Diary of a Drug Fiend

by Aleister Crowley

Vainly in hell for love, vainly for days gone by;

  Where the incarnate flame of Lesbian lovers dying,

  Then where the world is past, and Heaven or hell draw nigh? Heaven with cold and loveless lips, though his fruits be many,

  Hell with his red mouth hot, barren although he be.

  Hylas and Sappho choose, and are never denied of any,

  Hell’s most insatiate fangs, death and his empery.

  Heaven is bare and bleak, hell has the joys beyond Heaven,

  Fire and desire and delight, of a love that is always young;

  Hell has the pains of hell, but the sweetest of lusts for leaven.

  Fierce body, breasts of delight, fearful and murderous tongue.

  Hell is the house of all delight,

  Heaven the home of a bitter blight;

  Pain is our joy and our spirits’ power,

  Never shall fade its fiery flower.

  Now is the triumph of Love, gazing far to an infinite pleasure,

  Pleasure that mocks Heaven’s hopes, that our hands are

  impatient to hold.

  Love and delight pouring out, in a fearless insatiate measure,

  Out of the chalice of lust, scarlet o’errunning its gold.

  This is the song of the Spring, that the nightingale’s carol by starlight,

  This the delight of our eyes, as they shine with strange fire in the night,

  This is our trust and our joy – beyond death we look on to the far light

  Flaming from hell our last home, this is the key of our might.

  Come, fiery birds of a clime we know not, and sing us your paean;

  Triumph of gods that are known secretly, not by a name,

  Gods whose implacable feet have trampled the god Galilean,

  Cast though they be into hell, given to death and to shame.

  Heaven and hell has striven in war,

  Sappho and Hylas, with Christ and Jah;

  We are of those, though they lose their power,

  Never shall fade their fiery flower.

  TO J. L. D.

  At last, so long desired, so long delayed,

  The step is taken, and the threshold past;

  I am within the palace I have prayed

  At last.

  Like scudding winds, when skies are overcast,

  Came the soft breath of Love, that might not fade.

  O Love, whose magic whispers bind me fast,

  O Love, who hast the kiss of Love betrayed,

  Hide my poor blush beneath thy pinions vast,

  Since thou hast come, nor left me more a maid.

  At last.

  TO A. D.

  Across the sea that lies between us twain

  I gaze and see thee, exiled but as free

  As winds that lash the billows of the main

  Across the sea.

  I remain here in sombre slavery

  Amid these winter gusts of bitter pain,

  And sorrow for thy lips in vain, in vain,

  Bound by the world’s inexorable chain,

  And parted from thee. Spirit of Liberty,

  Bear thou my kisses’ sunshine, my tears’ rain

  To him I love, who may one day love me

  And bid him gladden at my amorous strain

  Across the sea.

  AT KIEL

  Oh, the white flame of limbs in dusky air,

  The furnace of thy great grey eyes on me

  Turned till I shudder. Darkness on the sea,

  And wan ghost-lights are flickering everywhere

  So that the world is ghastly. But within

  Where we two cling together, and hot kisses

  Stray to and fro amid the wildernesses

  Of swart curled locks! I deem it a sweet sin,

  So sweet that fires of hell have no more power

  On body and soul to quench the lustrous flame

  Of that desire that burns between us twain.

  What is Eternity, seeing we hold this hour

  For all the lusts and luxuries of shame?

  Heaven is well lost for this surpassing gain.

  THE BLOOD-LOTUS

  The ashen sky, too sick for sleep, makes my face grey; my senses swoon;

  Here, in the glamour of the moon, will not some pitying godhead weep

  For cold grey anguish of her eyes, that look to God, and look in vain,

  For death, the anodyne of pain, for sleep, earth’s trivial

  paradise?

  Sleep I forget. Her silky breath no longer fans my ears; I dream

  I float on some forgotten stream that hath a saviour still of death,

  A sweet warm smell of hidden flowers whose heavy petals kiss the sun,

  Fierce tropic poisons every one that fume and sweat through forest hours;

  They grow in darkness, heat beguiles their sluggish kisses, in the wood

  They breathe no murmur that is good, and Satan in their blossom smiles.

  They murder with the old perfume that maddens all men’s blood; we die

  Fresh from some corpse-clothed memory, some secret

  redolence of gloom,

  Some darkling murmurous song of lust quite strange to man and beast and bird,

  Silent in power, not overheard by any snake that eats the dust:

  No crimson-hooded viper knows, no silver-crested asp has guessed

  The strange soft secrets of my breast; no leprous cobra shall disclose

  The many-seated, multiform, divine, essential joys that these

  Dank odours bring, that starry seas wash white in vain; intense and warm

  The scents fulfil, they permeate all lips, all arteries, and fire

  New murmured music on the lyre that throbs the horrors they create.

  Omniscient blossom! Is thy red slack bosom fresher for my kiss?

  Are thy loves sharper? Hast thou bliss in all the sorrows of the dead?

  Why art thou paler when the moon grows loftier in the troublous sky?

  Why dost thou beat and heave when I press lips of fire, hell’s princeliest boon,

  To thy mad petals, green and gold like angels’ wings, when as a flood

  God’s essence fills them, and the blood throughout their web grows icy cold?

  To thy red centre are my eyes held fast and fervent, as at night

  Some sad miasma lends a light of strange and silent

  blasphemies

  To lure a soul to hell, to draw some saint’s charred lust, to tempt, to win

  Another sacrifice to sin, another poet’s heart to gnaw

  With dubious remorse. Oh! flame of torturing flower-love! sacrament

  Of Satan, triple element of mystery and love and shame,

  Green, gold, and crimson, in my heart you strive with Jesus for its realm,

  While Sorrow’s tears would overwhelm the warriors of either part!

  Jesus would lure me: from his side the gleaming torrent of the spear

  Withdraws, my soul with joy and fear waits for sweet blood to pour its tide

  Of warm delight – in vain! so cold, so watery, so slack it flows,

  It leaves me moveless as a rose, albeit her flakes are manifold.

  He hath no scent to drive men mad; no mystic fragrance from his skin

  Sheds a loose hint of subtle sin such as the queen Faustina had.

  Thou drawest me. Thy golden lips are carven Cleopatra-wise

  Large, full, and moist, within them lies the silver rampart, whence there slips

  That rosy flame of love, the fount of blood at my light bidding spilt;

  And my desires, if aught thou wilt, are with thy mind, and thy account

  With God shall bear my name the mo
re; give me the

  knowledge, me the power

  For some new sin one little hour, and bankrupt God the

  creditor:

  Steal from his stock of suffering; his tender mercies rob at will;

  Destroy his graciousness, until he must avenge the name of king.

  Strange fascinations whirl and wind about my spirit lying

  coils;

  Thy charm enticeth, for the spoils of victory, all an evil mind.

  Thy perfume doth confound my thought, new longings echo, and I crave

  Doubtful liaisons with the grave and loves of Parthia for sport,

  I think perhaps no longer yet, but dream and lust for stranger things

  Than ever sucked the lips of kings, or fed the tears of Mahomet.

  Quaint carven vampire bats, unseen in curious hollows of the trees,

  Or deadlier serpents coiled at ease round carcases of birds unclean.

  All wandering changeful spectre shapes that dance in slow sweet measure round

  And merge themselves in the profound, nude women and distorted apes

  Grotesque and hairy, in their rage more rampant than the

  stallion steed;

  There is no help; their horrid need on these pale women they assuage.

  Wan breasts too pendulous, thin hands waving so aimlessly, they breathe

  Faint sickly kisses, and inweave my head in quite burial-bands.

  The silent troops recede; within the fiery circle of their glance

  Warm writhing woman-horses dance a shameless Bacchanal of sin;

  Foam whips their reeking lips, and still the flower-witch

  nestless to my lips,

  Twines her swart lissome legs and hips, half serpent and half devil, till

  My whole life seems to lie in her; her kisses draw my breath; my face

  Loses its lustre in the grace of her quick bosom; sinister

  The raving spectres reel; I see beyond my Circe’s eyes no shape

  Save vague cloud-measures that escape the dances’ whirling witchery.

  Their song is in my ears, that burn with their melodious

  wickedness;

  But in her heart my sorceress has songs more sinful, that I learn

  As she sings slowly all their shame, and makes me tingle with delight

  At new debaucheries, whose might rekindles blood and bone to flame.

  The circle gathers. Negresses howl in the naked dance, and wheel

  On poniard-blades of poisoned steel, and weep out blood in agonies;

  Strange beast and reptile writhe; the song grows high and melancholy now;

  The perfume savours every brow with lust unutterable of wrong;

  Clothed with my flower-bride I sit, a harlot in a harlot’s dress,

  And laugh with careless wickedness that strews the broad road of the Pit

  With vine and myrtle and thy flower, my harlot-maiden, who for man

  Now first forsakest thy leman, thy Eve, my Lilith, in this bower

  Which we indwell, a deathless three, changeless and changing, as the pyre

  Of earthly love becomes a fire to heat us through eternity.

  I have forgotten Christ at last; he may look back, grown amorous,

  And call across the gulf to us, and signal kisses through the vast;

  We shall disdain, clasp vaster yet, and mock his newer pangs, and call

  With stars and voices musical, jeers his touched heart shall not forget.

  I would have pitied him. This flower spits blood upon him, so must I

  Cast ashes through the misty sky to mock his faded crown of power,

  And with our laughter’s nails refix his torn flesh faster to the wood,

  And with more cruel zest make good the shackles of the Crucifix.

  So be it, in thy arms I rest, lulled into silence by the strain

  Of sweet love-whispers, while I drain damnation from thy tawny breast.

  Nor heed the haggard sun’s eclipse, feeling thy perfume fill my hair,

  And all thy dark caresses wear sin’s raiment on thy melting lips –

  Nay, by the witchcraft of thy charms to sleep, nor drain that God survive;

  To wake this, only to contrive – fresh passions in thy naked arms;

  And at that moment when thy breath mixes with mine, like wine to call

  Each memory, one merged into all, to kiss, to sleep, to mate with death!

  TO MY FIRST-BORN

  At last a father! In Mathilde’s womb

  The poison quickens, and the tare-seeds shoot;

  On my old upas-tree a bastard fruit

  Is grafted. One more generation’s doom

  Fixes its fangs. Crime’s flame, disease’s gloom,

  Are thy birth-dower. Another prostitute

  Predestined, born man, damned to grow a brute!

  Another travels tainted to the tomb!

  My sin, my madness, in thy blood are set,

  A vile imperishable coronet,

  To hound thee into hell! God spits at thee

  The curse thy parents earned. Revenge be thine!

  Kiss Lust, kill Truth, and worship at Sin’s shrine.

  And foul His face with dung – thy infamy!

  CHANT AU SAINT-ESPRIT

  Bah! gros bougre du ciel!

  Tu ne te plais pas seulement

  Des chansons de Gabriel,

  Ni non plus du sacrament

  Très banal, ni des anthemes;

  Mais l’horrible hurlement

  De mes curieux blasphèmes

  Te plaira, je parierai!

  Jesus dit ces anathèmes:

  “Vous ces choses qui direz,

  Blasphémant le Saint-Esprit,

  N’aurez pardon pour jamais!”

  Néanmoins, Jesus, je dis!

  Saint-Esprit, je crois a toi,

  Suceur du callibistris

  Du bon Dieu, ta douce loi

  Moi je garderai toujours!

  Salut, bon et puissant roi!

  Je veux goûter tes amours,

  Avoir ta belle Marie,

  En la jouant les trois tours;

  Derrière, et ventre aussi,

  Et la belle bouche, après,

  Quand je serai ramolli,

  Ni la semer de bon blé,

  Mais la sucer, si l’on ose

  Après toi; je n’aimerais

  Comme toi, en plein névrose,

  Si je devine tes goûts,

  La faire feuille-de-rose!

  Eh, gros bougre? Es-tu fou

  Que ta grosse bouche baise

  (Quand la lune est moins aigüe)

  Le bon vin au goût des fraises

  De ces nymphes si sanglantes –

  Ce qu’on nomme “les Anglaises”

  Envie-tu ces amantes

  Qui le culte de Sapho

  Jouissent, petites tantes?

  N’exiges-tu quelque impot

  Sur ces fours des Lesbiennes

  Pour ton bon petit jambot?

  Permets-tu que ces chiennes

  Boivent de ta Marie miel,

  Sans que leur p’tits cuts tiennent

  Mémoire de tes autels?

  Ai-je dit assez, bretteur,

  Pour m’assurer de l’enfer?

  Bah! gros bougre du ciel!

  Hermaphrodite’s Dream

  I know that winged sprite

  Who flew from heaven – was it hell?

  Into these bounds of light

  And music – yesternight –

  Had some new song to tell.

  I saw a living soul

  Flame into mortal dress;

  Whose glance – a fiery coal,


  Whose lips – a ruby bowl

  Whose wine was wickedness.

  They were strange lips, I ween

  Whereon no kiss might be,

  And teeth were sharp therein;

  Ivory and white and keen,

  Tameless as hungering sea.

  Strange body of my desire,

  Voluptuous, lithe, and wan;

  For, on my eyes drawn nigher,

  My hot blood turns to fire,

  Seeing nor maid nor man.

  Not maid, not man – the breast

  Like palaces of gold,

  Yet where my lips caressed,

  In the wild dove’s wild nest

  A dove too soft to hold.

  No dove that Hylas knew,

  No dove that Sappho kissed,

  Nor in wide Heaven there grew

  This child of stranger dew

  Than God’s good spirit wist.

  Yet his wings bear him high,

  Divine beyond control,

  And, like for love to die,

  I felt his arrow fly

  Within my very soul.

  Ah Love! the ambiguous kiss,

  Not man’s nor woman’s touch,

  In that estatic bliss –

  Not hell’s heat, as I wish,

  Had warmed us overmuch.

  Ah! Love! how fierce that night!

  With what unsung desire

  Thy lips and mouth were bright,

  In mine eye to give light,

  And fire to kindle fire.

  Ah Love! nor king nor queen

  Of mine exhaustless flame,

  But comrade of my teen,

  Spouse of that epicene

  Incontinence of shame.

  Twin Love! Soul’s dual spouse,

  Dream-serpent of my life,

  Rose-garland of my brows

  Within that ivory house,

  Sex with itself at strife.

  Were I a wanton stream,

  Thou mightest bathe in me,

  Yet in that happy dream

  Methought my heart did deem

  We mingled utterly.

  O sexless! deathless! fair

  Beyond the world to me,

  Thy love-gift I will wear,

  Thy joys my soul shall share,

  Being made one with thee.

  So, love, the days may keep

  My nameless love from me;

  Yet over slumber’s deep

  I will sail into sleep