Posted on January 14, 2019


White Stains has ratings and 7 reviews. Jeff said: Degradation, depravity and odes to fellatio. Yes, the folks of the late ‘s-early ‘s new ho. Other Works by Aleister Crowley: Plays, Fiction, and other originally unnumbered works. WHITE STAINS THE LITERARY REMAINS OF GEORGE ARCHIBALD BISHOP A NEUROPATH OF THE SECOND EMPIRE (Aleister Crowley) Transcribed.

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Full text of “Collected PDF’s by Aleister Crowley”

Intercede, Good pitying pitiable Christ! Crowley used the pseudonym of George Archibald Bishop a Neuropath of the Second Empire as a veil, though the name was taken by Crowley from his mother whose maiden name was Bishop. Now is the triumph of Love, gazing far to an infinite pleasure, Pleasure that mocks Heaven’s hopes, that our hands are im- patient to hold. What time for language, when our kisses flow Eloquent, warm, as words are cold and weak?

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Behold, dear Lord, How plump their buttocks be, lift up Thine eyes, See how their cocks stand at an amorous word, How their lips suck out life until love dies, See, Lord, Thou knowest, how wearily one lies Cursing the lusts that fail, the deeds that tire; Shrunk is San Cresce to a sorry size.

A Fine Cloth Edition in dust jacket. Ah, this Rots blood and body; see, the liquor’s lees I drained, whose pangs are fierce with Syphilis.

Where was whits when the sultry air, Hot with the lust of night and shame, Brooded on dust, when thy shoulders bare Shone on the sea with a sudden flame Into all Time to abundant fame?

The cup is drained of lust’s delight, Yet wells with pleasure, and by night I’ll come once more and loving lie Between thine amorous limbs, despite That we must part and love must die.

In a corner of Paris this young poet for in his nature the flower of poesy did spring, did even take root and give some promise of a brighter bloom, till stricken and blasted in latter years by the lightning of his own sins was steadily writing day after day, night after night, often working forty hours at a time, work which he destined to entrance the world. There is one exception of note, till this day unsuspected, in the person of George Archibald Bishop.


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He was committed to an asylum, for there could be no longer any doubt of his complete insanity; for three weeks he had been raving with absinthe, and satyriasis.

The last ruby bars Are sunk beneath the sea. Gifting of the Kindle edition at the Kindle MatchBook price is not available. Through nave and chancel drone the choir, Their chant rolls through the darkened aisle; Their song soars up beyond the spire; The priest prepares; there waits his smile A deed most vile. His life-history, as well as his literary remains, gives us an idea of the pro- [9] gression of diabolism as it really is; not as it is painted.

No longer the sun shall cast shadow, No longer the flower shall lack rain, The word shall be fair as a meadow, And Love know no tincture of pain; The Glory of God shall be on us, And over the kingdon unpriced The Spirit of Love is upon us, A crucified Christ! Mathilde, who knew how he treasured its contents, preserved it by saying to the officer, ‘But, sir, that is mine.

From the lips That hide their blushes in the golden wood A fervent fountain amorously slips, The dainty rivers of thy luscious blood; Red streams of sweet nepenthe that eclipse The milder nectar that the gods hold good– How my dry throat, held hard between thy hips, Shall drain the moon- wrought flow of womanhood!

Sttains darkling room Is fearsome; one red light throughout the gloom Thrills my void veins with horror. The shadows creep More on me as I quicken with desire My love is all of gold, my faith is deep Lit with my heart’s imperishable fire.


Baudelaire the diabolist, debauchee of sadism, whose dreams are nightmares, and whose waking hours delirium; Rollinat the necrophile, the poet of phthisis, the anxiomaniac; Peladan, the high priest — of nonsense; Mendes, frivolous and scoffing sensualist; besides a host of others, most alike in this, that, below the cloak of madness and depravity, the true heart of genius burns. So runs my dream; but what am I? Thou hast chosen, thou shalt live the black Dry years out till thou cleave the sod, And meet thy God.

What time for language, when our kisses flow Eloquent, warm, as words are cold and weak?

White Stains: Aleister Crowley: : Books

Who crawls in upon me like a vain Damned ghost? Above the bed a crest was set, A gold and sapphire coronet. Convention and social confines help to prevent these crkwley of actions from occurring in reality, but in the process they also carry the capacity to repress and bury potentially powerful and transformative portions of our psyche.

This is the height of joy, to lie and feel Thy spiced spittle trickle down my throat; This is more pleasant than at dawn to steal Toward lawns and sunny brooklets, and to gloat Over earth’s peace, and hear in ether float Songs of soft spirits into rapture peal. At this point the accounts of Mr. Note also, alester the increase of selfishness in pleasure, 2 the diminution of his sensibility to physical stain.

It deals with bisexuality, bestiality, necrophilia, etc. Her lips, his dripping hands and feet! Oublie donc, en lisant, toute faute De moi qui ecris cette dedicace Faible, d’une lyre mal attunee; Souviens-toi seul de l’admiration haute Qui a fait naitre, d’eternelle grace, La fleur d’une loyale amitie.

A serpent was my whore; her hellish hiss, Her slaver venoms soul and strength; life flees Repugnant from the corpse-caress.