(lyrics by Pavel Wasilewski)
"The person of Austin Osman Spare (1888-1956) is a splendid example
of a misunderstood and forgotten genius. Deserving the fame of
Beardsley, he is now almost unknown outside the occult scene. Trained
in ceremonial magic under A. Crowley, he later created his own
ZOS KIA c**TUS, which can be called "urban shamanism". The famous
sigilization, some Chaos Magick principles, etc. bear his influence.
Besides many breath-taking art pieces of painting he left several books
where the passion of Blake meets Nietzsche's harshness."
I tasted the faver of Your existence
seems like cold grain to my mouth
I stand aside, I stay away
transmuting my quicksilver blood
KIA -that I may see
ZOS - that I may touch
insipid are the describing words
the self needs no wulgar praise
This worship has no supplications
my rite is to live and do
things naked, pure, of honest l***
the throbbing vortex feeds on it all
Sleep is the best of possible prayers
the winged eyes are blessed to see
downtrodden deception of every torment
transpierced h****s my l*** adores
Many images yet one raw flesh
animal steps I love to tread
an ideal point where Time is s***e
memory giant sores this journey must heal
Lady of Mourning and her monsters
lay down the scythes for here I come
joyful and priapic my baby soul
a new-born one, ten million years old
"The person of Austin Osman Spare (1888-1956) is a splendid example
of a misunderstood and forgotten genius. Deserving the fame of
Beardsley, he is now almost unknown outside the occult scene. Trained
in ceremonial magic under A. Crowley, he later created his own
ZOS KIA c**TUS, which can be called "urban shamanism". The famous
sigilization, some Chaos Magick principles, etc. bear his influence.
Besides many breath-taking art pieces of painting he left several books
where the passion of Blake meets Nietzsche's harshness."
I tasted the faver of Your existence
seems like cold grain to my mouth
I stand aside, I stay away
transmuting my quicksilver blood
KIA -that I may see
ZOS - that I may touch
insipid are the describing words
the self needs no wulgar praise
This worship has no supplications
my rite is to live and do
things naked, pure, of honest l***
the throbbing vortex feeds on it all
Sleep is the best of possible prayers
the winged eyes are blessed to see
downtrodden deception of every torment
transpierced h****s my l*** adores
Many images yet one raw flesh
animal steps I love to tread
an ideal point where Time is s***e
memory giant sores this journey must heal
Lady of Mourning and her monsters
lay down the scythes for here I come
joyful and priapic my baby soul
a new-born one, ten million years old