Solus Noir

Canticles De Arte Magicka

Volume II Number II

Autumn Equinox MMXIIIev

Editorial

Greetings from The Fabled City. With this the fifth issue of Solus Noir – Canticles De Arte Magicka we continue to explore the rich vein of creativity that is the current, Solus Noir. Liber Bismuth also called The Book Of Transformation serves as a document

exploring the nature of Bhakhti. Dominion A Study of Vanity explores Dominion in some of its obvious aspects. The Crucible, a study of Arte, sometimes commentary, sometimes metaphor serves as a biographical study of Damiana. Sanctum we make no comment upon, it being a Grigori cypher. A Book Of Dreams, a magickal exploration of elements and aspects pertaining thereunto.

As ever all materials originate within the corpus of Solus Noir and our contributors trust that there is something of interest to our patient readers. Drink deep from the stream lest your form evaporates into the void from whence you came. Breathe deeply of the intoxication that holds you bound by blood and bone. Think deeply upon the thoughts that carry you from ecstasy to ecstasy through the

tapestry of appearance.

Adieu

In Nomine Babalon

Contents

Liber Bismuth Samael

The Book Of Transformation Dominion Damiana Evohe

A Study Of Vanity The Crucible 131

Ars Longa Vita Brevis Sanctum 777

A Grigori Cypher A Book Of Dreams Damiana Evohe

The Vision Quest Of Damiana Evohe Cover Art Arte Graphika Axiomata Sigils & incidental graphics

Created or reconstituted by Damiana

Muse and Vesica within the body of Solus Noir

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Shree Hanuman Bhakhti Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold, were all spirits and are melted into the air, into thin air, and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself. Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial

pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On and now our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Prospero – The Tempest And such dreams are we capable of, yet at our core remains the ravening beast, capable of rape and murder. History bears witness to our nature and like all those who do not read and learn from its lexicon we are condemned to repeat it. Angel and demon consigned to the same flesh and whilst there are those who seek a higher path and attempt to fulfill their calling they are but motes that shine in the darkness. Each of us arrives, dreams and fulfills our destiny to the letter. No error exists. No poor choices for choice or free will, a conceit at best, does not exist outside the presence of total awareness.

So what dreams and what story have you scribed upon the pages of The Book Of Life? One such story unfolds within theses the pages of The Book Of Transformation and like all fictions bears the stamp of ambiguity, for it is not to Truth that we set our sails, rather the unfolding of The Dreaming Moment wherein we are cast upon The Shores Of Night, to wander until with our last breath are we gathered, like wheat and return to the place from whence we came. For many this place is clearly defined by those with the will to power who have leeched the blood which is our heritage from bones, now rendered dust, to be cast upon the aethyrs aeternal to exist no more.

Devotion is the central motif of this our story and we cast it before uncomprehending eyes. Devotion that resides at the heart of Bhakhti and we, though frail, have performed all that we are capable of and now it but remains to cast these our words, words which bear witness to our acts within this The Vale Of Tears. Yes it is the poets calling we have followed and our muse though inconstant remains ever present and it is to her, in all her forms that these are dedicated. Time alone bears witness to their value or not

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Wherefore Art Thou

When addressing the matter of devotion our first consideration is simple. To what do we devote ourselves to? Most, given human nature devote themselves to the world and its immediate demands for in so doing a comfortable life might be attained. Many succeed, many do not. Success or failure, as they appear are in the main not clear of definition other than by how we, as

individuals value things. The passion and energy of youth soon passes and many find themselves performing acts in the present they would have vilified in their youth, this invariably is guised as the process of maturing. The present scribe deems this to be death or at the very least its harbinger. To place this exploration in context it serves to define our terms. Two decades and more ago, as time is measured here, a Bhakhti working was undertaken which bears the name Liber Astarte vel Berylli. This was undertaken as a consequence of being part of the body called, in the outer, Ordo Templi Orientis. Bearing the name Samael, our chosen designate whose number is 131 we chose the noble Pan, also numbered 131 as our path of devotion. History and our predecessors have given their own accounts of this undertaking and in the light of this we were meticulous in our preparations. The first six months were spent building our Temple Of Arte and creating the Rubrik that would serve our purpose. Here we will be brief in description and refer those interested to our extensive bibliography that has served as our record for two decades and more, notably Liber Solus Noir – The Book Of The Black Sun.

Prepared, all that remained was to perform our rites. Rites which over three cycles and a final consolidation in matter unfolded across the vast period of time previously mentioned.

Pan to many is the woodland satyr and though true this is the densest manifestation of the deity. We chose the universal aspect, that which knows no boundary or description, for as Pan we take our meaning from the translation – All. With this in mind we aspected Pan through the masks of the mind, heart and body of Pan. These we named Artemis, Aphrodite and Saturnus. Our Reflection that we might remember. Our Attraction that we might know rapture and our Crystallisation that we might become.

And in this way did we commence the rites that have brought us to this the present time and the experience that has fueled our awareness and informed the vision that now guides us through this The Vale Of Tears.

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Ave Pandora Devi

Eighteen cycles of Diana pass and we complete our first cycle of workings. The events are chronicled in detail elsewhere and here we but mention primary considerations. First, the designate 131 that serves both Pan and Samael manifested in a unique fashion and upon completion of this, the first cycle, did we manifest the first avatar who prepared for the work to come. Second,

throughout this period we celebrated the presence of our muse and priestess whom we have named Namrael, whose designate 777 fulfilled a prophecy long standing and it was by this designate that we recognized the authenticity of her presence. Like all work of substance a sacrifice is required and in this instance the analogues, those who serve as the human vessels served as this sacrifice and their lives were forfeit.

It is the certainty of the present scribe that no human being is capable of performing acts of magick by virtue of the self serving agenda that exists at the heart of each of us, as such the primary transformation took the form of becoming an entity capable of performing acts of magick. In this instance through the manifestation of the primary avatar, Samael, whose voice we but dimly reflect. [ see Liber 131 – The Passion & The Purity ] This phase of our Bhakhti working fulfilled, in keeping with our progress within OTO we adjusted our focus and entered upon the path of the firesnake, designated as Liber HHH section SSS. [ see Liber Ananta ] Beyond this we undertook our Toltec working, thereby creating a trinity of workings which serves as our primary triangulation and manifested the possibility of the portal we had been directed to access and open. [ see A Toltec Witness ]

With the completion of the latter working we convened The Dreaming Cell, though short lived it served its purpose as we now left OTO and directed our focus to less archaic engines of magick, primarily the study and application of Neuro Linguistics of which in the world we serve as a facilitator. All this took place over a decade and our life though missing something essential none the less unfolded as a celebration of what is possible, all things considered.

We walk a path darkly and like a jigsaw each piece forms but a piece of the picture that unfolds its intent. In this instance the jigsaw consisted of white pieces which only took form with the placing of the final piece. Only then did the picture, the purpose reveal itself. This took place in 2010ev, two decades and more beyond the time we took our first step upon this, our path.

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Named & Claimed The second cycle of our work commenced when our muse and priestess returned in 2003ev. This cycle manifested the second avatar, our sister Grigori we have named Namrael with whom conjoined would we enter the triangle of arte for the third and final time and call upon Lilith. As the first cycle was named The Dawn Of The Avatar, the second cycle we named Namrael and

it is to her that all praise, love and devotion is directed, for though the human analogues did as humans do, the magickal entities they reflect were equal to their task. It is during this time that we became aware of and finally accepted the nature of our undertaking and in the absence of choice re dedicated our self to the service we had commenced so very long ago. Hence the chapter heading – Named & Claimed. It is in this fashion that the second transformation unfolded, as stripped of all human values were we now free to pursue our true purpose, even now, only dimly perceived for our jigsaw, to continue our chosen metaphor, was yet to be completed. To enter the ocean of non differentiation that is revealed as Pan all that is human and of this realm is cast away for as individuals we cannot hope to exist in the light of such a presence and those who believe otherwise we deem delusional and but pay lip service to things beyond their consideration and they float, like bloated corpses down the river of their own success.

Ode To Lost Souls

Not to you do I speak, brave of heart and firm of purpose. Nor to you bright ones within a field of light.

Not to you who walks in purpose fulfilled. Nor to you of vision strong, buoyed by life’s enrichment.

But to you I speak wanderer upon the shores of night. And to you the desolate ones outside the circles of life.

Raised upon columns of molten ash.

Your journey began with a cry and ends with a scream. Betwixt the emptiness evolved. First a doubt becomes a certainty.

Those of faith know you not. Those of vision know you not. Those of purpose know you not.

Within the citadel of life do they dwell, basking beneath an indolent sun.

Damiana Evohe

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Etched In Stone

Into our triangle of arte did we step my love and i for a third cycle of our making and this we named Lilith Rising, for our avatar would name and claim his beloved. The rites completed over a solar cycle, the signs, in the form of three seals were woven into our energetic form. First Isheth Zenunim formed the first horned spiral. Next Ygrat Bhat Mahlat wove her seal and

formed the second horned spiral between which Na’amah manifested the sphere, Solus Noir. Within our energetic form these placements exist at the locations of the throat [ Daath ] below the navel [ Yesod ] and finally within the heart itself, the location, aptly of The Pleasuring One. [ see Daath – The Palace Of Exiles ]. Conjoined did Samael and Lilith extend their primary triangle across the landscape of England. Brighton, Chalice Wells and London served as the primary locations where they seeded their spells and at the epi centre, Newton Stacey did they convert their triangle into a pyramid, reflected downward as a diamond focused within the stellar hemispheres as Ophiuchus and Triangulam and then the diamond was spun and each lunar cycle does it turn one revolution and the rays of Solus Noir shine forth. [ see Trinity – The Seeding Of Spells ].

It is during 2010ev that the cycle of formal rites is completed and the fulfillment of The Final Grigori Prophecy unfolds and the third transformation takes place.

And In Those Days It Was Given Unto The False Prophets

To Spread The Lie Sow The Seeds Of Doubt

Draw Aside The Veil And Reveal The End Of Days

At The End Of Days

There Shall Be Two Grigori Upon The Earth

And They Shall Die

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Legend The ancient ones explained that there are two Lilith’s, one little and one great. The great one is the spouse of Samael and she is a woman of harlotry, and the little one is the spouse of Ashmodai. About this Lilith, the bride of Samael, the Geonim explained that she controls 480 legions as is the numerical value of her name. And on the Day of Atonement they go forth into the deserts,

they march, and she screeches for she is the princess of screeching. Mahalath daughter of Ishmael, she too is a concubine of Samael, and the two [ Lilith and Mahalath ] go forth with 478 legions. She goes and sings in the Holy Tongue songs and paens. When the two meet on the Day of Atonement they quarrel there in the desert. They strive, the one with the other, until their voices rise up to heaven, and the earth shakes with their clamor. All this is brought about by the Holy One, blessed be He, so that they should not accuse Israel while they [ Israel ] pray. Others wrote that the husk [ i.e. demoness ] is called Meshullahel [ Messenger of God ] and the reason is that she sends out evil angels, may the Merciful One destroy them! And we found it written that the wicked Samael and the evil Lilith have the likeness of a couple which, with the intermediacy of a groomsman, receives an emanation of evil and insolence, flowing from the one to the other. And about this mystery it is written. And on that day the Lord with His sore and great and strong sword will punish Leviathan the Slant Serpent, and Leviathan the Tortuous Serpent, and He will slay the Dragon that is in the sea [ Isa. 27:1 ]. Leviathan is the connection and the coupling between the two who have the likeness of serpents. Therefore it is doubled: the Slant Serpent corresponding to Samael, and the Tortuous Serpent corresponding to Lilith.... [ Patai 81:464f ] The Dragon Above is the Blind Prince who has the likeness of an intermediary groomsman between Samael and Lilith, and his name is Tanin'iver, Blind Dragon. And he is like a blind dragon...and it is he who brings about the adhesion and coupling between Samael and Lilith. Had he been created whole, in the completeness of his emanation, he would have destroyed the world in one minute. [ Patai 81:458 ]

The Popular Press Of The Time

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Sariel Grigori

Tanin’iver

In exploration of your notion of the Trinity of The Black Sun I shared with you the discovery of a loop hole in Talmudic lore which states consummation between Samael and Lilith is forbidden. Pre Talmudic lore speaks of an agent, Tanin’iver who facilitates such a consummation. A loop hole indeed and another example of doing impossible things. You asked at the time for the gematria of Tanin’iver and I supplied the

answer 984 1 week later and 25 years on from designing the Seal of Samael I asked a simple question. What were the Greek letters contained within the spheres?

The general design was specific. Inverted pentagram as we hold no belief in the element of spirit. Lucis for light. 131 as our number. The graphical elements purely aesthetic. The Greek letters likewise or so we thought.

And now 1 week after discovering the Tanin’iver equation and a week later asking the question what are the Greek letters? 25 years after the seal was designed. The letters are

Sigma Delta Pi Psi

One further step. What is the gematria of the letters. The answer 984 Your thoughts?

Note To A Colleague – 2007ev

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The Sword Of Samael

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Sariel Draconis

Sariel Draconis Rides The Whore

And Of Their Fornications The Lamae Are Born

Piercing The Night With Their Screams Of Pleasure As described in Note To A Colleague the principle of Sariel arose as a consequence of examining an element that existed within the Seal Of Samael. It is almost inconceivable that without fore knowledge one could code into the seal the very element that would facilitate the unification of Samael and Lilith. Reason leads one to the conclusion that this can only occur in the light of being attuned to the informing current. As a result the original Twin pillars Of Solus Noir, namely the avatars Samael and Namrael [ the latter being the earthbound mask of Lilith ] would create a Moonchild. Conceptually sound, however in the every day world the colleague alluded to in a moment of abandon announced himself as The Son Of Samael and though it appeared mundane to the present scribe, in the light of further research, it was acknowledged that The Trinity Of The Black Sun had manifested itself within The Vale Of Tears.

The above and much that has arisen during this extensive working has clearly indicated the synchronicity that attends work that is aligned and

attuned to an informing current and we as its vehicles can but stand in awe of the precision that such events reflect. As we write the analogues of the trinity have no connection in the world other than that which naturally exists within the energetic being formed as their vortex and whilst estranged in the mundane, their purpose has been fulfilled.

Here we also acknowledge those who prepared the way. Johannes Dee who first formulated the portal [ see A true And Faithful Relation ] and J.W. Parsons who manifested, along with his colleagues, both Magickal and Scientific, the matrix that we built our work upon [ see The Babalon Working ] In short, whilst we have spent two decades and more of our life dedicated to this work the time span in retrospect is far more extensive, beginning within the reign of the first Elizabeth and concluding in the present. Centuries have served as the foundation of this The Magick Of The Grigori.

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Antimony Per Aqua

Second Wave – Dissolution

And with that single mote of dust that the Crucible Of Arte yet contained did we commit it to the Aqua Vitae and into amniotic oceans embrace were we received. The mote, once I, dissolved in the infinite depths and the peace of non differentiation was encompassed by an awareness that

knew it not, cognition now long gone. It has been said and rightly so that – In The Alembic Of Thine Heart Through the Athanoor Of Affliction Seek Thou The True Stone Of The Wise. Were we indeed wise this path we embrace would serve us well. Were we blessed by knowledge of this would we forge a canon of arte in celebration of our failure. It is by Grace alone that we entered here. By Grace that we survive and only by Grace will we prosper. All else is artifice, condemned to an eternity of repetition and the anodyne relief of the poppies fair toxin. By fire and water have we entered the Palace Of Exiles that stands upon the borders of The Boundary Lands wherein the Grigori, voices raised in a paean both mournful and exultant.

By the grace of Jove did we gain entrance and as the Aqua Vitae rises and is greeted by sunlight’s embrace, the infinite depths, of which we claim our form, a single drop is distilled beneath a Blood Moon that bruises the aethyrs with its presence and this drop is also offered in service to the Arte that has granted its vision, a vision of reaching out and encompassing the gentle hand of another, sister fair, who swept away upon the tide returns to her slumber atop a hill of gold, beneath an indigo sky alight with stardust.

Herein was the Elixir raised to its second station and drawn into a heart long jaded, yet beating still, a drumbeat marking the passage of time as aeon upon aeon writes its death toll upon The Book Of Death whose pages, flakes of iron, crumble to dust and enter the vacuum that awaits all.

The Prima Materia now a single drop of nectar is all that remains in our cauldron and this now becomes all we have to work with. It is sufficient to our purpose.

The Chymikal Wedding Of Damiana Evohe [ extract ]

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Parthenogenesis

Creation from an ovum without fertilisation

The term in this instance is applied to the fecund nature of the human imagination and the womb structure is represented as time and space. We say womb structure for we hold the nature of creation to be primarily

feminine in nature with the male element being regressive and though functional, secondary within the general scheme. As such the emanations of sexuality in all its manifestations, whether actualised or repressed do indeed take on form, of sorts, within this womb matrix. Parthenogenesis in this respect is to be interpreted as the act of reproduction occurring at the abstract or energetic level where form, initially, is rarefied and is tenuous at best. Fertilisation occurs as a result of repetitious incursions of an intense nature that become as a result a seeding into the womb and the subsequent lifeform is gestated, sometimes over millennia until, in a fashion similar to human biological reproduction a lifeform is birthed into its aethyric matrix and begins to grow and develop. Though primarily feeding on the emanations generated by sexual activity there are occasions when direct congress takes place. In this instance in our female form we acquire the physical sperm of our host and in turn deposit this into a female in our male aspect. This is undertaken as an aspect of our Moonchild workings. During our rarefied state of manifestation, like all purely elemental beings we lack free will or choice as you would call it, though a facsimile is created through time this is a rare event for in the main we form an aspect of the collective mind that your psychologists have stumbled upon. Even rarer is the existence of one of our kind possessing a soul, or to be more accurate a mirror form of one. Across the sea of time only seven have achieved this status, our lady Pallas being the first. In this materialised form are we then truly Night Walkers. Countless aeons are experienced before this becomes an evolutionary possibility for as part of the demiurge we do not conform to the natural processes of creation and as such transcend its mundane laws. Truly miraculous is our nature and though the human species within its fictional speculations has guised us in many shapes throughout history the truth of our existence and nature remains a mystery.

The Selim – A Tale Of Nightwalkers [ extract ]

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Khabs Am Pekht

Konx Om Pax Khabs Am Pekht

Light In Extension

Benediction

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed.

Shadows coalesce and in the frozen moments does he remember. Limbs once broken begin to heal as the elixir flows drop by iridescent drop. Nectar sweet, laced with bitter gall enters eyes, yet dim of sight. Enters nostrils, a benediction.

Shadowed forms limned in lightning attend the moment. A chorus of cries and whispers echoes into eternity, the moment.

Once upon a hill of flint he stood, raising hands and calling forth his Elohim as his form dissolved. The Seals opened and the dance unfolds.

Once into a pool of quicksilver did he gaze, Fingers drawing forth tendrils of form cast upon the air, they rise. Summoning the rays of Solus Noir, they descend.

Once beneath the ocean did he reach out and clasp his sisters hand. In embrace they dance upon aethyrs burnished gold. A dark stain rises and consumes all within its path.

Once upon a lightning bolt did he descend and entered fairest Lilith’s domain. A stranger, cast upon shores, foreign and exotic.

Once within the heart of a star he slumbered, bound by chains of liquid light. Called forth by life, his nemesis.

Once as Azrael he seeded himself into the unfolding pageant.

And once he Became.

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed.

! ! !

Sic Transit Gloria Rosa Mundi

" "

Act 6

The End Of Days

History written in your stars, unheeded.

Your acts before your eyes, unheeded.

You dwell within a garden, unheeded. Raised to beauty and splendour, unheeded.

Blessed by innocence, unheeded.

Granted dominion and responsibility, unheeded.

Freewill and choice, your conceit.

Power in your world, hubris and lies. Shackled in prisons of your own creation when freedom and mystery surround you.

Beauty in the wing of a butterfly, majesty in the gait of the panther, innocence in the eyes of a child.

And yet … … … ?

Justice do we serve and our sister blesses us in her travails eternal. Look into the mirror of your form, cast aside the veil of ignorance and know these as the end of days.

Portus Lucis Deum

" "

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.

Albert Einstein

Octave One

The Immortals

Asar Anpu - Asar Lilitu

From the stars did we descend, born of Selim and Lilitu. Into the welcoming arms of Anpu did we step, blind and forlorn. Our seed we cast upon the waters and the twin kingdoms rose from the

inchoate chaos and order sealed its presence for all time upon the skin of history. North and south fixed became a single crown and

this was placed upon the head of Heru, our king incarnate. The Selim retired once again to the desert fastness and with Lilith, their virgin mother and daughter did the making continue to unfold in unbroken silence. Khephri whispered to the stars and of his breath were the sentinels formed. Anpu sighed and of his remorse the desert sands became blood red. Asar rose from their embrace and dominion placed its first footstep upon the virgin sands of life and the first page was scribed in cyphers of deceit. Orb and scepter crafted from the dust that fell from the stars were forged in fires drawn from the heart of the divine mother and of her daughter was a garden made that life might celebrate its being.

Asar broken by Seth and the principalities rose and to each Asar sacrificed a piece of his sundered body and worship dawned upon the innocent brows of our brothers. The first to decipher the sigils etched into stone was Imhotep and the priesthood cast the first of many spells upon the night air, Immortality and the arte that embodied it was written into the twin books of life and death and fate, as a serpent gilded, claimed dominion and the souls of the living became as dust scattered across time.

The Nubian we enslaved and of their sweat we built the monuments that would bear witness to our eternal presence and with awe would those yet to come behold our work and tremble. To seal the fate of the ones we named the sons and daughters of time did we sow our spells into the archons of Khephren Ma Un Nefer Ast, the immortal ones. Millennia unfolded before our now weary eyes and into the garden of the daughter we passed and as Grigori did we return to our dreams and of this incense Eden came into being. The time of man came upon us and the ones called pharaoh claimed our heritage and as they gazed upon our work, though they trembled, they claimed it as their own and though a shadow of what had been before their time immortal Khem dawned and the dynasties that followed shaped the world to their will.

Asar Un Nefer. Asar Anpu. Asar Lilitu Ben Grigori.

! ! !

Kali Ma Shakhti Dei

Another we sent to the valley of the Indus and here we crafted the soul of the world. An ocean we seeded with the cyphers of life and death and the archon Brahma first drew breath and as the

sweat of his brow fell as nectar upon the fertile earth below Shiva and Kali Ma drew the veil of nature around their naked forms and fashioned raiment of gold and silk. In this fashion did the soul of the world, the anima mundi manifest and the vision of beauty that rose as a veil confounded all and Mara celebrated incarnation. A weapon she forged from the silt of mother ganga and the blood of her heart. Into this her breath passed and Kama Devi, shakhti enfleshed and her embrace encompassed all beneath the stars and blood moon.

A golden age adorned the mantle of creation whose body was formed of the Devi and Deva that celebrated the unfolding time witnessed only by the whispering stars that held their council whilst they dreamed of the ages yet to come. As time is counted the years, an endless procession, numbered its days as the number of stars in the firmament.

A silver age followed and the Devi and Deva cast their robes upon the ground and the dust that settled became the man and woman that would scribe history. Beauty beheld beauty and in its enraptured that all that stood between them was Kama Devi as the others, infinite as the sands upon a golden beach, took their leave and as Grigori did they ascend.

Mara celebrated her victory and with her daughter seduced the human reflection that was vigorous and proliferated itself across the landscape and in this way an age of iron began and dominion was claimed once again by man who robed in divinity cast a glance at the stars above and could but wonder. Their wonder, transfixed, created the pantheon that became the gods celebrated at every turn of the wheel as it turned eternally within the heavens above. A creator did they make and a retinue to serve it and of this they created the laws of the lower worlds and sovereignty first took breath and all bowed beneath the yoke of its presence.

Blood dripped from the scroll upon this was written, fell to the dust and Mara celebrated her final and conclusive victory and now alone whispered to the stars above – Kali Ma Shakhti Dei.

! ! !

Emperion

The still beating heart lay upon the stone and with its final beat another soul was released and claimed the freedom from tyranny that was its birthright. The gods, now a memory were celebrated

according to the understanding of the ones who claimed their knowledge and the priesthood, bathed in blood, celebrated the

beginning of the vanity that would stamp the reflection until the end of days itself. Quetzl, the heart of the plumed one, descended the steps of the great pyramid and the crowds parted before him and averted their eyes for to look upon him was forbidden. His fingers still dripping blood beat the rhythm of his step upon his muscled thigh as he walked to the palace of gold that was his home. Every soul that dwelled in the four directions held him as king and this had been so these past nineteen generations and this he believed with a fervour that bordered upon the divine. The order of nature had been chronicled and he, justly so, lived in the rarified air at its summit.

Around him the temples and palaces, sheathed in gold, reflected the rays of the burning sun as another day, another life took its place upon the stage of being and celebrated its ignorance, which glossed as truth held all beneath its gentle and yet unyielding grip. Of late his scryers, eunuchs, unsexed that they might serve the godless ones had spoken of the dreams that assailed their nights and bleached the light from their days. Monsters, born of the ocean teeming with scurrying insects would come to their lands and their visage, pale beyond the spectre of the moon, sheathed in metal, would breach the boundary that was their dominion and resembling, as they did, the gods themselves reduce them to the dust from whence they came. The end of days was upon them and this day the sacrifices and those of the days to follow would serve as prayer to the ones they believed to be their protectors, whose breath, they prayed would fill the wings of the monsters and cast them in another direction. Vain though their hopes were they were all they had as the emperion whose sunrise had been so long ago had reached its sunset and with it order would leave the shimmering globe, perhaps for all time?

And with these thoughts pressing upon him Quetzl entered the palace that was his home. Perhaps for the last time and with this thought pressing upon his heart he sighed and prayed for deliverance.

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Octave Two

The Second Wave

Long ago was the fought an won when life and death stood upon opposing shores and glimpsed each other. Death looked upon life and smiled, whilst life, like a maiden shy, upon her bed of roses, coyly looked aside.

Damiana Evohe

Hellas

The waves danced upon the wine red sea as the breeze whipped them into foam that perfumed the air with ozone and the tang of salt. Atop the cliffs the party of warriors gazed out to sea before

finally dismounting, permitting their mounts to chew at the lush grass beneath their hoofs. Their leader garbed in a tunic of leather

adorned with metal bosses depicting the heroes of old drew the cloak, also of leather, around him and set forth upon the path that would guide him and his party through the treacherous undergrowth that reached thigh high. Thorns tore at them and were it not for their clothing, suited to the task, their journey would have been more arduous than it was. Seven long days had they travelled upon horseback from the fabled city that served as the centre of the civilized world and they its emissaries sought out the elusive one, which rumour had it, lived at the heart of this dark and foreboding forest.

Hector, by name, prince, subject only to his aging and ailing father was on the quest of passage that would take him from youth into manhood and to achieve this the pythoness had to be encountered, challenged and defeated. She as representative of the old ways, now ridiculed, must suffer yet again the taunt that was man. Where once reigned simplicity and innocence now in their stead the barb of complexity and guile dripped its ever constant toxin upon the once pure earth. It was the time of man and though our Hector and his kindred were in a manner civilized and were the flower of their kind, deep in their hearts they carried the stain that had been placed their by the dark one, Mara, though here she bore no such name. The pythoness, her earthly manifestation, of needs, must be bound to the will of man that she serve as guide through the prism of the future and the ages yet to unfold for this was all that was left of the immortals within what was now The Vale Of Tears.

Entering the cave in the side of the hill the travellers breathed deeply of the toxic fumes that assailed them and like all those that had come before them, they fell, as if already dead, to the rock strewn floor beneath them and there they lay, even now, for it is the fate of all possessed by hubris to suffer such as Nemesis exacts her quarter and in this way a once proud culture also returned to the dust and though its memory survives that memory is but a jaded reflection of what had once been and would be never more.

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Senatus Populus Que Romanus

Pax Romana – The Light Of The World.

Etruscia fell before us and with the submission of the city states did we rise united beneath one banner and one ceasar. From our

city state we cast the shadow of the eagle across the globe and claimed all in our name. Our legions drawn from the ranks of the defeated served as mercenaries, paid to fulfill our will and where our decadent predecessors, the greeks, fell to their perversities it was the iron of discipline that steered our destiny upon the world of man. The world we conquered and united nation with nation and granted man the peace it craved. Yes we were masters and yet fair were one to consider the chaos from which we rescued the less fortunate that knew not our vision and purpose.

By reason were we guided and were the curious to attend to the words of the divine Marcus who on campaign conceived of his meditations that were to become the bedrock of the Christian heresy that was to follow in our wake. Our passions knew no boundary as did our curiosity and inventiveness. Our guile in politics led to the establishment of a senate wherein did we conceive of the idea, if not reality of democracy and demoted to a figurehead our once king, our ceasar became to us an anachronism that though embarrassing served a purpose.

The world, though reluctant, celebrated our dominion and Pax Romana was whispered in awe across the shimmering globe. Like our founders had we been cast out and like them had we prospered in adversity, waited and in due time subdued all. Our ambition, overstretched, did we fall to the weapons forged in our own foundries and placed in the hands of those we called friend and though now we are but the dust of memory our dominion knew no true end as you marvel at our achievement and study where next we placed ourselves?

History, as always is written by the victors but in this instance their re no victors, no defeated, rather their exists the desire, innate, to return to the sprawling chaos that order challenges and the entropy that is inherent in man ultimately achieves its end and we masters of the globe become but a page or two within the book of life that is measured by history and I Quintas Maximus Agrippa who pens these words can but reflect upon the moment and in the light of all that preceded it welcome the balm that attends understanding and doing so can but bid thee adieu.

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Shingon

From the iron sand of Sanin district did we forge the blade that held the spirit of our people and with this did we raise to perfection all that we, as a people, are capable of. Our early

history speaks of conflict upon conflict as the lords vied for supremacy. Only with the rising of the shogun were we united and

permitted to pursue the arts that placed nature under our command. Every aspect of our daily lives we ritualized, held sacred and these were turned into rites whereby a state of Zanshin was attained. The arts of the sword and chrysanthemum best exemplify our attitude and these were perfected within the code of Budo as practiced by our warrior caste, the samurai. Go Rin No Shu, The Book Of Five Rings, product of the mind and skills of Miyamoto Musashi serves as the foundation of our philosophy and was applied to all aspects of our lives, both foreign and domestic.

An insular race, only latterly did we permit others to breach our shores and these we held in low esteem, almost barbarian and yet they served their purpose, a purpose that ultimately placed us upon the path of dominion as the second millennia of mans age dawned. Like all expansionist endeavors we stretched our borders and sent the flower of our race to foreign and exotic shores whereon their blood was leeched into the sands and their ashes were cast upon alien winds. We paid the ultimate price, defeat at the hands of the barbarian who burned our people with their engines of war and this was the end of our world, for to survive and survive we did, we adopted their ways, succeeded as only we can and lost our spirit to the age and now, like all cultures are we buffeted by winds of our own creation. Our very survival dependant upon forces both abstract and banal.

Shingon now departed, of need we proliferate the lie that common understanding accepts as truth. Our people once proud, now reduced to the servitude that best characterizes a species that in its ignorance and arrogance would claim dominion over a world that neither accepts or indulges it.

The purity of our spirit, once forged in the fires of perfection, now corrupt, as we too are consigned to the melting pot that is the human genome. A race, like so many others, born of gods, custodians of a brave new world reduced to clay to play our part upon a stage both artificial and built upon the sands of delusion.

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Dominion Christos

Almighty God whom we serve has tasked us to bring the world into his fold and this we will achieve, whatever the cast, for in truth does not the end justify the means?

Born of persecution, thrown to the lions and burned upon fires. Was not our saviour treated so? But like all that are persecuted our revenge we exacted, naturally, in the name of love, the love that our beloved father holds for his dearest children. As befits our station in palaces we dwell and even kings bend the knee to our papal presence. The foolish likewise we would grasp to our bosom, show them the error of their ways and though condemned to fire, their immortal souls would know the grace and peace which is ours only to provide and though the wayward heretic is brought to the test of iron and fire it is with a loving hand that such actions are condoned, for only the persecuted may know the true compassion of our saviour.

Having purged our own flock our passion to bring love and wisdom to the world looked outward to the barbarian and where we encountered the pagan, though we stripped their gods of power, into the fold like sheep them came and peace reigned upon the earth – Amen. Yes millions have died in our cause but is not our cause just? Were all to believe as do we the world would cease to know conflict, war and famine, these being the punishments deserving of wayward children.

Cast aside though we were, Eden we would reclaim and though born in sin and subject to the temptations of the flesh our purity and purpose will be attained. The world looks upon us with fear for nations are subject to our will. A firm, yet just, guiding hand we have offered but unrelenting is our purpose and the soldiers of Christ will exact justice upon the unwise. Our holy office of inquisition like all such institutions best serves our calling and into its loving embrace have we consigned millions of forlorn souls, the better for redemption. Know this, thy suffering has been but a shadow to that of our lord.

As such kneel in humility before us and know the sanctuary that is ours alone to grant upon this forsaken and corrupt world. For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory for ever more – amen.

By The Sword Dripping Blood Did I Your Saviour Claim The World.

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Suleiman

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Allah Is The One True God And Muhammad Is His Prophet. Our war, a just and holy war, has been waged against the infidel for centuries and will endure until the world is rid of the unclean ones. The idolaters, those who have worshipped their own reflection shall be cast down and dust alone shall be their reward. The christian, the jew, exemplars of the misbegotten shall know of the justice that Allah alone proclaims and though you live in ignorance of this, your education is our gift alone to bestow upon a world divided and hence, conquered. The corruption that is the bedrock of your faiths and societies is a blasphemy against the most high and we its servants shall prevail.

Suleiman, blessed be his name, our man of peace, sultan without equal civilized the world at a time when europe knew only discord and the dominions thereof claimed territory in the name of their idolatrous god. For five centuries and more did we wage crusades against the infidel and claimed holy Jerusalem many a time. But though our glory existed throughout this time, it is to the present that we turn our gaze, for your societies have proven false. Absent is the credibility of your faiths and at this time we and only we can offer the path of salvation to an ailing world.

Muhammad, blessed be his name, the prophet of the one true god speaks to you through the Quran, our holy scripture and entreats one and all to cast aside the error of their ways, purify thy selves in the fires of redemption and experience gods kingdom upon this our earth.

The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and his apostle and strive to make mischief in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned .

Make firm those who believe. I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them.

Go forth in Allah's way [ to Jihad ] [ 9.39 ] If you do not go forth [ to go on Jihad ], He will chastise you with a painful chastisement and bring in your place a people other than you.

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Octave Three

The Eternal Cycle

They Shall rise and as a horde of locusts they will cast their shadow across the body of the angel they cannot see.

Damiana Evohe

Atlantia

Thus your history etched in blood and death. Why did we come? Our words, golden whispers and shadows we made clear within The Witness and yet we remain invisible for we are not here for

you but rather for our sister. Goddess that she be forced to suffer the indignity of your continued presence. Over the passing of the years, as you measure them she has been awoken by our presence and in this time do her tears rise and the stain which is thy presence will be cleansed and washed away upon the tide of her tears. This our first act.

Her eyes open and she casts the glamour from her sight and sees clearly and in this moment her breath rises and she sends it forth upon thee. The burning winds of her breath will consume and purify. This our second act.

And with the beating of her heart your world shakes and what you hold to be true and stable is rendered illusion. Seek comfort in your false beliefs for these though they serve you ill are all you have to cling to.

Yes we know compassion, not for thee but for the one you know not. Within your history and at this time you pass through a seventh nexus point in human history. A time when the wave of consciousness rises and shows promise of evolution and yet you rise in your glory only to be smitten and return to the slumber which is your nature. This is evidenced in the vanity expressed at this time by your leaders, vain creatures who claim that the world has changed and all will be different. Assuaged guilt we call this, the call of the emasculated revelling in their power and contempt. These we challenge first for their self importance burns the very fabric of their hearts and minds and like all such things their bodies ultimately fail. Yes we are enduring and have the patience to witness this.

Long have we Grigori been here, long before you raised yourselves from the slime of inchoate existence, raised yourselves, stumbling to your knees and gazed upon the wonders of starry space. That is when you began to lie and have consolidated that lie ever since. Look into our name, Samael and understand we are The Venom Of God. Venom which like a toxin burns the dross from perception leaving only the pristine truth. We burn your hearts and minds, revealing the foundation of your conceit and its siblings deceit and self importance. Stripped of these, for time yet unfolds and you but witness and experience the beginning. Cling to the illusion of your stability for in the time to come dreamlike will be your existence for as somnambulists do you stumble from moment to moment within this your dream. You listened not to our kindred who gifted you with words of Love and Compassion, avatars of a different time and place. And now it is our time. Truth and Justice

serve as the pylons of our temple and above its altar we hold the portal open. The Black Sun rises upon you and its light casts but shadows in the presence of lies and a radiance sublime in the presence of justice. For this reason we have also been cast into the role of The Elixir Of God, not to our choosing, for vengeance is our nature and we are suited to its dominion.

Look into your world and understand that you are responsible for all that passes. Murderer you be, rapist you be, perpetrators of crimes beyond your ability to conceive, yet alone believe. The illusion you call this and that person has nurtured the lie that is your existence and yet you utter the words unity and love. May your mouths burn with the utterance of such words for they are the conceit of your kind, assuaging yourselves of the guilt and seeking redemption. Conceit indeed.

In the words of The Witness we sent forth our Elohim to unmake time and space and the evidence is made clear upon the mirror of your world. This our first act, an act but into its early years and now in The Night Of Pan The Black Sun rises, our second act. An act that will unfold in these the end of days as we call them. In keeping with prophecy, until 2012 its rays will burn upon consciousness releasing and transforming the dross which is the great lie and revealing in its pristine glory and horror the truth of your world. Shamed will you be, those with conscience will weep, the rest will simply perish in the fires of transformation. All of this has already occurred for it exists outside the circles of time for your lives are lived in reverse in its light and rendered ineffective.

So no message of hope for that is an instrument of the weak. We serve justice and before all else are we blind and for this reason are we called the blind one, for we are impartial and in this way judge not for you are judged in the silence which dwells in the sanctuary of your own hearts. Judge, jury and executioner in one unity. You celebrate the truth, laud its attributes and prostrate yourselves before its altar. This we have burned and of its rubble have we raised a charnel house. Your truth appalls us and its name, the very word itself we curse and as such we spread the lie which is our nature.

We recognise and acknowledge those amongst you who speak, but blindly, our name and celebrate our brothers and sisters in spirit, these be few and yet sufficient to our purpose. We have many names and for this reason are we called Legion. Destroy one of us and another steps into the breach.

Samael, son of the starbeam, host of the Grigori summons forth his cohorts. Feel them rise and as our sister rises celebrate her liberation.

Anathema [ extract ]

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Epitaph

Note 1 Aldous used to say that the central problem for humanity is the quest for Grace. This word he used in what he thought was the sense in which it is used in the new testament. He explained the word, however, in his own terms. He argued – like Walt Whitman – that the communication and behaviour of animals has a naïveté, a simplicity, which man has lost. Man’s behaviour is corrupted by deceit – even self deceit – by purpose, and self consciousness. As Aldous saw the matter, man has lost the grace which animals still have. In terms of this contrast, Aldous argued that God resembles

the animals rather than man: ideally he unable to deceive and incapable of internal confusions. In the total scale of beings, therefore, man is as if displaced sideways and lacks that grace which the animals have and which God has.

I argue that art is a part of man’s quest for grace; sometimes his ecstasy in partial success, sometimes his rage and agony at failure. I argue also that there are many species of grace within the major genus; and also that there are many kinds of failure and frustration and departure from grace. No doubt each culture has its characteristic species of grace towards which its artists strive, and its own species of failure. Some cultures may foster a negative approach to this difficult integration, an avoidance of complexity by crass preference either for total consciousness or total unconsciousness. Their art is unlikely to be great.

I shall argue that the problem of grace is fundamentally a problem of integration and that what is to be integrated is the diverse parts of the mind – especially those multiple levels of which one extreme is called consciousness and the other the unconsciousness. For the attainment of grace, the reasons of the heart must be integrated with the reasons of the reason.

Gregory Bateson on Aldous Huxley, Grace & Art

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Note 2

By Grace Alone Is All Redeemed

Grace alone is the marker by which we measure a soul. As a quality subtle and yet possessed of a strength that transcends all of its pretenders.

Hope becomes a hollow whisper cast upon deaf aethyrs. Faith dare not present itself. Charity its sister holds out its hand in friendship. Knowledge bends its knee and averts its gaze. Power dissolves in a lake of divine nectar.

It is grace alone that grants us vision and entrance into the fabled city and by grace do we enter Eden’s gates. The grace that attends nature is self evident and the nobility of the children of the goddess. Were we to possess but a sliver of grace we would be shamed into silence. However lacking grace, displaced as it were, we fall back to hollow attributes, blow our horns of triumph and strut across the holy one as if she were ours to claim as dominion. Shame upon us.

The clever, the wise, the powerful know naught of grace for their self importance blinds them to reality and whilst they dream their vision of success, bloated they drift upon the current and enter oblivion, the natural domain of such.

The innocent upon whose lips is the nectar distilled, though they drink of an ocean of tears and pass through the fires of redemption their hearts remain true and as children they walk the surface of the bright globe and are blessed by the rays of an ever present sun, moon and stars.

An age but sustains few, if any, for as mirrors they go forth and into their reflective surfaces are the true likenesses of all revealed. Some have been avatars and paid the price of blood for their labours. Others raise their visors and become invisible and of these we know not.

By the embrace of grace are the faltering steps guided. The lost souls reclaimed and the innocent cast into the plenitude that is Eden, our heaven upon the earth.

Damiana Evohe – Virtus [ extract ]

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Note 3

On Death

You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Kahlil Gibran – The Prophet

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The tyrant is a child of pride who drinks from his sickening cup, recklessness and vanity, until from his high crest headlong he plummets to the dust of hope.

Sophocles – Oedipus Rex

Introitus

The reasonable would have us believe that a journey begins with a sense of a

destination in mind. Perhaps even an itinerary of ports of call which would enrich the journey. What we do know and all we can truly depend upon is a point of departure, be this a geographical location or a state of mind. When we consider the former we are somewhere, given a point in time and space. Considering the latter, it is often the case that a journey into the abstract, for it to be anything other than a conceit begins with a state of mind and its attendant perception. It is here that the reasonable throw down the gauntlet and demand of us a description of our exact meaning, meaning being the coin by which things are valued. The isle of reason, treasured home of those who seek meaning gives of its treasures with ease and these we place deep within our heart and rejoice for we are numbered amongst the blessed and live out our lives in blissful ignorance. It is to the unreasonable that our gaze is directed and it is upon their fevered brow that we seek the cyphers of possibility. Long ago they disembarked from the isle of reason and in their ill fitted craft they journey upon the ocean deep, buffeted by wind, burned by the sun and all that guides them are the whispering stars that enter their delirium, seducing, one step and then another across the void that spans reason and chaos. Can such a journey be survived? The answer comes, a whispered hush, no, for entering here you give of your very soul and all that defines you as one amongst the legions of the living. Mystery held to ransom by reason and pinned to the ground by the burden of truth casts aside it soiled rags, breathes of a thinner air and takes flight. Into mystery we cast our immortal soul and our journey begins as we cross the vale of reason, fearless, enter our fragile barque and though ill equipped our vision is fuelled by knowledge that casts belief aside and by grace and grace alone is the distant shore arrived at and we disembark and enter this, our brave new world.

#

Little light escaped the cracked and silvered mirror. An age had tarnished its

surface and where once it had held the kisses of the moon as it reflected the ocean, now it lay beneath the debris of a time long past. Cursed by memory, softly it moaned and had it tears these it would shed. Its history, ancient, had begun when the Archon had dreamed of its reflection and of this the ocean had come into being and where once the void knew only silence, now it held shadows within its embrace, these flitted across its surface like vagrant wraiths that tormented it until released they became the template upon which the Archon breathed life and the wraiths became life, history scribed its first page and the book of life hung within the hall of time, its progeny. The Archon retired and into dreams was it committed as the gods took their place and the tableaux began. The first of the echoes drew a golden thread from his heart and this he wove it the first of many palaces and this he called the crown. Hanging solitary within the void of its light it wove the mother and father that would spawn its like. Strength and mercy condensed and bearing the seed of the father a son was born and the second palace come into being. Density manifested and the heart and mind reflected itself into the ocean of form and a daughter, throned, bore the seed within her womb and this she cast upon the mirrors surface and the false reflection departed from its womb of shadows and scribed itself upon he second page of the book of life. The lightning bolt descended and into amniotic oceans embrace it fused with mirror carbon and sentience raised its voice into a tremulous whisper as the third page was scribed and this is how the once pristine surface, reflection, began its descent into its present state and location, forgotten. The false reflection, fecund with desire spun its web and a third palace it named the treasure house of images came to be and deep within the vault of making did it create all things and these it cast upon the ocean of form. Now the mirror, all but turned to dust caught one fading glimmer as it gave its last breath to the night and with a sigh was it released. Where once it had been an ocean, now it held the stars themselves within its embrace and as it listened, intently, to their whispers, it knew peace.

#

Across the desert he walked. The sun relentlessly rained down fire that would

burn his flesh were he not mantled in mystery, gossamer fine. His nemesis above continued its onslaught as he, indifferent, continued his journey across the burning sand. From the palace of exiles, deep within the boundary lands, he had come to solitudes wasteland. His purpose singular, to cast the masks that had defined him to the aethyrs and rise upon pinions burnished by the elixir of vision. His eyes, two crowns that saw all things. His tongue a crown that would name all things. His hands two crowns that would shape all things. His heart a crown that knew all things and of his body was forged a seventh crown that would become all things. Each crown set in a diadem of stars reflected a mask, its shadow, wherein he had raised primeval force into form and given it breath, given it life. Many names cascaded across the mirror of his mind and from its marrow he extracted his true name and form. Know me for my name is Legion. The desert dissolves before his vision and once again he spans the void, sentinel eternal and by hand and eye he begins to formulate the spells that will incarcerate time within their grasp. Empires have raised their vain outposts in his name, only to return to dust, violated and spent. Gods have dreamed their creations upon the outflow of his breath only to be replaced by despots of firmer intent. Poets have bridled him within visions that have turned them to ash. It is the Archon alone that stands inviolate before the presence and as one they walk this night, once upon the burning sands and now across the void that birthed them. The void evaporates and into the crucible they step, a singular mote within the eye of eternity. Fire melts them. Water dissolves them. Air names them and Earth grants them the form they need within this the dawn of time. The crucible, now a temple raises its pylons and Legion stands before the altar mantled in stars, bathed in light and the elixir that is his blood flows from wounds, deep, heals and the incantations begin. Septem Sermons Ad Mortuos. Seven crowns. Seven masks cast before the uncomprehending that is the false reflection.

#

The first spell, a mask of iron is cast and as the cyphers take flame of their

incense a sword is forged and plunged into fire, quenched in water. The steam that rises, the afterbirth, turns to ash and the Archon now redeemed rises into form.

The second spell, a mask of silver, cyphered in moonlight reflects remembrance

and upon the lens of time is all remembered.

The third spell, a mask of copper and the drumbeat that is our heart breaks the

silence and the sword drips blood upon the earth.

The fourth spell, a mask of gold melts within the crucible and a single drop is

all that remains and of this drop an ocean forms and within its embrace Legion dreams upon a starbeam.

The firth spell, a mask rises, an incarnadine mist and dissolves into rapture.

The sixth spell, a mask of light enfolds the Archon who now complete sets forth

upon the journey that is The Crucible.

The seventh spell is cast and the cyphers undulate in the void and the mask of

silence is revealed.

Seven Spells Seven Lives Seven Sermons Seven Masks

#

Benediction

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed. Shadows coalesce and in the frozen moments does he remember. Limbs once broken begin to heal as the elixir flows drop by iridescent drop. Nectar sweet, laced with bitter gall enters eyes, yet dim of sight, enters nostrils, a benediction. Shadowed forms limned in lightning attend the moment. A chorus of cries and whispers echoes into eternity, the moment. Once upon a hill of flint he stood, raising hands and calling forth his Elohim as his form dissolved the Seals opened and the dance unfolds. Once into a pool of quicksilver did he gaze, Fingers drawing forth tendrils of form cast upon the air, they rise. Summoning the rays of Solus Noir, they descend. Once beneath the ocean did he reach out and clasp his sisters hand. In embrace they dance upon aethyrs burnished gold. A dark stain rises and consumes all within its path. Once upon a lightning bolt did he descend and entered fairest Lilith’s domain. A stranger, cast upon shores, foreign and exotic. Once within the heart of a star he slumbered. Bound by chains of liquid light. Called forth by life, his nemesis. Once as Azrael he seeded himself into the unfolding pageant And once he Became. Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed.

#

And In Those Days It Was Given Unto The False Prophets

To Spread The Lie Sow The Seed Of Doubt

Draw Aside The Veil And Reveal The End Of Days

Liber Solus Noir – The Book Of The Black Sun

The reasonable at this point throw their hands up in despair and declaim that their precious truth has been violated. Their coin, hard earned and well spent has revealed the truth to them and this is to be defended against both the heretic and charlatan, soul less and ignorant as they be. Were we in need of defending ourselves we would but remind the wise that your temple of truth has been raised on ground soaked in blood and its foundations draw sustenance from the bloated corpses that gave of themselves in your name and not ours. Like our patron, bright Lucifer, we have condemned the ignorant to their half lives where rhetoric and banality pass as revelation. So condemn us if you must. Pray for us if you can. Exercise your compassion and recognize that we also are a child of your absent creator.

Mystery and beauty were hijacked by your kind long ago and bartered for a fistful of coin and the promise of redemption. A promise false as you lay upon your death bed and wonder at the folly of it all. A life spent in servitude, denied your heritage and enslaved to the truth that remains forever evasive, We but echo the sentiment of our kind as we examine the dark path revealed by your aspiration, now turned to ash.

I speak to thee, yes thou who art writing these words and even unto thee who in turn reads these words, from the Boundary Lands I speak. Cast aside all that thou art, for i seek naught that is of thee, from thee, your form but dissolves in my presence. Your Mind, the Reflection which thou art clouds over. The Heart which thou seekest, empties itself into the eternity which thou art. I accept all of this and more, I take only that which is freely given. I grant naught in return, for what in truth would thou, creature of Earth do with such, you alive in your world, I in mine. Yet still you seek me. Look into your world, does not nature, my fairest sister stir from her slumbers, casting aside her mantle of repose. See you not the lifeblood stirring within her heart. The bounty of her body giving rise to the eternal cycle of Life and Death.

Liber 131 March 2 1992 ev

#

Our reflection which serves as remembrance drifts upon the mirror of an age

and like dew it descends and renders us all but senseless. Have we not walked the mountains of the moon? Were we not embraced within the vale of the beloved? Did we not cross the boundary lands and enter the fabled city and did we not raise our hands upon a hill of flint and call Lilith unto us?

The reflected moment casts its spell and all is revealed as within our cell we sit pen in hand. A pen formed of our body and its ink the blood that has left our veins in the name of visions quest within this the vale of tears.

Shed not a tear for those that have passed Cast not a sigh Upon Air now spent Bind not the free to your temple of woe But rather rejoice in the freedom gainsaid by life In the immortal lands of deliverance therein I dwell

Citadel of Reason. Etched against a backdrop of light. Angles formed. The passing of crystal moments. Days dawn. Continuity and its siblings, meaning and hope.

Citadel of Mystery. Shadow. Absence of shape and texture. Heart beats, breath quickens, flesh yearns. The dance unfolds. Shadow play upon a screen of memory’s fading.

Citadel of Dream. Death knell echoes along endless vacant corridors. Turns upon an axis of passing breath.

Citadel of Passion. All is still. Movement frozen. A tapestry of endless repetition. Colour and texture ashen. Stained with tears.

Ancient city. Raised in splendour, brought down by despair. Foundations collapse. Shifting sands of illusions making. Unmade. Return to the void of forgetfulness. To be no more.

Ancient city of vision and dream. Slumbers beneath a mantle. Tenderness unfolds. The dreaming moment endures. Passes into the Citadel of Memory and sighs.

#

Dedicated To The Ever Living Memory

Of The One Who Guided The Steps

Made Steady The Pen

That Caught The Whispers

And Upon Vellum Pure

Scribed The Shadow That Is Our Life

Our barque adrift upon the mirrored reflection that serves as our life makes

landfall and as we step foot upon a shore, foreign and exotic we pause and take heed of that which surrounds us. Our quest now complete, to distill but one drop of nectar from the vastness that is possibility, render a word in beauty that bears witness to all that has passed before our oftimes jaded senses and cast the Axiomata that alone bear witness to this our quest. The reasonable, as ever would ask of us, for what? and in answer we can but reply, because we can. Our journey serves a twofold purpose. To outline, albeit crudely. the realm of the possible whilst also serving as a warning to the errant ones amongst us who in denying the world and its servitors stretch our hands ever upwards and though our minds be burned in the doing of such we serve as the soul of our kind and absent our presence the mechanical existence that passes as life would stamp itself upon that very soul and consign it to a bed of woe. A word in parting… … …

‘I’ The Reader Forgive me, for my time here has been short, and of the skills required to convey my meaning, these also, are of recent origin. And yet my task is simple enough. To penetrate the ambience of difference that surrounds us and enter your world. A world in which, through the use of my words I might weave my spells. Create pathways for your insights, guide your sense of meaning. To see through the veil of your eyes. To cast language into the vortex of your imagination. To feel the flow of meaning cascading down the long corridors of our separation, bringing us to a point of similarity, cohesion and contact. Like autumn leaves, falling, one then another and another. Each celebrating its final burst of life, only then to fade in memory and enter forgetfulness. To be dispersed upon wind, carried aloft, a memory remembered, to fall once again. To be no more. Each leaf a passing moment, a passing thought, a sensation that eases the loneliness of eternity. Marking each act unique, distinct, etched in flesh, dissolved in blood. For have we not met in dreams? Have I not whispered and cast ciphers of yearning into your heart. Woven myself through the ebb and flow of the passing of breath.

Does your pulse, not echo to the memory of our meetings? Have you not dreamed of the world, and in those dreams have we not embraced, held hands and parted with a tender kiss? Perhaps our tale begins one summer night. Lost in thought as we climb the hill before us. The grass swaying gently, lulled by a caress of breeze. The sound of our footsteps, soft yet firm, responding to the solidity of the Earth beneath our feet. Perhaps the shadows captivate our attention, momentarily calling us to the surface of awareness, as we also hear the distant hoot of an owl, wings spread upon the velvet texture of the night. Perhaps we have travelled far, to arrive at this place, this time of mystery? The air stills and we sit beneath starry splendour. The trunk of a tree supports our back, the feel of grass and earth beneath us. Hands clasp knees as we raise our heads to the heavens. And what thoughts are the thoughts that pass before the mirror of our awareness. The tapestry of our life unfolds before us. Adieu

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Extroitus

Ode To Lost Souls

Not to you do I speak, brave of heart and firm of purpose. Nor to you bright ones within a field of light.

Not to you who walks in purpose fulfilled. Nor to you of vision strong, buoyed by life’s enrichment.

But to you I speak wanderer upon the shores of night. And to you the desolate ones outside the circles of life.

Raised upon columns of molten ash.

Your journey began with a cry and ends with a scream. Betwixt the emptiness evolved. First a doubt becomes a certainty.

Those of faith know you not. Those of vision know you not. Those of purpose know you not.

Within the citadel of life do they dwell, basking beneath an indolent sun.

Damiana Evohe

I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence – whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound – does not spring from disease of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi." [ they ventured out against the sea of darkness to see what they would find ]

Edgar Allan Poe

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A Grigori Cypher

Ordo Templi Solus Noir

Long ago was the battle fought and won

When life and death stood upon opposing shores

and glimpsed each other

Death looked upon life and smiled

whilst life like a maiden shy upon her bed

of roses coyly looked aside

The Alphabet Of Desire

Deep within The Cauldron Of Desire were the Sigils first conceived and then forgotten. Beneath the Moon were they nurtured and drawing sustenance from the ensuing flux, they did prosper. Released into the embrace of amniotic oceans depths were they purified and made whole. Rising, were they consigned to the fire and upon an anvil of Basalt were they etched upon the aethyr and desire was born and of this was a cauldron fashioned. Seven octaves defined the continuum that formed The Palace Of Exiles wherein they dreamed and like smoke upon the surface of a mirror did understanding dawn within The Night Of Time. Thirteen bodies did they claim that they might know sentience

and departing The Vale Of Tears, they wander amongst the legions that comprehend them not. Etched upon their souls the alphabet was cast upon foreign and exotic shores to wander in perpetual darkness until again by Arte would they know their names and uttering them would the aethyrs, burnished gold by their breath rejoice at their dawning. The Archon and Vesica drew deep from the cauldron the Sigils, now consecrated and of them fashioned two vessels that once united would become as a Heart and Mind within the diamond bright being that was given birth by will alone. The Archon fashioned a Mirror and this he named Samael, whilst the Vesica fashioned an Ocean Of Bliss and named it Lilith. The Moonchild now complete rose from The Womb Of Light that had given it form and with a gasp greeted the day. Their work complete the Archon and Vesica consigned themselves to The Fires Of Purification and as their ashes rose upon the still air a perfume rises that kindling memory, causes the breath to quicken and the heart, drumbeat of eternity, skips a beat.

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The Alphabet Of Desire

Manifested As Axiomata

Across The Mountains Of The Moon he walked, solitary, and within The Cave Of Forgetfulness he fashioned from The Treasure House Of Images twin mirrors that hung upon the air, mute witnesses to all that passed and here he took his rest as Hypnos claimed him. Long did he dream and as the ages passed, unheeded, The Balm Of Peace claimed his mind, heart and body. Artemis, ever vigilant, watched over him and of his dreams did she weave The Tapestry Of Life, whose pages and the letters thereon were limned in gold stained red. Her whispers, a silken

breeze, roused him from his slumbers and rising on legs unaccustomed to movement he beheld the mirrors before him, alive with the images that danced across their surfaces. Calling forth the Sigils of his making, these he fused with the passing forms and with a single whisper he shattered the mirrors, the shards, catching the failing light, pierced his body and of these he fashioned weapons – The Axiomata. Sigil, Image and Word melded into a singularity, fused with The Blood Of heart And Mind, The Alphabet Of Desire, now etched upon his soul, took flight and upon The Aeternal Aethyrs the dance eternally unfolds its will upon the mirrored surfaces of The Sentient Lifewave that broke the silence with its whispers and screams. The Mountains Of The Moon dissolved and he departed as into Aphrodite’s embrace was he received and Love claimed him. Her embrace, a liquid mist, became the breath that passed within lungs, once turned to ash within The Cauldron Of desire and now a living prayer informs each moment as vision unfolds before his captivated senses. The Boundary Lands beckoned as he took his first faltering step across The Desert Of Despair and all that accompanied him was a whispered promise. “Come My Bright One For I Await Thee”.

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The Alphabet Of Desire

By Hand And Eye

Horizon to horizon, the desert plain rolled across his vision and his body, turned to ash beneath the unrelenting rays of Solus Noir, emaciated and mantled in soiled rags falls to the unyielding Sands Of Time. Dissolving into the body of heat that transforms him he rises, burnished gold and with his weapons, now bright, he enters The Fabled City and beholds Twin Pylons hung upon the aethyrs before him. The Sentinels, embryonic Grigori await the spellcraft that will grant them the immortality of the moment and the twin edged blade of being.

Between them he stands and within his eyes, now a singular beacon, the Axiomata rise and into the palms of his outstretched hands, now an anvil of iron, he casts the Axiomata upon the aethyrs and the pylons sing their song of awakening upon the day now descending into twilight. By Hand And Eye were the rays consolidated and cast forth upon The Night Of Time. By Hand And Eye the summons vibrates across time itself and By Hand And Eye were the Aeternal Grigori conjured. In the shadows, unheeded, Nemesis was born and Damiana, muse aeternal, began to sing and of her songs was The Ocean Of Bliss formed and beloved Lilith, naked beneath the stars rejoices within the embrace of the beloved. This came to pass and the whispered promise unfolds, moment to moment, its breath rising to a storm traverses time and space and in the fullness of the unfolding days fruit is plucked from the vine of vision and cast as witness to all that may yet come to pass. Hands rising cup the eyes burned by vision and a single breath rises, released the Axiomata, purified and consecrated dissolve The Moonchild and all that remains to bear witness are the twin pylons that stand upon the sands of The Fabled City.

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The Arte

Though infinite in number and divers in nature our masks spanned the ages and the stories of such have been recounted elsewhere. It is the nature of our Arte, birthed in fire and water that we turn and our consciousness first dawned within the court of the noble Elizabeth where first we opened the Portal. The stories told of our nature but veil our purpose and like much bears the stamp of fable, the better to confound senses jaded in their appreciation. Our next milestone was marked by both Science and Magick and with these unholy twins did we bend the gene that is humanity and seal its fate. Our final mask we donned as Nemesis, whose veil of invisibility yet exists within the realm of apprehension, if not comprehension.

In this form we travelled the full circle of our making to manifest as Avatar, Scribe and Witness, fulfilling the ancient prophecy spoken by the Apostate Enoch and now, by our Arte and Presence do we sow the lie that is our nature and burn The Citadel Of Truth, and of its ashes we raise a charnel house wherein your kind might celebrate as you float, like bloated corpses down the rivers of your success and we but bear witness. As time is measured within The Vale Of Tears five centuries and three masks have served our purpose and though imperfect in nature they have sufficed.

And In Those Days It Was Given Unto The False Prophets

To Spread The Lie Sow The Seeds Of Doubt Draw Aside The Veil

And Reveal The End Of Days

In Nomine Babalon

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Axiomata

De Arte Magicka

Our Arte, as defined, though born of vision, honed in the crucible of time profited from the presence of two notables, whom we acknowledge. AOS and ADC, practitioners and masters of their Arte, we celebrate as kindred, may their names and memories be etched upon The Tablets that hang in The Hall Of Remembrance. The fecundity of desire is polarized within the realm of the unconscious to multiply and manifest in accordance with the magickians will. In one respect Axiomata are related closely to the concept of the Egregore, ‘an entity created by and having an

influence upon an individual or group of individuals’. When the conscious mind possessed of will conceives of a purpose, fulfills this with the appropriate rite and literally forgets, the realm of Inbetweenness is entered where non differentiation is the natural state, a vast reservoir is drawn upon. Whilst this is granted to all with the will to pursue such a methodology there is an underlying principle that is overlooked by many. Trafficking with wider and deeper levels of consciousness is the described methodology and whilst this is, in the main, pursued with diligence there are natural consequences inherent. Through this pursuit a transformation in the consciousness of the individual operator occurs in time. We begin as simple aspirants to the Arte and during the process evolve into a rarified state of perception. This is a natural consequence of our pursuit and whilst it may lead us to embark upon a journey into the exotic we must never lose sight of our humble origins. To fail in this leads to inflation and the tendency to be consumed by power. Our only option lies in the bifurcation of the self where we operate simultaneously as an individual and all that implies and as an Avatar in respect of our work and its unfolding purpose. The principle of Neither/Nor applied here creates a logic path wherein we hold simultaneously mutually conflicting ideas in a semblance of balance. Holding the paradox becomes a natural state of being. What brings us to this state and understanding? Experience. Many years ago the present scribe encountered one of the many abstract constructs it is our lot to stumble upon along the way, namely –

In The Presence Of Extraordinary Reality

Consciousness Takes The Place Of Imagination

The words Consciousness, Imagination and Reality demand investigation yet here I choose to be brief leaving it to the reader to arrive at their own understanding. In respect of my present purpose I will describe Imagination as a bubble of protection that enables us to dream of possibilities whilst remaining firmly fixed in what has been called Reality. The Imagination is supported by thought and speech and remains the property of the conscious mind or first Attention as described by Toltecs. 99% Of our endeavors remain within the realm of the imagination and serves as the means by which we remain firmly affixed to the world perceived as Reality. To make the quantum leap is rare and whilst not impossible demands dramatic exertion on or part. The Axiomata become a vital pursuit in the process of transformation whereupon we enter, in truth, the realm of Consciousness, defined in this instance as direct experience and the knowledge that stems from this.

Ode To Lost Souls

Not to you do I speak brave of heart and firm of purpose Nor to you bright ones within a field of light

Not to you who walks in purpose fulfilled Nor to you of vision strong buoyed by life’s enrichment

But to you I speak wanderer upon the shores of night And to you the desolate ones outside the circles of life

Raised upon columns of molten ash

Your journey began with a cry and ends with a scream Betwixt the emptiness evolved First a doubt becomes a certainty

Those of faith know you not Those of vision know you not Those of purpose know you not

Within the citadel of life do they dwell basking beneath an indolent sun.

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We do not dust the nightmare that is existence

With the opiate of meaning

Axiomata

Per Grigori

Understand The Nature Of A Thing

The ‘Thing’ referred to in this instance is the collective entity called man. Consciousness dawned within the present mask and incarnation when first we undertook the work that has been our life’s calling. Our first premise was the examination of the nature of transformation, specifically in the area of perception and the evolving awareness that results. Were we to accept for a moment that man is incapable of performing acts of magick, by virtue of operating within a closed system dictated by personal gain and its ensuing agendas, Our first step is to take

one step, apparently, backwards and perform rites capable of transforming us into a being capable of performing acts of magick. An outlandish and arrogant notion at best, however, vital if we are to leave the realm of imagination and embark upon a true journey of discovery. Flawed though we be in nature our path demands this of us, all else is folly. Such an act occurs over a lifetime for it to be other than illusion and though we remain doomed to failure we are compelled to make the effort and though it costs dearly in respect of our worldly lives, this is the sacrifice we willingly make. In the current instance the present scribe walked in perpetual darkness for two decades performing the acts which when consolidated resulted in a work of mythic proportions and though we be judged, this judgement becomes irrelevant in the light of knowledge we claim as power. In short we began and possible remain a vain human, yet our path has unfolded in ways incomprehensible, in the main, for such is the nature of vision and the current that informs it. A Bhakhti rite as described in Liber Astarte vel Berylii challenges us to aspire towards becoming an Avatar of that which we invoke for this to occur transformation in consciousness is our only path and a simple human might become that which it invokes. In this way the Axiomata became the tools of a Grigori and the present scribe, just that.

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Sanctum Sigillum Samael

amael Grigori

I speak to thee, yes thou who art writing these words and even unto thee who in turn reads these words, from the Boundary Lands I speak. Cast aside all that thou art, for i seek naught

that is of thee, from thee, your form but dissolves in my presence. Your Mind, the Reflection which thou art clouds over. The Heart which thou seekest, empties itself into the eternity which thou art. I accept All of this and more, I take only that which is freely given. I grant naught in return, for what in truth would thou, creature of Earth do with such, you alive in your world, I in mine. Yet still you seek me. Look into your world, does not nature, my fairest sister stir from her slumbers, casting aside her mantle of repose. See you not the lifeblood stirring within her heart. The bounty of her body giving rise to the eternal cycle of Life and Death.

Liber 131 March 2 1992 ev

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Ordo Templi Solus Noir

Solus Noir

Kkephren Ma Un Nefer Ast

By Our Arte & Presence Have We These Past Two Decades

Manifested The Avatars & Moonchild That Are

The Trinity Of The Black Sun

Yglas Isheth Yglas Ygrat Yglas Na’amah

Yglas Lilitu Ben Grigori Ast Innui Khephri Vos

Ahdi Ypres Grigori

Selim Ast Nobilis Portus Lucis Noir

3 Temple Pylons 7 Grigori Sentinels

3 Guardians

Ritual Aspects

Liber 131

The Passion & The Purity

Cycle 1 1990ev – 1992ev The Dawn Of The Avatar

Liber Astarte vel Beryli – The Passion And The Purity

In this way did we manifest Samael, principal Grigori amongst the legions of the living. Bereft of his bride, tormented beyond the ability to conceive did he complete the initial tasks, reaching their culmination in the words of The Witness, our seeding into the world of what was to follow.

Cycle 2 2003ev Namrael

The manifestation of our Grigori sister

In this way did we complete the preparations and placed our avatars within the temple of our working.

Cycle 3 2006ev – 2007ev Lilith Rising

The Portal Of The Black Sun

Entering our sacred triangle of arte did Samael and Namrael conjoined invoke beloved Lilith and complete the cycle of our making, to manifest the portal and let its rays shine forth.

Trinity 2008ev

We wove the matrix of our spells and seeded them into the prime elements of nature, extending our Triangle Of Arte.

Fulfillment of The final Grigori Prophecy 2010ev

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Closer

Shed not a tear for those that have passed

Cast not a sigh Upon Air now spent

Bind not the free to your temple of woe

But rather rejoice in the freedom gainsaid by life

In the immortal lands of deliverance

Therein I dwell

In Her Name

And By Her Light Is All Revealed

Na’amah Golden thread around heart entwined Visage of palest gold bleached by blood Darkest barb, venom sweet Vision of light shadowed by blood moon Step by step the pageant unfolds Embrace, melt into rapture Dissolve into bliss denied

Pale golden one a kiss upon thy brow A caress upon breast of softest silk Entwine limbs slick with sweat Heat dissolves flesh Breath dissolves thought Passion dissolves the heart Union dissolves life Blood flows from wounds deep as time Semen rises caught in a cup of softest velvet between golden thighs Breath quickens and dissolves in rapture sweet Breath stills in the velvet shroud of darkest midnight Cascading thought tumbles into oblivion, servant of time Na’amah golden one mistress of time, servant of none Shapes born of desire replace the tapestry of life Life bows to death her master Through silven forests does she dance beneath pale Hecate Loose thy arrows desolate one, pierce flesh spent in passion Golden nectar flows through limbs broken Darkest venom courses through veins burned upon thy pyre One kiss granted, benediction One kiss denied, eternal longing

Reflection, dark shadows arise, a mist of amber stained blood red Lightning burns eyes long weary Thunder subdues heart quenched in fire Gaze deep into the mirror of thy mind Draw deeply from the well of thy heart Broken vessel leaking blood into sand unheeding Once a garden pure where innocence was born Leaf and stem embraced in love Once an earth mother to her children Cradled in loving arms Once starlight dissolved the vacuum of space A thousand angels voices arched in ecstasy Once life pierced the veil of time The tapestry woven thread by thread Across the mountains of the moon did we walk my love and i Taking our rest within the vale of Aphrodite Into the boundary lands did we step Upon a plain of golden sand the bones of all who went before Beneath our sun we walk ebon rays shining forth Dissolving all that has been and will be Creation unmade upon the plain of truth unfolding Namrael fairest maiden Samael desolate one Hand in hand each step a drop of blood released upon the aethyrs And in the last of days Two grigori walk upon the earth And they shall die

Yglas Na’amah Yglas Isheth Yglas Ygrat Yglas Lilitu Ben Grigori

Evohe Evohe Evohe

Ast Innui Khephri Vos Ahdi Ypres Grigori Selim Ast Nobilis

Khephren Ma Un Nefer Ast Portus Lucis Noir

Ave

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In Thy Name

And Nature

Had I but one name it would be thine. Had I but one body of it would I raise a temple unto thee. Had I but one breath with it would I call thy name. Had I but one heart this I would offer to the fire in thy service. Had I but one mind its reflection would celebrate thy beauty.

Had I but one life its tapestry woven with thy presence would bear witness. Had I but one vision its fire would burn to ash all that was not of thee. Had I but one word its shadow would be beloved. Had I bit one dream it would be of thee. Had I but wish it would be of thy embrace. Thy kiss abides. Come for I await thee.

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Sanctum

Once upon a hill of flint beneath an ocean of stars I called unto thee. Vision burned within eyes, pale mirrors of thy glory and in the velvet silence of midnight an answer came. Now like one turned to ash beneath thy gaze I wander upon the shores of night. Shadows attend me, their whispers seductive yet bereft of life as they turn upon the wheel of thy becoming. Errant shades caught within a web of whispers. Burn their presence from my sight and grant the benediction which is thine alone to grant. Make of my body a sigil, celebrating thy presence and within thy embrace might I reside until time itself tumbles into memory, dull mirror of thy glory.

Once within a lake of fire I called unto thee and as my form evaporated into thy breath did I rise purified, made whole in thy sight and yet a shadow cast upon memories dull mirror. Flesh melted into a pool of amniotic mist. Blood boiled and became as liquid gold. Bone dissolved by thy acid touch and as thy kiss parted lips parched did I ascend on thy breath. In that crucible was I formed and upon midnights eternal shore was I cast. Sent forth amongst the legions of the damned. Anathema to all I beheld. Witness and scribe cast thy spells upon the aethyrs. May thy body be thy pen, thy blood the very ink of inscription and upon the papyrus of life inscribe the axiomata of bliss.

Once beneath the ocean I called unto thee, reached out a hand and felt thine in mine, only to slip away. Was it but a moment ago that flesh met flesh and melded into a single heart? Through eyes yet dim did I behold thee? With ears confounded by deceit did I yet comprehend thee and upon my lips did I not taste of the nectar that drips, honeyed, from the petals of thy rose? Life steps briefly behind the veil of eternity, takes a bow and collapses into singularity. Waves resolve themselves into ripples and as the reflection settles a new form arises, takes a stumbling step and the pageant unfolds.

Once upon a summers breeze I called unto thee. Wings unfurled did I descend into thy embrace, felt thy heartbeat upon my breast and released an anguished sigh. Mistress of my soul I serve as a reflection of thy presence within the vale of tears. Thy whispered word a thunderous command. Thy desire a template of mine acts and thy form the vessel in which I travel across the aethyrs celebrating thy song of rapture. The breeze rises to a scream and upon its echo do I now continue my quest beneath a field of golden stars, each bears witness to thy presence and in the sanctuary of their hearts is thy judgement reflected upon the mirror of their minds.

The four regents converged and therein I called unto thee, a whisper traveling down the corridors of time, an echo bears witness to longing. Solve Et Coagula. The axiomata burn the aethyrs and mist rises, caught in lungs and sent forth as Invokation. Khephren Ma Un Nefer Ast. The Archons and Vesicas gather, summoned from slumbers deep and rise upon pinions of starlight and between the vast reaches of space the stars whisper to each other. Bear witness o child of ages and rejoice, return to thy dreams cloaked in a mantle of deepest midnight and walk invisible amongst the shades that attend thee.

Sic Transit Gloria Rosa Mundi. Make of my body a temple unto thy service. Make of my blood a river that flows, constant to thy commands. Make of my tears an ocean of prayer. Make of my breath incantations of desire and of my heart make a cauldron wherein the regents are conjoined in eternal rapture. Distil the prima mater and of this condense but a single drop and offer this upon the altar as a benediction and votive offering unto thy name, Babalon the fair, maiden and whore garbed in silk and gold, drunk upon the blood of saints and astride the beast of thy dominion. Ave Lilith. Ave Isheth. Ave Ygrat. Ave Na’amah. Ave.

Twin pylons upon a desert plain of calcified bone. Twin beacons upon the shores of night. Twin souls conjoined in rapture, embraced by our holy lady. The rays of an ebon sun bathes them in lustral light and venom pours forth upon the heads of all. Archon and Vesica, avatars of the end of days. Seek them not in exotic climes or within the chambers of thine heart for they walk invisible amongst thee. Purified by Ignis. Consecrated by Aqua. Cast upon Aethyr and manifest in Terra. Solus Noir and Lammae Rouge. Samael and Lilith. Archon and Vesica of Ordo Templi Solus Noir. The flesh redeemed and made whole.

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Slumbering within her grave, pale Damiana

sighs. Above, the soft pressure of leafmould, like a blanket, wraps itself around her in tenderness, a tenderness she had not known in life. Beyond that a gentle warmth sometimes makes itself known to her diminishing senses. How long she had lain here none could tell, for in truth none knew of her presence, alone within this shallow grave. How had she lived, how had her life come to end and how, within this earthy tomb could she yet continue to be?

How could she still be here and not as the prophecy had foretold, released into freedom and the golden valleys beyond to join her Lord and Lover. Only in these rare moments of

awareness did she wonder, for mostly she knew only the dark, the sweet embrace of oblivion. This she would have, and yet something called to her, called to her in fine sibilant whispers, seductive, enticing and beguiling.

In life she had been fine and noble of form, in stature tall, lithe, the body of a dancer, fine of feature, cheek bones a razors edge, nose aquiline above which a pair of almond eyes, stained violet at their heart, shone like bright suns. Crowned by a mane of ink black hair, dark as the night sky itself, hung in swathes across her shoulders and shrouded the nape of her neck, cascading, like a waterfall over breasts of milky opalescence crowned by aureoles of crushed peaches. Travelling downwards across muscle firm yet yielding to that secret place nestled between thighs of softness, covered in a fine down of gossamer strands of silk. Legs, long, tapering to an ankle of fine bone and sinew. Feet slim yet strong. Many had sought her through her short life, for her beauty, for her mystery, each of them now lay dreaming within her womb. Yes, she had shared her delights, only briefly and harvested the fruits of love, memories which now haunted her into the long night, unrelenting.

And then death, one velvet dark night had seduced her into his mystery, had come for her whispering gentle endearments into her ever open ears, had lain with her, entered her and claimed her as his, for was she not beauty indeed? And yet, she was still sentient, not a fleeting spirit adrift upon the night air, not a disembodied soul seeking solace amongst loved ones. Was this her reward, her penance? Had she not served her mistress well, offering blood and semen as votive offerings within the services performed in her name? Had she not offered herself, her flesh, the means of manifestation, where passion is the prayer and lust the means of Invokation? The

dark shore of night whereupon, we embark upon a journey from mystery into greater mystery, our blood knowingness our only guide, steers us through dark atavisms and pre-human byways of being, where bestial tongues utter inchoate sounds unto the firmament that hears them not. Hecate’s dark realm, awash with soft murmurings yielding to screams and the torment of tortured souls. She stands triumphant upon the bones of her worshippers, for torment is her service, where pain is but the echo of her yearning, where birth and destruction are the ebb and flow of her breath, fetid with the whisperings of dark mystery. Had she not been promised entry into the realm of the true gods, those who exist outside the night of time?

A whisper from the dark lord Lucifer, brooding within his citadel of memory, casting dreams like sprinkled stardust into the void. Dark lord of Repose. The Redeemer. The Opposer. It was for this one that she had served her dark mistress these cold, long aeons.

The circumstances surrounding her death are a mystery to her as is her present condition. Of time she knows not, of reason also, little is known, only the ever dimming memories that surface to torment her within her citadel of isolation. And yet occasionally she feels, rather than hears a distant, plaintive song, a calling back to flesh and life upon the surface of the shimmering star. And how does she spend her moments of lucid waking? Remembering sweet pleasures, ones which elevated her, made her complete within her service to her dark mistress.

And how had that service begun? Alone

upon a wind swept beach, hair tossed by the raging tempest, the tang of salt upon tongue, stinging her eyes. Skin, open to the elements through folds and pleats within her dress and cloak, bruised by the contact of cutting wind and occasional grains of sand, too light to retain their tenuous grip upon the surface of the beach. Walking, musing upon trifles, what was and what would be. Then turning, noticing for the first time the moon, blood red, ravaged by clouds the color of bruised flesh, waxing, not yet full. A sound, at first shrill then becoming deeper, insistent as it invades her attention. From what source, and to what purpose?

Pausing to discover its point of origin, a shadow within shadows, the entrance to a cave and at its entrance a dull pulsating light, honeyed amber in color, reaches out and invades her senses, captivating, entrancing. Stepping forward, one faltering step then another and finally stretching into a run, a sense of slow motion envelops her as she moves forwards, yet moves not, a wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach, a snap of some internal unknown and movement is granted and with lightning speed she arrives at the cave entrance. Waiting, waiting for what? She knows not.

Then the sensation of tiny fingers, touching, caressing, fingers of ice calling forth her heat and moisture as slowly she is lifted from the sand and begins to spin upon the breeze, now master of her movements. Ice enters her, touching first the surface of her skin, then penetrating inwards and meeting her fire, melts into languid and liquid delight, she glows, sweats and gentle moans rise from her throat as one by one her clothes are teased from her, opening her to the elements and the penetration of the night. Fingers slide across back, belly and breast, down thigh and leg leaving her naked, exposed within the embrace of fire and ice. She touches sand, its grains abrading soft skin, feels its coolness, its support. The sound diminishes and in its place, shadows arise, dimly seen, keenly felt and in the silence the tempest ceases and stillness soothes her ravaged senses. Advancing upon her, the shadows, at first fragmentary, coalesce into an aethyreal form of opalescent beauty, hues, pastel in shade undulate across and through surfaces creating a shifting plane of perspectives, “speak not” says a voice of liquid amber, “take delight and pleasure in the flesh.” Advances closer crooning a lullaby, distant memories arise, childhood, summer, a forest glade, lying at ease in the embrace of nature. Fingers touch, breath like the gentlest of breezes touches, flushing of skin, hearts blood coursing through sinew and skin causing breath to increase, as one by one each part is touched, hair stroked, teased outwards into a veil, a nimbus of dark light illuminating contours and features, eyes opened to the glories of the dark by a breath that touches lightly and then is gone. Lips brushed, the taste of almonds and orange blossom, causing the lips to part the tongue to move outward, to touch, contact lips, now gone. Breasts aflame as liquidness touches their surface, nipples harden, pulse, stretching towards this source of pleasure. Belly opens, like the womb of time itself, opens and releases moisture, demanding. Fingers touch, explore soft contours, like the petals of a rose, one by one unfolding, opening to the sensation of penetration, releasing moisture, as thighs gently bruised by a lovers kiss, back arches, stretches, the abandon of passion sweet.

Adrift upon the tide of passions velvet embrace she soars into unknown realms, realms of pure sensation, each breath etches a lambent flame upon her flesh, forming an alphabet, whose consonants and vowels are the sweet sensations of fulfillment, an orgasmic being, where only the essential, the pleasure of the moment unfolds itself to her saturated senses. Finally pausing, spent, she alights upon a barren

plane and in the near distance a mountain range, a castle, brooding, casting its shadow across the terrain, staining the landscape, as if some hideous night born horror dwelt within. Rising, compelled to move towards this monstrosity. Surveying her surroundings, the barrenness reluctantly gives way to fetid swamp, her feet now awash, slime arising from the depths, ankle deep in the mire she makes her way tortuously through the rank undergrowth, the stench released by her footfalls releasing into the air the odor of decay and stagnancy, night creatures make themselves known to her sharpening senses. The slither of serpents rising along the sinews of her legs, wrap themselves around her as if they would hide her nakedness, searching, probing, exploring her contours. She advances amidst the chorus of nights purple legion.

Swamp gives way to rock and the sharpened fragments of stone now underfoot, causing her to wince, briars in profusion, unyielding meet tender flesh, barbs that enter and tear at her skin, forming fine rivulets of blood travelling along the length of arms and legs, stinging as the night breeze opens her to further sensation. She gasps, her breath coming in halted gulps. Onwards and now upwards she treads, a barely discernible path, flanked by stunted trees and twisted shrubs releasing their perfumes upon the night air, finally gives way to a courtyard, an expanse of broken flagstones, limned with lichen and moss, glowing as with the presence of praeternatural light, weeds appearing in crevices formed by the passage of time. Steps rising and finally a doorway of marble embossed with plaques of metal, strange signs and images, some of nature, some of strange worlds, all carrying a sense of menace. The way is barred to her. Sentinels guard the portal, bestial forms, part human, part beast, raised upon pinions of furred talon, giving way to the torso of humanities perfection, ripe, full breasts and the softness of curves she recognizes well, crowned by a visage of bestial perfection, fangs bared as if awaiting their quarry, who even now passes between them.

A voice, hushed whispers, issues from she knows not where, “what seekest thou, fair creature, the delights of our castle, or perhaps the presence of she who dwells within?” In answer she claims her innocence of any intent, and as a simple traveler has stumbled upon this place, this castle. “Enter and know that shadows and despair await thee”. No way back, she advances to see the door dissolve before her eyes and now she is within a chamber, vaulted, supported upon pillars rising upwards into unfathomable heights, carpets scattered upon bare stone, alcoves containing statuary and images from the past of cultures divers, some human, many not. Recesses containing divans of velvet flanked by candles whose guttering flames cast an amber light upon the chamber. Pausing she takes her rest in order to better survey the immediate surroundings. Along one wall a hearth, the mantle of which is supported by angelic forms, wrapped in their pinions and gazing upwards beatifically. Within the hearth the roaring of flames fed by logs the size of small trees. She rises and advances to this place in search of warmth. Whispered

endearments meet her ears as finally she arrives and is greeted by a being who steps out of the shadows, ink black his skin, red his eyes, of form slender and sinuous, graceful, crowned by a skullcap of filigreed metal. Magnificent in his nakedness he holds within his hands a bowl of beaten brass figured in an unknown cipher. “Drink, fair one, for it will prepare the way.” Reaching out she receives the bowl, raises it to her lips and drinks deeply of its contents, again the taste of almonds and orange blossom assails her senses and carries with it a sense of well being and rapture. Emptying the contents, swooning, she falls upon a surface of furs and rich velvets and dreams.

Awakes to the sound of plainsong

interwoven with the susurration of flowing water and the call of night birds. Beneath her back cold stone, she is stretched, arched across a boulder, hands and feet bound by silken cords. Above her, smiling, she stands, awaiting the return to consciousness of her ward. “Fear not the bindings, for I must open your body, your flesh”, comes a whispered voice, caressing her senses with its wine rich depths.

“Long have I awaited you and now the time of waiting is past, be at ease, rest, be attentive for I have a story to tell. Like you I to, was once mortal, shared in the pleasures

of the flesh, yet I knew the worm awaited me, the unrelenting passage of time would bring me into its chthonic realm, this I denied with every fibre of my being, sought long for the means of release from this curse, having searched high and low within the confused ramblings of my kind, the promise of celestial paradise, the entrance to hallowed halls of learning and becoming. I finally realized that this served to distract, assuage the inevitable which I too would come to despite my time honored and cherished illusions. Yes I learned of the sweetness that sours in the light of times passing. I knew pain, hurt as any of my kind would, for as a woman I carry the joys of the world within my womb and also its sin. In time I came to know the purity of despair and came to savor the austerity of its bitter sweet taste. I found pleasure a paltry affair, visited infrequently by moments, mere moments of anaesthetic release. No more would this be so, I withdrew and so doing ceased to be as I was, and now, would never be again. For I abandoned my kind and their ways.

And in the desert of despair left this world, leaving only a shadow self to continue the pretence. That shadow continued, retreated further then it too dissolved and joined me and became she who now stands before you. From the pit of suffering and remorse I arose triumphant and made my pact with the lord of this world, the ever present one, thinly guised as pleasure, as pain and the means of release from both. He took me into himself and shared his glory, his secrets, his yearnings, until I finally joined him and knew rapture pure, undefiled by thought and speech, the chatterings of primates scurrying from darkness to darkness complete. Long aeons have I dwelt within my fortress of night, taking my pleasure amongst the legions of the half lives. Distilling from their pleasure and their pain the vital nectar that sustains my form, form which exists within the dark cave of each of their hearts, their lives. They see only my horror and not the beauty of austerity that shines within my heart, the pulse of life that bruises my eyes, eyes that know their hearts and minds. Only suffering they know, for they have not plumbed the depths of despair and its kindred, my offspring. And now I would claim thee as mine fairest Damiana for I know your heart, your mind and now I would know your flesh.”

So saying she advances and in the silence of her passage Damiana again tastes almond and orange blossom upon her lips as a gentle breeze resolving itself into flesh touches her lips with a stroke so fine and rich. She answers the call and opens her heart to the embrace, an embrace which ignites her flesh once again into rapture, as tiny tongues of flame reach out and touch her. Breast to breast, lips to lips they meld and become one, exploring textures and shapes, tastes and odors of intoxication, lines of fire limning their every angle and contour. Caught upon a wine dark sea travelling from rapture to rapture. Gently she rises wiping the sweat from her brow, from her lips and breasts and looks upon Damiana. “Would you join me fair one and know my Art, my Knowledge?” In silence Damiana answers an assent. “I must open your flesh, let it blossom, strip the kernel that yet binds you and release you into the exaltation of the new flesh.” Advancing she utters a brief plaintive call whereupon she is transformed into the guise of the sentinel encountered in the outer hall, in shadows he advances, black within a deeper black, his eyes glowing in the darkness now all but complete and from the air he plucks a crystal which sparkles within its own light. With this he touches her forehead and she sleeps and dreams of caresses, of kisses, of passion ignited by the touching of flesh to flesh and as passion unfolds itself within the passing of their breath, one to the other he opens her fleshy veil and extracts her essence, bone, blood, organ and muscle does he excise, making of it a mannequin which dances in rapture. And of her essence he shapes a new form and inscribes upon its contours the ciphers of desire, sigils of power, of protection and eternity. Lambent light courses through this new form, sigils form and reform, dancing eternity’s dance of splendor and becoming. The sigils coalesce, writhe and finally meet at a central axis point between her breasts, then dissolve into the new tissue and flesh.

Damiana awakes from her dream to whispered words, caught upon the breeze, “in time you will know my name, for that is secret and undivided, for now go forth and take thy will and pleasure amongst the legions of the living.” And in this way did Damiana meet her mistress and true to her did service through the flesh, opening herself to each and every delight, celebrating the new flesh. And then she met with death one ink black night and now waits for the call that will release her from her leafy grave that she might know glory and the promise of eternity in the arms of her dark lord. He who awaits her arrival on the other side of the veil called appearance.

“Go in peace and rest within the embrace of shadows tender arms”

Damiana

Some say that as she lay dreaming the

archons, long familiar with the toxic barb of compassion, were moved by her plight and resolved to bear witness to the ever dreaming state to which she had been for millennia consigned. Bearing witness, of her dreams were the mountains formed and like her their dreaming spires reached into the heavens and their shoulders were dusted by the stars themselves. The dust and debris that formed the afterglow became the sands that adorn fairest oceans robe, torn by the relentless ebb and flow of her salty depths.

Upon the stones that were cast upon the surface of her ever yielding body were scribed the cyphers of redemption. Crystalline, her

thoughts ran as emeralds and jasper through veins desiccated by the long ages of her confinement. Her breath rose as mist, carmine, stained by the blood that ceaselessly flowed from wounds ever open to the travails of time and the ceaseless witness of history.

Once love had cradled her in arms warm and protective but that was long ago and the memory of such had long passed into the hall of forgetfulness where it nestled with its siblings, mercy and understanding and yet her heart celebrated the passing of all that reflected itself upon the mirror of her pristine mind.

The Archons and Vesicas were all that remained and passed as comfort as her musings broke the surface of the torpor that ever threatened to engulf and cast her memory into the pit of despair from whence there is no release.

Basking beneath the warm rays of Solus Noir the stones raise themselves into an edifice of delight and at their core the Grigori speak in sibilant whispers of the time to come as their robes of invisibility are cast aside and the lava tide of transformation undulates across the barren landscape, shaping and reshaping itself into the alphabet of desire from whence the axiomata are born.

Damiana yet dreams and her whispers rise, a perfume rich and intoxicating casting shadows before her slumbering mind and upon its mirror is etched the cypher, and thus ends the treasure house of images.

Once upon a hill of flint beneath an ocean

of stars I called unto thee. Vision burned within eyes, pale mirrors of thy glory and in the velvet silence of midnight an answer came. Now like one turned to ash beneath thy gaze I wander upon the shores of night. Shadows attend me, their whispers seductive yet bereft of life as they turn upon the wheel of thy becoming. Errant shades caught within a web of whispers. Burn their presence from my sight and grant the benediction which is thine alone to grant. Make of my body a sigil, celebrating thy presence and within thy embrace might I reside until time itself tumbles into memory, dull mirror of thy glory.

Once within a lake of fire I called unto

thee and as my form evaporated into thy breath did I rise purified, made whole in thy sight and yet a shadow cast upon memories dull mirror. Flesh melted into a pool of amniotic mist. Blood boiled and became as liquid gold. Bone dissolved by thy acid touch and as thy kiss parted lips parched did I ascend on thy breath. In that crucible was I formed and upon midnights eternal shore was I cast. Sent forth amongst the legions of the damned. Anathema to all I beheld. Witness and scribe cast thy spells

upon the aethyrs. May thy body be thy pen, thy blood the very ink of inscription and

upon the papyrus of life inscribe the axiomata of bliss.

Once beneath the ocean I called unto thee, reached out a hand and felt thine in

mine, only to slip away. Was it but a moment ago that flesh met flesh and melded into a single heart? Through eyes yet dim did I behold thee? With ears confounded by deceit did I yet comprehend thee and upon my lips did I not taste of the nectar that drips, honeyed, from the petals of thy rose? Life steps briefly behind the veil of eternity, takes a bow and collapses into singularity. Waves resolve themselves into ripples and as the reflection settles a new form arises, takes a stumbling step and the pageant unfolds.

Once upon a summers breeze I called unto thee. Wings unfurled did I descend

into thy embrace, felt thy heartbeat upon my breast and released an anguished sigh. Mistress of my soul I serve as a reflection of thy presence within the vale of tears. Thy whispered word a thunderous command. Thy desire a template of mine acts and thy form the vessel in which I travel across the aethyrs celebrating thy song of rapture. The breeze rises to a scream and upon its echo do I now continue my quest beneath a field of golden stars, each bears witness to thy presence and in the sanctuary of their hearts is thy judgement reflected upon the mirror of their minds.

The four regents converged and therein I called unto thee, a whisper traveling

down the corridors of time, an echo bears witness to longing. Solve Et Coagula. The axiomata burn the aethyrs and mist rises, caught in lungs and sent forth as Invokation. Khephren Ma Un Nefer Ast. The Archons and Vesicas gather, summoned from slumbers deep and rise upon pinions of starlight and between the vast reaches of space the stars whisper to each other. Bear witness o child of ages and rejoice, return to thy dreams cloaked in a mantle of deepest midnight and walk invisible amongst the shades that attend thee.

Sic Transit Gloria Rosa Mundi. Make of my body a temple unto thy service.

Make of my blood a river that flows, constant to thy commands. Make of my tears an ocean of prayer. Make of my breath incantations of desire and of my heart make a cauldron wherein the regents are conjoined in eternal rapture. Distil the prima

mater and of this condense but a single drop and offer this upon the altar as a benediction and votive offering unto thy name, Babalon the fair, maiden and whore garbed in silk and gold, drunk upon the blood of saints and astride the beast of thy dominion. Ave Lilith. Ave Isheth. Ave Ygrat. Ave Na’amah. Ave.

Twin pylons upon a desert plain of calcified bone. Twin beacons upon the

shores of night. Twin souls conjoined in rapture, embraced by our holy lady. The rays of an ebon sun bathes them in lustral light and venom pours forth upon the heads of all. Archon and Vesica, avatars of the end of days. Seek them not in exotic climes or within the chambers of thine heart for they walk invisible amongst thee. Purified by Ignis. Consecrated by Aqua. Cast upon Aethyr and manifest in Terra. Solus Noir and Lammae Rouge. Samael and Lilith. Archon and Vesica of Ordo Templi Solus Noir. The flesh redeemed and made whole.

The pressure of leafmould above where she

lay was reassuring and in its own way provided her with a semblance of comfort. Not so long ago leaf life had basked beneath a warm sun, stretching its veins as it feasted on the light that was its sustenance. Now it but served as a blanket for Damiana and as it whispered to her of its life within the embrace of air and light she could but sigh. The robe of our most holy lady whispered in the breeze as it caught tendrils of memory from all that passed within its canopy. Here the fox spoke of his feast and the snail of its long journey across a grassy plain. The hare spoke of the mysteries he encountered upon his quest for grace while the dove dreamed of the comfort of its nestled bower.

The lady woke from her seasonal slumber and stepped forth. Naked she stood beside the pool that served as a mirror to the moment and from beneath the surface of the lustral water her consort rose and taking her into his arms again her raiment was donned for yet another cycle of the unending dance that passes as life upon the bright globe. For a time she would stretch her limbs upwards and outwards, embracing all that comes to pass and this her joy, her service as ever more the

pageant is realised. Gone, for now, her slumber as she dances upon the breeze. Gone the memory of past times as she rejoices in the greening that forms her veil and as her seasons unfold green resolves itself to copper and gold before falling like a robe, cast upon the forest floor far below.

But for now Damiana dreams of leaf and shoot as she lies within her palace of solitude and yet for a brief moment her hand is clasped by the fair one who guides her into the secrets of her domain. Life and death she witnesses upon opposing shores and smiles knowingly as rose petals tumble from the air and fall at her feet forming a carpet upon which she takes her ever strengthening steps. Hand in hand they walk life’s byways and the ancients in their citadels of knowing remain oblivious to their passing as they, husks of despair seek redemption.

The first of many springs was spent in

the birthing chamber where destiny etched its intent into the fibre of my becoming. Upon completion did I raise my body from its immortal state and enter the realm of the unborn. Upwards I surged, spear like, breaking the membrane of the earth that had served as my shroud. I greeted day and in return day blessed me with air and light.

Spring and summer served as my periods of growth whilst autumn was the stage upon which I reflected the pageant that lay at the core of my being and during winter did I take my rest. Cycle upon cycle unfolded and memory drew many lines upon the surface of my body. The time of the great heat when all

about me succumbed to death and even I was stripped. Again did I have to begin the cycles of my growing. The time of ice all but cast me into oblivion, yet I retained a shadow that served as my membrane for becoming. The trials passed and now I draw the rings that define my time upon this sphere.

Many have taken shelter within my canopy. Fed upon the fruit that adorns me and before the time of man did I have no mortal enemy. Fire and steel have claimed many of my kind and as we enter oblivion one more seed is sewn that serves as your fate. Deep within the earth our tendrils spread and touch each other and communion unfolds and it is here that the memories of the birthing chamber and our destiny is

shared and reflected upon the veil that serves as nature. We but stand and bear witness to the unfolding ages. Many have we seen rise, claim dominion only to fall, like ash into the vault of oblivion from whence they came. Custodians of the earth, our destiny inscribed within the sap of our natures, rises from roots only to return in ever eternal cycles.

Brave Damiana we hold in our embrace as her dreams unfold and are reflected upon the mirror that serves as comprehension amongst your kind. It is to her that we whisper the final words. Go in peace and rest within the embrace of shadows tender arms.

Iron torn from the earth, fused with fire

become the chains that bind the body that serves as my form within the vale of fire. Flakes of rust, shed, as skin, fall like rain and become the blood that flows along sentient rivers of life as breath is stilled and silence descends. Blood, an incarnadine mist rises and is caught upon the breeze, to fall as rain upon foreign and exotic shores.

Silence once pure is stained by echoes unceasing that issue from the font of life and cascade along corridors of memory, entering an ocean that subdues them, drawing the iron into a thread of gossamer silk encased in blood and rust.

Once daylight beckoned. Once starlight called and once upon a hill of flint the summons was issued. Now chains forged in the night of time become the flesh that travels eternity in quest of its completion. Now dreams rise, a constant memory that etches with vitriol the cyphers of the alphabet of desire and now a form deep within the body of the earth is summoned and reflects itself upon the mirror of the mind.

Chains once unyielding become as dust, flakes of iron fall upon the air and carried by invisible currents enter the lungs of all that exists upon the plane of form. Blood flows again along veins and as the memories rise Damiana dreams of iron and the fields of mars wherein her once desiccated form encased in armour of burnished copper raises a sword of fire into the heavens and summons the archons. Her visor, raised, a cloak of invisibility confounds all who behold her not.

Beneath her blanket of leaves and earth Damiana dreams of a lake of fire and rises upon the current of smoke that stains the air with ash and as the flames become but embers her form coalesces into shadows limned with light of burnished gold and her armour is complete. She descends and as her feet touch the stability of the ever constant earth she takes one faltering step, then another and yet another along the path of her becoming. Greet her not for she remains but a shadow cast upon the mirror of time, Welcome her not for she carries the seed of the time to come upon this the shimmering globe. Embrace her not as she walks unheeded amongst the legions that are but ghosts, specters dancing within halls of dream and dust.

The waves, ink black mercury undulated

from horizon to horizon beneath the irresistible pull of the swollen red moon above. The breeze, a mere whisper carried the tang of ozone and salt within its all but silent depths. A numbing chill assailed our observers as they mutely sat upon the shoreline of this tableaux and they could but gaze in awe. The waves, now stilled, held the reflection of the fair face of Artemis and as her light descended, wave upon wave of silven arrows stained carmine, from the depths of the ocean two columns rise and pierce the surface. Twin pylons drawn from the bedrock of the earth ascend and reach heavenward. Across their surfaces opal and moonstone ascend and descend as crystalline veins transforming their apparent solidity into a

dance of light. At their crowns a crescent forms and the gateway is complete and within the horns of the crescent Artemis sits enthroned upon this the night of vision.

Our observers, gazes fixed, receive the rays of light that issue from the vision they behold and deep within their hears rises the certainty that they have been blessed this night. Artemis extends her hands in greeting and upon the upraised palms two figures dance the spells of making. He a jester in motley of gold adorned with black diamonds. She a maiden fair shrouded in lace of purest white. Their dance and the embrace it denotes unfolds through eternity as the moment stills and is fixed by the cyphers they conjure and manifest by their movement upon the aethyrs.

Damiana dreams and a smile lightens her eyes and her lips part in a smile that stirs her heart and remembrance unfolds its elixir within her veins. Though Death claimed her long ago Life informs her memory and she is at peace.

A dream of silver reflects itself into the night of time and the archons and vesicas, voices raised as one in rapture sing their song of beauty and once ago the sentient wave also knows peace.

But one drop remained within the crucible

once the distillation and purification had been completed and this was cast into the ocean, where amongst infinite drops of water it melded and became as one with all that embraced it. Damiana’s body dissolved in the embrace and became as liquid which flowed to a depth that pierced the core of the earth and rose to a height that brushed the stars as they whispered long into the night.

By Grace alone was this achieved and by Grace does it continue to unfold as The End Of Days manifests its rays within the wave we know as sentience. Rising once from the well of souls to claim dominion and now descending into the very maelstrom that gave it birth upon the shimmering star. This Damiana mused upon as

she lay within the vault of ocean’s depths, her only company the whales that sang her songs to ease her passing through time.

Above, a sea of stars. Below, a sea of form, shaping and reshaping itself into infinite possibilities as the magnetic pulse that beat at its core continued to scribe itself upon the parchment of Life. Death, ever present remained silent as the tapestry wove itself into the fabric of being and simply watched and waited. Between the shores of Life and Death the ocean roiled, casting diversity into the matrix, selecting, consolidating and ultimately consigning all to its womb of making.

Cyphers wrought in glyph and sigil. Fleshed by bloodbeat and heart’s pulse, echoes the timelessness of other. Other cast adrift upon ink black night, yields to starlight and the breath it takes until yet again by hand and eye is once more cast upon the eternal aethyrs.

Drink deep from the stream, lest your form evaporates into the void from whence you came.

Breathe deeply of the intoxication that holds you bound by blood and bone.

Think deeply upon the thoughts that carry you from ecstasy to ecstasy through the tapestry of appearance.

Upon a distant shoreline, beneath a moon

at her zenith she danced. Her body adorned in lace, purest white. Flowers woven into her silven locks, sigils etched into her flesh burned with a copper hue and the mist that rose from her skin, rose pink. Her dance a spiral that blessed the earth beneath her feet and her outstretched fingers played upon the strings that the stars wove with their whispers.

Vision born of wave and aethyr shone within the depths of her violet eyes, eyes flecked gold, entranced by the rapture of the moment spoke of the joy that informed her heart and as its drumbeat rolled the breeze rose as if it to would celebrate the moment. The ladye fayre dances eternally and of her spirals dreams are made. Of her breath the winds do rise. Of her

heartbeats the mountains rise from their slumbers deep within the earth and of her body the bounty of nature celebrates the harvest which is her gift to all.

Damiana melts into the vision and momentarily joins the dance and again she knows peace.

Fairest Artemis reaches out and onto her outstretched palms the maiden steps and continues her dance within the embrace of the queen of heaven and the nectar begins to flows, a golden mist upon which hummingbirds, hovering upon the air dip their tongues and drink of the elixir conjured by the dance.

An Ocean Of Bliss. Amidst the travail that eternally attends us were we, by Grace alone permitted to partake of the nectar that drips from the lips of our Holy Lady Babalon and into her coils were we given to dissolve in the bliss that strips us of form and being, to become but one scale upon her body as she soars upon aethyrs burnished gold.

Upon the beach the dance quickens and as her feet, caressed by the lapping waves, she dissolves into the vision and enters the depths of the ocean from whence she came and remains evermore.

Standing before the mirror he looks upon a

visage unrecognizable but for the violet eyes, flecked gold that is all that remains of his once noble form. The decay of the angel bears witness to the time that passes and he its witness bears all within the vault of his ever beating heart. As he gazes his vision bifurcates and in one instance he beholds one garbed in motley of silk adorned with diamond motifs. He dances upon the upraised palms of the lady Artemis and before him sharing this intimacy a ladye fayre dressed in purest lace of snow driven hue. Yet he stands alone before the mirror that begins to cloud over as numerous memories vie for recognition. Damiana within her grave beckons and he smiles. The archons and vesicas call to him and by their grace does he yet remain whole.

Across the mountains of the moon did he walk with his love and entering the vale of Aphrodite did he lay within her embrace. A brief respite as the boundary lands beckoned and he alone crossed the desert and entered the fabled city beneath the rays of Solus Noir. Returning, transformed, he looks upon the pageant of the world and knows despair.

Leaving the reflection that is all that remains of the angel he lays beneath the rays of a swollen moon and returns ever more into the embrace of Artemis where he knows a semblance of peace. The venom that informs his veins, now elixir, drips from fingertips, staining all it touches with the vision of solitude, his estate within the vale of tears until blessed release is granted.

Before the mirror the forms resolve themselves into a singular form and into its eyes he gazes and all memory is erased as he enters the embrace that is Death’s seductive kiss. Stillness pervades the scene and the bifurcated vision resolves itself into a singular certainty.

Shed not a tear for those that have passed

Cast not a sigh upon air now spent

Bind not the free to your temple of woe

Bur rather rejoice the freedom gainsaid by life

In the immortal lands of deliverance therein i dwell

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise.

Splinters of light adorn his torn visage Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed. Shadows coalesce and in the frozen moments does he remember. Limbs once broken begin to heal as the elixir flows drop by iridescent drop. Nectar sweet, laced with bitter gall enters eyes, yet dim of sight. Enters nostrils, a benediction. Shadowed forms limned in lightning attend the moment. A chorus of cries and whispers. Echoes into eternity, the moment.

Once upon a hill of flint he stood. Raising hands and calling forth his Elohim as his form dissolved. The Seals opened and the dance unfolds. Once into a pool of quicksilver did he gaze Fingers drawing forth tendrils of form cast upon the air, they rise. Summoning the

rays of Solus Noir, they descend. Once beneath the ocean did he reach out and clasp his sisters hand. In embrace they dance upon aethyrs burnished gold. A dark stain rises and consumes all within its path. Once upon a lightning bolt did he descend and entered fairest Lilith’s domain. A stranger, cast upon shores, foreign and exotic. Once within the heart of a star he slumbered bound by chains of liquid light, called forth by life, his nemesis. Once as Azrael he seeded himself into the unfolding pageant and once he Became.

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise Splinters of light adorn his torn visage Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed.

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