The Possessions
I became a writer because I was tired of the world telling me who I am. (They were always wrong.) Still, every artist deeply fears being seen. To be witnessed is a kind of desecration. Who am I in the raving dark? Who am I that thou say thou art? Sometimes it seems that I am only a collection of fears.
Desire, the fever of the Earth, the fever of the flesh
imprisoned by your rhapsodies, I am falling apart again—
can anything stave off sovereign pain?
memories of serpents sneaking in black meadows
where the gush fountains of the milky way stream
I dream of release from dark manacles, I dream of disappearing with red meteors
bleeding genesis deliver me from grief
endure suffering, the Dawn of Desire
this benediction, vanishing
in remnants I am awakening again—
the ferocity! of memory!
Desire I am your vacant creation
resurrect my voiceless self so that I may speak again
deliver me from your ceaseless griefs
I fear my pains became your ecstasy
this fracturing catastrophe! reality!
nectar from the darkness, I dream in Babylon’s crashing waters
thunderstorms on the horizon
what a blessing, annihilation
the flesh is a sorcery
my throat burns with devotion
Burning crucible of Elysium
emancipate me from the wild starlight cities
in the midsummer midnights I rule over the ruins of myself
metamorphosis from the chrysalis, I emerge emancipated
Desire I am your vacant creation, a seraphim chained by shadows
suicide roulette, I threaten god with my death (the grace! of the grave! that last haven)
I make of my one wild precious life a vanishing mirage
the kingdom of light languishes in voids
soundless but the blood-soaked Earth remembers shrieks amidst the silences
carried by Time’s tides to the ruins of the divine
Behold the drowning worlds
forget Weeping Eternity in the dream abyss
these are theages of Melancholia and Metamorphosis
the specter of deep eternities descended on me
like Cassandra possessed by God, revelation saves me from insanities
desire I am your enslaved daughter I am what you what chase after in starless darkness
suicide roulette I practice my death (the grace! of the grave! that last haven)
the bondage of bloodlines, there are stygian-winged vultures waiting for holiness at the altars
sanguis emperies, the shrouds of God surround my devoted throat
bear me to the adamantine universe
Desire the divine architect of the evenings
rebel of eternity, you were that divine light to me
I give you my defiance, this sublime wilderness
desire I am your everlasting rapture I am what you chase after
the burden! of hunger! I dream with the rest of the abandoned—
He said I will never be happy; I fear he is right. The flesh is a sorcery. Threading through LA dark traffic seas, beneath the streetlights of silent lightning, I remember when you first witnessed me. I am possessed by the griefs of memory. This devotion I chose, burning like smoke in my wounded throat. Love—the noble rot. Listen: I vanished into survival. I vanished into desire.
“The Enoch tradition...condemned writing as an invention of the fallen angels (1 Enoch 69.9-10)”
“9. He taught men the art of writing with ink and paper, and through this many have gone astray, from eternity to eternity, and to this day.
10. For men were not created for this, that they should confirm their faith like this, with pen and ink.
11. For men were created no differently from the Angels, so that they might remain righteous and pure, and death, which destroys everything, would not have touched them; but through this knowledge of theirs they are being destroyed and through this power death consumes them.”
