January 12, 2020

Sex is the sacred song of the soul; sex is the sanctuary of Self.

Aleister Crowley
The Book of the Law

Matches for playthings

December 5, 2019

Sex is, directly or indirectly, the most powerful weapon in the armoury of the Magician; and precisely because there is no moral guide, it is indescribably dangerous. I have given a great many hints, especially in Magick , and The Book of Thoth — some of the cards are almost blatantly revealing; so I have been rapped rather severely over the knuckles for giving children matches for playthings. My excuse has been that they have already got the matches, that my explanations have been directed to add conscious precautions to the existing automatic safeguards.

Aleister Crowley
Magick Without Tears


February 10, 2019

Some men are born sodomites, some achieve sodomy, and some have sodomy thrust upon them…

Aleister Crowley

In treating of this matter I must first premise that by paederasty I mean actual sodomy as defined by British law – immissio penis in corpus vivum.

Arse makes life golden, want of it dull yellow; The rest is only leather and prunella.

At least, the rest is but preliminaires. An acute observer of my acquaintance remarked to me recently that it was the actual mess caused by emission, and the necessity of cleaning it up, that, by allowing time for passion to cool, prevented a great deal of
copulation which would otherwise take place. There is a great gulf fixed between the ‘short time’ and the ‘all night’, and that great gulf is filled with Condy’s Fluid! This applies equally to Sodomy. If the semen is safely bestowed in mouth or anus of the beloved one, the temptation is to begin all over again; bar the trifle of fatigue, one is in the same position as at first; its loss between the legs or in the hand rouses a sentiment of disgust which is fatal to passion. Even the mouth, like the vagina, remains in a somewhat greasy condition after it has achieved the holy task, and we have no hesitation in plumping the anus as the one vase into which the
perfumed oil of manhood may be poured without exciting a reaction.

Aleister Crowley

morphia honeymoon

February 2, 2019

She it is, she, that found me
In the morphia honeymoon;
With silk and steel she bound me
In her poisonous milk she drowned me,
Even now her arms surround me.

Aleister Crowley
The Diary of a Drug Fiend

As a young teenager I developed an interest in the supernatural and the occult, if only in a fictional form. I was an avid reader of the ‘black magic’ thrillers of Dennis Wheatley, the ghost stories of M.R. James and Algernon Blackwood (whom I later discovered had been a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn), the adventure stories of C.S. Lewis, H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs. the ‘Fu Manchu’ novels of Sax Rohmer (another occultist with links to the GD). Arthur Machen (ditto), Robert E. Howard’s, sword & sorcery’ stories, and the horror tales of H.P. Lovecraft.

After a near death experience during an emergency operation when I was fourteen I became more seriously interested in spiritual and esoteric matters and began studying books on Tibetan Buddhism. Some of my first reading in this respect was, in hindsight, quite laughable (and fictional) books by ‘Lobsang Rampa’, or ‘Rampant Lobster’ as I nicknamed him. It later turned out he was a plumber and decorator called Cyril Hoskins who had either fallen off a ladder one day or out of a tree while photographing an owl! When he regained consciousness he discovered that he was now possessed by the spirit of a Tibetan lama.

In my state of juvenile ignorance at the time I thought it all sounded fairly reasonable and it was exciting stuff. I really wanted to believe there were secret caves in Tibet inhabited by 200-year-old lamas and full of Atlantean flying machines and the Akashic Records. I had seen and loved the classic film Lost Horizon and thought Shangri-la or Shambala actually existed and Mr Hoskins had found it. Despite their often ludicrous content and appalling standard of writing, and the fact he claimed one of them had been dictated to him by his talking cat, Mr Rampa’s books became global bestsellers, This was probably because they were easily available in cheap paperback editions and gullible teenagers like me could afford to buy them out of their pocket money. Also, as I was to discover later when I gained some degree of discrimination and judgement, people will believe absolutely anything…

…My first serious non-fiction reading on witchcraft and magic was as diverse as John Symond’s never bettered biography of Aleister Crowley The Great Beast, Madame Helena Blavatsky’s esoteric and obtuse two volumes of The Secret Doctrine and her Isis Unveiled, the whole thirteen volumes of the first edition of Sir James Frazer’s The Golden Bough, (which several years later I sold for a pittance to pay an electricity bill), Dr Margaret Murray’s speculative The Witch Cult in Western Europe, Montague Summer’s sensationalist Witchcraft and Black Magic, Aleister Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice, Robert Grave’s seminal and inspiring poetic classic The White Goddess, and first editions of Dion fortune’s fabulous occult novels, The Sea Priestess and Moon Magic. The last two books had a profound effect on me and it was some years before their full significance became clear. All in all it was a heady brew for a working-class lad whose only education had been at a secondary modern school. However it provided an excellent grounding for anyone taking their first tentative steps on the occult path.

Michael Howard
A Seeker’s Journey

23rd May

Hot day yesterday full of sun. Shopping and chores. Rain forecast for today, but clear weather and lots of sunshine for the rest of the week.


“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law…”

Aleister Crowley’s famous (infamous) mantra. Risqué, even shocking in its time, today it is the prevalent belief system of the “ME” generation. Look at the way large corporations behave. They frequently display the moral and ethical codes of goose-stepping storm troopers. Banks and the financial crisis, you’ll recall, is a case in point: it was the tax payer rather than the banking industry that absorbed all the pain. Quite remarkable. Then we have scandals, such as Libor rigging, VW illegally cheating emissions tests, Enron, WorldCom, Freddie Mac, Lehman Brothers, and Bernie Madoff. I could go on and on, but won’t. I’m sure you get where I’m coming from here. Market forces rule. Do what thou wilt

Drug addled Crowley claimed his law of Thelema was dictated to him by an entity named Aiwass. If true, Aiwass was very well read and borrowed indiscriminately from all the works he’d read. For example: “Fait ce que vouldras,” François Rabelais describing the rule of his Abbey of Thélème in Gargantua and Pantagruel.

Aiwass the spirit-plagiarist…


Thinking of you. Seeing you undressing slowly in the half-light, and exposing what normally lies hidden beneath skirt and panties. Seeing you finally naked in front of me – this starts the all too familiar ache inside my own flesh, the need to seek release with you…

It is surprising the number of practitioners of the magical arts and witchcraft who were involved in military and intelligence work during the Second World War. Perhaps the best known ‘occult spy’ operating in the Second World War, and in fact long before, and whose intelligence career has been well documented, is Aleister Crowley. Author Dr Richard B.Spence believes that Crowley began his journey to being a secret agent when he took an oath of allegiance to the British Crown. This was at the Malvern College boarding school in 1891when he joined the cadet corps of the local Worcestershire Royal Artillery Volunteers. Later in life Crowley was to say that despite his problems and issues with the British establishment he had always felt that he was bound to that oath. In fact it had strengthened his link with England. It is possible he meant on a magical and psychic level as well as the physical and patriotic one.

As a young man, through an introduction by his aunt who was a member, Crowley joined the Primrose League. This was a semi-secret, quasi-Masonic, right-wing group within the Conservative Party whose aim was to protect it from its political enemies. Dr Spence suggests that Crowley’s Jacobite sympathies in support of the return of the Stuart dynasty to the British throne to replace the Hanoverian usurpers, could have been used by the League to persuade Crowley to spy on potential enemies of the Crown. This however would suggest that his Jacobite inclinations were not genuine or a passing teenage phase.

Crowley was lucky enough to come under the patronage of the Marquess of Salisbury, the Grand Master of the League. It has been suggested that Salisbury helped Crowley to enter Cambridge University and was grooming his young protégé for a lifelong career in the Diplomatic Service, which might well have involved spying for his country. However Crowley had other ideas, although it was at Cambridge that he met the future artist Gerald Kelly and later married his sister Rose. Forty years or so later both men were to serve in the wartime British Secret Service.

In the First World War Cowley was living in New York and he was accosted by a stranger on an omnibus. During their conversation about the war in Europe the man handed Crowley a business card.Printed on it were the addresses of two pro-German magazines and subsequently Crowley wrote anti-British propaganda for these publications.

Naturally the British government took a dim view of this anti-patriotic, traitorous act. They labelled him a traitor and the police raided his magical temple in London and closed it down. Crowley always protested his innocence. In fact he said he had been working for British Intelligence and written the satirical articles at their request. The aim was to ridicule the pro-German movement in America and discredit the magazines. This has never confirmed by the British Government, but it has also not been denied.

Michael Howard
Secret Agents, Magicians and Hitler



Leah Sublime,
Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.

Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!

Straddle your Beast
My Masterful Bitch
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!

Now from your wide
Raw cunt, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling piss
In my mouth; oh my Whore
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And fart as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And piss from the sewer.

Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my prick
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks –
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my prick stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn whore that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to –
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your cunt on me, Leah
Cunt, let me suck
All your glued gonorrhoea!
Cunt without end!
Amen! til you spend!

Cunt! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of cocks!

Cunt, you have sucked
Up pricks, you squirted
Out foetuses, fucked
Til bastards you blurted
Out into space –
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
Cunt you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonical
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
Cunt and cocaine;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, shit!

Shit on me, slut!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out shit
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, whore!
Vomit it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your ass hole, my lover!
You buggering slut,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul Bitch’s bum!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll bugger your grin
Into a shriek.
Bugger you, slut
Bugger your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, suck it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your Cocksucker’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphilis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the arse of a slut!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your fart-sniffer, chewer
Of the shit in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the rape of your slave.

Fuck! Shit! Let me come
Alostrael – Fuck!
I’ve spent in your bum.
Shit! Give me the muck
From my whore’s arse, slick
Dirt of my prick!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, fuck, shit!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!

Aleister Crowley

From Crowley’s diary:

Cefalú, Italy
5.25pm to 5.15am

Against all principals, and in breach of two promises, I have sat up all night in the

snows, writing a poem to Leah.

One long poem – an occasional publishable line thrown in when I weakened.

7.00 am: I think I’ll collect all my filth in one poem and mark H Leah in plain figures.

10.00 am: 1 think 1 did.


At the time of this poem’s composition, Crowley was living in the Villa Santa Banhera Fust outside Cefalu in Sicily with two mistresses, a small group of “disciples” and enough drugs and hallucinogenic substances to sink a battleship.

Comprising 156 lines and 666 words, the numbers of the Whore and the Beast, it was often recited to those aspiring to join Crowley’s group. If the excesses it describes were too much for the newcomer – then they would be turned away (unless they had plenty of cash!).

Needless to say publication of the poem was banned in the UK.

Ultimately, Crowley was deported from Sicily (following the unfortunate death of Raoul Loveday) in 1923.

The Leah of the poem’s title was Leah Hirsig, Crowley’s mistress who helped him set up his “Abbey of Thelema” in Cefalu. She was Crowley’s Babalon, his Scarlett Woman, who took the name Alostrael – the womb or grail of God! In 1921 she confided to her diary:

“I dedicate myself wholly to The Great Work. I will work for wickedness, I will kill my heart, I will be shameless before all men, I will freely prostitute my body to all creatures”.

A common room in the tiny villa became dedicated to ritual practices and held a scarlet “magick” circle marked with the sign of the major Thelemic deities. Crowley’s own bedroom, which he called “la chambre des cauchemars” (or “the room of nightmares”) was entirely hand-painted by the occultist with explicitly erotic frescos, hermaphroditic goblins, and vividly coloured monsters. This private room was used for specific night initiations involving psychoactive drugs which gave terrifying cinematic life to these Bosch-like visions of hellish debauchery.

Crowley would feed himself and his “disciples” doses of opium, hashish and peyote which enabled them to “see” beyond our “mundane reality”. Crowley’s Magick was often little more than drug induced hallucination, of course.

While living in the villa Leah became pregnant by Crowley, as did his second mistress, Ninette Shumway. Leah miscarried but Ninette gave birth to a daughter on the 11th December 1920, at two in the morning in Palermo. They named her Astarte Lulu Panthea, but unfortunately she died in 1928.

It is hard for us to imagine today, but there were children living in the Villa Santa Banhera Fust at this time! During January 1920, Crowley, then living in Fontainebleau with Leah, was joined in a ménage à trois by Ninette, and also by Leah’s newborn daughter, Anne “Poupee” Leah. When they relocated to the villa in Sicily, Leah’s son, Hans Hammond accompanied them, as did Ninette’s three year old son, Howard.

While living in the villa Crowley continued to write, to paint, to perform rituals. He also offered a libertine education to the children, allowing them to play all day and witness acts of sex magic at night. He occasionally interrupted this routine to travel to Palermo. There he’d purchase more drugs and visit assorted rent-boys. By this time Crowley was addicted to Heroin and his cocaine usage was eroding his nasal passages.

In a diary entry for 12th August 1920, Crowley wrote the following:

“Her breasts itch with lust of Incest. She hath given Her two-year bastard boy to Her lewd lover’s whim of sodomy, hath taught him speech and act, things infinitely abhorred, with Her own beastly carcass. She hath tongued Her five-month girl, and asked its father to deflower it.”

This terrible entry seems to suggest Leah and Crowley, both under the influence of cocaine, and peyote, molested Leah’s son, Hansi and that Crowley deflowered his five month old daughter?

Is the entry true or false?

We don’t know. However we do know Poupee died two months later, October 14th 1920. We also know the death was so traumatic to Leah that she suffered her miscarriage six days later.

source of pleasure

December 12, 2016


Keep on acquiring a taste for what is naturally repugnant; this is an unfailing source of pleasure.

Aleister Crowley
The Book of Lies