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…s short of breath; Birth shoots a shaft, weighed down by age, That strikes the target, death. Then come, thou golden goblet brimmed With lust! Though all be vain, Theres hope for us, the lion-limbed, In hashish and cocaine. Though death should hale us by the scruff Of neck tos mouldy portal, To-night let us get drunk enough To know we are immortal!
In my passionate pilgrimage, Love, for Love is the Will toward change. Love is a lust and a prayer, and the soul of its act as its word Is of them that were Two to make One, and to seal the Event with a Third. Oh, Love, Astarte sea-born, oh Star blue bright in the West, I invoke thee, thy priest in the shrine that is built of my blood in my breast! Since thou art in me and of me, since thou art the heart of my heart, The soul of my soul, nay, the skin of my skin, not a being apart, I am thou, I accept the intent, acquiesce in the nature implied…
…or dream, No spirit that wantons or weeps, no thought in its silence supreme. I sit, and am utterly still; in mine eyes is my fathomless lust Ablaze to annihilate Will, to crumble my being to dust, To calcine the dust to an ash, to burn up the ash to an air, To abolish the air with the flash of the final, the fulminant flare. All this I have done, and dissolved the primordial germ of my thought; I have rolled myself up, and revolved the wheel of my being to Naught. Is there even the memory left? That I was, that I am? It is lost. As I utter the…
…o cease, I absolve the dead I from its Vow, I am wholly content to be dust, whether that be a mote or a star, To live and to love and to lust, acknowledge what seem for what are, Not to care what I am, if I be, whence I came, whither go, how I thrive, If my spirit be bound or be free, save as Nature contrive. What I am, that I am, tis enough. I am part of a glorious game. Am I cast for madness or love? I am cast to esteem them the same. Am I only a dream in the sleep of some butterfly? Phantom of fright Conceived, who knows how, or how deep, i…