Blue An-Jay writes a Letter to Lucifer

Dearest Lucifer,

I'm sending you this letter the only way I know how. I 'm told you are the most beautiful one, and I am guided by your love of freedom and form.

I ponder the language I hear, words and their meanings...

Are there black Angels where you are?

In the dictionary, the work black is defined as "soiled, dirty; thoroughly evil: wicked; expressive of condemnation or discredit; invoking the supernatural and esp. the "devil." More definitions follow, "Gloomy, Calamitious: marked by the occurence of disaster, Sullen, Hostile."

When I look up into the night ski, black looks like a beautiful man, with stars in his eyes. I come from a family of "black" dark-skinned people. People I may not see in the dark, like my white tea candles, I can't see, in a black room...without light.

I've heard there were White Angels.

Are they clear? As in "free from color?"

In the dictionary, the word "white" is defined as: "marked by upright fairness; free from spot or blemish: free from moral impunity; innocent; Favorable, Fortunate, or passionate (~ fury...I think of white fire...like lightning).

Nothing like the white people I've met on this planet, the tan, pink or snow colored people with their multi-colored hair, and eyes [ Excluding the innocence, found in children].

I know I've seen rainbow reflections from Sunlight...and sometimes on clouds.

If this letter can not reach you, I will continue to cherish freedom, form and beauty especially when I watch the free birds, playing in the ski.

Love, Blue An-Jay.


A Letter to Lucifer by Blue An-Jay is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dancing Near The Fire: Chapter Four

This final poem, part of a gothic poem collection, is under copyright protection by the author.

Dancing Near the Fire: Part Four

Anais walked in, bringing the cold winds behind her.
She picked the wrong night to visit the Ratt.
I was feeling human.
I was lulled by the presence of men, enchanted by Juliet’s sea green eyes,
black coffee, her soft warm hand, and the faint sound of many heartbeats.
Not that Anais didn’t have a heartbeat, who knew what magic animated beautiful Anais,
she just didn’t have a heart.
She was dressed in ceremonial robes. Murex purple, her favorite color.
She was hunting.


“Armand.” she greeted me sweetly, my name rolling lightly on her tongue.
“Anais.” I said coldly.
“Sweetie, I was looking for you.” She purred. “I thought I’d find you in this…dump. Why you keep company with this crowd, I’ll never know.” Anais’ head tilted. “I don’t believe I’ve met your little friend.” She smiled sweetly in Juliet’s direction.
Next to Anais’ tall frame, Juliet was little.
I kept silent.
“I’m Juliet Wallace.” Juliet said with a wide smile.
“Juliet, such a romantic name, it fits you well. You may call me Anais.”
“Anais. Nice to meet you. You have a beautiful name too. Are you named after Anais Nin?” Juliet asked.
“No, she is named after me.” Anais laughed, tossing back her black curls.


Anais invited herself to our table. She sat next to Juliet. Her scarlet fingernails scrapped across the table top. She smelled like Daphne blossoms.
“So, tell me, how do you know Armand?” Anais asked.
Juliet blushed. “We meet earlier in the woods.”
“Really.” Anais’ eyebrows shot up.
Anais glanced at me, a question in her eyes.
“Do little girls like you often play alone in the woods?”
“I’m not a little girl” Juliet said firmly, “In fact, I think we’re the same age. You can’t be more than twenty-five.”
“Close.” Anais lied. “So were you alone?”
“Anais” I said softly, giving fair warning.
“You have to admit, this is a strange tale.” She replied.
“This night has been more than strange.” Juliet said, “But oddly enough, it feels…right.”
“Sweet.” A small smile played on Anais’ face.


“How do you know Armand?” Juliet asked Anais.
“Armand is like my brother. We are a lot alike.”
“We’re also very different.” I said, remembering Anais’ little cruelties.
“We are more alike than you think.” She said softly. “ I met Armand in the university. In those days, he had an interest in Science…”


I sat back, wary but relaxing. I half-listened.
Anais’ tale was half-true.
My life could have been different, had I not met her.
While Anais talked, a song came on the jukebox.
A country song.
A remake of a song forty years old.
Different singer, same tune.
It was a song about a girl’s first love.
It was the song that played when I killed for the first time.


I still remember the hunger. The pain in my stomach felt like being stabbed by broken glass. It was a pain I will never forget.
I was sick. I was nauseated and weak
I hadn’t eaten in two weeks.
Not that I didn’t try to eat. I wanted food, but was repulsed by it’s rancid smell. My body rejected everything I ate anyway, except water, I could keep water down.
I thought I was going to starve.
I wasn’t ready to die.
I was mad with fear. I must have looked mad. I looked in the bathroom mirror expecting to see my emaciated face, see dark circles under my eyes, but instead I couldn’t see myself.
The empty air wore my clothes.
I thought I was disappearing, I thought I was a dream, that my life was a dream, but I felt real, and I smelled real, like vomit and sweat.
The blisters on my skin were real, deep sores that appeared in the sunlight.
I was hungry, I was weak, and I was afraid to leave my apartment.
I think I would have died alone. But one night, as I rambled to myself in a rage, I accidentally bit the inside of my cheek, tasting my own blood.
It was sweet and salty, full of beauty and life.
It filled me with joy, my darkest fear had come true.


Two days later I was creeping in the trailer park.
I felt like a hungry ghost, disappearing, but still hungry.
I wanted to live, not waste away to dust.
I needed to know, was I a monster?
Did I need blood?
The trailer park laid on the edge of town.
There was a full moon that night, not that I needed the moon’s light.
My eye-sight had sharpened.
I could see shapes in the shadows.
I chose the trailer closest to the woods.
I planned on breaking the door’s lock, but when I got to the trailer, I was afraid.
All I could do was look through the open blinds.
A light was left on above the stove in the kitchen.
I made out a woman asleep on a sagging brown sofa.
A half-finished bottle of beer sat near her on the table.
I heard music through the trailer’s thin walls.
She had left the radio on.
A soprano sang about falling in love for the first time.
I stood outside, a statue.
I could hear every note, every beat, I listened to every word.
When the song ended, I walked to the door.
I turned the knob, it was open.

Inside smelled like rotting trash and beer.
I was hungry, yet I was also afraid.
There was no turning back.
I stood over the sleeping woman.
She had silver in her hair.
Her face was lightly covered in freckles.
She had crow’s feet around her closed eyes.
To me, she was beautiful.
For a second, I heard the song replayed in my head, then it was gone, replaced by the pains in my stomach.
In a flash, I gripped her head, burying my teeth deep into her neck.
I think I hit her Jugular vein. I felt warm blood trickle down my mouth.
I drank. She struggled.
I drank until she stopped struggling.
I could have stayed there, my mouth pressed to her neck, but something strong in me pulled me away.
Blood covered everything.
I ran from the trailer, losing myself deep in the woods.


I think I killed her.
That act of violence was more sickening to me, than my two weeks of vomiting.
As I ran, I felt my strength return.
I felt euphoric. I had energy, and my mind became sharp and clear.
I ran like a tiger, leaping over rocks and broken branches.
Inside, I felt savage, like an animal.
I had killed.
When I stopped running, I was no longer afraid.
I could face myself.
Was I a monster? Or was I acting like one?
In the moonlight, I saw dried blood under my fingernails.
Under that full moon, I made a vow: I would never kill another human being. Not for their blood.
I would not be a taker in this world.
Somehow, I would be a giver.


The song had ended.
Juliet and Anais were staring at me.
The conversation had stopped.
“More coffee ladies? I asked, looking suddenly attentive.
“Yeah, one for the road. Can I get mine to go?” Juliet said.
“Yeah, I have to get going as well. Can you give me a ride?” Anais asked
“Sure, no problem.” I said.
I signaled to the waitress, and took out my wallet.
I left a crumpled five dollar bill on the table.
I always tip.
I left the Ratt with two beauties following me into the fading night.

Dancing Near the Fire: Part Three

This collection of gothic poems is under copyright protection by the author.

The story so far: Armand and Juliet met in the wood, late at night. Their meeting seemed magical, and both felt instant connection. Armand has asked Juliet to follow him down a path through the woods.

Dancing Near the Fire: Part 3

I followed Armand like a blind beggar, following a seer.
He held my hand.
A light rain fell. Dark clouds filled the sky.
The path led into blackness.
Armand tugged at my hand, and I followed, meek as a mouse, asking no questions as we walked the dark twisting path.
I felt warm. My stomach fluttered, as if brushed by a hundred butterflies.
I was still spinning as I remembered our kiss.
I wondered if my warm blush could be called an “afterglow.”

The path ended at the bottom of a small hill, near a well lit parking lot.
As we walked towards the streetlights, I slowly returned to my sanity.
I trusted Armand. At any point, he could have hurt me back on the path.
Instead, he had led me to safety.
I was willing to follow him a bit further…but how far was I willing to go?
I half expected Armand to lead me to a sleek limousine, or a long black hearse.
To my surprise, he led me to a tiny green car.
“Is this your car?” I asked, disbelief in my voice.
“Yes. It’s a 1966 Volkswagen Beetle. My first car. Get in.” He said, opening the door. “It was a gift from my parents.”
“Cool.” I said politely, “Antique cars make excellent gifts.”
Armand’s face look puzzled for a moment.
“Antique…yeah, something like that.”

We drove down the deserted highway.
“Dear Prudence” played on the car’s tape deck.
“… greet the brand new day…”
Armand sped like a madman chasing elusive demons.
I think he tried to impress me.
It stopped raining. I rolled down the window, letting the cold, night air whip across my face. My hair blew around me like a soft cloud.
“…the sun is up, the sky is blue, it’s beautiful and so are you...”
“So are you.” Armand repeated, glancing at me.
The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.
“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.
A big smile played across my face. What do you say to a guy you barely knew…who danced in the rain?
“I’d love a cup of joe.”
“…dear Prudence…wouldn’t come out to play…”

We pulled up to the local diner. The sign said “The Ratt open 24 hours.”
The Ratt was notorious for its shady hygiene, and eccentric crowd.
It was the only restaurant still open.
It looked like a typical pancake house, except for the huge painting of a gray rat which hung off it’s roof.
Since it was nearly Christmas, the outside was decorated with silver and red tinsel.
When we walked in, several people turned to stare.
Our clothes were wet. Our shoes were muddy, and Armand was still wearing his robes.
I forgot how odd it was to see a man dressed in robes.

“I like the way you dance.”
That was the first thing Armand said after we found our seats.
I blushed.
“You dance like a graceful bird…”
“Yeah, more like a chicken.” I joked.
“No, you were…are…really amazing.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t know what else to say. The conversation dropped. I looked up to see Armand staring at me.
Embarrassed, I looked down at my black fingernails.
Then, feeling bolder I looked into his eyes.
They were black like the night sky.
He held my stare.
My heart beat faster.
“Your eyes are beautiful. They are like tiny green oceans.” He said softly.
Suddenly the waitress appeared. She was a tiny woman with blond hair, only her black hairs showed at the roots.
“Hey honey, can I get you some coffee?” she asked, handing us two menus.
“Yes …” Armand started.
“Black” she said, finishing his sentence. “It’s always black. What can I bring you?” she asked me with a smile.
“I’d like coffee with cream and sugar.”
“Ok. Two coffees. Would ya’ like anything to eat? She asked.
“No, thanks.” I answered.
“I know, nothing for you” she said to Armand. “Ya’ll let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back with your coffee.” She smiled, then walked back to the diner’s kitchen.
We sat in silence.
“You know, drinking coffee is known to make people dead sexy.” Armand said with a mischievous grin.
I laughed. “Do you drink much coffee?”
“Yes, I do. Coffee ups my sex appeal.” He grinned, then
reached across the table and covered my left hand with his hand.
I was lost.
We sat, holding hands.
I asked playfully, “So, why are you dressed in those brown robes?”


A Christmas song played on the jukebox. A country song about snow and lost lovers.
“I do everything in these robes.” He grinned. “I wear them to keep warm.”
Before I could say anything further, he asked me a question.
“What were you doing out in the woods?”
“I was…well…” I stammered.
“I was…” I started, then stopped midsentence.
Armand’s mouth had opened, and his attention was focused across the room, near the front door.
I turned to look.
A beautiful woman had walked in.
Her complexion was flawless. She was the color of coffee ice cream.
She wore long purple robes.



Dear Prudence is a song by The Beatles

Dancing Near the Fire: Part Two

This is part of a Vampire Challenge. For more details follow this link: http://alucardsrose.blogspot.com/2009/09/vampire-challenge-2009.html

This collection of inter-connected gothic poems is under copyright protection by the author.


Dancing Near the Fire: Part 2

Juliet. I whisper her name with satisfaction, savoring the sound.
Juliet.
I ask myself, am I her Romeo?
When I had my arms around her, I could feel the warmth of her breath, the fiery heat of her skin, the moist, warm sweetness that was the inside of her mouth.
She almost drove me into a blood lust.
Juliet... am I your Romeo?
Me. Armand…well Arnold Fisher to be precise. Arnold … a
name now lost to me.
Silly me. I laugh.
Who ever heard of a Romeo already dead?

I have not been called Arnold, my Christian name, in several years.
That part of my life is now a distant memory.
How silly I was.
I remember staring into my bathroom mirror, wishing my pimples would go away.
Now my skin is flawless, although I may never glaze upon my reflection in a mirror again.
To see my own image, I must look upon the still pool of rainwater, collecting in a puddle.
I am like foolish Narcissus, happy to see my own reflection by the waters of the river.

I remember how foolishly romantic I was.
I wanted to be John Lennon, loved by my own Yoko.
Make love, not war! Give peace a chance!
In my old life, I was obsessed with non-violence.
It was more than an idea, or a passing fancy, it was a life choice I embrace with my heart.
Ahimsa.
I considered myself friend to all animals.
I refused to eat meat, even going so far as to boycott leather.
Most days you could find me, passing out flyers in my rubber sandals.
Fight the power!
I even refused the wild honey regurgitated by the flower-loving bees.
I was a hopeless romantic.
Now I am a predator.
I hunt to survive.
I hunger for the fresh, salty taste of blood.

I almost bit Juliet.
She was so soft. I wanted to kiss every inch of her skin, feeling the faint pulse of
blood flowing beneath it.

I smelled her first.
I was hungry.
I was hunting.
I was unaffected by the cold rain,
or the winds that shook the trees.
I started a fire, not out of need, but out of loneliness.
I watched the untamed fire lick the small branches.
I watched the blue and orange flames
dance.
I wanted to feel human again,
lulled by warmth,
and the beauty of fire.

Then I smelled her.
I caught the scent of lilac soap,
mingled with sweat, rain and her
unmistakable human scent.
I didn't want to scare her.
so I kept my face turned towards the fire.
But I entered her mind.

It was deep like the color Indigo.
I could feel sadness, love and passion.
Her emotions were wild and hot,
like the fire burning,
or the wind blowing the rain.
In the darkness of her mind, I could
feel poetry.
I drew it out, strand by strand, until
it became a tapestry of sound,
her soul's music, mingled with my own.

I bewitched her.
I helped her embrace her wilder emotions,
dissolving her inhibitions, one by one,
letting her slip into a more primal state.
I let her enact her dreams.
As she danced near my fire
I was enchanted. It was I who was captured
by her shaking hips.
I felt more than hunger, strong in me.
She was beauty,
she was energy,
she was free.

I joined her dancing.
I celebrated her freedom.
I was enticed by her green eyes.
I loved her black hair, stained with blue hair dye,
bluish whenever she tossed her hair.
As she twirled, and stomped,
my eyes caressed her curves,
lingering upon her firm breast,
her shapely hips, her long white neck.
She wore wet blue jeans
and a v-neck sweater.
A pentagram hung from a chain around her neck.
I knew it was not silver,
I hate silver.

Dancing Near the Fire - Part 1

This is part of a Vampire Challenge. For more details follow this link: http://alucardsrose.blogspot.com/2009/09/vampire-challenge-2009.html


This collection of short gothic poems is copyrighted.



Dancing Near the Fire

My grief was black like the starless night, and heavy.
It hung in my belly like runes, tossed upon a cold, stony floor.
All day my grief consumed me, crushed and squeezed me,
until I could barely breath.
Then, slowly, my grief melted like ice turning to water.
It turned into a burning pool in my belly, a burning hotness that spread
outward, fanning into a flame burning beneath my skin.
This heat pulled me, like a magnet being pulled by the poles of the Earth.
It pulled, and I ran, free and wild, chasing the shadows in the dark night.

It was raining. My clothes clung to me like a second skin.
I chased the shadows through the woods, feeling the slap of branches on my cheeks,
feeling the sting of thorny vine.
I ran mad, letting the burning carry me.
I ran until I saw a fire in the distance.
Although I was burning,
I was also cold, wet flesh.
I neared the fire, hiding behind the trees.
I saw a tall figure
hidden beneath long flowing robes.
I would have turned away, and ran back, but for the music I heard clearly.
Music? Through the rain I could hear the soft, high whine of a violin,
and the rhythmic, steady beat of a drum.

The music enchanted me. I know no other way of describing it.
It was like air mingled with earth. It was like the wind playing upon your face, while your fingers dug deep
into the ground,
taking root, becoming the downward branching webs.
Where was this music coming from?
It made me want to dance. I wanted to glide on my toes, and shaking my hips wantonly.
Within minutes, I was dancing around the fire.

And I was not dancing alone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed
the tall figure dancing beside me.
His body shook, like the leaves quivering in the wind.
Facing him, I discovered
a beautiful man, with
skin the color of chocolate and hair the color of coal.
His eyes were black, and they burned intensely.
They made me feel lost…and found.
Around us the wind parted the trees
like bothersome weeds. Orange embers flew into the air,
like delicate fireflies,
and we danced.

Like a willow tree, his long and slender arms shot into the sky.
We danced around each other slowly, circling around the fire.
For once, I let my passions guide my feet,
as my stomps matched the beating drum, and the whistling wind.
I don’t know how long we danced,
face to face, arm length apart, but as the music slowed
we slowed too.
We circled each other, almost touching.
I could see every line on his smooth face.
He extended his hand. I touched it.
A tiny shock. As if a spark
of electricity had passed from his fingers to mine.
His hand was cold.

Yet it felt like home, if home were a peaceful, ice covered mountaintop.
His fingernails were clean, and manicured.
Although this man was a stranger,
the touch of his hand calmed me.
I felt like I was floating around the fire,
like a child, floating in a swimming pool.
“Don’t be afraid little one,” I heard a deep clear voice say.
“I mean you no harm.”
His lips had not moved.
In fear I yanked back my hand.
“Who…what are you?” I asked, my voice soft and unsteady.
“You are safe here,” the voice inside my head replied.
I stared into his eyes and my fears faded away.

Again he held out his hand. This time I clasped it firmly.
Suddenly, the world was turning.
The fire, the wind, the rain, the night sky, all spun around me.
When it stopped spinning, I was in another place.
I could hear the sound of waves crashing
against the shore. I felt sand under my feet.
I could smell salt in the air.
The fire was gone, so too the rain.
The sky was now clear, lit by a luminous moon.
I spotted black sand dunes in the distance.
A warm breeze blew through my hair.
I stood upon a beach,
and the stranger stood beside me, holding my hand.

Maybe it was my grief still fresh in me.
Or maybe it was the soft moonlight upon the desolate beach.
Maybe it was the burning sensation returning, or
a moment’s temporary madness.
Whatever it was, I pulled the tall stranger down to my face
And kissed him firmly on the lips.
He kissed me back.
His lips were cool and soft, tasting like clove cigarettes.
Our kiss deepened.
His tongue slowly explored the insides of my mouth,
sliding like gentle water over smooth ocean shells.
He gently sucked my bottom lip,
then made his way to my ear lope, gently pulling
with his teeth.
My knees went weak, my mind, filled with sweet
intoxications.
The world did not exist to me, just
the movement of his tongue over
my hypersensitive skin.
I closed my eyes.
His fingers rubbed through my hair,
then up and down the back of my neck.
I tilted my head back, leaning into his solid body.

Ouch! I screamed in pain.
Something had punctured my neck with a needle.
Or a bite.

Maybe he’s hungry.
The thought flashed through my mind.
Panic pumped through my veins.
I opened my eyes, touching my neck.
I expected to see blood on my hand,
but I saw nothing.
I looked around, slightly dazed.
We were back in the woods.
The fire was still burning, the rain was now a gentle mist.
Where was the beach?
Was I dreaming?
I felt his cold hand, still holding mine.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
I was relieved to see his lips move.
“Yes…no.” I lied.
His right eyebrow lifted.
“Please, come with me,” he said, “We should get out of this rain.”
He smiled, pulling my hand.
“I can’t,” I said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Armand, little one.”
“Armand,” I repeated.
His name rolling around my mind,
as I followed him down a path through the woods.