I have stood upon the battlements
Of ebon stone, and jet
Black light has bathed my body
With the force it can beget.
The Brothers of the Shadow
In the gloom that never fades
Have welcomed me to keeps that guard
The gulf thrown palisades.
I have stood in their cathedrals
And the hymns of hate I’ve sung.
I have heard the Mass of Mendes
Chaunted by a slitted tongue.
I have taught the works of blasphemy
With Succubi I’ve lain
By necromancy I have raised
The phantoms of the slain.
My steed has been the basilisk
My armor was a spell
By sorcery I could command
The fiery gods of Hell.
In monasteries of the Night
I’ve worn the hooded gown
With monks who crucify The Toad.
Where endless stairs go down
To the stagnant wells of shadow
Where the Four Great Princes stand.
I am alone. I am alone!
Dead. In a charnel land.



Plasma grail-fire
Sailor stoa
Queen of Heaven, Maid of Longing
Royal ale-pyre
Brother Noah
Ark of Neptune, Child belonging

Al Gnostic!



The demon headed Gods of Space
Come down on wings of fire.

Diana, Goddess of the Chase,
Has strung Her deadly lyre.

The Hierophant will, golden face
And hieroglyph, inspire.

Moon of Midnight
Moon of Space
Moon of many an Alien Race
Moon of Insight
Moon of Seeing
Moon of many an Alien Being

The Gods of Outer Space have met
The Demons of the Soul;

Great bug eyed monsters of The Get
With Devil and with Troll.

The Angel spreads vast wings of jet:
The Night Mere is in foal.

Moon of Midnight
Moon of Space
Moon of many an Alien Race
Moon of Insight
Moon of Seeing
Moon of many an Alien Being



There is a pestilence abroad upon the land
There is a plague — it is the plague of War
And it leaves a foulness upon the air —
     It is the sickly sweet corruption of
          the unattended dead
     The dusty smell of charcoal in
          the cannon rubbled streets
And there are those who live in this pestilence
And those who go forward to die in it.
And they have known strange things — these men
Things filthy — and foul — and corrupt.
And they have known things beautiful — these men
Things clean — and courageous — and magnificent.
And they have strange memories – – –
     The acid taste of champagne in
          a metal canteen cup
     The lonely graves of soldiers by
          the ever teeming roads
The tragedy of gliders wrapped
about the stumps of trees
And bullet riddled parachutes
that flutter in the breeze
Dead tankers in burned chariots
who look like slaughtered sheep.
Dead Germans — and dead cattle — and
the guns that shatter sleep
This is the pestilence – this is the plague
And this is Normandie – in June.


NOTES ON A CITY (damn near any city)

Along the street the eddy whirls
With frowsy dames and sloppy girls
And somber men and blazon boys
Who stomp or trot; and it annoys (Period)

The crusty shops that cringe at sight
And droop beside each other, quiet
As tho their misery alone
Would be too much; they would atone.

My reason tells me that it must
Be true; the thoughtless crowds, the dust
The grimy walks, the littered streets,
The facades pass for scrawny teats.

And yet I know it can not be
There is no grass, there is no tree
But only sound that rolls and beats
And sanctioned murder in the streets.

While in his nest each merchant waits
As patiently his net he baits
And views his neighbor with contempt
Tho finding he is not exempt

From hatreds that swell from the needs
Of human want, within the seeds
Of laissez faire there are the germs
That hold decay and then the worms

Of avarice and greed and hate
Sprout forth, they bore, they eat, they sate
Their hunger on the scabs of men;
I sit and watch. I sit and grin.



I read the lines of prophecy
And spoke the runic writ,
The red Go¨e tia gave to me
The number of the Pit;
So on the brazen door I knocked
Before I could discern,
“I go to put my horns in hock,
Please wait ’till I return.”
Now me, I am a patient lad,
Nor do I mind to wait
And so I sit me on a pad
Before the postern gate,
But cramped asana causes thought
And soon I had reflected
A tiger skin’s more cheaply bought
Than devil hide collected.
So thinking thus I took to wing
And lit upon a rafter
Which would have been just dandy but
He sent somebody after ———-



Oh sweet, adultrous harlot of the skies
I yearn to thee with heart of burning fire
And pray that I might lie between thy thighs
To find in one mad, all consuming quire
The passion promised in thy tender eyes.

That I might find, oh sweet, incestuous one
The flame uniting heart to soul and mind
And having found this love of two and none
Cast off the shell that maketh mankind blind
Unto the glory of the dawning sun.

And having found my rapture in thy kiss
Of daughter of the evening’s purple charms
To know the beauty, and the carnal bliss
Of total dissolution in thine arms
My Babalon. Veiled by the dread abyss.


“Oh melancholy brothers
Dark — dark — dark —“
Death is the way of thy birth,
Pain is the curse of thy mirth,
Sweet is the kiss of the earth.


Flaming Year Ghost, Ghost of Flame
You whose vision comes unbidden;
Sacred seeker, seeker lame
Voyeur in Her vast star-midden.
(Virgin Goddess, Bright Star Maiden)

Enigmatic Tetrahedral
Esoteric bridge of longing
Numinous, in Her cathedral,
Cryptic star-track, Angel thronging.

Dance, Star Maiden, dancing cry
(Shakti Devi, Goddess Viti)
Dance the deer back; deadly dye
Autumn frosted, sad the City.
(Virgin Goddess, Bright Star Maiden)

Enigmatic Tetrahedral
Esoteric bridge of longing
Numinous, in Her cathedral,
Cryptic star-track, Angel thronging.

10-31 & 11-1-61


As space-borne fleets of Viking mariners
Swing round a world impregnable
To jettison each a cargo
Bomb shattering, irresistable

And space-marines with visored helms
Drop through the black
Of night, with strife that overwhelms
Upon the atom shattered wrack
Of worlds at war

So seetee sharded Adonis
Mills round an elder, wiser Sun
While astroids from her scattered hulk
Rust on the flame-scored plains of Mars

Now must we mark that cosmic war
When god-men stormed the Titan host
With atom fire —-

Lest darkness fall
And Night engulf the Citadel
Of Emerald Earth



Knocking, glancing, looping, swirling,
Bound together in this whirling,
Rolling swarm of outbound cinders,
Slag of the void, cold embers
That have known the crushing heat
Of some stars guts’ pulsing beat
And then into deep space were spawned.
Their parent dead there is no bond
To bind them, nomads they become
Stray homeless stardust on the bum;
Weaving out through galaxies,
Plunging where their fancies please
‘Till tiring of this endless tour
They find there is a yearning lure
In black starless Infinity;
An urge that will not let them be.
So beyond the last outposted
Sun they long ago have coasted.
What lies beyond? Who knows? Who cares?
This is a jolly gang who dares
The limits of the timeless shore
On which they’ll drift forevermore.



We live in glory, outward bound!
Bound for the stars’ immensity.
We soar above the Earth so round
On jets of flaming tensity.
     In atmosphere,
     Celestial sphere,
Or deepest stellar ocean,
We’ll stride the skyways on the blast
Of nuclear implosion.

Our ranging cruisers ride the wind
Of space’s dark umbration.
We loft them high, there to defend
Our homes and Freedom’s Nation.
     On guard we stand
     Above our land
To guide our missile’s motion,
And pledge our honor to the last
Full measure of devotion.



Have you ever stood at sunset
Near the portals of the Bay
While the fog-horns sound their evening
Memnons to the closing day?

Have you ever seen the pageant
That a battle fleet can show
Standing out into the ocean
With her signal flags ablow

As each muscled floating fortress
Sliding thru the channeled strait
Rides beneath the scimitered guardian,
The Colossus of the gate?

Amazons, in cold grey armor
Cavalcading to the West;
     At their heels the swift destroyers
     Plunge rollicking to the quest;
Amazons, with colors streaming
From each latticed battle crest
     While her catapulting falcons
     Swirl above the roving nest;
Amazons, with cradeled lances
Held athwart each mighty chest;
     Once again they are crusading
     Keel on keel they pour cascading,
     Down the sea lanes they’re parading
     Cavalcading to the West.



Ho! let there be rejoicing for I, Pan,
Am come to bid ye welcome to my shrine.
Bid trumpets flourish. Let my joy be thine
For by the beard of Zeus and Neptune’s trine
I’ve waited long enough. Let him who can

Gainsay me. Come! the festal table creaks
With slabs of slaughtered ox and tender lamb
While from porcine herds we have sweet ham
To woo the taste of gluttony. And ram
Horn mugs awash with mead. Oho, who speaks?

Well, by my rough and hairy soul, of course!
For each fair maiden here’s a dainty paste
And age’d wine to suit the fickle taste.
Fall to! m’lads, or would you have me waste
This festive hour in talking? Here’s the source

Of all good things of life – so take your fill.
I’ll have no pampered darlings at my feast,
You’ll drink your liquor like a man, at least,
And eat your share of roasted beef – that beast
Of succulent refreshment. Now my will

In playing host to such a famished lot
As you’ve turned out to be this russet day
Is work. Aye, work m’lads, the work of play!
And such sweet work indeed I wot you’ll say
When you have found my pleasure. Like as not

You’ll scamper off like rabbits to the fields
When I have made my meaning to appear,
But first a word. Now gather ’round me near,
Move! the lads sit there, the fairest damsels here.
Oho! I jest. But Pan must joke – it shields

A tender heart. I love you all in sooth
For are you not my children? I would make
No difference between you for ‘twould take
The joy of living from your eyes, and shake
Your faith in me, your parent. Now the truth

In this, my idle jesting, is that you
Have come to manhood – and must therefore know
What ordeals lie ahead. This being so
I’ve called you hither that I ‘least might show
You guidance in this matter. Words are few

And ill express our subtle thoughts – so I
Must perforce speak to you as mind to mind.
Yet hold! I know your thought. I’m not as blind
As some would have you think me. Nor as kind
As others say. Why should I be? Why lie

About my attributions? Yet this thought
Of yours must have its answer. In the years
Gone by I’ve watched you grow, I’ve watched your fears,
Your little gods and devils – and your tears
Of childish hurt – yet slowly have I wrought

That which is best in you to finer gold.
Now heed. This mystery of mine is Truth!
No more. There is the serpent – and the tooth –
And though my shaggy thighs may seem uncouth
To those who know me not I have been told

They serve their purpose well – and, aye, they do!
But that is idle chatter. Now you ask,
“If this is Truth then why this lying mask?”
“If we have passed the ordeals, why the task?”
And I will give you answer. This is you.

Your life, your love, your will, your fate, not mine.
Though you be part of me you are alone
And individual. Your flesh and bone
Are fashioned from the earth. These facts are known
So let it be. Curse not those gods of thine

Cast in your imagery, nor veil the shrine
Of your incarnate bodies. They are pure.
Keep them so. Exercise is good. Endure
The discipline of hardship. Thus insure
Complete control of action. By this sign

You’ll know you’re fit for living – not before.
As for your birthdate. At the Equinox
Of Gods the word that mystically unlocks
My donjon keep was given. By the hocks
Of Chiron’s horny hooves you will adore

Our Lady, Queen of Space, or you will fail
In this your chosen mission. This is so
Because the Aeon now at hand must show
The universe you live in. As the slow
Evolving of your concepts winds its trail

In ever upward spirals – so your soul,
Now clothed as you are – now in deep repose,
Has slowly come to understand the Rose,
The Cross, the Lux, the Tree that grows
Around the world. The task was hard. The Toll

Was terrible, but just. For only thus
Could I be certain you were forged to last
Through toil and inquisitions’ flaming mast.
The dark age of the Slain God has been passed —–
Aye, it has slowly passed. But as the pus

Of ulcers slow to heal, it lingers still.
Many’s the night I’ve walked the Wilderness
With stars for company. And ‘neath the press
Of the eternal trees have made address
Unto myself and questioned whether Will,

Or Love, or Hate, or blind and callous Fate
Could sanction your imprisonment. You found
No respite in revolting. You were ground
On racks blood stain’ed by the sadist Hound
Of your created Hell – and found the gate

Of Heaven locked against you. Nor could Death
Reprieve you from your sufferings for I,
Yea, even I, had so decreed. Your cry
Was mine own aching heart, yet the reply
Came ever back the same – they have the breath

Of Life – so they must die, and live and die
And live until they come to know their place.
These are not empty clods they are a race
Ordained for destiny. Though I could trace
Intelligence in any form – yet I

Have found you best adapted to my plan.
‘Tis true upon the Earth you’re not unique
Yet also true that you must ever seek
The far beyond. And ’tis this perverse streak
Of yours that so intrigues Old Father Pan!

But now a pox on such philosophy.
My melancholia would go too deep
Should I recount your tales of woe, and keep
Us from our pleasant task. The dreadful sleep
Of that long night wherein iniquity

Against the self held reign has been replaced!
Arise my children and awake, nor fear,
The Aeon of the Crown’ed Child is here!
“Do what thou wilt shall be the Law.” How clear
Did Rabelais fore-see, but now make haste!

Too long I’ve kept you waiting with my talk
Of death and sacrifice, those words are ill,
You have no right to do aught but your Will!
Do that and nothing more and you will till
The fertile fields of ecstasy. I’ll walk

A way along the brook with you, ’tis naught,
I’m stiff from sitting still so long is all
And at my age no wonder. Aye, ’tis Fall
Again. The leaves are touched with gold, the pall
Of snow filled clouds is yet to come, though fraught

With Winter’s chill the bracing air is sharp,
But not too sharp – just right I always say –
The Summer’s time for work, the Fall for play!
And with my vats near bursting with the spray
Of my belov’ed vine we’ll take the harp

Of the Aeolian winds – I’ll play my pipe
And you can dance! Now off with you. Begone!
Across the fields and greensward of the lawn
Before I should forget myself and yawn
When there is someone looking. Aye, the ripe

Fruit has been gathered in, the fields are brown,
The lovely grape is pressed – and I can scratch
Myself in comfort, now that they’re gone. Catch
As catch can – down the hill – match and rematch
When they spill. Not a worry, care or frown

This pleasant day. Tomorrow? Who can tell?
Not I at least. Oh, I suppose I could
But not today – there’s Wine to-hand! Aye, good
Red wholesome wine, I wot. Wine of the Wood.
Wine of the World! I’ll help myself. And well

I may. ’tis mine indeed. Ah, here’s to health —
And may it bless them ever in their way.
And here’s to life — and here’s to love — and may
The light of liberty be theirs, I say.
And here’s to Pan — for this, indeed, is wealth!



Frater Perdurabo, where have you gone,
Hast come a cropper of mystical brawn?
Frater Perdurabo, you’ve wandered afar,
Please tell us concerning the mythical star
That is of yourself and none other yet
Frater Perdurabo, why keep us in fret?
Now I say that you are a whole galaxy
With names that are numbered by systems of three,
But others are yelling that this isn’t so,
We must add and subtract you with fours, in a row,
By dividing and adding and squaring the cube
We’ll find you are nothing but some Irish rube,
Who with powers, dimensions, and chymical hobbs
Has taken to raising his korn for the cobs.
Some say you are Baphomet, puissant, supreme,
That you stand on your head in a dream of a dream;
Some say that you are Crowley, a man what’s a man,
Who would if he could and usually can.
Some say you are known with five V’s in a string
Who ordered and templed a most solemn king;
Some say you are numbered by six and six six,
You would roast the profane on a bonfire of sticks;
(All this for their own good, we no doubt suppose,
Tho across the wide land the foul stench arose);
Some say you are Buddha, with a bare pate and ghauts,
That say you sit on a tack and think ponderous thoughts;
You say you can levy a tax on the brain
Whose constant persual would rid of all pain;
Some say you are Therion, and therefore are free
Of adenoids, hay-fever, and such allergy;
Some say you are gypsy Ank Af, and construe
The scriptures you scribble to be literally true;
Nor must we forget on the Russian to count
Or how you kahn climb the Himalayan Mount.
All these and more others you are known by, it seems,
Frater Perdurbo, the spinner of dreams.