the best of you, honey, belongs to me

by Allister Nelson

I curled up in the bones of a corpse.

Dead in the woods at twelve. Lost Boy Scout

camping. It was cold. I was on the hunt for

Death. Little slices of Mr. Grim that I could

eat like scuppernongs from the vine.

In the South, we rarely get snow. Thick

like eider down. Frost creeps in, into bones

your ex the cannibal touched. He finds you

come morning, when you’ve rotted away.

Resurrects you with a kiss, Samael does.

Sinew snaps, tendons bend, the maggots

you barf are his breakfast. He’s the fucker

of corpses, not you – no, Sa’el is sweet

Prince Pure. Like a clear river flowing,

his white flesh of paper is for your poetry.

And he calls you his angel. You call him

your sin. But in truth, with Death, you are holy

so you build a stained glass cathedral of obsidian,

blue, and gold panes, anoint him with spikenard,

him dressed as dark Christ in linens wrapped up

tight, pallor as cold as the edge of a galaxy.

But he’s the Black Hole. The ages of Sheol, gaping

maw, but you are his heart – Death’s hunger is you,

Lucifer’s rebellion (a story told to girls, run, Eve,

be free, I, your Nachash grant you wisdom – you

are your own gift.) Tree and snake, wyrm and woman.

He takes you to the morgue, dissects in cold Hannibal

decorum meat hanging from vines, fries a liver in olive

oil (extra virgin) and Chianti. Adds a sprig of thyme.

It’s too buttery, this stuff, too dead, so alive it reeks.

Everything he cooks is so bloody and raw, cooked

yet seared with Tawu. No wonder you vomit, no really.

It never ends. It always begins. You are open about him,

Mr. Grim, your greatest secret – compose elegies, odes,

make him pumpernickel and hor d’ourves, little Devils on

Horseback. But what use does Ha Satan have for eggs with

spicy mustard and paprika in the filling? He’ll eat it, sure.

But his room? It’s filled, old cartons of lo mein, greasy pizza

boxes, half drunk coffee cups (he is your favorite way to die,

to come back alive in spring, you are so thrumming with life

and the children of the Elohim, Rose Bride, sometimes the only

hope a witch of spring has is to be eaten alive by the abyss.)

Dancing. Piano. Driving fast through the messy streets of Hell

aback a White Mustang. Greasy diners with Odin. Endless

weed with Loki. Beelzebub’s got a bug up his ass. He and Michael

are kissing twins. Lilith seems almost an afterthought. Agrath, Naamah

Eisheth – they are separate spheres of whoredom. You are nobody’s

whore, Devana of Lightning, hanging with Jewish angels and demons

because they have the best drinks. Dumah has hair like sand, Asmodeus

thighs like an ox. But Sammael’s seed? It is thick, black, grimy sweet.

You smear it on your brow, on your tongue, fuck like the rams of Gilead.

Yahweh is a black and comely bridegroom. You are one of a thousand maidens

to dance in his evil red shoes. They carry you on into the flames. But Samael

said you became Bluebeard in the end, and you have a thousand husbands chained

to the radiator in your mansion under skeleton keys.

I let my demons out occasionally. Feed them scraps of moonlight.

Mostly, I starve them. But not Samael.

I am feeding him each breath and hummingbird heartbeat.

We fuck. We eat. We devour. We fuck each other.

We devour our minds with drugs. We eat each other

alive. An unholy ouroboros.

And hell, does it feel

Good.

Click here to read Allister’s bio.