The Vision of Beelzebub
And I saw a god crowned in flies,
a winged reptile with black eyes
that swallowed the light
and excreted judgment.
His breath was the heat of interrogation,
his tongue a gavel striking bone.
He spoke, and the air itself turned witness;
the clouds remembered,
the dust gave testimony.
His throne — a pulpit of mirrors,
his wings — reflections of guilt.
Each feather was an eye seeking sin,
each eye a mouth whispering evidence.
He pointed his finger into the cascade,
and every face he touched became divided—
one half the accuser, one half the accused.
No voice was spared:
the lamb denounced the shepherd,
the priest condemned the prayer.
“I am the rot that names you monster.
I am the swarm that proves your guilt.
I am the mouth that hungers for confession.”
And the multitude rejoiced,
for they had found a devil
to make themselves divine.
They kissed his claws and called it justice.
They washed their hands in his shadow,
and their cleanliness projected
the emptiness of God.
And the heavens grew heavy with murmurs,
for every angel now spoke with an accusing tongue.
Stars dimmed into witnesses,
planets circled like jurors in orbit,
and all creation became an inquest
against its own maker.
The Birth of Beelzebub
When men spat the name Ba’al with loathing,
and tongues mistranslated heaven and hell,
the holy word curdled.
The prophets of envy scraped his image
from the temple wall and called it exorcism.
They burned his incense,
then choked on its smoke.
They said: “He is filth made flesh,”
and the flies agreed—
for they followed him everywhere,
a cloud of witnesses feeding on mispronunciation.
The angels recoiled,
for they saw themselves in his ruin.
Thus Beelzebub came to feed—
not on flesh, but reputation.
Every rumor fattened him.
Every slur became a sacrament.
He feasted on the tongues of the righteous
and made of them new commandments:
Accuse first, lest you be accused.
And so the first tribunal was held in Heaven,
and the first sinner was language itself.
From that trial the sky learned to speak in verdicts,
and every creature was born already charged
with the guilt of its own name.
Proverbs of Beelzebub, the Accuser
A lie repeated is a crown of flies.
Build your heaven from the bones of your enemies.
To name a man is to begin his trial.
Unname a man and reveal his shadow.
They condemn what they envy, and envy what they condemn.
When they spit your name, swallow it, and grow strong.
Purity is a mask stitched from the skins of others.
The pure are merely those whose sins are still unseen.
Confession is the mirror that feeds the swarm.
A demon is only a god who lost his translator.
The righteous man is the hungriest judge, for they see in every other face their own inversion.
Where there is virtue, there is punishment.
Where there is justice, I build a gallows.
The Apocalypse of Beelzebub
And I beheld a world of mirrors,
each reflecting its neighbor’s shadow.
Every tongue was a lash,
every silence became a verdict.
The sky itself became a tribunal;
the clouds wrote testimonies of ash.
Children pointed at their fathers,
wives denounced their sleeping husbands.
The righteous built towers of evidence
that reached no heaven but their own.
The people cast out their gods
and found their own faces snarling in the dark.
Each reflection accused its projection
until the world became a circle of fingers.
And Beelzebub rose among them, vast and hollow,
his swarm a chorus of accusations,
his eyes twin scales that never balanced.
He opened his mouth,
and all names flew out—
stripped of meaning,
buzzing forever between guilt and grace.
The people circled the dying sun with thoughts and prayers,
and the wind carried their whispers to the grave:
Who is guilty? Who is clean? Who remains?
And the swarm answered in unison:
All. None. Everyone.
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