The Equinox (Volume I, Number X)

THE EQUINOX altogether too strong for a circulation which even in its most robust days had been supplied solely by Horlick’s Malted Milk; only the kind of ink they use in France could have saved the dying saint, for no other ichor could have mingled freely with the liquor of his veins. Thrombonosis super- vened; with one last gasp of “Rabboni, that is to say, Master!” the dying saint clenched his moribund grasp on Crowley’s neck; the word “ periphrasticalism” burst rather than sobbed from his labia, and the thanatogenous hagio- cratist halated his ultimate. Neuburg, as one inspired, uttered his Morte d’Arthur. Poor old Waite is gone to hell. He will soon begin to smell : We must meddle with him, s¢atim. Let us not incinerate him! Let us not be anthropophagous! Let us build him a sarcophagus! Let us bury him in state Worthy of our wobled*® Waite! Find a weed whose tangled mazes May metaphorize his phrases, Find a bunch of camomile Fit to represent his style, Waxen flowers to symbolize His archaicologories, Dandelions as a chrism Of his dole of euphemism. [} Did he mean passim ?—Ed.] 2 Cf. Hamlet, “mobled queen.” Wobled is part mobled, part noble, and part wobbly. 222