Asmodeus: The Nymphon

I walk down Oxford Street past the bustling shoppers
Chattering of red hearts and chocolates
While He, crouching with black wing in front of Bond Street
Smiles with blood stained lips
The shades of my lost loves hide in the folds of his cloak
As I near Him I can hear
Their Hearts beating in thick darkness
He brushes my hand lightly with his feathers
And Seven ghosts weep round my ring finger
Oh Asmodeus…
Saturn’s square wrapped round my finger
Like a snake-loop in Time
This Virgin -Widow
Always comes back to this Moment
Time frozen, time turned insideout
Time dead and…
(Time reborn)
Fleet Street is quiet today
And I find myself alone, gazing upwards
As his dark figure stands atop St. Bride’s wedding cake cathedral
The angel-demon’s eyes look down at me
with the Ice light of Memory
He flys down and and takes me by the hand
And leads me below to his secret well
That he guards like a Treasure
He holds me fast and with seven claws
etches his Sigel over my heart
And licks the blood with his lover’s tongue…
Oh Asmodeus…
 Saturn’s markesite sparkling round my finger
Like cake icing
This Virgin-Bride
Always comes back to this Moment
Time frozen, time turned insideout
Time dead and…
(Time reborn)
I slowly make my circuit back to my home in the North
The Islington Angel with its metallic halo floating above
With one wing stretched to heaven
And the other to Earth
I, like Solomon of old, ask Him…
And he points to the night sky
As the moon hides his face in shadow
The Seven Stars sparkle like silver fangs
That draw only tears now
Oh Asmodeus…
Saturn’s moonlit silver round my finger
Like planetary rings
This Virgin-Queen
Always comes back to this Moment
Time frozen,
(Seven diamond pillars in the night sky)
Time turned insideout,
(Wisdom has built her Palace)
Time dead and…
(Like sacrificial king offerings)
*Time reborn*…
© Rachael Bulla April 2008



Sweeney Todd

“There’s a hole in the world
Like a great black pit
and the vermin of the world inhabit it
And its morals aren’t worth
what a pig could spit
And it goes by the name of London.”
His silver knives penetrate the vocal chords in guttural spasm, releasing the bloodstream of the unspoken.  The eyes wide with terror as the knife slices, killing all voice, releasing the flood of all voice, like a crack in the universe-
(There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit-)
Down, down, down all flesh goes, into the meat pit fiery furnace.  We dance and sing the gruesome song of the unmaking of the world, as the rats of London are well fed.  It matters not who dies and who dines, it matters not whose life will serve vengeance, for all is horror, all is stained with black grit, and the only vengeance taken on London is the *random end of all of it.*
(And the vermin of the world inhabit it-)
London’s soul is black but he could use a clean shave, with moonlit silver knives that penetrate past the soot to the bloodlife of lunacy-
(where one pure gem is found, but we shall not sing of it-)
Her mute throat slit to songs of lost love.  Who was She…a vagabond banshee who wandered Fleet street.  Did the blades of silver take her life or did they make her ghost bleed alive with the speech of accusation, as she lay entombed, beside her lover, with soot in her golden hair?
(Did the wedding cake cathedral of Fleet Street ring with bells at midnight, as St Paul’s sighs on the hill like a god in regal tomblike weariness?)
 There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit…
(And a golden voice in the midst of it)
The silverblades dig deep to find her
But all is vermin, love gone lunatic-
Her avenger is her murderer-
And he goes by the name of *London*
© Rachael Bulla 2007