To think that every day I traipsed the paths where, often I'd
walk the streets of 30, Clarendon square. Where Louis-
Napoleon Bonaparte was in exile also once there, he a
descendant of that pompous, ignoramus and a dreamer!
But it was 1838 when Aleister came thirty seven year's
late, Shame, for just around the corner sipping gin at
number six would have been the nephew of that dwarfish
imp whose arse needed an encouraging kick! Bring forth
upon this town the diabolical philosophical seduction and
fright of Thelema.
We fear not our endeared great beastie tapping at
libertinism's door, the one numbered six, six and six. All
knew he was a human pendulum swinging between men and
women for his romantic fix and up his ceremonial sleeve
apart from a needle hid many a peculiar trick!
abrahadabra! It's our Crowley of Warwickshire, all round fun fellow
and tarot's Arthur Waite mocking jester. Through the
golden dawn, I've personally learned he illuminated quite the
character.
Once shrilled the moth-eaten mobs of tedious conventional
miserable sods, the libellous envy of Aiwass and the echo
upon a man now a god.
I fell swiftly in love as the royal pump rooms dribbled upon
me in awe. Now a library that ever flows, with the
foreboding of the bewitching magician occultist which I've
fled to read by the memorial of Jephson deep into the
gardens, an otherworldly escapist lost in a provocateur's
labyrinth.
He, a demonic mountaineer who's climbed the most
treacherous of peaks, not quite as recreational as the
substances he was known to tweak, how exhilarating is this
chase between the beast and I. Even the poetic great Briton
of all time's mystique must surrender to do what thou wilt.
To this day still, I Sift through curiosities of true will under
the ever watchful eye of Horus, through the snow white
town only history could have built.

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