From:
[The person of Austin Osman Spare (1888-1956)
is a splendid example of]
[misunderstood and forgotten genius.
Deserving the fame of Beardsley, he is now]
[almost unknown outside the occult scene.
Trained in ceremonial magic under A.]
[Crowley, he later created his own ZOS KIA CULTUS,
which can be called "urban]
[shamanism". The famous sigilization,
some Chaos Magick principles, etc. bear]
[his influence. Besides many breath-taking
art pieces of painting he left]
[several books where the passion
of Blake meets Nietzsche's harshness.]
I tasted the fever of Your existence
seems like cold grain to my mouth
I stand aside, I stay away
transmuting my quicksilver blood
KIA - that I may see
ZOS - that I may touch
insipid are the describing words
the self needs no vulgar praise
This worship has no supplications
my rite is to live and do
things naked, pure, of honest lust
the throbbing vortex feeds on it all
Sleep is the best of possible prayers
the winged eyes are blessed to see
downtrodden deception of every torment
transpierced hymens my lust adores
Many images yet one raw flesh
animal steps I love to tread
an ideal point where Time is Space
memory giant sores this journey must heal
Lady of Mourning and her monsters
lay down the scythes for here I come
joyful and priapic my baby soul
a new-born one, ten million years old
Translate to:
[The person of Austin Osman Spare (1888-1956)
is a splendid example of]
[misunderstood and forgotten genius.
Deserving the fame of Beardsley, he is now]
[almost unknown outside the occult scene.
Trained in ceremonial magic under A.]
[Crowley, he later created his own ZOS KIA CULTUS,
which can be called "urban]
[shamanism". The famous sigilization,
some Chaos Magick principles, etc. bear]
[his influence. Besides many breath-taking
art pieces of painting he left]
[several books where the passion
of Blake meets Nietzsche's harshness.]
I tasted the fever of Your existence
seems like cold grain to my mouth
I stand aside, I stay away
transmuting my quicksilver blood
KIA - that I may see
ZOS - that I may touch
insipid are the describing words
the self needs no vulgar praise
This worship has no supplications
my rite is to live and do
things naked, pure, of honest lust
the throbbing vortex feeds on it all
Sleep is the best of possible prayers
the winged eyes are blessed to see
downtrodden deception of every torment
transpierced hymens my lust adores
Many images yet one raw flesh
animal steps I love to tread
an ideal point where Time is Space
memory giant sores this journey must heal
Lady of Mourning and her monsters
lay down the scythes for here I come
joyful and priapic my baby soul
a new-born one, ten million years old