Abraham "Bram" Stoker (November 8, 1847 – April 20, 1912) was an Irish novelist and short story writer, best known today for his 1897 Gothic novel Dracula. During his lifetime, he was better known as personal assistant of actor Henry Irving and business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, which Irving owned.

Aleister Crowley: Lilith

Aleister Crowley, Halloween poem, Vampire poetry, Vampire poems, Dark Poems, Dark Poetry, Gothic poetry, Goth poetry, Horror poetry, Horror poems

The stench of the gross goat is in my nostrils instead of
the perfume of Artemis.
I plucked the Virgin by his broidered chlamys....who
could have guessed that hairry horror hidden ?
I have got gall to be my drink, who mingled my wine
with myrrh and musk and ambergris.
I made my bed of silk and and furs; and waking I found I had
swooned to sleep upon the midden.
Ah! Were those virgin lips of thine polluted with some
rank savour of Sabbatic lust ?
What spell turned thee, the maiden, to a monkey jibbering
antiphonal blasphemies
To those chaste chants I woed thee by, the moment that
touching thee, my fruit dissolved to dust,
Fair-seeming Sodom-apple ! Yet thy kisses smote all my
spine to shuddering ecstasies !
So strode the fool upon the mountain ridges, crying; One
step, and I attain the crest !
Lo! The loose cornice tricks him, and he tumbles, a
mangled nothing, to the glacier.
So the nun cries: One effort and I conquer; I pass the
gate, I win the appointed rest !
And passing it discovers the foul body of Sin that waits to
set his teeth in her.
So in my dreams, escaping from a monster, I turn one
corder; "there is refuge - there!"
Nay, there he lurked who never had pursued me....'twas
I who chased him to his proper holt.
Then, O thou vile adorable, my lover, my master, catch me
backward by the hair !
Fasten thy fangs upon my mouth's gasped anguish, and
split my dream-clouds with thy thunderbolt !
Though thou be God or Satan, do thaou master my death-
pand with thy life-pang, and possess
All that I am with all thou art, my Vampire, my Siren
that I thought a nightingale !
Abase me! Spit upon me! Scourge me! Murder me !
Take thy wolf's meal of my loveliness !
Give me the reek of thy foul breath, and show me the
leper's face behind the shining veil !
Yae! Though I sink through measureless abysses, I trace
the incommensurable curve.
Thy foursqure wedge that rages in my circle shall match
it at the infinite period.
Polluted body, violated spirit, corrupted soul, stunned brain
and tortured nerve:-
These merge into thy bloody maw, Echidna, that shall
emerge the lone white flame of God.

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