The Greatest Works of Aleister Crowley. Aleister Crowley

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       While sleep is a possible end,

       Awake in the void, the abyss

      Whose thirst is an echo of this That martyrs, world without end, (World without end, Amen!) The man that falters and yields For the proverb's month and an hour To the lure of the snow-starred fields Where the opium poppy's aflower.

      Only the prick of a needle Charged from a wizard well ! Is this sufficient to wheedle A soul from heaven to hell ? Was man's spirit weaned From fear of its ghosts and gods To fawn at the feet of a fiend ? Is it such terrible odds,-

      The heir of ages of wonder, The crown of earth for an hour, The master of tide and thunder Against the juice of a flower ? Ay I in the roar and the rattle Of all the armies of sin,

       This is the only battle He never was known to win.

      Slave to the thirst-not thirst

       As here it is weakly written, Not thirst in the brain black-bitten, In the soul more sorely smitten ! One dare not think of the worst ! Beyond the raging and raving Hell of the physical craving

       Lies, in the brain benumbed,

       At the end of time and space, An abyss, unmeasured, unplumbedThe haunt of a face !

      She it is, she, that found me

       In the morphia honeymoon;

       With silk and steel she bound me, In her poisonous milk she drowned me, Even now her arms surround me, Stifling me into the swoon

       That still-but oh, how rarely !

       Comes at the thrust of the needle, Steadily stares and squarely,

       Nor needs to fondle and wheedle Her slave agasp for a kiss,

       Hers whose horror is his

       That knows that viper womb,

       Speckled and barred with black

       On its rusty amber scales,

       Is his tomb

       The straining, groaning, rack

       On which he wails-he wails !

       Her cranial dome is vaulted,

       Her mad Mongolian eyes

       Aslant with the ecstasies

       Of things immune, exalted

       Far beyond stars and skies,

       Slits of amber and jet

       Her snout for the quarry set

       Fleshy and heavy and gross,

       Bestial, broken across,

       And below it her mouth that drips Blood from the lips

       That hide the fangs of a snake,

       Drips on venomous udders

       Mountainous flanks that fret,

       And the spirit sickens and shudders At the hint of a worse thing yet.

      Olya ! the golden bait

       Barbed with infinite pain,

       Fatal, fanatical mate

       Of a poisoned body and brain ! Olya, the name that leers

       Its lecherous longing and knavery, Whispers in crazing ears The secret spell of her slavery.

      Horror indeed intense,

       Seduction ever intenser,

       Swinging the smoke of sense

       From the bowl of a smouldering censer! Behind me, behind and above,

       She stands, that mirror of love.

       Her fingers are supple-jointed ;

       Her nails are polished and pointed, And tipped with spurs of gold:

       With them she rowels the brain.

       Her lust is critical, cold ;

       And her Chinese cheeks are pale, As she daintily picks, profane

      With her octopus lips, and the teeth jagged and black beneath,

       Pulp and blood from a nail.

      One swift prick was enough

       In days gone by to invoke her

       She was incarnate love

       In the hours when I first awoke her. Little by little I found

       The truth of her, stripped of clothing, Bitter beyond all bound,

       Leprous beyond all loathing.

       Black, the plague of the pit,

       Her pustules visibly fester,

       Cancerous kisses that bit

       As the asp caressed her.

      Dragon of lure and dread, Tiger of fury and lust, The quick in chains to the dead, The slime alive in the dust, Brazen shame like a flame, An orgy of pregnant pollution With hate beyond aim or nameOrgasm, death, dissolution ! Know you now why her eyes So fearfully glaze, beholding Terrors and infamies Like filthy flowers unfolding ? Laughter widowed of ease, Agony barred from sadness, Death defeated of peace, Is she not madness ? She waits for me, lazily leering, As moon goes murdering moon; The moon of her triumph is nearing; She will have me wholly soon.

      Who have missed the morphia craving, Cry scorn if I call you brothers, Curl lip at my maniac raving,

       Fools, seven times beguiled,

       You have not known her ? Well ! There was never a need she smiled To harry you into hell

      Morphia is but one

       Spark of its secular fire.

       She is the single sun

       Type of all desire !

       All that you would, you are

       And that is the crown of a craving.

       You are slaves of the wormwood star. Analysed, reason is raving.

       Feeling, examined, is Pain.

       What heaven were to hope for a doubt of it ! Life is anguish, insane;

       And death is-not a way out of it

      " Olya," too, reminds me of myself. I have a morbid wish to be an impossible monster of cruelty and wickedness.

      Lamus had told me that long ago, He said it was the phantasm which summed up my longing to - " revert to type." La mostalgie de la boue.

      Cockie lost СКАЧАТЬ