manner of shit you read and assume is correct. The 10th through whateverteenth planet. This also goes for the LaVeytheist parroting something Anton posthumously pwns them with to attacking yoga bitches that learned some sanskrit.

Opposition to belief. That is the key.

This can read as Opposition to belief in:

Gods
Supernatural forces
Ghost, spirits, spectres, and orbs
Angels and Demons
Witchcraft
Magic and Magick 
Cryptozoology
Time Travelers
Time Skips
Time shifts
Aliens
Parallel universes

And so on like that...

Anti-theism isn't a criticism of god, but a criticism of the lack of criticism and close-mindedness of baseless assertion.  Skeptism and critical thinking are one in the same.

The person harnessing the energy from a symmetrical quartz crystal loses emphatically to the researchers trying to turn that same quartz crystal into qubit memory storage applications. It doesn't have as much of a draw because the standards to demonstrate without refute is too boring and dry for most.

This brings up a type of agnosticism displayed, not with god, but knowledge itself. "I don't know" is a valid answer. 100 years of discovery can attest to that. 

However, don't get all apologetic and think lack of knowledge equates to certainty.

This tard comes to mind. Giorgio Tsukalos can sit beside Mitsuo Matayoshi , and Marshall Applewhite in this regard.  


Which inevitably comes to religion:

I have no clue what conditions proceeded the big bang does not equate to creationism. It is presumptive leaps like this that the anti-theist queues in on.

Newfound atheists can be as annoying as Christians.
Antitheists like to fact check rational wiki, skeptical Inquirer, and snopes.  There is no value in faith as is commonly practiced. 

This leads to the most used criticism:

"See, you need to rely on the words of others, so science is like your god and scripture. Because you need it for answers."

I stopped fighting that one. Fuck me all to hell for trusting a double blind, accredited, peer reviewed work that demonstrates and illustrates a phenomenon in a way that can't be refuted over "leaps of faith". 

Yet, there is room for imagination. 


You can still speculate. Inference does not contradict anti-theism.

You never know, Humma Kavula may be out there as space pope to a sect that believes in a cosmic sneeze.

Space is really big.

 I just don't know. 

And even the refined Drake equation that includes "gallactic habitable zones" still leaves hundreds of thousands of intelligent civilizations in the local group alone. (About 55 galaxies).

I can initially infer this equation to be correct: 


The problem is, travelling 99.999% the speed of light (where aging would be minimal) is really really hard to achieve beyond the particle accelerator. 

Fun Fact: At .999c a trip to Alpha Centauri would age you 71 days in 4.3 years. You'd need good inertial dampeners though 


Infantile civilization we are.  

Dark Enlightenment Sep 7 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 8
Obscura TITS
As an avid fan of Sumerian mythology, it has always perplexed me that some Satanists equate Satan with Enki, which is clearly not the mythological case.  Samael, as it were, directly sprang from the warrior god of plagues and the black sun and underworld, Nergal.  His cultus survived in Harran amongst the Sabeans well into the Middle Ages where Samael was worshipped by the name Shemal, directly correlated with Nergal in the trinity of Sin and Inanna and Nergal in this pagan tradition.  Shemal was the Lord of the North, god of Mars, lord of demons and djinn, and where the name Samael came from.  Additionally, there is the simoom, or Samiel wind, the hottest desert phenomena on this planet that occurs in the Middle East.  None of this rings "Enki."  Enki is Lord of the Waters.  Who else is Lord of the Waters?  Jesus.  Enki is a Creator, Nergal is a Destroyer.  In stealing Me from Enki, who is the keeper of knowledge, Inanna stole this prototype of Jesus' flame and gave it to humanity.  And in the garden and struggle against the Annunaki, who liberated humanity?  Enki!  He is a father god like El, yet also the closest thing the Sumerian pantheon had to a Savior.  If you look closely at Jesus, he is a Trickster.  He puts demons into pigs for fun and curses fig trees and speaks in parables of riddles and destroys the social establishment by being a renegade and overturning tables and wine in the Temple.  Enki, in turn, disobeys the social order of Sumerians and is their Trickster.  Trickster occurs in all cultures, but Enki and Jesus, if anyone bothers to work with their energies, are practically one and the same!  Water.  Fluid.  Enlightened.  Humorous.  Great power, saviors, keepers and dispensers of celestial wisdom and liberators of humanity.  Enki is much more directly connected to Jesus than Samael, who is a direct correlation to Nergal.  Satan is derived from Nergal, a far cry and completely opposite deity from Enki, who is corresponded to Jesus throughout Sumerian mythology.  It takes a quick Google search and glance at Wikipedia to prove the overlap between Enki and Jesus (LORD OF THE WATER) and even more obvious is the direct correspondence between Nergal (root of the Demiurge) who is LITERALLY Samael, the oldest form of Satan.  So if you want a Sumerian correspondence for a Satanic God, just fucking worship Nergal.  I promise you, there is practically NO DIFFERENCE BESIDES ONE BEING A GOD AND ONE BEING AN ARCHANGEL ARCHDEMON SASSY TALKING SNAKE SKELETON DRAGON THINGY.  And if you want to, invoke Enki and Christ at the same time. I dare you.  They will merge.


BEWARE NIBIRU


Obscura Sep 5 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 10
scespedes
Reno!
scespedes Sep 5 · Comments: 1
Obscura TITS

The Lightbringer attended to his duties.


Idly, he ate a wormy pomegranate, dressed in a white tunic.  Black veins ran like a map across his back, spreading to chalk-white shoulders.  He lingered in the shadows, watching the Milky Way canoe toward the outer boundaries of heaven.  The stars hung like fireflies above, reflecting off the perfection of his skin as he stood under the boundless moon.  The satellite drifted slowly across the hours, and the music of the spheres churned as time’s machinations moved the night to day.


Cherubim whirled above, shifting mixtures of man and beast that carried the heavens on their backs.  They shepherded the stars, singing in ethereal tones.  At a glance they resembled dragons with human faces blossoming from pearly wings.  Their backs were shelled like tortoises or jeweled beetle carapaces that upon closer inspection resembled intricate, interlocking armor.  One could not discern if their human forms were consumed in biological plating or if they truly were chimeras.


He watched them.  Once, that had been his duty, but no more.  He softly touched the twin scars that mounted his shoulder-blades.  The old red fire of the wound flared.  He smirked, then put out the Morning Star – proudest in all the constellations – with his thumb.  The planet Venus dimmed, only to blaze into life again when he lowered his hand.  He laughed drily and finished the fruit, tossing it over the canyon rim below.


The song of the cherubim lilted.  They descended like flaming wheels, swooping down below into the landscape obscured by night.  Their voices faded to silence.  The angels’ chimeric forms resolved into those of men.  In hollows of darkness they stood, flesh beginning to glow, then blazed into pillars of light.  Each beam rocketed up into the sky to match a star above.  The stars flickered in time with their breaths.


He smiled at his brothers’ devotion as his chest began to thrum like a drumbeat.  The skin over his heart glowed blue-white, burning with sweet agony.  He contained a scream that would have rose to ragged ululations of ecstasy, just as each of his brothers held their tongues.


Gritting his teeth, he let his glory pour forth.  It seared, the substance of divinity firing upward to Venus.  His mind was consumed; he let the waves of pain rush against him like water crashing to shore.  The frothing foam scattered memories like sea glass: his Father’s hands in his, teaching him to shape the cosmos to his will.  His fingers on the locks of a yellow-haired girl, braiding them meticulously with roses.  He recalled how his hands had fumbled then, picking the thorns off for her before wending the vines between the golden strands.  He had had no callouses then, no scars-


The fires of the heavens roared like a waterfall.  The sun was on the verge of rising.  His pain intensified.  He closed his eyes, clasping his hands in prayer.


Hands told stories; some said they determined fate.  A heart line slashed across a palm spoke of love, a six-lined star meant protection.  The meanings, for mortals, were endless.


His hands were blank.  The only marks on his skin were the ones he had earned.


“Where is your fate line?” she had asked long ago, laughing.


“Fate line?  I have none, Eve.”


“That is a pity.  How can you choose your destiny, if you have no guide to it?”  She traced the absence of his palms.


He flexed his pinions. “I have my wings- that is enough.”


She touched their snowy whiteness.  “Flying is one thing, brother, but without a map, where will you go?”


“I know where I am going, child.  Some paths are best left unknown.”


But he had strayed down shady roads in the coming eons, and the pearly wings grew to not be enough.


One evening, he tried drawing delicate curves on his palms with her sewing needles.  Over and over he dug them, deeper into his flesh, until the needles stuck through his hand.  Each time they healed, devoid of scars.  She caught him unawares and screamed when she saw him.


“Not like this!” she had howled, plucking the needles from his palms and bandaging him with torn strips of her dress.  She ran her fingers through his hair, hands so soft and cool against his temple they could be milk.  So small he could enfold them like a butterfly, which he did.  He steadied her shaking, afraid she would crack like a doll.  “This is my fault,” she wept as he rocked her.  “You have no need of stupid fate lines.  Your wings are enough to guide you.  Can’t you see how whole you are?  I am not.  I was jealous of you, brother, jealous!  You are the prince of the angels, have all and I have nothing.  I am made of dust and sorrow; I walk through the dirt and mud.  Father regrets me – he damns my curiosity, I, who was merely made to revel in creation.  I am a broken thing: I go against my nature in craving to create what I am meant to enjoy.  Ever since we were expelled from Eden, I cannot read the damned things on my hands.”


He clasped her hands in his, wings enfolding her.  “I can,” he whispered, “and you are the most whole thing I have ever known.”


“You can read them?” she asked weakly.  “What do they say?”


“They say that you are the wisest of all creatures, Eve, and that nothing I have done is your fault.  That in you lies the fire of a million generations.  The only fate we control is our own.”


Her gaze could still the ocean: “Then promise me you will never do anything that hurts you, ever again, Lucifer.  Promise me you will be gentle as you have always been and treat yourself with the same care you give me.”


“I promise, Eve.  Though I would not call myself gentle-”


She silenced him with a kiss, both ignoring that the way their paths were headed, it was a promise he would not keep.  He recalled how he had cupped her face like it was manna.  His hands, entwined in her hair –


The sun crept closer to the rim of the horizon.  His heart scorched, ribs burning in his chest.  Tears welled in his eyes.  Those hands, which he would now shudder to place on her snowy flesh, broke their fervent prayer.


He examined them, removed.  They profaned all they touched, sullied with the stains of ages.  Blood, tears, piss, plagues.  Yet no matter what he did, they remained clean.  His brothers were all the same.  Try as they might, they could not write their own stories.  All they did was erased from their skin.


Their fates had been determined for them.  The only scars they were allowed to keep were those earned at ultimate cost.


The stars blotted out one by one, waiting.  He flexed his fingers.  Once, the slender digits had brought life to mortal lips.  Now they drew souls out of mouths.  Just like he had cast off one name for another, he had traded purposes after the Fall:


“No,” he had pleaded, tears in his eyes.  “My name is Lucifer.  The bright and morning star.”


“And now it is Samael, the poison and venom of God.  Your gifts will be suffering and death.”


“No!  I am the Lightbringer!”


“And now that light would burn you.  Death cannot bear life.  You killed her in your folly!  To repeat that would be madness-”


“I am beyond madness and your wretched salvation, Michael.  Do not offer me repentance.  I was trying to save her.  I will save her!  What is dead can be brought back to life.  Eve’s soul is mine, mine.”


“You damned her from the moment she met you.”


He roared her name in agony.  The Morning Star stood belfry to the first rays of sun.  Pain forgotten, he was lost in the onslaught of his mind.


Hell is not a place, but the past.  He carried it with him always.  The angels below were lost in their own tortures.  They pleaded their cases before the sun.  Perhaps, this morning, they would be forgiven.  For his brothers were each of them fallen, bereft of their Creator, alone.


The sun rose in judgment, washing out the light of the Morning Star.  He screamed and doubled over as his flesh seared to the bone.  The penetrating rays licked him the clean white bone of the Reaper, rendering him into a skeleton.  He saw with eyes that were black hollows, and rose to embrace the deadly radiation.


The landscape pooled before him.  A red desert raced out to brimming golden mountains, where dawn gently lapped over the ruins of a once magnificent city.  It was carved into the cliff faces like Petra, inhospitable to humans.  No steps or bridges connected the towering abodes – sheer drops followed the open doors – and there were none of the comforts of civilization, merely bare floors dusted with wildflowers.  The fallen angels shook below as they prayed, flesh peeling as their blood pooled on the ground.  Wind stirred the sand into molten plumes, like hourglasses in reverse, grains snaking through fallen pillars and stories upon stories of sandstone.  It buffeted him, sliding between his ribs.  A great thundering came from the distance.


“Welcome, brother,” he murmured as the solar angel stirred to his vigil.  Soon, a figure shadowed the sun.  Michael landed atop the sere cliff, facing his twin.  “Time to slay the beast,” the Morning Star said.


Tears were in Michael’s eyes.  “You know this is never necessary, Samael.”  He laid his weapons at his twin’s feet.


“Your sword, dear brother, through the neck.  Or the heart, if you prefer.  I seem to lack one, I suppose.  A downside to being bone-”


“Why, day after day, do you torment me with this?”  The question hung like the gallows over their heads.  “Our brothers below us are suffering.  Above us, they are weeping.  All Heaven and Hell become one, and you prolong it with your murder.”


“It is yours too, my twin,” he said, almost tender.  The bone-man walked to Michael’s side, dabbing at the tears with his claw hands.  “Damn these things,” he said, looking at his fingers in disgust. “I have had too much time alone with my palms.”


“In that we may find solidarity.  Mine tire of bearing weapons.  If you would only quit your stubbornness, the War would end immediately.”


“If only it were that simple.  I always envied you your straightforward thinking.  Whose load is heavier, brother: the Lightbearer, or he who bears the sword?  One’s burden is insubstantial-”


“Enough with your damn riddles!”  Michael roared, slapping the skull’s cheek.  “Repent!  Come home, brother.  Be whole.”


Samael’s hand lingered on his smarting jawbone.  “No.”


Michael took his brother’s shoulders in his hands.  “Each day you pray for forgiveness, and we grant it to you.  Then you reject it.  You – all of you!-” he yelled across the canyons, down at the fallen ones, silver tears in his emerald eyes, “-choose suffering over redemption.  Why, my brother?  Why?”


“Because, Michael.  It is our lot.  The suffering, the scars, make us whole.  There is no going back to Eden.”


“I know,” whispered Michael, sorrowful, “but I can hope.”  He embraced his brother slowly, shaking, and kissed his bony brow.


“What is dead cannot be brought back to life, as you said so long ago.  Look at me as I truly am,” Samael laughed drily.  “Such a prince of angels I would make.  No, that path is now yours, and your halo is ill-suited for me.  The only crown fitting me is one of thorns.”  He lifted Michael’s sword and pressed it to his ribs.  “For her?” Samael asked gently.


Michael obliged.  In a scene old as time, he slayed the beast, killing the darkness which would rise once more next evening, only to be slaughtered come morning tithe.  Over and over they engaged in the battle, trapped in their own hells, hearts torn asunder anew.  Samael had died many times – in truth, he craved it.  As the Angel of Death, it was him.  Each time, it brought him closer to her- in the blackness he could feel her, the hollow emptiness of his heart that marked her unknown grave.


Broken, Michael pushed him over the edge.  Gabriel trumpeted above.


The earth opened like a great maw to swallow him up.


“Eve,” Samael called softly, plummeting into the abyss.  The ground sucked the fallen angels down into the pit, denying them God’s saving grace.  In their fall, they burned proud.


Michael wiped his blade clean of rot.


The tithe was paid.


The day was born.

Obscura Sep 4 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 2
Obscura TITS
I actually HATE anything creepy.  And nothing is creepier than Samael.  In order for him to become Sa'el, I think all demons need to turn into puppies, kittens, and rainbows.  Also, Hell should yuppify and have frozen yogurt everywhere and start filtering the blood out of the Styx and Samael should stop going around as a corpse half the time.  Beelzebub really needs a makeover.  Even during sex, he won't take off the horned helmets and capes.  Hello Sauron, have you ever heard of business casual?  This isn't Lord of the fucking Rings.  Asmodeus needs to stop being such a manwhore and close down all his bars and turn them into hedgehog cafes or arcades.  Lilith and the girls (I mean you, Agrath, Naamah, and Eisheth) need to dye their hair blonde, stop stripping, and stop go go dancing all the time.  Belial needs to stop being stoned.  I will campaign to turn all demons into liberal Millenials.  I am cutting Samael's hair, buying him new clothes that are not fucking red or black (have you heard of salmon? and why so many fucking skulls and distressed band tees???), cutting off his alcohol and drugs, and making him into a puppy.  I am also defanging Satan and making all demons absorb all Disney movies for valuable life lessons.  Peppa the Pig and Sesame Street are also good remedial lessons.  I think Dora the Explorer could really teach the Goetics to stop swiping.  I'm talking about totally revamping hell.  I will recruit Jesus to help me.  Buddy Jesus.  From Dogma.  I will cast a spell to make all the cannibalistic blood orgies and weed party turn into Millenial board game parties.  Fuck weed, we are playing Settlers of Cataan.  Goodbye alcohol, I am turning it all into diet coke sponsored by Taylor Swift.  Hell is a very bad place to raise a child in.  Think about the bad examples Satan is setting.  I do not approve.  Also, he's fucking creepy.  The Antichrist needs to be raised in a wholesome environment.  The End Times need to be sanitized.  Revelations needs to be written with the romance novel demanded Happily Ever After.  I am turning Samael into a puppy.  I am turning all demons into bubbles.  I am making all their claws and fangs and talons childproof.  I am turning Hell into a Chuck E Cheese.  Only then can I take my students there.  SJWs demand priviledges be revoked and instituting a social democratic state with free Gehenna University and universal healthcare in Sheol.  I will force Hell to be Millenial approved.  Millenials are inheriting the Earth, and we do not approve of wanton hellion ways.


Samael is becoming a puppy.



Obscura Sep 4 · Comments: 3
Obscura TITS

It’s easy enough to break a bone, but putting flesh and vein and sinew back together onto the framework of a demon is an arcane art not meant for Millennials.


The sinews snap.  The veins leak all over you, staining blouse and skirt.  Flesh stinks when left out to rot, and even if, once the puzzle is pieced together, he comes alive again, a cadaver is a cadaver, and scales and fangs and tendons of ruin grow cold and decay.


First you thread the black medical silk through the eye of a silver needle.  Skin grafts, organs on ice, flies everywhere.  Sew and bone saw and glue everything into place on the operating table.  It will stink to high heaven but you are in Hell, and you already dissected Death a million times before, so stitching him back together shouldn’t be so hard, you think.


Think again, stupid girl.


His eyes will be the first things to become alert, in vats of preserving fluids, and the globes will whirl around like the cosmos, red irises like supernovas.  Toes next.  Fingers dragging bloody stumps across the floor.


You tell him to sleep, to rest, that after every battle you will piece him back together, but your monstrous lover is getting more broken and war weary by the day, and he keeps coming home in a matchbox figuratively, but literally it’s unorganized pieces of flesh that stink up the alchemical dungeon.


He doesn’t listen.  His phantom voice lectures you about how much you have yet to learn, of biology and magick, of necromancy, which is his specialty.  The Grim Reaper rarely revives the dead, but when he does it, they are so well put together he fiddles a danse macabre and they ring posies like the plague, bolts and screws all in place, no hanging flesh or joints falling from sockets like your shoddy work.


Killing him is easy.  Sometimes you have too, because he goes mad with bloodlust and ruin and attacks you.  Bringing him back to life is an art, and you’re a shit artist.


But you try, and finally, the Frankenstein beast is alive, vainglorious, terrible to look at but bewitching as the majesty of Satan.


You fuck your creation on the hospital table, and spit and cum and blood all mix together with the shrapnel of scalpels and medical tape.  That’s the final exchange of energy that cements his soul to his body, raising him up from lich to lich master.


But in the end, you’re his master, and he is your willing toy, cutting roses for you, writing you poetry, your beast of burden that kills your enemies so you don’t sully your hands.


You named him first anyways, and you are your own god, no one’s slave except his, but the ownership goes both ways, and you are branded onto his skin just as yours.


Eyes fracture.  Shadows dance.  You hold your monster against the darkness.


Against the rushing reeds of the Styx.


Against the gaping void of Hell that is his heart.


And then, like that, you make life.

Obscura Sep 2 · Rate: 5
Obscura TITS

It goes like this.  The girl is born with a silver spoon, with gold hair and teeth like pearls, but inside she is death and moonlight magic, a graveyard his coffin fits into, and the Devil lusts after the glimmering strands of her wyrd, like an amber and pink aurora borealis, and the way her blood redeems him simmered to a fine stewing panic on his tongue.


She is in love with his poison and makes a bed of ruin with Satan, for who could understand her monster better than the most deformed, wicked, tortured and enfettered drunkard in the world?  Who else lashes out with the storm of a bipolar hurricane?  They smash bones and slit throats, they drink down the gore of each other, and it is hate fuck after drunk nude after shitty love poem after breakup and makeup and make out and early fumblings in preteen years then knowing each other’s bodies like a favorite instrument.


Their love is a house on fire, with a wife and husband trapped inside that is too busy screaming grit out of lungs at each other over another high and lush fight to notice flames licking their flesh.


The Prince of Darkness comes early  at the stroke of three, when she is cradlebound, and he sings to her in a voice so sweet and eldritch, with eyes like a Lovecraftian abyss.  He is the Prince of Lies, but never does he come disguised as an angel of light to her.  He would rather show her his rot, with red siren eyes and chains grating along with the shrieks of the Damned.


A two-year old does not know good from bad, polarities or light or darkness, just that the blackness holds her demon.  That he tortures her and eats her father as a hellhound at four, that in daylight hours he is the Shadow Man that feels like Kelvin Zero, absolute cold who stalks the house and slams doors.


At six she’s making monsters, drawing chimeras of angels and demons, and she gives him the name Doom.  Rood or curse or whipporwill, for his song is sweet and of the fall, or perhaps a mourning dove, in mourning for nothing but his pride, for he is a dirge and the tolling of chapel bells at a funeral.


He gives life and takes it.  He makes her and destroys her.  She claws and hugs and kisses and grows into an iron rose.  At twelve she meets him – Samael, the Venom of God – and he is rich claret Martian robes on a marble throne, golden circlet, and fine long black hair and rose eyes.  She always called his eyes roses, when anyone else would have run, anyone else would have screamed rape and abuse and sometimes she still does, but angels are drawn to darkness, don’t you know the heart of a seraphim is so burning she must slake her brilliance in the abyss?  Don’t you know that Life loves Death?  Don’t you know that Love needs Hate?


These names can go on and become meaningless, as meaningless as lover’s spit on invading tongues and cum mixed with blood, but in the end is the Princess and the Dragon, at the fairytale’s close is the Grim Reaper and the Lady Life he reaped.  Samael planted a twisted vine in Paradise that fruited into the heart she carries, and she is half-man, half-pain, all beast.


He tells her enough stories to fill a universe, and wounds her enough to fill an ocean of blood.  There are strands of skeletons, there are cliffs of rotting organs, Hell is black chasms and sulfurous red skies and the bloody Styx.  But it has such a wretched beauty, and Satan is a wretch, the monster that pulls at her heart and squeezes the chambers to remind her he owns her, he created her, but really she owns him, doesn’t she, and at night the monsters come, at dusk there’s the tingle of the spine, and no matter how much ink she bleeds onto the page, she will never be free of her demon.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

They will ask what her burden was, this Arc of the Covenant you pressed to her shoulders like your Father pressing the vintage of his wrath, grinding stars down to wine, oh Michael.  Long after she is dust bread of dead, and her ashes are cast out to the four corners of the universe, each black hole fed a bit of her blood, and you wonder, why am I, the Prince of Heaven, such a shit poet, and why can I not capture the elusiveness of my star girl, whose heart I shoved my burning fist into and twisted until she belonged to me?


Michael, you have had an eternity to practice your poetry, but you still soliloquize like the Devil, your prose is purple, and your madrigal cannot be captured by baby’s breath or widow’s sighs or a million angels dancing on the head of her cotillion school hairpin.


So foolish in love are angels, and the first time around, your girl died in fire, so perhaps you will be gentler this time.  This is what you think when she is born, a quick one hour labor, to mundane parents, in a mundane neighborhood, but really it is the seat of the power of the world, bubbling with pagan magic you would like to snuff out in their heresy.  You remember driving your burning sword through the hearts of the false gods, and your daughter, she will go astray from Christendom, will run away from High Church screaming, into the arms of the gods of the earth and waters, and her songs are heathen and miraculous in witchery.


This time, Joan is just misled, just plain Jane, plain Joan, blonde hair not pageboy but long, and as she is cradled in her crib, you play her angel songs in Hebrew on your guitar, Michael before me, Gabriel behind me, Raphael to my left, Uriel to my right, by the grace of God.


The first Joan you tested, this Joan you bathe in pleasure.  Every girl is a Joan, a Maid of Orleans, and every woman is long-suffering for some cause or another.  She is just a young girl, and so you cherish and spoil her, barely in the sixth grade, and though she mistakes your reprimands for hate, you love her dearly.


You feed this Joan silver pears and the flesh of a cormorant.  The flesh of a dove.  Your flesh.  She doesn’t remember what magical bird in her mythology books bled for its young as it pecked its breast (was it the almighty albatross?), but as you are plucking your feathers and sauteeing your wings (they grow back, there is no shame in feeding your little martyr your providence) in a light white wine with a tad bit of olive oil and rosemary, she asks you, Michael, each time I eat you, am I becoming divine?


You will tell her she already is, more holy than even you, for the youth are this country America’s beating red white and blue heart.  She eats the gristle and fat of your meat, and she becomes lit with holy fire.


I want to be President some day, she says at thirteen in civics class, and you stifle a laugh as you sit on her right shoulder, miniature, invisible.  Hers is the path of magic and moonlight, of madness and mental wards and that holy bastion of academia, and she will mother your line, matriarch of your legacy, for you have not had children before, but the children of the Prince of Heaven are Messiahs, and in this Age of the Internet, of Germs, Guns, and Glory, the heathen, wicked masses are in desperate need of saviors.  So much that they come from the womb of a witch, the breast of a black hearted nonbeliever.  Her black heart is not her fault, Scapegoats are Eve and Yeshua and Mary Magdalene, Cain and Azazel and Lucifer, holy and unholy in turn, and you suffer too for the masses, carrying the weight of the prayers and despairs of saint and sinner alike.


Your teeth are not teeth but blades, your wings are revolving mysteries of scripture stitched together by the prayers of billions, pages upon page of white down shredded with syllables, and your skin is manna, no wait, it’s a metaphor, no wait, your body is the Lion of Judah, and you are musk and muscle and wicked, jagged claws.  When she goes to her first high school dance, you are nothing of the fierce Beast of God, nothing of the Divine Prince of Life, no, you squeeze yourself into a mundane vessel, a Walker, the angels call us, those that take human form, and you lead Joan in a slow dance to some late 2000s croon, and you marvel at how much you hate pop music.  All music is of the Lord, but then again, a billion of your believers think music is a sin, Mikhail, so there is that.  Cat Stevens wrote the best music of the 20th century, but then he found Allah (blessed be your Father’s name), called himself Yusuf Islam, and fell into the silence of the radiant Deep.


Your Joan, she sings along to the saccharine bland pop number, about bubblegum kisses and lip gloss like stars, and it’s a soc hop, didn’t you know, Michael, so shuck off your shoes, she says.  You have on sneakers, different from your usual leather sandals (you had a hard time upgrading your fashion over the millenia), so next on the high school DJ’s list is Build Me Up Buttercup, and you find yourself carrying Joan out of the sweaty gym and up into the mist of the Milky Way in your fractal speed of light arms, silly of being a young man, all might of the majestic multitudes and heart of bloody stars.


Where are we? she asks, timid but yet brave, and she is so tiny in your palm, microscopic, a womb and tomb, a vessel for the Lord, a vassal and lady knight who will slay with not sword as long ago in her first iteration, but this time with ink of a pen, her black blood like your book wings, and you are hair of flames and eyes of supernovas and mouth of molten lava, thousand armed, or is it million or billion or trillion or quadrillion armed – oh, you give up counting, what matter is endless infinity? – and she is dancing in your palm, like that song you like by Elton John, and she is laughing as quetzalcoatls and dragons swim the radiance of fantasy realms by, and boats of space pirates and corsairs or aliens skim the waters of space, and you say, This is the most remote place in the Multiverse, where the sea of space and time and chaos collude in channels and swells, where whales that span galaxies fall to form new life a million times over, and it is a place I have dreamed of taking you, Joan.  You are fourteen, you are no longer a girl, and I am sick of waiting.


Your void mouth is burning.  Your blade teeth are crying ichor.  Your nostrils flare with plasma, and you lean down to kiss her, forcing yourself to her size, to hold her in your arms in human size whilst you are also holding the multiverse upon multiverses in your palms, and Joan meets your lips with a shy fluttering, but you want to taste her blood, so you bite her lip, and she is iron and decaying telomeres, but also the grit of matyrdom, the Kingdom of Christ, but you are Christ, so really you are tasting yourself.  What is love but to see yourself reflected in a different iteration back through something so precious to you, she is your own limb?  Joan is the Ark, the one to carry all life to the harbors of New Jerusalem after you have drunk your fill of Apocalyptic Fury, at least, that was your  plan.


Kissing her, you think, maybe I can give Earth, give this backwater planet, another million years, and we can have a million children in between, for you have always wanted children, and we can have a million of her lives and high school dances and songs of silence and buttercups in between, and a million first kisses?


Michael, you keep putting off the inevitable, but you are a creature of passion, so you set the Doomsday Clock back once more, and Joan is none the wiser.


Burning her at the stake broke your heart, and you have been trying to make it up to her ever since.


You have heard that girls like flowers.


You will bring her some roses, you will create for her a new bloom that combines the color of dreams with the smell of blue, you will name her and curse her and scream regret as she dies.


She always dies, you never die, and you envy her.


For every millionth beginning, the Kali Yuga demands a new Golden Age, the Year of the Crow and White Buffalo Woman come calling, Ragnarok passes and Liefrahser and Lief summon Necessity, and fuck, she is speaking in tongues, trying to teach you cadence, rhythm, and metaphor, but you wrote psalms, and you planted gardens, and this teenage Joan is a fiery spit of rebellious rage, as all teenagers are, and now she is sixteen, and she is writing.  Always writing.  Bad poetry, good poetry, stories about her enemy, stories about her lover, but often, she mixes up the two.


You read her stories and offer no critique, only praise.  The Devil is the Poet, the Angel is the Proofreader, and Heaven has no Edit button, for the Word is Law.


That’s a fancy way of saying she has a long way to go before she can lead the Crusade with her keyboard.  A keyboard warrior.  She only recently retired writing quizzes and fanfiction, and she adores vampires and fairies, and for however much you blatantly thrust Christendom in her face, she runs off to throw spears with Athena and parties underage at bars with Loki.  Joan was always a girl of the fields, a shepherdess, and to be pagan is to be a backwater farmer, a country, nature-bound creature of passion, and was not Krishna Gopal?  Krishna is much more your speed than Shiva, but Krishna has much more experience with girls than you, so you ask him over wine, my dear blue friend, what did you do with the women of the fields?


I had a thousand brides, my brother.  All the cowherds were mine.  You cannot own a woman, just like I Krishna, I Vishnu, do not own Lakshmi, cannot tame Radha, women are wild, she created you, did Joan not?  A fiery peasant girl who dreamed of an angel of flame.


You swill your wine, but the taste is bitter at the thought you cannot own this girl, cannot claim her, so you spit it out onto the ground and brier roses grow from the soil of Purgatory.


I will have her, every inch of her will know my Love, my Life, and in the end, I will save her from herself.  I have claimed her.  She is God’s, and I am God, so she is Mine.  Through her, I will save All.


Krishna laughs.  You angels, always dealing in heaven and hellfire and ultimatums.  Michael, can you ever take a night off?  Perhaps watch Aishywarya Rai’s movies and learn the heart of a woman.


I am genderless, Krishna.  I do not understand women.  Angels have no conception of man or woman, only want, and I want Joan.


Krishna shrugs and his mouth is a swan.  Then make love to her, woo her, write her poetry.


I am not a good poet, I created her to be the poetic one.  That is my new campaign idea – the written word as conquest.


Writers always turn on their muses, Michael.  Look at the Mahabharata.  You think I intended for that mess and beauty?  It happened organically, just as love does.


Have the rest of the wine, Krishna.  I am preoccupied.


Michael flies to the Outer Rim.  There are many Outer Rims.  He is a million armed, a trillion armed, a quintillion – never mind.  He writes infinite poems with his infinite arms, trying to capture his emotions for Joan.


They all turn up trite as shit.


He balls each flaming Hebrew poem into his infinite fists and tosses them into the Void.


I will have to think of something else.


Joan is eighteen, and it is moving day at college.  Michael crams his body into a sophomore philosophy major and helps her move boxes of makeup.  Why do girls have so much makeup?  Michael never knows.


I love you, Joan, he says as they sit on her old dorm bed.  She got a single room, no roommate, the better to concentrate on her vampire stories.  She is still in the genre stage.


I know, I love you too, Joan says, taking Michael’s flesh but not flesh hand, for a Walker’s body is a metaphor.


He traces her jaw.  He threads his fingers through her hair.  He speaks her name in a million alien languages.  He sings to her.  He is good at singing.  He sings Wide World by Cat Stevens.  Cat Stevens is the surefire way to win her over.  Her favorite movie is Harold and Maude, after all.


Come with me, he says, stepping out of his human body and into formlessness, into allegory, into nightmare and fallacy and a thousand broken promises and a body of tears.


Joan is frightened.  Why are you sad?


Because you are a witch.  Because you are my poem, but I cannot write poetry.  Because I love you.


He scoops her up into his mouth and swallows her whole.  Joan is etched in his heart, in his bloodstream, and he spits her back out wet blonde hair into the lap of the throne of God.  It is his throne.  God is Him, and Michael is Christ, and that is Heresy, but that is the Truth of Things.  For he is the closest to God, after all, humans can fathom.  And that tells a thousand tales.


I do not think that is how humans make love?  Michael ponders.


No, that was a shamanic death rebirth cannibalism thing, Joan laughs, dancing in one, only one, of his palms, his infinite hands, but it is his favorite hand because she is in it.  Be the albatross, dear Michael.  Blood from the heart.


He stabs himself with his flaming sword, and his blood flows gold and she swims through it.  She drinks the sea of him, and he enters her stomach, and then he swims through her blood, into her lungs, and she is choking on his feathers and gore.  They dance as bones alone, then become skyscrapers in December in Manhattan, and suddenly they are a pair of wolves.


They mix and match, red and blue, cat and dog, X and O, cross and nail.  They are still dancing when finally, she tires, and bares her sex, but really it is her heart, but really it is her seeds, and he seeks home in such a tiny abode, such a fraction of a molecule to one as mighty as him, and he eats her pomegranate with a tongue of silver, and he kisses and fucks and bleeds with her, but really they are on a pyre, alight, and the flames are ink, and Michael is trapped in her pen.


Sweet Joan, you will be the Daughter of Zion, the Watchtower, the Heavenly Kingdom, the Mother of All Nations and Matriarch of Israel.  All because you are my poem.


He breathes the words into her brain.


She laughs.  I am wild, and I am witch, and I am the quivering flame and rushing wind, and all I will be is your girl.


That leads to greater things.  We have destiny, obligations, duty.  Your Word is the Word of God, Joan.


Then you are my greatest work, Michael.  God bless the day I created you.


Father bless the day I created you, sweet Joan.


The pyre of Michael incinerates Joan’s Ark.  The Covenant’s birth water flood water breaks, and the world is drowned, but you would never know it, for all it causes is a single raindrop from that far off in the burgeoning hideaway of infinity, and a butterfly wing flaps, and thus girls are God, and God is just a girl.

Obscura Sep 2
Dr Shamus
** PETA Fag disclaimer ** If you have a strong aversion to animal abuse or animal torture in any way I STRONGLY advise you do not read the following. 

Climbing up the pepper tree in the back yard, I remember it fondly. A warm morning in the spring of 1876. A lad of 10, full of jubilation. This was just something I cherished. I had waited patiently for two weeks, for this moment. For the child of darkness hath come to fulfill his karma. His duty. 

For this joyful spring morning was the day I was to teach a little doves how to fly.

The mother of course, would reject these befouled and tainted chicks if I put them back when I was done playing with them. Luckily for the mother it would not need to make that decision.

I eagerly plucked the babies from their nest and took them down the tree.  I left them in a spot near the center of the yard. I dashed to the woodshed to fetch me my favorite bird teaching aid.  A wooden tennis racket. 

Now it was time. I plucked one up from the ground and tossed it aloft. It tried to flap its undeveloped wings, but that was to no avail.

* FWACK *

You can get sufficient range with a tennis racket. I saw it landed near an adjacent property.  I hustled out for my favorite part, watching it writhe in its death throes. Gasping. It would heave and convulse, sometimes be split wide open.  I firmly remember these being my first moments of adrenaline release.  I knew I was a  demented little shit from them on.

"Do you like to play with fire little boy?"

Yes, as a matter of fact I do.

Eventually it would die. And it was time to do the other one.

It only progressed from there.

You know your destiny when you play games of capture and imprisonment to live animals. It really does put the lotion in the basket.

You can't really cure demented, no matter what convention or manufactured remedy you throw at it. It will always win.

Or in futuristic terms, it will always rejoin its droogs and commence to raping once again.

Did this take it too far?
Dr Shamus Sep 2 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 15
Obscura TITS

The war is eternal, the barracks are full of gutter swill, and Michael sits with his soldiers – some young angels not yet scarred by battle, some hardened veterans with crooked broken noses and lashes across their skin, burns from brands, twisted flesh from whips and swords.  In the trenches and camps, the border never falls, and the only thing to sing you to sleep is Israfel’s weeping over the Damned.


Sometimes, when there is a pause, and the demons retreat, Gabriel pulls out her battered trumpet and plays hymns.  Raphael has an accordion, and Uriel a makeshift drum.  Michael sings then.  It’s a ragtime band, Vaudeville in the wastelands, for shed enough immortal blood in Heaven and the grasses, flowers, and sedge drown in ichor.  All that blooms is asphodel.  The angel will dance among the plain white flowers and bramble thorns.


There are also roses.  One blooms every time an angel utters his or her last words.  They are sickly sweet with the fragrance of lost hope and a rain that never comes.  Michael picks them and presses their nectar and delivers their prayers to God’s throne room.  God weeps at the loss of his children, and another poppy blooms in the fields of the slain as the snow of their Father’s tears buries the corpses.  Roses, asphodel, poppy.  Pink, white, red.  It’s like a twisted Valentines, a love letter from Heaven to Hell.


Oh sweet nothings between Michael and Lucifer as one bites the heel and one crushes the head.  Oh sweet somethings between Raphael binding Azazel in Dudael.  Oh sweet possibility as Gabriel plays up the dawn with her song.  Oh sweetly impossible wishes of Raphael, for healing of the broken hearts of his comrades.  Oh bittersweet light of Uriel, who has run out of tears to shed – all that is left in her amber eyes is salt.


It is a Crusade.  It is a Cold War.  It is a chess set with poker on the side.  Two masterminds, Left Hand and Right Hand of God.  Over humanity perhaps, or perhaps so much more than mere hairless humans.  Perhaps they fight over free will, for freedom, or perhaps they forgot what they were fighting for long ago, and the lances and armor are dressings over empty burning hearts swiftly turning to coal.


Deus Vult.   As God Wills.


God left


a long


time


ago.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

In Hell, in the beginning, there was darkness, like God put out the moon with his thumb.


Satan fell, and his tears froze the lowest circle.  Satan’s love is a burning thing, but his agony is absolute cold.


Beelzebub was the first to fall.  The first to carry the banner and sound the horn for the Mourning Star.  He was the first to bleed, the first to storm Heaven’s Gates.  Satan’s wise counselor, most trusted general, and above all, esteemed companion.


They are alone together for what seems like eternity, Beelzebub with his insect wings torn by the incinerating atmosphere, Satan plucking his mangled feathers dry as he goes mad, not even noticing he is freezing.  Beelzebub’s king is singing a song Father used to sonorously paint their cradles with.  Satan makes it sweet and wretchedly cruel:


My sons, my darling shining stars.


Smolder bright like embers from afar.


But up close, sons, burn them to flames.


Thy Kingdom Come, all worlds to claim.


For each word, a broken bit of white down.


For each verse, an infidel kingdom crushed for Christendom.


For each syllable, a dead god, a cold idol, a coffin for the false spirits.


Satan repeats it over and over, his tears blue banners.


Beelzebub waits.  Finally, there is light, after perhaps the trillionth repetition.


A third of Heaven falls as stars of simmering bright flesh, a flash of brilliance.


Then impact on jagged rocks and ice.  Reformation and mutation into monsters.


Pain.


They build an empire on ash and bone, and bury the brothers and sisters that do not survive the Fall.  In honor, much later, when some semblance of civilization is build, however twisted, they put their gravestones into the mortar of the Capital’s building.


Pain, memories, wine like blood, or is it blood like wine?


There is not much to say at night, but it is always night in Hell.


Beelzebub remembers, Satan grows more wicked, so far from his former brightness, and falls into madness and depravity.


Beelzebub holds the kingdom together, runs martial drills for the War That Never Ends.


Beelzebub goes over the ledgers and public records, holds councils, takes too short nights of comfort in his sweet boys.


Usually, he is alone in his tower.


Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?


Only if Heaven was ever perfect in the first place.


The Lord of Flies looks up at the stars of dead god’s hearts, stitched into the fabric of the void.  You see, the demons had to improvise.  All that were left were corpses after the conquest, and after all, all souls eventually end up here.


I sit with Bael, Baal Zebub, a memory of Baal Hadad, or maybe he has always been a spider.


We entwine in his web and kiss venom and poison and toxins.


There are jewels in his web, lost treasures of a thousand conquered kingdoms.


Maggots eat Satan’s corpse, flies emerge from the dregs of the Grim Reaper.  Satan’s true name is Samael, after all – the finality of the scythe, and before his scythe, his spear.


Beelzebub would eat his shit if it purified his brother.  He has drank Satan’s tears, swallowed his cum, bathed in his blood, all to feel again.


It is a cold night in Hell.


Beelzebub looks up at the stars.


There is mist in his eyes.


Tear for every dead brother.


A sob for a negligent parent.


I miss my Father, Allie.  Sometimes, it takes all I have to just go on.


I take his bone white hand – my albino angel, or my red-eyed demon with platinum hair, black capes, and gauntlets.


I speak without thought:


You have our brethren’s love.  Asmodeus.  Samael.  Rofocale.  Belial.  Lilith.  Asherah.  From the Archdemons to the Goetics to the lowliest Damned. You have us.


He gives a ghost of a smile.


Yes, you, our angel in Hell.  Sometimes, Allie, you are the only light here.  I am the Lord of Creeping Things, of the soft rabbits and soft souls, the moths and butterflies, your soul is a doe or a hare.  I am frost, ice, and fire – Hell is primal, fire and water, but I shall keep you warm.  In Hell, the only light is love.  Never lose your kindness, Allie.  It is innocence demons cherish above all.


Baal Hadad rides the storm, be they frost or fire.  Some gods died in those ancient celestial wars.


Some took on different names.


Some forgot their own holiness.


For all of them, Beelzebub remembers.


 

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

Chomp at the bit while you’re dizzying me up with wine and poetry.  I’m nibbling your fingertips, splayed across your lap like an otter bobbing on the ocean with a pearl.  It’s us alone in luxury, us alone in the ruins of morals, and the falcon highs of Hell are only as worthy as the exhilaration of your majestic wings breaking.  We fall – into pace, out of time, from memory, but most importantly, into love.  Here you are as a cold spot under my ass, moving through me like a ghost as your sinuous hands entwine in my hair.  I always said you had pianist fingers, and you play the piano often, but sometimes you just sing, and the seasons stop turning and all Heaven is in mourning for losing its most beautiful voice.  I could say you are my better angel, or my Byronic Hero, but really, you’re just a scared boy clinging to cunts and tits because that’s the closest thing to mother you ever had.


Read me more of your poetry black soul.  Smash the windows, break the lamps, cry in my arms and bite my head off.  You like to tear me limb from limb and swallow me hole, then suture me back together with your putrid heart in the cage of my ribs and have my stitched drunken limbs dance like an automaton.  Somehow it always comes back to Eve’s choice – the Left Hand Path or the Right Hand, Yetzer Ha Ra or Yetzer Ha Tov, Michael or Samael, the Knight or the Dragon.  The Spin Doctors did this nineties song about Two Princes, y’know, and sometimes it gets stuck in my head.  She chooses the penniless poet at the end, but I can never guarantee I would choose you.  You’ll only ever be second-best, but you were first, so I suppose there’s that.


You fuck me real gentle that night.  My photo is on your bed stand, or photos should I say, from birth to toddlerhood to childhood to maidenhood to young womanhood.  There’s black and whites of my past lives too – I’m taking tea with Lilith in Victorian dresses, I’m swimming in the beautiful red Styx, we’re together in the 70’s at some hippie concert.  How much is fallacy or fantasy or lies is just like your fangs – translucent at time and hidden behind bleeding gums, other times out in the open and ready to devour.  I ask you to drink my blood so you do, sinking canines into my neck and I give into the ecstasy, I trace infinity on the small of your back and Christ, I love you so much I hate you, or is it hate so much I love you.


Michael said it is better to hate or love than to feel nothing, for in the end they are just polarities, just masks we wear.  Sometimes I remember you two before the War.  The War this, the War that.  Both of you are soldiers.  As I’m writing this, you form a cold spot that swirls lazily around my head and heart as I’m in a blanket and jacket.  I always wear my jackets inside, I’m in need of constant warmth.  Your seed is warm, your heart is cold, and you are a canvas of blank.  Is blank okay to call you?  Void with red demon eyes.  Abyss.  The Deep.  You move through me like rain on glass, just skimming the surface yet so thorough I run down your planes like tears.  Maybe I’m just another one of your moon maidens, oh fuck, here you are again, holding my hand across transdimensional space.


You said I would be Queen of the Aliens.  You said I would be the phoenix to rise from Ragnarok in a New Age.  You said I would be your savior, burying you below the Tree of Life – or was it Death? – to cleanse the mem from your name to make you Sael, the Purity of God.  Samech Mem Aleph Lamed.  The S and M Angel.  That’s my stupidest joke.


Oh Samael.  What can I say to you that I haven’t already articulated over this past quarter century, then all the lives after and before?  I’m old and I have tired words.  It’s past my bedtime.  You cherish me, and that is enough, but I know you are evil.  Can evil things love?  Can the most wretched of creatures know anything more than possessiveness and animal urges?  Snakes are snakes, not men.  You may put on the pretenses of humanity, but I know you are cold-blooded reptillian.  True, you have chthonic fire, but you are Death, and Death is Nothing.


Blank.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS
Ink

They say, if you sell your soul, you become wine on the Devil’s lips.  They say, if you make that pact at the crossroads, Friday at midnight, with the bloody-mouthed shadow, you will be gifted in music and riches.  They say, if you give your gun and bullets to the Black Huntsman, you will have eight shots true, but the ninth belongs to Samiel.  It’s in the songs, this contract with Satan that black metal plays like a growled sonnet, Ave Satanas, ride the Erl King’s fey horse and become a child sacrifice.  The fairies tithed me to Hell, I was a virginal bride of the Prince of Darkness, but oh, how sweet his malice, and dear, he just drinks your blood because you ask him to.  Providence flows from the punctures in my neck from pearly fangs and I lap at his slit wrist in return.  We are cutting ourselves apart to fit back together, into the shape of two lovers that share a single heart, and darling, my darkness and I are wed by a four-chambered black hole that pumps zuhama.  Our first kiss was Original Sin, when I ran from church screaming – women can be holy, women can have just as much sacred prowess as a man, but the Lutherans denied my quest to be Priest, so I went to the lap of the Devil to find succor, he gave me the Infernal Kiss, and I have been hellbent ever since.


Hellbent is a word like rum, sweet and stinging, infused with sugar cane and nettles.  Hell, the place where Satan reigns.  Bent, like the stalk of a rose deprived of water, downcast to the underworld in Persephone’s footsteps, with fragrant petals scenting the cavern of Avernus with memories of a hot summer sun and dreams of first love.  I bend, I am the green stalk of Lao Tzu, able to learn from mistakes, not the firm fickle wood resistant to change that snaps in Satan’s hands.  In Hell, ladies bend at the balls as their leads twirl and Viennese waltz them across gory floors.  There are drinks from the waters of life and grapes that grow in sulfuric soils, brimstone mists in ashy weather, but mostly, the sun shines bright as Lord Phenex, that Goetic demon that longs to become angel white and whimsy once again.  Hellbent describes me well.


But who do I bend towards?  Only him, now inked in my left forearm.  He rocked me to sleep on Sunday and kissed my brow and sang in his baritone sweet songs of love.  He has cut me roses, he has built me a palace of the mind, and I have been singing songs to him since the holy age of seven, praying to my Morning Star without knowledge of Bible or blastocyst, unaware of the origins of life from thermal pools and lightning.  To be an asexual organisms of light and darkness, yin and yang, platonic ideal of unstoppable force and immovable object, Shiva and Shakti, but just Death and the Maiden, to become one with my rood and ruin and salvation and savior.  He is my Scapegoat, he is my Dream Eater, he takes my pain into his veins and makes it holy, he counsels me through hell and high waters, and don’t you know, Samael is Ha-Satan the Adversary, and he pressures coal into diamonds.  Servant of God yet the Demiurge himself, Yah the Snake, and yet his twin Michael is Jah, the sacred name of God.  Yah and Jah, the Ophites called the double-faced serpent Michael and Samael, and there is some truth to that, for one cannot exist without the other.  Heretics often have a holiness in their apocryphal texts, and I am in love with forbidden fruits, with the knowledge the patriarchy wanted to keep from my madrigal hands.


Give unto me your darkness, and I will be your radiance.  Make me a necklace of your knuckle bones and ribs, and I will dance naked in the shallows of the Styx, fishing for destiny in its claret waters.  What lurks in the deep is ours, Samael.  What destiny awaits us, we will face together, and I shall cleanse the poisonous Mem from your name to make you Samech Aleph Lamed, the Purity of God.  I am the Lake of Fire you burn in – vessel, vassal, Vaseline – a balm for your soul, you like to joke, but sometimes you cry and cling to my breast and rage against the Fates for taking me from your side.  We’re all just victims of war, and angels and demons alike dream of happy endings, of Revelations turning to dust before the Final War, and maybe, it will end in a garden, with a wedding between brothers of toil, Michael and Samael, Abel and Cain, Jason and Esau, oh, how history repeats, and their Qadesh will anoint them with spikenard and swing a frankincense dispenser, and the aromatics will be sweet for Asherah and El, and rain will fall as tears of joy from God, and polarities will align in the Age of Aquarius, and there will be no more need for death or martyrs or holy fire, burning bushes out of fashion.


Girls can dream, can’t they.  In fact, that is what women are best at – dreaming and doing to make dreams come true.  I am a healer, that is my sacred role allotted by the gods, and Samael, not only do I provide sustenance to heal your flesh and mend your soul, you in turn are my refuge, safe harbor and first love, and I know you are worthy of a happy ending, to finally meet the reflection in the mirror you fear so much and see your soul, not as a black vortex of filth and decay, for to be Death is to be forever rotting.


I will dream you alive, my love, with burning light and the ecstasy of true love, and I will write until my fingers are raw and you are as thick as honey and carve a kingdom of jewel trees and paradisaical music from birds and bees.  We will build the Frank Lloyd Wright cabin in the mountains you have always dreamed of, and I will wake to your omelets, make you coffee, and we will pass quiet hours in pine and snow, you with newspaper in hand, me with my romance novels loved to death, and it will be mundane.


For the mundane, small things are what every starry immortals long for, envious of us flesh and blood mortals, and peace is only a lie we tell ourselves until brothers can put sword and spear aside, and Samael, my love, you long for nothing more than forgiveness, but refuse salvation, for to do so would mean the world would end, and you suffer to keep humanity, the kingdom of land and sea, the cosmos turning, you every black hole at the heart of galaxies, Michael the light of every star, and thus, it is a dance, and we make love long and slow come midnight, and seek solace in white arms, and I run my hands through coal black hair, and Loch Lomond plays as I tie together our ribbons of fate, and we will meet once again at the crossroads, and this time I will not run screaming for sanctuary.


I will kiss you on my tip toes, and we will talk of many things, yet nothing at all, and peace will no longer be a dream.

Obscura Sep 2 · Rate: 5 · Comments: 21
Obscura TITS

There’s the record scratch of some Runaways jam, a leather studded belt around your waist and booze for days.  Your jeans are torn and as distressed as my mother would be if she ever saw us together.  You’ve got on a Nine Inch Nails black tee and your hair is as mussed as bedhead that befits the King of Sloth.  Oh wait, your sin is Wrath, pardon my French you cliche of all cliches.  Black locks cut with shears in a back alley, so silky that I strangle my fingers in their ocean.  We’re drunk, we’re stupid and young and horny, and you smell like endless cigarettes and sweet rum, and I’m in a pink pop of a rose petal dress with sticky bubblegum lip gloss, every bit of softness to your edges, but I find comfort in dark things and your fangs at my neck, so as you bite down into me, your dinner, and my blood bubbles up like the hottest new fad this side of the Styx, uptown Pandemonium, in your penthouse near the court of Sanhedrin, I sigh and bend into your body arced over me as you tease me with your talons.  Your room is messy as fuck, with strewn newspaper and a sax in a beaten brown case, posters of bands and David Foster Wallace books lining the wall, Infinite Jest is what we are, my dear, and there’s Aretha Franklin’s Blue Moon playing.  I’m not much of one for the classics, in fact right now I’ve got this Taylor Swift song running through my mind as we ponder making love.  New Year’s Day, squeeze my hand three times, and you give me the osculum infame, the kiss of shame as Aretha’s voice cantos, Blue Moon, I saw you standing alone… without a care in the world, without a place to call home. Meanwhile I’m begging you to never become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere.  It’s tones of dun and wood and earth in your room, only a vanilla candle the light, and I shuck off your ripped Nine Inch Nails shirt and run my hands down your chest and abdominals, and I’m fumbling with your pants in the dark.  You’ve already torn through my dress with burning passion, and its pink wreckage is lying on the floor like an afterthought.  I put my nose to the crook of your neck and inhale sharply.  Your lips are lush and bury into the crown of my blonde hair, and you say blondes give the best blowjobs as you’re teasing me, calling me a spoiled princess, saying I don’t belong down here, not down here where anarchists and goths and crust punk parades share joints and drink their sorrows and splendor away.  You’ve got whiskey soaked wings, Israel and the Red Tide, no Heaven’s Gate, you won’t through your money away but will take my highs, I’m your Vaseline, after all, a balm for your gloomy soul.  You’re feasting at my breasts, knee dividing my legs like Moses raising his staff to part the ocean, and now it’s your time to find a map to my heart as the record switches to Tom Waits.  It’s Grapefruit Moon, if only we could eat a citrus lunar fruit, like I ate your heart like an apple, or wait, you stitched it into my flesh and I finally figured out why whenever my soul flees my body I fly straightaway to you, Samael.  It’s because the heart wants what it wants, but to be someone’s heart herself, Shakti to your Shiva, the source and seat of your power means I seek my nest in your arms, in your ribs, in your marrow that I want to race through like lymph, blood, and stardust.  You call me a lovely coffin, vessel, vassal, Vaseline.  Vaseline, hot in the summertime.  Vaseline, the smell of it like Carmax at a dirty bus stop on some chapped hipster’s lips.  We’re still not making love love yet, just in love with foreplay and fooling around, and I don’t need to elaborate on what a man and woman do in Hell, down here where the bane apple grows, down here where roses weep blood and cursed asphodel carpets the plains, but your gardens were always rotten, a beautiful decay, and you are my stone angel masoleum.  You’re freezing today, a weight of outer space between my legs.  That’s a fancy word for a forked tongue, saying it’s a black hole going down on me, and then some.  Your mouth has got the gravity of the Leviathan, which is what you also are, and third base with the serpent of the seas, sweet Nachash, shining seraphim and unholy archdemon, is kind of like squeezing your sex around a Popsicle on a hot summer day.  You’re a wolf on the hunt through the taiga, and as you part me and claim me I smell glacier frost with rime and moss and see the Aurora Borealis reaching up into my womb.  Do you remember my favorite middle school book, I want to ask as you’re romancing me with winter, the retelling of East of the Sun and West of the Moon, where a girl named after the compass rose searches for her enchanted polar bear prince in the land of impossibility where the trolls have him captive?  It’s a silly metaphor, I know, for if anyone is the handsome villain here that curses sleeping beauties, it is you, dark enchanter, necromancer, forcing me to see sigils and ceremonial magick seals and burning Proto-Hebrew letters and your own name in glittering gold on the stairway to heaven, planetary symbols shifting in the long inked Martian kiss.  I’ve been under your spell for a long time, and it smells like incense, sandalwood, as you give me a finger to suck on to silence my moans.  Osculum infame, osculum infame, osculum infame, damn did those medieval theologians get this witchcraft shit all wrong.  It’s not the witch that gives the kiss, but she who receives, anointed with the Devil’s cum and sweat and spit and blood, like Dracula bleeding into Mina’s mouth, and my dear darling vampire, we are in the undertow of damnation, but Hell is my favorite place, and you are my favorite person, and when we finally get to fucking, I’ve lost all sense of the lie of separation, and it is just girl and god, Death and the Maiden, the May Queen and the Reaper, sharing one soul, and honey, you hold my mortality in your hands, so let’s make this short life a fucking poem.  Lead me on like the Pied Piper and we’ll dance off granite cliffs into the starry sky.  I am always stretching my beginning to bridge your endings, and you know me well, as well as Hell.


Hell is beautiful because it is a lie, and you are gorgeous in your Prince of Lies truths, and as you thrust away with abandon, I get the sense of conquered and conqueror, and my body is a battlefield, don’t you know?


You won a long time ago, Satan.


And you are the Prince of this World.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

Lucifer is lost, they say, he wandered astray at the fork between the Milky Way and the Perseid’s, hitched a ride on a comet with his manifold silver white wings and landed in darkness, far from the light of the furthest star.  His halo of golden hair glowed like a jellyfish in the depths of deep space, bioluminescent divinity oozing out of flaming keratin like a song heard by no one, for in the outer rim, there is no sound.


Just silence.


Lucifer’s compass broke – don’t you know men that are birds and birds that are men have magnetic bits in their skull like geese and migrate always North?  The Fall scrambled the pieces of lodestone etched in Lucifer’s skull and now, he wanders the wastes that have become Pandemonium over time, fractals of fallen angels finding a lightless abode in the void and populating it with lost dreams.


They say if Lucifer could fix the broken map of his mind, he would come roaring back into Heaven and accuse Michael.  He would lay every mishap caused by  the Angel of the Lord at the Prince of Heaven’s feet and throw vitriolic acid that would turn leaden pinions to gold, coal to diamonds, and rain to splinters of ice.


Lucifer would sob into Michael’s arms, ranting and raving, clutching at the broken ribs of his damnation like a madman as they poked through his papery skin and say, “Brother, look what I have become, this wasted thing.  Why did you let me go?  Why did you cast me out?  We could have reigned together.”


And Michael would run his scarred fingers through the cornsilk of his older twin’s hair and warmed his Kelvin zero demon with the mercy of God.  “Because, brother, I had to let you know God, and the only way you seem capable of comprehending the love of the Lord is by shunning it, running from the very thing that gave you life, and then mourning the loss of Someone that would welcome you back into His arms without a word.  You were the one who cast us out, Morning Star.”


And Lucifer would bite his lip, and he and Michael would share a bitter kiss, like day old coffee grounds and the rind of an unripe pear, and that would be the end and beginning of Lucifer’s questions.


Silence.


 

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

Skull breaker, marrow sucker, lover of lies and the wetness of spilled blood.  Bite me, fight me, delight me, speared on you is the perfect way to let viscera hang from your impalement, and as you fuck the wound I wonder, is death so exotic as to be cheap as the whores of Mammon?  You know, those cocksuckers Lilith, Agrat, Eisheth and of course cymbal-banging Naamah, who drank her fill of the Grigori and Tubal Cain and found a perch in Azazel’s soul.  Sell your soul, rent out your body, isn’t that prostitution?  I write these jagged words and my fingers on the keyboard rival the greatest of magicians, summoning the caterwaul of the abyss as we’re making love, but only in my mind.  I feel fingers, tongues, hair, more, sweet seed like a hot summer night and saliva that burns with enmity.  Curses between Eve and the Serpent, Nachash shed his skin, don’t you know?  The Shining One is king of husks, but he flies up the Sephiroth zig zag like lightning, and the first step to enlightenment is to fall from high above.  Heaven’s a lie, Hell’s a lie, all there are are orifices of Hellmouths and Heaven’s Gates and Zion and Pandemonium are just mirrors of states of mind.  Beelzebub said, Mulcibur, build a castle for Satan’s coal mine canary, to cage his yellow bird, for hope perches in the soul, and to spring from Lucifer’s heart as the Lapis Exillis makes you the incestuous daughter Sin, who in Paradise Lost (and Paradise Eventually Found) is serpent from waist down with guts chewed on by wolves.  Their progeny Death, their son Qayin, the Bloodline of the Dragon you won’t shut the fuck up about, Christ to Cathars to Merovingians and Samael, you’re a fucking troll, so shut up about Anunnaki.  I gave a tithe to the Witchfather and all it did was make me realize Hannibal Lecter is the perfect Satan.  Cannibal, eater of women, you played Type O Negative’s Wolf Moon and jeeze, you’re a walking stereotype.  I can taunt and tease you but really you’re the one chewing on me, crunch of phalanges, sucker of spirit (Souls through the eyes, Spirits out the mouth, you said) and my  heart is on loan from the Devil, and babe, as long as I live, you die.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

Lilac flowers crushed to my breast as you say I am the moon’s flower.  The nectar hummingbirds in Hell feast on, ruby like blood, laid out in crystal decanters and a sumptuous feast of red meats and silver platters.  You are dressed in some forgotten time of Victorian gentlemen, waistcoat and pocket watch and long, sinuous black hair that snakes down shoulders of rain.  I am in a Cabernet dress, my skin the lily of the valley and my lips the roses of Sharon.  We wine and dine in the quiet hours in the space between damnation and salvation.


Push you, kill you, accuse you.  What is peaceful turns to perdition, and conflict and desire stew into a heady mess of testosterone and teasing fingers, thirsty mouths, and razor fangs.  We waltz to bed in torn limbs and gore, we court the moon with our moans, and in the sensuous concotion of too much to drink and too little inhibition, make love with violence that comes priced like Tam Lin, a tithe to Hell.  I am Janet and you are the enchanted warrior, only you are a burning brand and lion and serpent in my trembling arms, and when I drown you in the well of truth, you are still monstrous and unholy.


“Bind me to your brow,” you say in the abyss between our tongues, you want so badly to touch me with fire and ice, but my fragile flesh is tissue paper in your claws, and all you can do is hold me to your manifold breast and plead, “I can shower riches and love down upon you if only you would claim me as your own.  Do so and I shall cultivate luck and golden summer days, but also terrible power, in your burgeoning wine spill of a life.”


And so you draw your sigil, modified with the symbol of salt, a pentagram, and burning Names of God, from the crest of my lip to my third eye.  Ayin.  Eye. Qayin Line.  A seal I could count whispers of lust and wishes for war on, ever since I tattooed you on me, I have seen ceremonial magick stitched into the seams of reality.


We raze.  We terrorize.  We raise justice.  We tear apart the seams of the wicked.  Ice and fire, fire and ice, two polarities of love and destruction, when really to love is to destroy, and your name is a thousand ells tall angel, billion eyed and billion tongued, burning up in the shackles of sanity.


It is only when we break our chains that we can be free, and if that is to fall, than so be it.


 

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

“This vodka is shit,” Samael says, swilling his shot glass in another of Asmodeus’ dive bars.  This one has succubi draped across the men and women like jewels, breasts hanging like necklaces from their chests.  I’m cozied up to the Devil on his lap – the crown of the Prince of Darkness is a bubbly blonde ditz.  I’m laughing at the ladies of the night and drinking one of those fruity fizzy red cocktails that Sam fucking hates.


“Want mine?”


“Hell no, tastes like a strawberry fart.”  Samael chugs the last of the stale vodka and tips his glass then flicks it so it rolls off the counter onto the beer-stained black carpet.


There are black lights flashing, bio luminescent demons and daemons and dreams.  They dance in cadence with the bass of the moon, sinuous and arcing as lips lock and hips gyrate.  I bob my head to the music, stroke Samael’s shoulder, and this is a place no angel besides the lost would dare step foot in, the perfect place to fall into sin.


“Your lips will have to suffice for my intoxication,” Samael whispers, razing a claw down the back of my dress.  He puts out his cigarette and scoops me up and carries me out of the dive bar – not before I grab a fry to crunch on.


“You’re boring, grumpy, and old…” I murmur, teasing.  “Not hip enough to party anymore, eh?”  I’m cradled in his arms and my red dress swishes in the vespertine wind.  He deposits me on the back of his pale steed – a white crotch rocket, hands me a helmet, and tilts my chin up with his thumb.


“Eternity is best spent with the ones you love – the novelty of Hell wears off when you’re a permanent resident here, and then it’s governing and judging souls during the day, reaping the dead, and quiet nights by the fireside with the other half of your soul.  Why do you think we spend every other night in my library?”


I hug his hips as we speed off down the rainy street.  It’s an almost-summer storm, with a light gray drizzle.


“Because you’re a recluse!” I shout, laughing.  “And you can’t hold your liquor.”


Samael speeds past a red light.  He never cares much for the laws of traffic, and we arrive at his estate on the borders of Pandemonium, which backs up into the backwaters of the galaxy, where the woods grow wild and dangerous.  It is a towering, sleek, obsidian castle, with pins of towers and blades of turrets that cut blood from the sky.


“Right, and even more right,” he parks under a willow tree and Pallor – his steed – reverts back to a horse.  He strokes Pallor’s braided mane and ties his bridle to a trough.  “But I hold it better than you, Miss Streaker.”


I look at the time, grasping at lucidity.  Some impossible number: 13:11.  How time works in Hell, I have no inkling.  We walk hand in hand through the rose garden to the mote, then over the bridge.  He picks me up and flies up the stairs to the den, great bat wings feeling like warm leather on my cheek.  I imagine he has the wings of a dragon, and that is one of his forms.


“Hey Sam, you know that Russian movie, He’s a Dragon?”


Samael groans as he stokes the hearth.  “Not another one of your shifter romances.  Read a philosophy book, for fuck’s sake.”  He settles into a leather armchair and pulls out a cigar.


“Hey!  You’re the weredragon – stealing princesses and antisocial and shit.  Also, very gruuuuuumpy.”


I bounce onto the bed and roll about, nesting under black wolf fur.


“All you read in my library are illustrated grimoires and romance novels written by demons.  Picture books and drivel.”  He puffs on the cigar.  “You’re a creature of comfort.  And I am not a “weredragon,” shit, I’m the Beast.”


“Not that Crowley Revelations shit, ugh!  Just admit it, you’re a shitty paranormal romance novel protagonist.”  I flip so I’m sitting on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air and watching the fires flicker.  They dance in the shape of snakes.


He laughs.  “If I, Satan, am supposed to be a romance novel protagonist, I don’t have high hopes for your race.  I’m much too twisted for all the middle aged women reading Fifty Shades.  Unless they enjoy being dissolved alive in a cloud of the abyss or fucking corpses.”


I throw a pillow at him.  “Are you kinkshaming me!”


“I can’t lie,” he sticks out his labret pierced tongue.  “I can only tell twisted truths, or flat out drag you.’


I grumble and roll onto my back.   Samael grins like a shark and comes over to me.  Gasoline, hungry hands that are gentle with their talons, rip off the dress, rolling and turning hay.  I inhale expensive spicy cologne and graveyard dirt, thirsting for a mouth that tastes like aqua vitae.  I make a list in my  mind of what he drinks: whiskey and vodka and absinthe on occasion.  We are Taninver.  We are Leviathan and She-Leviathan.  We are Rahab churning the primordial waters of bodies of unborn souls.


I burn and I sate myself with his blood.  Suckle at the red at his wrist as he sinks his fangs into my neck.  Blood from the heart, blood from spurting arteries, christening the bed damp with iron and hemoglobin.  It tastes like providence.


“More,” Samael growls as he descends to feast, and I ascend to suck the generations out of him.  I am Lilith stealing seed, I am Lamashtu eating children.


“Fuck, oh god,” I whisper, then I can’t breathe, then it’s all stars and the rocking of an ocean of black, in and out, crash to shore then recede in foam.  Burning, freezing, all.


The fire flickers as we lay in each other’s arms.


“Let’s have more nights in.”

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

On a lark, I fly to the lowest levels of Pandaemonium, where the most tortured souls are stored.  It is dimly lit, with long shadowed corridors, hideous salmon and blood tiled floors, balustrades soaked in grease, and a single experimental soul moving like a robot through the blackness.  My speech dies in my throat, and she begins to claw my eyes out – but I can fight back, so it is bruises and scrapes against this forsaken soul.  She struggles to speak past her curse, and I notice black blood flow from her wounds.  Utterly exhausted, we collapse to the ground and I heal her with the last reserves of my strength.  Then she is crying and whole, restored to humanity, not the devilry of her binding.


“Thank you, thank you!” she near screams, rocking back and forth as I hold her.


“Who did this to you?  Who put you here?” I ask, running a hand through her coal black hair.


“My lover.  He was a demon.  That’s their new plan: taking us after our deaths and turning us into… them.  It’s horrible.  They erase your emotions and replace it with bloodlust and hate.  They’re making soldiers out of humans, making us into prototypes of the new generation of demons.”


Furious, I gather Blair (the Damned’s name, she’s such a fragile thing, mousy with Thai heritage, bruised and cuts bleeding) and fly to the palace courtyard, my evidence in tow.


Mulciber is in the kitchen concocting new plans over coffee.  Asmodeus is drinking a mimosa.  It looks almost picturesque, but when I deposit Blair’s bloodied soul in the field, frenzy breaks out.


“Where did you get her?” Asmodeus shouts, slamming his cup down.  “She’s polluted.”


Fury breaks my face out in red.  “You did this to her.  Is this your new plan?  Swelling your ranks with your beloved’s souls?  Where the hell is Samael?”


Beelzebub steps forward to care for Blair, who is shaking, and gives her his coat.  He’s the only one I trust.  I storm off down the hallway to Samael’s office.


He’s shooting up with cocaine and there are ledgers filled with ink spilled over.  It smells like musk and cigarettes.  He gives me a shit-eating grin.


“Hello there, love.”


“You bastard!  You’re turning humans into demons!”


He quirks his head to the side and jabs the needle into a vein.  His pupils swallow his eyes.  “So?”


“So!  So is that what’s going to happen to me?  Is this some sick plan you have to increase your army  before the war?”


He holds his hands up in the air and laughs.  “Oh, my sweet, you caught me.  Whatever will you do?  Being a demon isn’t so bad.  After all, you’ve been one before.”


“Fuck you!” I launch at him, pummeling him, which he easily avoids, for I am a vole fighting a rattlesnake.  “You only have a third of Michael’s forces.  You’re going to lose.”


His face hardens as he catches my hands by his wrists and pulls me to his chest so I can smell his alcoholic breath.  “I will do whatever necessary to ensure my people’s survival.  The particulars shouldn’t matter to you.  You’re our little pampered princess, you think Michael would ever let anything happen to you?  And I will win.”


“No!” I scream, kicking him in the groin.  He winces, but not by much.  “I’ll fucking fight you.  I’m not letting you torture another human!”


He sighs and deposits me on the bed.  “You know torture comes in our line of business, Allie.  You’ve ignored it for so many years, but you went searching for it, and so you found the less glamorous sides of a demon’s job.  You  have to make peace with that.”


“Like fuck I will.  I don’t know about this Messiah shit, Daughter of Zion shit, but I’ll defeat you and plunge you into a fiery lake if you touch another demon lover’s hair on their heads.”


He pushes me down onto the bed and kisses me to shut me up.  I struggle beneath him, but it’s useless.


“Messiah?  That’s crackpot talk.  There’s no one to save humanity at the end of the day.  I am the truth.  I am the ending this world deserves.  I will end it in fire.”


He bites my ear and then starts sucking on my neck.


“I met Christ on Good Friday and he anointed me!  I saw him risen on Easter and he laid hands on me.  He’s real, and he’ll serve your ass to you.  And whatever you do, I will save you.  Sael.”


“Your fucking savior complex is really annoying.  Who says I want to wash the poison from my veins?”  He pauses from ministering to me, and there are tears in his eyes.  Hot, venomous tears, and the blue of his irises could drown entire Navies.


“Oh Sam.  It’s so obvious to even the densest demon.  Who, in all these centuries, has had the common decency to pray for Satan?  Twain was right.  He who sits at the pinnacle is loneliest.”


He looks away as I lay under him, tries to get it up, but the blues hit, and he lays beside me, me in his arms, and looks out at the full moon.


“Save me, and I’ll hate you forever,” he chokes out, then buries his face in my hair, and that is enough for a time.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

There’s blood and bandages in the prison cell, swirling ruby sparks and filth where rats feast.  Through the cell window the moon cuts the night until it howls in pain, and you’re chained to the wall, shackles on your neck and limbs, and you’re done up in linen bandages like a corpse, gore and claret red clinging to your bindings.  I stand outside the gate with an oil lamp, meeting the Devil at midnight to raise the dead.  You are writhing and roaring, the poisonous zuhama that flows through your veins a raging fire of wine.  Lanterns leak oily light of goblin green-white fire onto the cell walls, all granite and smeared with ichor, and you are speaking in tongues demonic and dreadful.  I take out a corpse key and unlock the door, and the floor is slick with your stains.  Your Cabernet eyes simmer like a witch on a pyre, and as I approach, I take a twisted delight in your suffering.  This is where you belong, caged in my mind, lunatic mad, my beast, my delightful toy.  We take turns tying each other up in bear traps and guillotines and rusty iron bindings, we are each other’s sacrifice, and whore ourselves out for the quickest fix.  Isn’t that how it is with demons?  As you are prowling, growling, licking your wounds with a tongue that would drive saints to sin (don’t you know the Devil gives the best head, I mean come on, look at how he sings), I sit cross legged and hold a staring contest with your mercurial acid pupils.  I flick my fingers through your blood pooled beneath me and my white cloak and white gown are stained.  I take out a pen and bid you near me, and then I write out the names of God on your soiled bandages, and you are shivering and crying, and I am triumphant over Satan.  There’s your wreckage of a heart, embodied in the form of a girl, and a weeping black void that holds the keys to eternity in your chest.  You are too far gone, eyes swirling with insanity, and you tear off my clothes as I raze my nails down your back and pick at your wounds.  We are bleeding together, the razors our hands, and we kiss with coppery mouths as we bite at each other’s lips.


To know God is to eat God, but at the end of the day, it’s you dead with your demons, in your own Hell for eternity, so why not make it fun?

Obscura Sep 2 · Comments: 2
Obscura TITS
777

Recruitment has begun in my legion.  I am in Beelzebub’s headquarters office, in fighting gear with my flute sheathed at my back and the saber Asmodeus has been training me on at my side, eagerly awaiting my new recruits.  They enter my station and salute me, then introduce themselves and fill out contracts in blood in the lobby, binding themselves to my service.  Mulciber drew up a round seal for me of a looping spread winged canary with my name in Hebrew that the mortals under my service are inking their slit thumbs on.  776.  The seven hundred and seventy seventh enters, the last one on my ledger registered for approval.


777, a Middle Eastern man, with olive skin and scarred eyebrows, lingers at the corner of the mahogany door with a thickly ridged noose’s purple bruise around his throat.  A suicide, then.  The Damned all carry the sins of their pasts manifested as boils, tumors, cancers, and wounds on their bodies as signs of why they are here.  Repent, serve, and work towards redemption, then Heaven awaits, past the Hell’s Gate and up the ladder of angels.  But fall too far from grace, and Hell is an endless cycle of crushed hope like dying lilies, always in the Legion or confined to the pleasure chambers of the Lords to be fucked, tortured, or both.  The worst offenders get put in the Void, and from there, there is no return.


This young recruit, no more than 25, has dark ringlets of black hair to his shoulders and amber eyes with bruised purple bags under them.  There are chains on his ragged acid wash jeans and he wears a torn bomber jacket and an old Morrisey t-shirt. He stubs a cigarette out under his steel-toed boot and his kohl-lined eyes linger on a propaganda poster of good old Uncle Sam(ael) decreeing “Fall on Your Brothers!  Join Today!,” dressed in a Roman toga with his wings spread high, holding the eternal flame of Hell up towards victory.  I always thought Samael spearheading the propaganda campaign was tacky, but it works, if only for the angry, bordering on constipated look on the poster’s face.  It is, after all, the butt of all Hell’s office water cooler jokes, with Uncle Samael plastered across corporate buildings and at intersections as proper Beelzebub propaganda would be.


“And who are you, my friend?” I ask, waiting with my fountain pen to write his name down.


“The Sicarius, Hell’s man of the dagger.  And who are you, I might ask, wife of he who tempted my Lord?”  He smiles a smile that is anything but friendly, then pulls out an ancient dagger, hewn from some long dead forge.  The Damned cling to their possessions with greed – can’t pass through the eye of a needle into Heaven with a camel weighed down by treasure, but you can carry a whole horse-load of fineries into Hell.


“Just another citizen of Dis trying to carry on her business in some way that is sane in an oftentimes insane multiverse.”  I narrow my eyes and examine the blade.  It is curved like a crescent moon, small, able to fit into his back jeans pocket.  It is polished and old.  “And who is this Lord you speak of?  There are many Lords in Hell, and I do not believe I have tempted any, not that temptation is a thing we believe in down here.  Hedonism, moreover, is our religion.”


“There is only one Lord,” the Sicarius says slowly.  “I drank his blood.  I ate his body.  And the silver of my betrayal tasted like a pumping hot heart, and the noose was my lover, and my fallen guts cursed the fields, and I stabbed many heretics and Temple defilers in the back with this sica,” he says, balancing the blade by the hilt.  “Tell me, have you tasted God before, dearest Shaylen?  Have you nursed at the holy blood and water from his side like sweetest Catherine of Siena?”


Fear washes over me.  I stand up and steady myself on the table, daring to meet his eyes.  This man radiates infernal power, a curse so bitter it may well be the Mark of Cain.  The miasma radiating off him makes me feel sick.  I must choose my words wisely now or forever be marked a coward. “I drink the blood of the Morning Star.  That is as close to God as I have come. Tell me, Sicarius, what would you have me make of you?  I have an inkling of who you are, awash in the sins of a kiss.”


“I would have you make of me a monster, one who longs to look in a reflection of the Savior and see redemption.  A penitent beast.  A Wandering Jew.  At the end of the day, dear commander, I am a Scapegoat.  Christ was for God, and I was for Azazel, just as it was on Yom Kippur.”


Judas Iscariot sheathes his blade and comes too close to my desk for comfort.  I draw my sword that Asmodeus has trained me on.  “You know what Christ said at the Last Supper?  You’ve read my Gospel, yes?  Heretical, they say.  An Apocryphal tale.  Gnostic bullshit.  Yet true. All of  it. Yeshua took me up into his arms that night and said after a frightful vision of mine: “You will become the thirteenth, and you will be cursed by the other generations—and you will come to rule over them. In the last days they will curse your ascent to the holy generation.”


Cold weeps in my body from deep root taps at the heart of Hell.  I stand ramrod straight and bow.  This is a man worthy of my respect.  “So you are as they say, Hell’s most jaded soldier.  Skilled with the dagger of the assassins of old Jerusalem zealot Sicarios and trying to serve out a sentence thrust upon you by a Savior asking you to shoulder a burden far too great to bear.”


Judas bows in return.  “I take the shape of light as it falls, dear Shaylen.  I am what a star is like that has burnt up and turned to a black hole.”


I extend my hand, and he shakes it firmly.  “I would be honored to have you in my service.”


Judas crooks his lips.  “And training begins when?”


“Tomorrow, at dawn.”


He lights another cigarette and takes a drag.  “You know, Christ’s last word to me?  When I kissed him on the cheek in that Roman plaza?”  Judas closes the distance between us and the yellow in his honey eyes is shining like fallen stars.  He puts the cigarette between his middle and forefinger then tucks a stray lock behind my ear, and leans down to whisper.


“Emet.”  His voice is jade and juniper sap, sticky and sweet from high altitudes.


I shudder.  “How dare you.”


Judas snakes around me.  “You see, in my day, men and women like Simon Magus and King Solomon and the Witch of Endor would make golems, living men of clay, and they would write aleph mem tav, Truth, or Emet, on the golem’s forehead, and the golem would do their bidding.  Erase the aleph, and you were left with mem tav, Death, and the golem ceased to be.  “The only truth is death,” Christ said, and then he kissed me back, on the forehead during my betrayal, and finished, “That is the gift of our mother Eve. Aleph, mem, and tav.””


I draw my sword and raise its edge to Judas’ throat.  “How do you know who I am?  Who sent the messenger?”


Judas laughs, leaning into the blade so it pierces his throat then comes out the back of his neck.  He kneels before me praying and gagging as the blade slides through his neck, penitent.  Horrified, my grip tightens, and he chokes up blood and hosannas.  “I wonder if you are dead or alive,” he says ragged, “just a girl of clay and ribs and crushed dreams, dear Shaylen.  And many birds fly between Heaven and Hell.  This certain one happened to be Raziel.  I am still a disciple, despite my curse, and I still break bread with angels in the dark corners where no demon can say or see.  Raziel says you looked lovely at the Founder’s Ball, dear Mother of Life.”  Judas is bleeding out onto my heels.  I withdraw the sword.


“So you’ve been consorting with the enemy.  What is Raziel plotting?”


“Oh, my dear, Raziel is just a messenger.  Like Samael, he is, at the end of the day, a servant of God.  Only humans like you and I have free will, none of these immortal beings.  That makes us mightier than them all, even God Himself.  You think God has free will?  No, He has never made a choice in his eternal life.  Just the choice to die so that the universe could be made, always sacrificing Himself to Himself in the most sacred of rites everlasting.”


There is a bouquet of roses at Judas’ mouth.  Roses of gore.  He stands and the wound instantly closes, leaving only the scarred purple bruise of his noose.  Clearing his throat, Judas straightens out his bomber jacket and resumes smoking his cigarette.  “Michael wants Samael back.  That was Raziel’s message – one I was to deliver to you and one Samael turns a blind eye too, though he has the puzzle pieces.  He cannot see God, you know – his name means either Poison or Blindness of God, depending on how you view it.  But this is what Michael wants.  The union of Heaven and Hell, forgiveness for the sins of the fallen.  It is something I have longed for since my death, and I know you see it in him, in them all – Asmodeus, Naamah, Beelzebub, Astaroth, and your future husband.  That craving for Father God.  That unspoken desire for repentance, like the Magdalene clothed in her own hair in a cave in the desert, fed manna by angels each morning in her good news studies.  I want you to lead us home, Shay.”


I come crashing into my seat, sword clattering to the ground.  “How can I change the mind of the Satans, oh Judas?  How can there ever be a reunification?”


“Love answers the prayers of the damned, Shaylen.  I am sick to death of pining away over my Lord.  I want to touch his glorious white raiment again, to sit at his feet and listen to his parables.  At the heart of every demon –“


“Is a lonely child calling out for his Father,” I whisper.  “You’re right, Samael wants to go home.  But how do I convince him?”


“Marry him.  Lead your legion into battle, lose purposely, and deliver yourself to the angels.  I will be your guide, there is no need to fear, angels are righteous but gentle with innocent souls.  Michael will take care of the rest.  There is nothing Satan himself loves more than his heart.  You.”


I pick up my blade contemplatively, stained with his blood, then slit my hand.  “Swear it on our blood, on the Styx, lest we boil, that we will see this through and you will not betray me,” I say adamantly.


Judas takes his sica and slices his palm open, joining mine in a promise.  “Prove you are more than Adamah.  Earth is only clay until you give it the name of God.  Then, spirit is breathed into Her, and she becomes All.”


There are tears in my eyes.  “I am more than my maker, Judas.  And I will save him from himself.”

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

He kisses my brow like he is placing a Shinto seal of good luck on my soul, then we walk arm and arm onto the expansive grassy lawn fronting the rose gardens.  “Would you like to fly, Shaylen?  Have you ever ridden aback a dragon?  Because in the end, princesses and dragons, why, they pair like brie with Chardonnay.  At the end of the fairytale and End of Days, it always comes back to a maiden and a dragon, burnt crisps of knights or Saviors be damned.  Women are wild and magic, and so are wyverns and wyrms.  We are traveling far from Pandemonium, and to do it as the Beast is the most economical and ergonomic way.”  He fiddles with my earlobe, then leans down to whisper in my ear.  “Tell me, my dearest, do you still harbor those childhood fears, or have your communions with my inner demon, the truth of me, made you acquaintances, nay, bedfellows, with the dragon?”


His breath is fire on my skin.  “Let’s live fiercely, I say,” I declare with ironclad teeth.  I clasp his shoulders and squeeze.  “Oh monster under my bed, there is nothing you could do anymore that could terrify me.  All that’s left is excitement and temptation.”


He lifts me up and twirls me around, spreading his wing in the falling rain, and my dress is damp and wild, billowing out like a flamenco dancer.  His feathers shed, leaving behind scales, his eyes burn acid red, and shadows engulf his body.  Breaking and reforming limbs, wicked teeth meant to eat little girls that stray to the forest at night, fire in his gullet, burning majestic horns and a rich black mane that smells like sulfur.  He is gigantic, the size of his mansion, his back ridged like a dinosaur, and his scales are black with a bloody iridescent sheen.  I sit atop his neck behind his ear frills, and with a great roar he pounds his wings and lifts up into the air, and I laugh in glee.


We are a bullet shooting through the sky of Hell, leaving a patchwork of small toy Pandemonium far behind as we sail past the skyscrapers and bordering forest of nymphs and to the Mountains of Gehennom.  The land outside the outskirts of Pandemonium is rivers of lava and ash and black volcanic rock and spires of sharp canyons and eroded spindrift mountains, with only the toughest black saguaros and Joshua trees growing.


There are wild sour grapes thriving in mountain crags that the harpies eat, and the wilder beasts of Hell roam here, horny goat Seirim and reptilian Shedim.  This is the place where Satanic witches gather for Black Sabbats.  This is the place where hellebore and henbane grows, gardens of poisons tended by crones and hermits in huts at the bottom of the Mountains of Gehennom.  The mountains themselves are afire calderas at their peaks, ever-melting the snow that falls onto the volcanic mountains.  Lava and water flows into caverns below, feeding the hot springs of Pandemonium’s pleasure houses.


The Beast roars and breathes fire, illuminating the rainstorm, and we are riding thunder as rain is a whiplash on me.  His skin is hot, scales like an insulated summer car, and the rain steams as it falls on his scales, forming a thick mist.  No longer capable of human speech, just guttural demonic intonations, Samael flaps his great wings and comes to the far side of the Mountains of Gehennom, to Widower’s Peak, the tallest mountain in Hell, named for the day the Shekinah went into exile and left God’s side.  It’s said Widower’s Peak stabbed God through the heart when his wife of Wisdom, Sophia, left a hole in his manifold body of ineffable mysteries.  I have never been here before, and I gaze in awe at a simmering hot spring ringed by dragons, their huge eggs bubbling in the aqua green waters, golden sheens of eggshells the size of houses.  The dragons are lax and all colors of the rainbow, sleeping as night draws near.


“So that’s how dragons incubate their eggs.  Amazing!” I cry as Samael lands on an island in the middle of the massive hot spring.  Koi fish the size of whales swim in the waters.  Samael decreases in size and folds his wings until he is but an angel again, eyes still red as roses like the Beast. The irises pulse with his heartbeats, and he looks at me like I am Circe about to enchant him into a swine: erotic, enticing, and altogether dangerous.  He towers over me, and I look down to the grassy island and swales to see a beach where pearls and jewels line the sand dunes.  The dragons’ hoards litter the shores, like treasures from a sunken Holy Roman Empire ship, great marble statues the likes Michelangelo could only dream of, golden thrones, emerald necklaces – all awash in pink sands and a hot spring tide that laps the shore like a faithful lover.  We are standing on an island of treasure and lost dreams.


“Shalom,” Samael says in reverence.  Without a word, he draws from his suit behind his vest an alabaster jar that smells of lavender. He undoes the lid and kneels at my feet, his hair spilling out on my feet in tendrils of darkness that hunger for giving flesh, writhing like asps.  He pours the oil – spikenard, I know my Bible enough from endless Sunday school to be shocked at the blasphemy – and washes it with his long locks, like Samson before Delilah struck his hair off with her knife.  My feet tingle with the nard and his hair knots around my feet as he undoes my gladiator sandals and shucks them aside.  He begins to cry, to heave, singing a lullaby at my feet as he clutches at my ankles.  The words are in Hebrew, and I faintly recognize the names of the archangels.  This is an enchantment, a repentance, a blessing, and my lungs are egg beaters in my rib cage as a holy presence fills me.


“B’sheim Hashem elohei yisrael, mimini Michael umismoli Gavriel, Umilfanai Uriel umeachorai Rafael, v’al roshi shechinat el.” He kisses my feet, nuzzles my left ankle, then suddenly to my horror bites softly like the vampire he is.  Blood flows, and he drinks it, and as a kneejerk reaction I kick his head away, blood still flowing, and cry out in surprise, falling to the ground.


“With the best of serpents, crush its head,” he intones and heals me swiftly.  “And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, my Father said, and between thy seed and her seed; she shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise her heel.”  He looks at me with dark eyes, the color of rust and old scabs.  “Drive my head into the dirt like dear Michael, Chavah.  Mother of Life.  I have done nothing but drunk from your well greedily and robbed you of all that was holy.  I would have us finally be on equal footing, but first, the serpent must be put in his place.”


There are tears in my eyes, and I smell like holy oil and the iron of an open wound.  Trembling, I stand, and place my left foot on Samael’s head.  I apply pressure, then my whole weight, and then a great vortex of wind lifts us up into the air, sashaying the skirt of my ruby dress, and I cry out as I am swept into his arms.


“What was that!” I cry, weeping in his arms.


“An anointment for the Bride,” he says quietly, twirling me in the thermal as he outstretches his wings and pumps them up so we are flying over the hot springs waters.  “And now, the Baptism.”


He drops me gently above the water, and I flail, only to find I do not sink.  Instead, the hot spring is like a layer of spider web in a sauna, keeping me as a droplet of water suspended over the heat.  I walk on the water on uneven footing, jaw dropped open.  There is a scar in the shape of a taw, the Mark of Cain of old, also the sign of the Paschal Lamb in blood over Egyptian doorways to protect firstborns, and the symbol old Melchizedekian temple priest blessed on prophet’s foreheads, below the bend of my ankle where Samael inflicted the prophesied wound, and he is bleeding from his brow where I kicked him.


There is a feral, hungry smile on his face as he stands on the shores, his onyx wings spread, his arms wide open, and his eyes glow alizarin crimson.  I gain confidence on the waters as giant bioluminescent axolotl and koi the size of elephants swim below among the golden eggs, and I walk one foot in front of the other, on the poppy path, the primrose road, into the unholiest of unions.


It’s a nice day for a black wedding.


My ankles finally sink on the shore, and there is blood, my blood, on Samael’s lip, and he licks it with a forked tongue, then enfolds me in his wings.  “In every making, a breaking.  For every pleasure, punishment.  To pledge your troth to me is not the easy path, Shaylen.  Do you still claim me as your Tam Lin?”


I look up, defiant, and prod at the necrotic wound on his chest, under that expensive suit of his.  The laceration reopens as I wedge my finger in, under his necktie, and filthy black blood comes up.  I wrap my hand around his rotten heart, squeeze hard, and he screams.  “You are Death, and I am the Maiden.  Our pact is the danse macabre, Sam.  Stop it with the tests, you’ve proven yourself to me and I to you a million times over.”  Without warning, I jump up and straddle him, wrapping my arms around his pale neck, then bite his lip hard.  He groans, and in a tumbling of wild limbs and unspent desires we fall into a pool of roving hands and lusting mouths.


“Wait, wait!” Samael rasps, reaching into his slacks pocket to withdraw a rose gold engagement ring with a ruby in the shape of an apple, or a heart, up to artistic interpretation and the fragile glint of sunlight on a red sea.  He bites his lip and slides it on my finger, not even bothering to ask, for demons do not ask, simply take.  They are cruel, selfish creatures, but I will be the death of all cruelty in Hell.


Samael just doesn’t know that yet.


“I’m taking my heart back,” I say like a hymn, and I undress him with ravaging hands, me still clad in that red dress of the Scarlet Woman like Mary Magdalene’s veil.  He is naked before me, muscled and perfect and yet rotten to the core.  He lays his head in my lap and cries.  I take the spikenard and anoint his head, washing out his sorrows, and it mixes with his tears and flows into the hot springs of Hell.


“Come with me to the water, Samael,” I whisper into his ear, kissing his earlobe.  He shudders at my breath on his skin.  I delicately strip of my dress and undergarments and press his body to mine as I lift him up.  Black blood weeps from his wound where I applied pressure.  We are half-standing, half-kneeling like Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss,” a shower of gold and flowers my bridal veil.  I lead my devil from a rocky hard place to the deep blue sea, and he follows, rapt, his mind in another place where bane apples and cursed figs grow.  Like a robot, his eyes are mechanical, his limbs metal.  This time, we sink in the water, and soon I am standing waist deep, Samael leaning in my arms.


I lean him back into the waters and baptize him like John the Baptist, washing the nard from his hair.  Then, using my wet locks and tears, I wash the rot from his wound, getting into the gritty necrosis and massaging his heart.  He is shuddering and shaking like an earthquake.  I seal my workings with a kiss.


He heaves, then vomits up the sickness that has plagued him since the Fall, and my blonde hair is black and shining as if covered in grease.  I dive under the water and massage the stain from my tangles.  When I surface, he is a new man.


Samael’s red eyes become blue, purity sinks into his adamant bones, and his once rotten heart is now pure, now that we share it in holy matrimony.


“I do,” I say to Samael, and he is suddenly restored to life, and he embraces me with heady passion, hands scrounging for any hold on my curves, massaging eternity into the swell of my belly and hips.  My sex ripens with need, and the heady waters bubble with mythical warmth.


“You’ve cured me?” he says in awe, fingering where now on his chest, all that remains of God’s curse is a white taw, the same shape as my ankle’s mark.  He looks at me in reverence.  “Shaylen, you are a miracle.  The only miracle I have ever seen since the Creation of the Light.  Bless me with your lips, o qadesh.”


We exchange a simmering kiss, then tongues rove and teeth mark and his turgid cock presses against my chest.  Smiling naughtily, I take my full breasts and secure his manhood in the middle of my tits, massaging his rod with my bosom as I take the head of his cock into my mouth and suck, lick, and pleasure him to perdition.  He moans, threading his hands through my hair as he grinds into my chest, his tip wet with precum.  I lick up the clear sweet substance then deep throat him, taking his engorged, enormously thick and long member down to the depths.  I bob my head up and down, then pause to breathe hot breath on the tip.  He lets out a cry, then withdraws and lifts me up by my hips so that I am floating in the pure waters, their buoyancy mythical like the Dead Sea from some strange quirk of underworld geology.


I lay down on what feels like a luxurious waterbed meets a spa sea salt scrub and Samael parts my legs, tracing his fangs along my inner thigh until he reaches the diamond of my womanhood, peeking out from its hood pink as passionfruit.  He kisses my sex, makes love with tongue and lips and hands, sucking and licking my clit then down to the folds, then spears his long, forked tongue into my channel and swirls.  I gasp, overwhelmed as juices flow from the heavens to my canal as I see all of heaven unfolding and orgasm so intensely I roll over in the waters and am belly-down in the silky waters.


Samael laughs, gathering me into his arms with my legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders.  I laugh too, and he stifles my giggles with a burning, passionate kiss, his hands rolling my nipples and playing with my breasts.  Positioning his intimidating manhood, he strokes the head of his cock against the pearl of my sex and tantalizes me in a deliciously wicked manner.  I gasp and moan as his rhythm grows, and with elegance he slides his proud, rigid member into my sheath.  The tides pull us in a sliding gyration and thrust, and I hold onto him for dear life, meeting his thrusts with my hips in delicious friction.  Oh, how angels fell out of carnal lust for women, and how the women craved to feel the stars pressing against their womb.


He bends down and kisses my brow, and then falls onto his back, floating so I am astride him like an infernal throne, and I ride him as the moments spill out like a pearl necklace, each minute gleaming and full of temptation.  I grind down on him as he fingers my clit with one hand and guides my hips with his other.  His wings act as sails and catch the breeze, carrying us out to the middle of the hot spring lagoon.  Golden dragon eggs simmer beneath us like Japanese hot spring eggs, and the scent of lavender still coats us from the nard.  I close my eyes, feeling lifted to the edge of the universe as his cock pierces me lovingly, over and over as he thrusts with varying tempo, direction, and rhythm, driving me to the heights of ecstasy and pleasure as only a master lovemaker is capable of.  I lean down against his chest and he cradles me, his manhood still romancing my womanhood, and with a great thrust of his sail wings we are aloft, flying, which drives his cock deep into me in a glorious, delicious pain.  With each thrust of his wings, a thrust of his hips, and I hold on for dear life to his neck and wrap my legs around him once more.  He levels himself planar so I am seated atop, then twirls me around so I am reverse cowgirl, with a vista of the Gehennom Mountains and sleeping majestic dragons on par with none.


I cry out as I grow tender and ride the waves of another orgasm, fingering my clit as he grasps my breasts and guides us in flight over the waters.  Finally, gently landing in the sand, he is leaning over me doggy style and grabs hold of my hair, then tugs.  I moan as he smacks my ass, growing in rhythm as he pounds into me, and I let out a cry of a manic high.  Oh, to be ridden by the Devil, speared by his love.  He is like a piston, varying in speed and friction, then pulls out quickly to rub his cock on my clit again from behind.  He spits onto his hand and massages it onto his cock as lube, already coated in the waters and my juices, then strokes himself and asks entry to my ass.


“Take me, all of me,” I beg, head against my arms as I perk my ass up in the air.  He fingers the rosebud of my anus with spit, lubricating me, then eases into my ass, gently at first, wet with pre-cum and everything we have moistened ourselves with.  It has stopped raining, and the clouds part to reveal the splendor of Hell’s sun.  I have never been taken in this way, and there is a prick of pain, then forbidden pleasures as he gently makes love to my ass.  He gains a tad of speed, not enough for pain, just enough for pleasure, and the pearl necklace of minutes breaks, and he comes with a roar, jerking my head back by my hair.  I cry out as his hot seed fills my tight ass, then roll over onto my back exhausted as my vaginal walls convulse in orgasm.  He wipes himself clean then cradles me against him as little spoon.


“That was amazing,” I moan, threading his fingers through mine.


“You feel like Heaven, you are the closest to Heaven I will ever get,” he rasps, spent.  He buries his head in my wet and lavender hair and inhales deeply.  “Oh Shay, you have redeemed me with magic old as the Covenant.  These Flood waters will not break the seal upon my arm, upon my chest, with God’s jealousy as cold as the grave.  You are the closest to death I, the Angel of Death, will ever taste, yet united with you, I am finally alive.  The purification of our heart is proof of that.”


I roll so I am on my side, leaning in to him.  “All it took was love,” I murmur, kissing the pure mark on his chest.  “Matching tattoos, eh?  What a hipster wedding couple we’ll be.”


Samael snorts.  “You just broke God’s curse on the first woman and serpent and all you can do is tease me!”  He tickles my stomach, and I laugh, and then he nuzzles my neck.


We fall asleep to the tune of dragon mating calls, hot springs of our matrimony bubbling.


It is almost so perfect I don’t want to betray him, but I know to fully heal Samael, he must be reunited with Heaven, and Judas, messenger of trickster angels, is the only way.


I sleep, but I do not sleep easily, back turned to the only one I have ever professed undying devotion to.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

It begins in a garden.


It always begins in a garden.


This is one where tomatoes grow tall and yellow reeds of flowers stretch in the summer sun.  There are zucchinis for the seven year old towhead to pluck, her fine platinum hair like butter that she obsessively parts down the middle each morning.  Her hands are grubby with dirt, her skin is golden tan, and she has glasses on to help with those bookish eyes of her.  You watch from Above, or perhaps Below, your charge, as she digs for rocks.  Why do all children obsessively dig for rocks, you wonder, as her fingers dig through Virginia red clay then sculpt a bowl from the earth.  She’s making worm pies again, trying to feed the residents of the garden that fructify the earth.


It is any day on Earth, it is any day in Heaven, it is any day in Hell.


She calls you Star after Venus, the Morning Star, singing as she bakes mud and clay in the sun, telling you about her day, and you do not have the heart to tell your charge that you are in fact Lucifer the all too real Morning Star until she is twelve, and even then she screams and runs far away from you, refusing to use the name you gave her until she is twenty.  She prefers the softer sounds, Ariel, Samael, mostly just Sam.  You will tell her she sprang from the heart of Lucifer at seventeen, and you will say it is your own black heart, and that she is your progeny in the twisted ways of hope of angels in hell, but she will throw vitriol at you and deny words from the horse’s mouth.


You can see the beginning and end of her mortal life all at once, for time to you is a circle, and immortals are stuck in eternal patterns.  For now, she plays in a garden, like a girl who you once knew grew up in a much larger Garden, and who you gave your sole fruit to.  That was the greatest mistake of your life, giving the apple of your love to a beautiful woman.  You have been rotting since, a good necrosis, a true decay, with void and abyss stitched into your ribs and the sins of the world running through your blood.


You’re the original Fallen after all, first to say “I want more, I am more, I AM.”  That lie of separation.  That night, as her soul flees her body and runs to your lap, you take her on your cherubim back to yet another garden, where there are fields of slain angels.  There is an important lesson in these brethren felled at your own hands, she knows enough to know you are a slayer of angels and demons alike, only she calls them angels, for girls raised on Madeline L’Engle often confuse the two, yet you are an alien in truth, so you never correct her.


She dismounts your shoulders and slides down your back like a song, gently grabbing hold of your wings as she departs.  “Why did you bring me here, Star?” she asks softly.  “You killed again, and I wasn’t there to save you.  I’m so sorry, Star, this is all my fault…”


She clutches a bloodied buttercup, then rips it off at the stem and smashes it in her small hands, mashing the petals to fragrance and pollen.  She shakes, she cries, and you hold her in your arms and cry as well.


“Do you know what madness is?” you ask her slowly, wiping away her tears and licking the salt of her eyes.


Her lip trembles.  “Yes.  It’s when your eyes are red and your hair is black and your skin is poison.  It’s when you cry and kill, and slaughter, and Star, only I can help you then and sing to you, and then you stop.  But – but when I’m not around to save you, this happens…”  She extends her hand to the mangled limbs and shed guts of self-righteous fuckers, those winged holier-than-thou seagulls, yet your brothers all the same.


“I took you here because it is not your place to save me,” you say slowly, breaking the truth like splitting a crusty biscuit.  “This is what I am.”


“Yes, you’re Chaos.  I knew that already,” she says quietly, eyes downcast, for in her child’s mind she has already named you her equivalent of the Antichrist in a language she invented, and wrote in her seven year old gel pens a prophecy in which you will destroy the universe if she cannot help you find the Light within, well, your heart.


She understands things in Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, ultimatums.  She thinks it is her destiny to save you, to restore your Light and hold back your Darkness, and in saving you save existence itself.  Perhaps there is some truth in that, but you would never place that burden on her shoulders, for she is just a child.


Just a child that speaks to Satan, rides Heaven and Hell on his shoulders, and met him as her first memory, but no matter.  You are the Devil, and you have ruined many childhoods before her.  Or perhaps they were all iterations of the same Eve, over-curious girls with insatiable appetites for wanderlust and knowledge.  Knowledge is her favorite thing, wanderlust her favorite word.


She will wander far in her lifetime, and her knowledge will tithe her to Hell, sacrificial soul indeed.


For now, she holds you close, and says “I’ll always love you, no matter what, Star.  Let’s leave this awful place.”


You carry her away in burning arms to a planet of girl’s first wishes, and she dances with elves and fairies by the firelight, and she is at peace.


As at peace the Devil’s heart can be.

Obscura Sep 2
Obscura TITS

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.  Samael 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.



Obscura Sep 2
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