A Poetry Society — in Madagascar?
By Aleister Crowley.
The Poetry Society. St. Vitus,
St. Borborygmus, aid! The thin screams fell
And rose like spasms in some hothouse hell
Peopled by scraggier harpies than Cocytus.
Dull dirty décolletées dilettante!
I sickened to the soul; above the babble
Of the cacophonous misshapen rabble,
Rose like a cliff the awful form of Dante.
Colossally contemptuous, in airy
Stature the iron eyes of Alighieri
Burn into mine; their razor lightnings carve
My capon soul. “What dost thou here?” they said: “
Art thou not even worthy to be dead?
“Canst thou not go into the street, and starve?”
Previous | Top | Issue 1, January 1918 | Next
Thelema
If you have found this material useful or enlightening, you may also be interested in
Trademark
Ordo Templi Orientis, O.T.O., and the O.T.O. Lamen design are registered trademarks of Ordo Templi Orientis.
Copyright
All copyrights on Aleister Crowley material are held by Ordo Templi Orientis. This site is not an official O.T.O. website, and is neither sponsored by nor controlled by Ordo Templi Orientis.
The text of this Aleister Crowley material is made available here only for personal and non-commercial use. This material is provided here in a convenient searchable form as a study resource for those seekers looking for it in their research. For any commercial use, please contact Ordo Templi Orientis.