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Ink from Obscura's blog

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.


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The Wall

AK
Sep 3 '18
We don't talk about these things.
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
Shane MacGowan is the real MVP
Obscura TITS
AK
Sep 3 '18
Shane is a bitch name.
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
I agree!
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
I much prefer Azazel. In fact, that is the name of my child with Samael. I called him Az for Azrael but whoops, he's Azazel! What a great name!
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
Samael is also a bitch name. But he's my bitch! I don't know any other demon that bothers twelve year olds! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODnZv80pzKUSamael is also a bitch name. But he's my bitch! I don't know any other demon that bothers twelve year olds! See more
AK
Sep 3 '18
... and this is why women get beat like carpets every so often.
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
Shut up bitch!
Obscura TITS
Sep 3 '18
OWWWW
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By Obscura
Added Sep 2 '18

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