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to the sound of my lover’s breathing (i shall hang myself)

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I gassed the Jews, I killed the Kurds, I bombed the Arabs, I fucked small children while they begged for mercy, the killing fields are mine, everyone left the party because of me, I’ll suck your fucking eyes out send them to your mother in a box and when I die I’m going to be reincarnated as your child only 50 times worse and mad as fuck I’ll make your life a living fucking hell I REFUSE I REFUSE I REFUSE look away from me


Lilith laughs as she dies and you laugh as she dies and you pretend this is all a fucking ball and you laugh right in Sam’s face and you laugh right until you die.

Relief seeps through your bones (and they are not your bones), relief seeps through your skin (and it is not your skin), you are no more than relief with that last thought: you will not have to live one moment more without her.

You will not have to live one day more on this earth after Lilith’s death and you made all your choices and you made it happen but you do not want to see the rising, and you do not want anything now that Lilith is gone.

And this is your last thought.


They will love me for that which destroys me
the sword in my dreams
the dust of my thoughts
the sickness that breeds in the folds of my minds


In Hell you had decades and decades to be each other’s, Lilith and Ruby reigning over Hell, over the legions of demons hand in hand, like it was always destined to be, and yet it seems like all that time could never have been enough.

In Hell you had decades, and on Earth you had no more than mere minutes, but even a billion centuries would not have sufficed to contain all this love.

You always knew this love would eat you both alive and consume all the possible futures, and yet if you could chose, and yet if you could go back, you would make all the same choices.

It was always going to end back here.


I have reached the end of this dreary and repugnant tale of a sense interned in an alien carcass and lumpen by the malignant spirit of the moral majority

I have been dead for a long time

Back to my roots

                        I sing without hope on the boundary


Dean’s is the last face you see, and by then you have given up.

She was looking at you while she died, the envelope a mere child but deep down the wisdom pierced through her eyes and when you looked at her, what you saw was truth.


We are anathema
the pariahs of reason
why am I stricken
I saw visions of God
and it shall come to pass


You once told Dean you were human once and for once you were telling the truth.

You were human walking the streets of this earth, rushing through America night and day selling your body and drinking the money.

You were human for little past two decades, rotten and bruised and broken, before you met your savior and your lord.

She promised she would fix you –in exchange for your soul– she promised she would make you immortal and grand, and she never promised to love you, and she never told you she did, but in exchange for your heart deep down you now she gave you hers.

That all happens at a crossroads, moonlit and star-struck you ask her how do you repay her, and she asks for no payment except what you already gave, and she asks for no more than for you to strike a deal.

She takes you right then under the tree, on the dust of the road she strips your body of clothing, and you lay under her in this body you have long forgotten, and you know all of humanity has done that before you, and still you feel like the first.


I need to become who I already am and will bellow forever at this incongruity which has committed me to hell


She promises you the throne in immortal words, her hot breath on your hot cunt and her hands a vice, thrusting inside you, and you screamYES and you become her queen, and never once before had you thought sex could mean pleasure, and never once before had you thought it could mean love.

She might be a demon but she was telling the truth, and you surrender your body in exchange for eternal damnation, and you surrender your soul in exchange for some love.


if there is blasting
(there shall be blasting)
the names of offenders shall be shouted from the rooftops
fear God
and his wicked convocation


There is no telling of what happens to you after the end. No soul, human or otherwise, has been there and back. You are not going to Hell, for that would be going home; you are not going to Heaven, for there is no way you would be let in.

You did the best you could, and you never did anything you did not believe in, and for that you should be proud, for not many can say they have been as righteous.

There is no telling whether you were misled.

As you return to ashes at last you have lived and died at the side of Lilith, the ruler of Hell, and not many will remember you were its ruler too.

As you return to ashes you return to her.


Just a word on a page and there is drama
I write for the dead
the unborn


I tell this story in half-borrowed words: no words of mine are enough to express Hell and all its demons. I tell this story because I was given the words, and with the words I must do something.

This is not a tale of star-crossed lovers, the soulmates torn apart by Heaven and all its angels, the soulmates torn apart by a war between good and evil. This is a tale of pain, and of corpses, and of borrowed bodies like mine are borrowed words.

To whom it may concern: do not be quick to judge the girl who lived again, the girl who burned, for you have sinned too, and you have been misled, and you have been in love.