A Thanksgiving Prayer

Written in blood on municipal bricks are the hoary liturgies and sigils of the Heretic.

The ancient triskelle, the alchemical triangle, and vaginal cross. S/he who bears the sign wears it close to her heart.

S/he is the breath displacing the violence of industry that has drearily settled like dust upon our altars
S/he is sadness transmuted and She is anger unchained…
The tearful rage that accompanies defeat whose singular purpose is to detonate in your eyes

And wash away any illusion of decency.

S/he is the bloodless corpse of the Body Politic
The Emperor and the Empress gone blind , Mad,
And left gibbering like idiots
To be mercifully emptied of breath
The stygian wind that collapses buildings like they are straw
and blows the nine gates of Hell wide open…

“I am God/dess, Messenger, Pariah
And I am come to claim you
Ye Sacred Clowns, Alchemists, and Heretics alike,
Know, this day, that your resistance to toil has not been in vain,

I am the scythe that cuts through wheat, leading legions of your impoverished to harvest.
I am the Field laid fallow,
the ghost of famine that chases back grain, whose mischief mangles the plow,
The Age of Expulsion from the Garden has past, now come the Fruitful Age of the Earth Re-forested,

Come Ye Risen Gods and Goddesses,

Come Children of Night and claim thy rightful divinity through me…

I am the Angel of Vicissitude, born of your forced servitude and alienated labor
I am the flower of your once and future vengeance.
From your lips I deliver a kiss to the enemy and the promise that they will soon meet your sword.

I say unto them, this night, No Birth is ever painless
And no Night shall be safe while we
Who will not be eaten,
Walk among you

Ye legions of suffering and disaffected
Who stand to confront the Thief of your Destiny
Through me you will call upon the Darkness to aid you,
Through me you will cast
the first stone…”