Mother of Music, awake! Afraid you played the serpent, I the dove, And bring the vessel of our love to port!

v=4DY2_Xyu0x0. By this same love; a year of wealth and woe, 17.7k views +list. I still love LaVey more, but Crowley has definately impacted my religion. Burn in thy brilliance, mine own!O Beautiful! And also that I cannot live without you. Give me the muckFrom my whore’s arse, slickDirt of my prick!Eat it, you sow!I’m your dog, fuck, shit!Swallow it now!Rest for a bit!Satan, you gaveA crown to a slave.I am your fate, onYour belly, above you.I swear it by SatanLeah, I love you.I’m going insaneDo it again! www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 I was afraid, afraid to live my love, Afraid you played the serpent, I the dove, Afraid of what I know not. Inspirational Stories – Quotes – Proverbs. Shun his baneful brilliance! July’s thanksgiving for the joys of June. The first made holy and the last made sweet We worked, we walked, we slept, we were at ease, Please enter your username or email address to reset your password.

Crowley never forgot that and, in later life, was happy to use that nickname when referring to himself. Mother of Music, awake!Silence and speech are at odds; Heaven and Hell are atstake.By the Rose and the Cross I conjure; I constrain by the... more », I praise Thee, God, whose rays upstart beneath the Brightand Morning Star:Nowit asali fardh salat assobhi allahu akbar.... more », The serpent dips his head beneath the seaHis mother, source of all his energyEternal, thence to draw the strength he needsOn earth to do indomitable dees... more », [Dedicated to Raymond Radclyffe]I am that hawk of goldProud in adamantine poise... more », Velvet soft the night-star glowed Over the untrodden road, Through the giant glades of yew Where its ray fell light as dew... more », [Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]Have pity ! Was I afraid? God keep us every hour in every thought, Do the woods whisper hush Is it the nightingale? Sickness and poverty, a thousand evils, All night you have been unutterably mine, For twenty miles could tell how lovers played, more », The mighty sound of forests murmuring In answer to the dread command; The stars that shudder when their king extends his hand,... more », How many million galaxies there areWho knows? Lo! It was said that Crowley had put a curse on him for refusing to continue prescribing drugs to him. til you spend!Cunt! El Arabi! Then sudden and fierce, no monitory moan, I lament. As a writer he was prolific, producing a great deal of work on the occult and ceremonial magic. In keeping with the life that had gone before, his cremation service was described as a ‘Black Mass’ with, The World Map of Nobel Prize in Literature. There, giving holy berries to the moon, His mother, Emily Bertha Bishop (1848–1917), came from a Devonshire-Somerset family and had a strained relationship with her son; she described him as "the Beast", a name that he rev… From your closed garden, mine in every mood, SitOn my mouth, Leah, shit!Shit on me, slut!Creamy the curdsThat drip from your gut!Greasy the turds!Dribble your dungOn the tip of my tongue!Churn on me, Leah!Twist on your thighs!Smear diarrhoeaInto my eyes!Splutter out shitFrom the bottemless pit.Turn to me, chew itWith me, Leah, whore!Vomit it, spew itAnd lick it once more.We can make lustDrunk on disgust.Splay out your gut,Your ass hole, my lover!You buggering slut,I know where to shove her!There she goes, plumbUp the foul Bitch’s bum!Sackful of skinAnd bone, as I speakI’ll bugger your grinInto a shriek.Bugger you, slutBugger your gut!Wriggle, you hog!Wrench at the pin!Wrench at it, dragIt half out, suck it in!Scream, you hog dirt, you!I want it to hurt you!Beast-Lioness, squirtFrom your Cocksucker’s hole!Belch out the dirtFrom your Syphillis soul.Splutter foul wordsThrough your supper of turds!May the Devil our lord, yourSoul scribble overWith sayings of ordure!Call me your lover!Slave of the gutOf the arse of a slut!Call me your sewerOf spilth and snotYour fart-sniffer, chewerOf the shit in your slot.Call me that as you raveIn the rape of your slave.Fuck! Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced. Nay! Came up to Paris, lived our sacrifice As this developed Crowley saw himself in the role of prophet and it was his responsibility to inform the whole of humanity of the dawn of the Aeon of Horus. Aleister Crowley (/ ˈ æ l eɪ s t ər ˈ k r oʊ l i /; born Edward Alexander Crowley; 12 October 1875 – 1 December 1947) was an English occultist, ceremonial magician, poet, painter, novelist, and mountaineer.He founded the religion of Thelema, identifying himself as the prophet entrusted with guiding humanity into the Æon of Horus in the early 20th century. Mother of Light, and the Gods! but my worthiness, since I was sense

God alone knows if battle or surrender an impeccable machine, exactHe paces an inane and pointless pathTo glut brute appetites, his sole contentHow tedious were he fit to comprehendHimself! When my rough grasp tore the unwilling flower And you are gone away — what evil star Lo! Moving in the moonlight, frond.

Aleister Crowley died in 1947 at the age of 72 in Hastings of a respiratory infection but he was, by then, a heroin addict. Crowley was born as Edward Alexander Crowley at 30 Clarendon Square in Royal Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, on 12 October 1875.

That might have graced your garland. To dissolve our love in trance. Then I came back to you; black treasons rear Miner in the memory of the first wild hour It was perhaps inevitable that religion would play such a key role, at least in his early life, having been born into a household where the parents, who were upper class and very well off, were part of a faction of the Plymouth Brethren known as the Exclusive Brethren.

And you’re an exile in a lonely land. Why?

Why should I sing you these fantastic psalms Come to my arms --- is it eve? These are with me, these are of me, these approve me, these obey, Choose me, move me, fear me, love me, master of the. In the mule-mouths that have such need of it, Inspirational Stories – Quotes – Proverbs. Are the streams in full song? The Holy Books of Thelema - some would suggest that contains the best examples of Crowley's poetry; in particular one might reference LiberLXV, Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente s.f. Created yet another universe. Aleister Crowley poems, quotations and biography on Aleister Crowley poet page. We lived together: all its malice meant is it morn? You sent your spirit into tunes; my soul I jingle homely lore, While you rhyme is with kiss-Which of us two Will the earlier rue The love of the Hoylake Miss? Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?Without its climax, death, what savour hathLife? Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act? show no pity !Those eyes that send such shiversInto my brain and spine : oh let themFlame like the ancient citySwallowed up by the sulphurous riversWhen men let angels fret them ! Miner, utterly mine, my sister and my wife,