One of the most famous – yet least understood – manifestations of Thelemic thought has been the works of Kenneth Grant, the British occultist and one-time intimate of Aleister Crowley, who discovered a hidden world within the primary source materials of Crowley’s Aeon of Horus. Using complementary texts from such disparate authors as H.P. Lovecraft, Jack Parsons, Austin Osman Spare, and Charles Stansfeld Jones (“Frater Achad”), Grant formulated a system of magic that expanded upon that delineated in the rituals of the OTO: a system that included elements of Tantra, of Voudon, and in particular that of the Schlangekraft recension of the Necronomicon, all woven together in a dark tapestry of power and illumination.The Dark Lord follows the themes in the writings of Kenneth Grant, H.P. Lovecraft, and the Necronomicon, uncovering further meanings of the concepts of the famous writers of the Left Hand Path. It is for Thelemites, as well as lovers of the Lovecraft Mythos in all its forms, and for those who find the rituals of classical ceremonial magic inadequate for the New Aeon. Traveling through the worlds of religion, literature, and the occult, Peter Levenda takes his readers on a deeply fascinating exploration on magic, evil, and The Dark Lord as he investigates of one of the most neglected theses in the history of modern occultism: the nature of the Typhonian Current and its relationship to Aleister Crowley’s Thelema and H.P. Lovecraft’s Necronomicon.
Black Magic, art and poetry by Rosaleen Norton
Light’s Black Majesty: Midnight Sun: Lord of the wild and living stars:
Soul of Magic and master of Death;
Panther of Night… enfold me.
Take me, dark Shining One; mingle my being with you,
Prowl in my spirit with deep purring joy
Live in me, giver of terror and ecstasy
Touch me with tongues of black fire.
Fed with the fire at the Black Opal’s centre,
I drink living silver in moon-quickened streets,
And star-voices ringing:
All Strangeness is with me
Towering, invisible, changing the Earth.
Hatred and heaven are blending within me: They beat in the pulse of the stars,
For a god in my heart cries with primitive splendour
‘Child of the Shadow, I hate all Humanity!’
Night, freakish Night, sets me free…
Poor fools, sleep on in your deathbeds of life! My home is the house of the winds,
With great songs of Space ringing wild in my ears
Whose shouting heart leaps to their tune.
I mock at the shapes, plodding thickly, through lamplight: stupid and cruel - or kind -
They are alien, Other. I’m touched with uneasiness…
Fear of these humans… and glide away sidelong:
Yet knowing in fear, in my stealthy aloofness,
To know they are They and I’m I.
Towers of old cities are spiralling over me, Night-conjured, rising from Time
And I hear, through the seething of luminous silence -
Secretive, vibrant, the sound of the Solitude -
Calling of others like me.
Quietly they come, flitting softly as secrets; light-footed, velvety, swift…
With eyes gleaming green, lambent flame of the Opal.
Kindred… we signal our quick recognition.
I am I… but I know we are we
Panther of silence; god of Night; Lord of the wild inhuman stars;
You are my own; teeming soul of solitude.
Here is no loneliness, secret Master -
You, Dark Spirit, are with me.