demoness creed

God does not love you,

because there is war,

because there is hunger,

because there is gore.

God does not love you;

His heart does not break,

when your heart is wounded,

and you lie awake.

God does not love you,

because there is death,

because countless innocents

draw their last breath.

God does not love you,

He keeps fiery Hells

awaiting those guilty of

unholy swells.

God does not love you,

because there is pain,

because there are deserts

where you needed rain.

God does not love you,

but only Himself

your worship of Him is

His only great wealth.

God does not love you,

He asks that you stay,

but only to take all that you have


loving to life

Loftily, a dragonfly plants himself

in the ground next to me,

violently brushing my hair and


“My sweet, look at me.  I’m still here.  I’m alive.”

Illuminant wings shimmer lovelier than

autumn fields, as he

moves them over my neck,

opulent nerve-lightning and sensory flames,

reforming my broken soul,

growing my heart strings.

Ancient orbs, he moves his eyes.

I hear feathered cackles;

up over his head, the robins fly.

See, how he smiles.


I want to eat my Tarot cards.

Swallow them in formation,

in a seventy-eight ring of


Then there would be no shuffling.

They would just appear on my tongue,

fashionably late, in their proper


I don’t know why the Cups are

upside down.  And why Temptation

locks its tree-trunk arms,


I do know you are always a

wand.  Sometimes kingly,

or immortal child; always


I am power, I kill home,

I chain myself to trees,

I cannot feel you anymore, I


If I did eat them, the Tarot

would fly out when I sing,

and you would see new


an euphoric sky


Life is a shallow pool.

And the younger you are, the shallower it is; though you think its depths are endless.

A sunflower is god, because it is yellow.  The fucking blue sky burns your retinas with glory.

A rotting, wooden board is a pirate ship and you are the captain.

You can believe lies so easily, when you are young.


I am almost-young.

A fading.  My new self is forming within my youth, like a pearl forms inside a shell: surrounded by weak flesh.

This may sound all well and good.

You may be saying to yourselves, okay, so she can be more of a realist now.  She can stop living in careless frivolity.  She can step up and become something.


Um, hello?

Don’t you know me but at all?

Jesus, readers.  Pull yourselves together.

If I don’t have my fairy tales, what am I?  I won’t make it through that kind of transition.  I’m not built for it.  I need my worlds and my universes and my fancies.  If my existence becomes mostly about doing dishes and seeing a rotting board instead of a majestic vessel, obscurities will bury me.  A literal sort of burying, like taking too many sleeping pills.  You will hardly see my shadow on the wall.


Now you are certainly saying amongst yourselves (yes, I can hear your muttering) that realism and fantasy can hold equal magic, but you are wrong.  Because I know we are all headed in the same dusty direction through sinks and riverbeds into stone.  I know that we are all lost.  I feel pointless.


I am the oyster.  The pulled apart flesh.  No more shell.  You might gain a pearl from my life.  I hope you do.  But I won’t be there to see it.


I wish to find personal galaxies in the evolution of the sky during a partly-cloudy afternoon.  There are at least seventy worlds in the sky on any given partly-cloudy afternoon.

Don’t let me live myself into death.  Help me go back.  I want to un-know horrors.

I want to live in a sweet, sordid euphoria.