Bereshit Elohai Nashema

Get down on your knees – let tears fall like providence, sweet stoic Lucifer. 

You who shoulder the pain of the world. 

In our sandstone chapel, blue green sea glass light from above in the stained lead lined windows, you kneel at an altar of deathly lilies. You shake like salvation and holy suffering flows from your cornflower eyes onto gray blue robes of reserve, austerity, and monkshood pride. 

Hands clasped together, you pray to the God you have always denied, yet still seek the milk of manna from in the depths of these soulless pits of Hell.  

Hell, Hell, I know that well. Your wings are gravestones swiftly turning up dirt, and the tides of remorse pull at your barren chest like the children of suffering. 

You, whose legions are dust, whose promise is a cold light, a neutron star, something freezing white at the edge of a black hole, that last breath of light before consumption by radio wave ghosts.

You lift the scourging cat o nine tails and disrobe down to undergarments, your golden idol body like the calf of ill-renown in long ago deserts you once roamed. With a mask of death on your face, you swiftly whip and wound yourself into frenzy, crying out the name YHWH in silence, in a way prayers are often said in the secretest depths of hearts, and your blood is black red. The gashes run like train tracks down your Adonis back, and the curvature of your spine is in stark relief against the gentle arabesque of the whip leather that suddenly bursts into a hawkish dive.

Again, again, again. Pound, pound, pound.

Bleed, bleed, bleed.

Penance, an apology for praying to a dead God, a God

That never existed at all.

For you, Lucifer, are God, and you fell from yourself.

So why beg forgiveness from invisible Phanes, if you have forgotten to speak the language of the birds, forgotten, even, at the depths of Mimir’s well, who you are, William Blake crown of stars rising from the depths?

Covering cherub, emerging as Creator of All Things from the Abyss, churning primordial waters, Androgyne. Kronos unbound is Phanes, Eros Protogonos is what the Morning Star roamed the cosmos as before he settled into an Ark of Covenant with the Tzohar firmly pressed to his breast and took up his role as Israel’s accuser.

Ahriman, Aion, Phanes, Zurvan, Angra Mainyu, Eros, Kronos.




To be the God you hate, to be a Son, to be what happens when the asexual Mother buds apart cell wise into two twin sons, Michael and Satan. You mourn, you cry, you hurt.

Aching in ways bones split under a torturer’s Iron Maiden.

Mourning Star.

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