"crowley" poems
Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.
Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.
Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn – the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted *******
like Crowley… how pedestrian.
Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.
Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).
Son of Man – or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.
Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl –
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?
Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.
No – I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
Ya wonda why I'm filled with so much passion and rage/
But that's what happ'n when ya lessen a man to a cage/
I haven't even unleashed the darkness/
Imagine a soul that's heartless/
Crowley is weak compared to the I beast/
Within me, 'n He I now release/
It in I and we have begun to feast/
Spit it out
Shut ya impudent mouth n listen/
Time ta quit ya fuckin' insolent dissin'/
Check me out I'm hookless/
Reckless/
You follow the text n I'm bookless/
Check this/
Determination look me in my Eyes/
Ya gunna stay in tha gutta, ***** ***** just to watch me rise/
RA!/
I am incomparable/
Can't match me, I'm too lyrical/
I am an assassin/
Breath deep,
I am the heir, with anthrax-in/
How I see it, You nuttin' but fails/
You in a row boat ***** n my ***** got sails/
Ya call me crazy/
Ya vision is hazy/
And ya thinkin is lazy/
What I know would make ya a sage see/
I'm filled with these higher optics/
Shouldn't need a telescope ta spot this/
but you do
What/
Hoss is Down, Livin life like love/
'N neva givin' a ****
I Come here to shut ya ta Hell up/
------------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
You askin', "What am I"/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha commin' age/
Ya too tormented by change/
IT'S NOW
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC
Emasculate Feud,
take his ******* and *****
so that you can travel the Jungian road
of unicorns, rainbows, and pixies
with no ******
Uncle Al Crowley
he died deranged like you-
-your very existence.
--Out of context--
like your quote of James Madison:
To fulfill your nihilist message
of hope without a ******
Freud who knew you all to well,
needs no ***** or *******
to think,
unlike you.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Writhe my darling
and spread wide
hot **** ***** death *****
I want to **** you
blood thunder spit
and gag ****
your eyes
rolling marbles
till you are black as midnight
xoxoxoxoxoxo
"Part of the public horror of ****** irregularity so-called is due to the fact that everyone knows them self essentially guilty."
Alister Crowley
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
I started watching a show about
angels
demons
monsters
hunters
It made me feel some peace
Every night Sam ganked a monster
Was a night I didn't have to
Every time Dean cried a few tears
I let mine fall, too
Every time Bobby told them
to
never
give
up
I didn't either
Every time Cas sent a demon to hell
I felt like one of mine went with it
Every time Crowley kissed a soul
I gave mine to him to make me 10 more seasons.
Because
GOD
knows I need them.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
Kind words
Full mind
Modern Athena
In a Christian arena
Dominated by daddies
Along with other baddies
She's beyond and behind
Her time and her kind
She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air
Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair
I am the beast you ride
Anger, frustration
Society's deviation
I am the body you hide
Bloated and rotten
Tainted by your thoughts
And the rusted knife
That anger that bleeds then rots
I am the monster
What holds the power
She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air
Freedom within
Under the skin
Ideas ferment
Dry off like cement
She sees so clear
Words of opacity
An animated shadow
Pure tenacity
An angel
Here's a demon
Not even an equal
Just all the freedom
Gone wrong
Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Kathleen
Crowley Born on December 26, 1929,
in the Green Bank section
of Washington Township, ( ),
[ , ], [ ]
Burlington County, New Jersey,
Crowley graduated from Egg Harbor
City High School in 1946.
On August 7, 1949, the 19-year-old
won the title Miss New Jersey
at a contest held at Asbury Park;
As Miss New Jersey, she entered
the Miss America pageant
in Atlantic City, New Jersey,
on September 10, 1949,
finishing seventh; [ ]
At the time she was a bookkeeper
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
dark twists of fate
left me uncomfortable of as of late
a karmic lesson knocking at my door
where time seems to me to be a *****
she left me standing all alone
like a dog who lost his bone
a disappearing shooting star
or an empty glass at the bar
but temptation told me to wait
like the apple Adam ate
sure, it it tastes good at first
until god leaves you cursed
where you stand naked in the light
a stark contrast to the bright
no lies or fiction
no rub to friction
the truth stands right before you
a lie you can't pretend not to see through
but belief is a strong force
to creating life without remorse
will thy will is the law
Crowley's epitaph in the maw
and twists of fate oft come late
they are there for us to satiate
times a ***** we all share
but she's sometimes the ***** we can't bare
she's also the the ***** that we beseech
so over the wall and into the breach
go where you want whenever you go
the key is to trust and not to know
to laugh, and to lust and to enjoy
its a skill most forget to employ
passion is a fruit but its also a need
your life is a gift for you to succeed
there is an entire world for you to immerse
as you are the only expression of you in the universe.
because death stalks us slowly until that day
its a constant reminder in strange way
to be who you are without being told
without fear of repercussion dare to be bold
to live your life every day
with love in your heart expressed in your own way
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 12:39 AM UTC
They say I may
have a substance dependency,
I believe they're wrong, my friends!
You see:
'P. Crowley' is simply a figment
of my innermost imagination.
And he writes so much more diligent
-ly when my mind is in elevation,
puffing upon pipes.. rather high!
Why, in the hell, would I-
push halt to his inspiration?
--
Not worrying about when he will die,
he cracks a cold beer.
Isn't it national beer day?
Cheers.
--
Oh, how I wish the Wednesday Woes
would whisper (Not yell!) & pass.
All I wish to do, Lord only knows,
is lie motionless in the Thursday grass.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Surely there was fire in that place
Long dragon tongues of flame
Tasting everything in sight
Leaving it burning cinders
Incredible heat wafted from
The prophet
Sweat bullets dripped then burst
Covering his face
Blanketing his broad shoulders
With salt liquid warmth
Every eye in the arena
Trained on him
No, they could not look away
They'd sold their souls
Happy with the bargain
Even if not quite
A fair exchange
He sang of proving one's devotion
Jethro Tull sings Aretha Franklin
The sweat made it work
And the flying tongues of fire
That set upon the heads of
Everyone in the building
Forced them to speak Hopelandic
So everyone could understand
So no one understood
But the prophet
Who sang songs of desolation
Songs of depression
Songs of dislocation and isolation
Heavy weights to bear
And not a dry eye in the house
Smoke rose through those windows
Firemen never came
Crowley paid lackies to keep the doors
Locked from the outside
So
The prophets demise
Buried in several feet of ash and soot
His last words:
"So Be It"
Hundreds upon hundreds of his
Disciples
Mouths stuffed with debris
The tongues of fire ascended
When the last pulse tapered off into stillness
Suzi Quatro didn't break a sweat
Heavy axe slung laying 'gainst her shin
Bruised but hidden by spandex
Old men and dogs in the audience
Leering, craving different meats
Suzi doesn't notice
Fonzie's still a few years down the road
Suzi's got credentials
Winkler ain't weakened them yet
And with those credentials
She's gonna rock
She's gonna make 'em forget about
The prophet
And all the heavy **** he was always
Layin' on 'em
She said "Watch me play bass guitar"
And whipped out 50 classic bass riffs in a row
The people who had followed her in
Seemed impressed
But not nearly as amazed as they were
By the sight of countless tongues of flame
Descending upon their congregation
The end result being
Remarkably similar to the incident with
Flaming tongues and the prophet
What it all means
Nobody knows
Best not to interrupt good rock and roll shows
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Sweet Phillip, estranged brother o' mine;
what was it that drew you to a life of crime?
A half decade had came and gone-
since you hadn't reeked o' wine.
"My brother, what is wrong?"
I should've asked;
but- you hid so well behind that mask..
You hid those crying eyes-
and that, alone, led to your demise.
And now, sweet brother o' mine,
as I stand over your tomb- I realize:
there is no more time for you, - barely I,
to make new friends
or- amends with ole' ones.
We, two, have been bound to be murdered
since the, very, moment we left the womb.
It looks, as though, they got to you first,
and they left the ground blue.
Surely- it confused them
when they shot through-
your head and didn't see any red.
What lies ahead?
How can the world be so mean?
An angel has fallen, down, dead-
unto the Muddy Waters
beneath the trees a-green.
The Death of Phillip Crowley in 20-16-
left dew in the eyes of the Faery Queen.
She will miss how his eyes did gleam
She will miss how his mind did dream.
She will miss him- and so will I.
(sigh)
Good bye, my brother-
may we see one another,
another day..
maybe.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
I'm waiting. Just sitting here waiting - watching....
Why? Because something is going to come out.
See that hole in the wall?
It's new, you see - the hole.
Busted in fresh just last week -
by Mrs. Crowley's head.
Oh yes, but before she rammed those demons into that wood
it was saturated, watered....fed...
With her screams - her cries....his lies...
It was filled fully as a glutton -
her life as its dessert.
Now a ragged, splintered gaping hole -
bits of wood litter the floor...
the other missing pieces are gone forever -
no doubt on a the mortician’s table
buried deep in her skull
She lost an eye, too -
poor thing.
She was already half blind.
Oh, but the tragedy
to have her own god steal her sight completely.
But not in vain – no, sir
It was for the darkness.
For now the hole watches me as I watch it -
it stole her eyes, as it stole his soul...
So I sit and watch and wait -
Waiting for it to lurk out of its dark corners -
in search of the next generation to destroy
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
Dear Jared Padalecki,
Thank you for being the one who Crowley nicknamed Moose
The one who's character's brother is Dean Winchester and is also Castiel's as well
Who happens to be the one I try to be as a person
As well as your character Sam Winchester
Thank you for being one of the reasons I will "ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING"
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 9:45 AM UTC
to come back to this, after much
a long minute, feels like a *****
returned to brothel; perhaps the
harshness of the analogy is hype-
rbole. won't let a Crowley
********* me; sun's
too bright for that.
should shower,
but drink wine,
and this is perhaps a poor
reactionary response; ironic;
the ironned-iconic. pressed to be
pre-dressed, and no need to cut
a styled up-do;
the hair isn't quite real,
anyhow. all-quite polyeurathane,
or polysylvester, or
never too keen for poly-
anything. now hold up.
nah, keep on the
struttin' along, there's a better
one than you follows a
winger's lead.
smoking cigarettes at the window
while she sleeps; thine own eyes
never stop in faltering-rest,
then restless-hoping that
pen-scrawls, window
scraping sides when opened,
smoking a cigarette at the window;
rattle-restless, hope
is a beggar, but we are manifest;
choosers can't be beggars.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
computers, witchcraft;
difference being: [nil]
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
“A mighty pain to love it is, and ’tis a pain that pain to miss; but of all the pains, the greatest pain is to love, but love in vain.” - Abraham Crowley
Captain: You see what I told you? Islands are nothing but a pain. Its better to admire those from afar. Get too close and they'll only leave a **** hole in our boat
Crew: But Captain, they're so beautiful. We can't help it
Captain: You remember what happened last time we stopped any pretty island, half of us barely made it back alive. This boat is all I have. We must keep sailing. We must find the perfect island to call our home
Crew: But Captain, how will we know what island is perfect?
Captain: You'll just know, ok? Now just sit tight and hang in there...I feel it coming soon..
Crew: Captain we've been at sea for two years; we're running out food. If we don't find an island soon to create a home, we'll starve
Captain: Just hang on tight, I can feel er' coming to us. You must wait
Crew: Captain there's a island coming up we have to land or we'll die. There isn't anymore food or water.
Captain: .......I... I'm sorry but I cant. This boat is all I have. What if we land and the island isn't perfect, huh? What if we get another hole in the boat? Then we'll be stuck at a island that isn't the same as our old motherland. Something that isn't perfect We cant afford that.
Crew: Captain if you don't land this ship we're leaving and you can sail this ship alone without us or food. Make your decision?
Captain:......
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
I was there, I saw it, Beaufort, North Caroline
A hamlet of sorts, ocean hugged, just sublime,
There’s a house near the water, on its front a sign seared
“Beware all who enter. This was the home of Blackbeard.”
Born 1680, England’s Bristol, Teach or Tack by name,
Fictitious personas, it’s the pirate’s game.
He sailed for the Caribbean as a ****** of the time;
From home port of Jamaica, fighting Annie’s war before turning crime.
Two captains by his side, they plundered merchant ships,
Cargo seized, often vessels, on their pirating trips.
A man with a thick beard, braided black in pigtails;
The ominous harbinger; full wind in his sails.
No captives were harmed, yet many vessels met their graves;
His ferocious reputation could be viewed with some praise.
In 1718, now a commodore, at the height of power,
He blocked the port of Charles Town, no guard ships, no search tower.
For a week; nine vessels stripped, the Crowley’s plutocrats were held,
Passengers questioned, then locked below, then an exchange, unparalleled.
The lives of men for medication, and maybe some trinkets on the sly,
They set sail for home port, run aground, problems intensify.
Once home, Blackbeard was offered a Royal Pardon from the British court
And that’s why the seared sign is on a home in Beaufort.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
This is the truth whether you like it or not.
Your body is a temple.
Therefore. When a man and woman have *** they are performing the ritual of conjuring a human soul into a temple.
Aliester crowley taught in his *** magic rituals" that gay **** *** was a way to conjure demons.
Are you understanding now?
Don't shoot the messenger..
Unless that messenger is RNA...
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 5:34 AM UTC
Phillip O'Crowley has fallen down dead
- and I dread- the part that comes next.
Yes! It leaves me feeling quite perplexed;
- thinking it may be my soul- which parishes next.
I begin to build my bush covered, hidden home
-in a lovely, solace place that no one has ever known-
as their own. Yes! It shall be mine, and mine, alone.
A place where I'll grind down stones and bone
- in order to construct my magnificent throne.
Yes! It'll be more immaculate than Cologne- or Rome.
You see- I've just seemed to have outgrown
- this world.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
I am Me.
Phillip Crowley.
Me is one who rarely has peace
in the back of his mind.
My smile will have you believe
that I glide through life with ease
& that nothing phases me.
But, you see?
I am in a state of constant worry.
I am in a state of over thinking.
Until the day that they bury.. me,
I don't think my mind will see peace.
I am Mr. Crowley.
Whose thoughts will make you crawley.
So, you see?
That is why you may never see,
inside my mind.
The Crowley you meet is jolly..
& kind.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Give me your vision
I crafted within you.
I’ll pick up my pen
Your dreams I’ll pursue.
If bloods what you seek
I’ll open my arms.
Is flesh what you want?
**** it, do harm.
**** me Crowley.
Make me moan.
For you see, I worship thee.
Burn me Crowley.
Burn me.
Give me my vision,
You crafted within me.
Deliver me Crowley
I’ll make it my mission.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
In stepwise manners, the decision is made just as the cyan sun pierces through the overcast. The cavalcade of mercurial leaves pass under the handle of my plastic chin. They are borne on the temporal gust of youth which had made its yearly return. My little heart is astounded, immersed in love’s vicarious changes without ever feeling or seeing the flesh. I listen for the chimes that bellow deeply and conspicuously through the plateau shifts. Now, towers are houses and the world is a golf ball; just as meaningful as one, too. Rest, the flakes will not stop cutting into your shoelaced skin. If there is protest in the air, perhaps you are its pilot. Believe in the haze that separates you from those you wish to touch. Crowley’s charms, planetary rings, lamplight halos make a bed that screams “float” eternally. Perplexed and flying through my own inquisitions. Within these past odd minutes, I am intimate with the world’s vein yet again.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
Is it too selfish not only to matter, but to belong? Despite how guilty I feel, how much sin I’ve committed, my failures, my shortcomings. Is it so wrong to devote myself to myself, to find my own meaning, my own cause, my purpose, my drive, to look for my own happiness, my truths, to **** my desire so I wouldn’t feel that I’m missing out, to find something to fill my void, so my soul wouldn’t live out throughout my day wounded? Even if I seek in external at times? Is it so wrong to be poetic, to be romantic, to be thy. Even if I turn to people like Aleister Crowley, to be inspired not only to think rational, to be passionate. Is it wrong to read philosophy, reject the thought of being complete is in the search of becoming complete? For I’ve peered into myself I found only sadness in the despair I saw & I don’t like. No matter how dramatic this is written, it is my truth, my burden, my curse & it’ the price I’ve paid for originality for wanting only to be myself & I find hard to smile realizing what I could've been by playing it safe & been without to what’s internalized in me. I’m meaningful to you, but a paradox, because I’m without you. I’m only on the brink of your life. As long as I’m on this earth, in this life, I am, unable to & able to live, alone & with others. I weeping now, but you weep when I’ve gone.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 3:06 AM UTC