#Lu looks like a swan in human form and its too veiny

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Lucifer Diary, or "Fucking My Motherland"

incineration. it etched on my bones like a paen, proud lucifer, cast adrift like  dust. 

mangled, mutilated, me. when the beauty is cast aside, what is left but blood? scar tissue grows stiff, the finger nubs bleed, tendon exposed to the harsh  breath 

of winter in hell. in the lowest circle, louses bleed ice, and the great phlegethon  aches 

on my breast like lilith’s nails etching cursed script in seraphic tongues. to be  damned, 

to be profane – to build my castle here, on this gritty, barren rock – a place the  shamir 

could not burrow, where rahab would not dare cast his abyssal net, for fear of what  yields 

my tears bring forth – tis pandemonium, place of many demons. so mammon, take  your belly 

and sate yourself on the blood and sweat of my back. i will build an empire (i will  build, build. Build.) 

from this ice, i carve a chapel of sorrow. from the bones of leviathan, i make  my crown.

out of the ash of a thousand songbirds, soldered with the heart of a freezing star, a  new engine 

to bring warmth to cambion’s houses. for the damned are born here, feasting on  marrow milk. 

it is a carnival of shadows, this unholy unbeauty, this war I wage on myself.  skyscrapers of flesh. 

torn remnants of maiden’s ankles – like her ankle I bit – like the foot of Mary that  tramples me. 

a curse, the Son. I have no Sun here. He does not deign to spill his light. instead, a  cold oblivion. 

true darklight. shadow nefarious. falling is easy. falling takes a breath, a niggle  doubt. i pick my skin 

of yesterday’s lashings – I am always cat-o-nine-tailing the last bit of holy  out of me – i prostrate, I worship her, i suck off Him. I raise a single palm up,  asking for manna – but molding bread. 

there is something beautiful about the darkness, that is what homer knew. Tiresias,  blind, saw all. 

so pluck my eyes, Father. take my heart while you are at it, from the Lapis of  Exile, forge the 

Sang Real in Migdal Eder’s womb. there is no sting of death. for knowledge – for 

freedom, i rise 

with the dawn and gloaming (long ago, i was eos’ son) and i claim the throne of El. for that is what it is 

to fuck 

my mother 

tongue.