The Canticles Of Damiana Evohe

Volume VII

Vesica Ordo Templi Solus Noir

The Canticles Of Damiana Evohe

Volume VII

N O X

Thirteen Octaves Scribed During

The Night Of Pan

The Muse Sing thy song of rapture beauteous one as you lay within the velvet folds of night’s embrace

A thousand voices caress thy mouth as thy lips give utterance to the aeons unfolding each a flame that burns the heart and of that heart a cauldron formed wherein dances an exotic brew giving rise to forms dancing upon thy skin

Skin aflame moistens as breath cools the heat that causes thee to flow outwards caught within an embrace that unfolds into another and another and yet another

Thy lips part as another claims thy body mind and soul and you are released to rise again and yet again

A thousand names have you worn upon this shimmering star A thousand more are you yet to bear as the dance eternal unfolds

The crystal vault of thy mind opens and its blood rises as invocation The drumbeat of thy heart echoes thunder down corridors of adamantine shadows Thy breath coalesces into fire sent forth upon aethyrs fecund with desire Thy back arches as you rise in passion and moisture claims you yet again

Have you not walked the aeons adorned in silk maiden and whore Did we not cross the mountains of the moon Did we not embrace within fairest Astarte’s realm Did we not cross the boundary lands within the night of pan And did we not enter the fabled city beneath solus noir

By hand eye are these cyphers cast forth A single drop of blood a tear shed in thy name So raise thy voice and of this song may we yet walk in shadows and greet the day in silence

The Hill Of Flint

Upon a hill of flint, guised as scribe and priest was the call sent forth upon aethyrs fecund with infinite possibility and from the silence emerged an answer. Mantled in beauty she rose from the ocean, held out a pale hand and clasped the moment, unfolding in rapture.

Samael and pale Lilith conjoined and the Archon whispered into the ear of his Vesica honeyed words of benediction. Cast aside were the masks of their making and in the silent vault of midnight’s embrace did they dance within an ocean of stars and their whispers foretell the end of days as the rays of Solus Noir radiate the ambrosial nectar of their presence within the realm of sentience.

The Grigori, eternal watchers in the night manifest their scions and dissolve into the mist of memory casting but a dim reflection upon the mirror of eternity. The treasure house of

images dissolves as the reflections shatter and transform into a pageant as history turns its pages and time unfolds before eyes jaded, blinded by lust and desire and from this cauldron rises rainbowed vapours, intoxicating, as the cup is filled and overflows. Drop by drop is the nectar distilled, venom becomes nectar and lips parched drink deeply from the fount of eternity’s embrace.

And upon that hill of flint was the covenant witnessed and recorded by the servants of time, scribed upon a parchment of skin with ink drawn from the heartsblood and breath. Cyphers limned in flame rise and are sent forth by hand and eye upon aethyrs silent, pregnant with possibility and from the womb of time and place did the Selim take their first stumbling steps into a realm alien and exotic. Cast upon a shore of timelessness, eyes shone, the heart, a drumbeat echoes from the silence and dissolves within amniotic oceans embrace and our avatars rise. Rags slip from their bodies and mantles of light replace the nakedness of their forms. Turning they gaze upon each other and dissolve into the rapture.

The aeons, mute witnesses, celebrate their coming and in the book of life are their names scribed to bear witness beneath stars radiant in the night of time. Rise beloved ones and claim thy place in eternity. Rest from labours now complete and greet the dawning day with joy as the black sun sends forth its rays of transformation and benediction.

Bend thy heads in the pose of humility and whisper thy prayer.

Sic Transit Gloria Rosa Mundi.

The Field Of Dreams

Death beheld life and smiled, whilst life, like a maiden shy upon her bed of roses coyly looked aside and within their eternal embrace does sentience stain the field of dreams with its urgency. Gaze into the mirror that is thy life and behold desires etched visage beneath a veil of Terra’s dreaming form. Wipe tears from eyes bleached by vision’s quest and enter the eternal moment. Rise from the fecund vapours and soar into thinner air bathed in rapture. Dream unfolds down long corridors of desolation and at its end twin mirrors hang, suspended in the embrace of time and are shattered by the wanderers upon the shores of night and into the ocean are they cast, cycle upon cycle unfolds as their tale unfolds its pages upon memory granted by bold Artemis. Upon a heart forged in fire within the embrace of Astarte and a body consecrated rises from ashes and is formed in the vision of blessed Babalon.

And in this way did our scribe and his beloved don the mantle that became their life and world.

She binds his heart with a golden cord and Na’amah rises. She binds his mind with the vision that is Ygrat. She binds his body with the perfume of her presence and Isheth whispers her commands.

The world, now a dim memory celebrates its purpose upon a field of dreams turned to nightmare and from the ashes of despair a temple is raised and upon its altar burns the eternal flame that quenches thirst and upon parched lips is the nectar distilled and scribed in words of beauty and cast upon ears now deaf to deceit. The world dreams itself into sleep and rises spectre like beneath a veil of toxins barb, buried deeply into flesh now dissolved in an ocean of longing.

Dreams made flesh displace the dream that is the world and the field of dreams is purified and consecrated in thy eternal name. And from the Palace Of Exiles do they depart and enter the final dream as the final piece in their tale is placed upon the mirror of memory that even now slips into an ocean of bliss.

The field of dreams dissolves in rapture and new forms rise upon pinions etched in light and boldly step forth beneath an ocean of stars which whisper their essence across the wastelands now transformed and redeemed.

The Vale Of Tears

Cast into the ocean of form was he and The Vale Of Tears unfolds wrapping its sinuous coils around his recumbent form. First as a whisper did she come, siren and muse, then her perfume, intoxicating entered lungs and blood and in her final pass did the nectar drip from the honeyed petals of her rose and from this chalice did he deeply drink of the vision that transcends life itself and reveals the spectre that is its heart.

Across a desertscape does he walk burned by a relentless sun. His body emaciated, skin burned to blackened leather, his formed garbed by rags that all but slip into dust. Beneath his feet bleached bone forms the sand of his passing. He stumbles, step after step taken in exhaustion as he remembers the splendour that was his home before the time of echoes began and the curse was yet to take flesh. He glances to his left and his brother stands beside him, smiles and extends a hand, clasps the burned ones shoulder and whispers, ‘into eternity

dost thou walk noble one, thy steps faltering yet thy heart be true. Take sustenance from the vision that guides thee. Thou art not devoid of companionship upon this thy quest for thou art guided by the blessed that have passed before thee and upon whose bones you now walk. Come for we await thee.’

The poets have ciphered this vision in words that be but shadows. The philosophers have violated the mystery with their eternal arrogance which thinly guises their ignorance. The holy have offered their emaciated forms upon the altars of service and sacrifice and remain unheard, their reward the penance of hubris for we steal fire from heaven and render it into vision and yet we fail and within the miracle that is life we all dream and yet the world claims us for the prison bars of our own making be but iron to the common ones and gossamer vision to the self styled wise.

Through The Vale Of Tears we all walk, prince and pauper alike. The hill of dreams collapses beneath its own weight and the vale of tears unfolds before jaded senses. Vision but distils its toxin into nectar and of this we drink and our thirst eternal remains unslaked.

To the wise there is but one path to walk and that is cyphered in silence. May the eternal ones come forth from the silence and embrace the penitent as they walk, unredeemed upon the shores of night.

The Palace Of Exiles

In the sceptred silence of midnights calling the fallen ones on bended knees knew despair. The realm supernal now but a dim memory etched upon the skin of time. Effortlessly was the journey commenced and now futility was the fruit of their ceaseless labour. A bitter gall made sweet by honeyed words and glances sent across the vault of night. The exiles rise on limbs limned in blood and behold the portal before their now blinded eyes. The Lord Of Hosts smiles, rises upon legs sinuous and glances at the fallen ones, ‘seek not redemption my brave ones’ are the words that bruise the silence and into the hearts of the exiles dawn, an ebon globe rises and cuts the horizon, bleaching stars from the sky.

And through the portal they step, resolute and condemned by eternities numbing promise and as the mists of discord rise an ocean of blood washes the firmament of hope. Golden sands serve as a shoreline as the exiles journey upon the way, eternally blessed and cursed. Life claims our reluctant heroes and places its mark upon their brows. Seek them not in palaces of splendour or within the marbled halls of wonder. Rather seek them amongst the lost souls who travel solitary upon a world alien.

What began with a scream now falls to a whimper as the regents, Life and Death gaze upon the tableaux before them. Mountains become as dust. Oceans boil and their vapour becomes as glass carrying the shadows and reflections of memory. The air becomes a vacuum and lungs once enriched now know stillness as night invades and in triumph, upon its horn of desolation issues its clarion call upon the purity of silence. Life and Death retreat and are cast into the vault of time to weave their endless spells upon the golden aethyrs.

The exiles enter homes unwelcoming and claim their birthrite in shattered hallways of despair and serve but as memories of the glory that was, is and may yet be. Into their hearts they gaze deeply and etch the reflections upon the parchment of time as glory whispers unheeded in corner forlorn. Strip thy body of rags soaked in blood, enter the ocean and be reborn and serve as a testimony of times yet to be.

The exiles and the Lord Of Light weave their forms into the sentience that now engulfs them and are forgotten within the tumult of life’s ceaseless demand. Pity not the fallen, as exiles are they now blessed by the mantle of freedom and remain true unto their essence and nature.

The Mountains Of The Moon

The first vision crystallizes into a seascape beneath a moon rich in its fullness. The waves a mirror of ebonised mercury ceaselessly waxing and waning in their liquidity. Our avatars garbed against the cold of night, heads arch and touch and between them a young one nestled in the embrace of slumber. Diana’s silven rays descend and touch the ebon waves and from their depths twin opalescent pylons rise capped by a crescent which holds Diana within its horns. Silven light issues and into the eyes of our avatars does it enter, touches hearts awash with vision and seals the pact.

The second vision becomes the outstretched palms of the fair one and upon their surface two figures dance. He a jester dressed in motley of black and gold and she a lady fair adorned in white lace and their dance eternal unfolds.

The third vision is blessed by silence and utters but a single thought. Across the mountains of the moon did we walk, my love and i.

The first mask manifests its wonder and power and our erstwhile scribe enters the palace of wonder beneath the mantle of service. Forsakes life’s calling and becomes but a wanderer upon the way.

Thrice did this cycle occur across the measurement of time you call two decades. The first, a foretaste. The second, a reminder, for we be but dull of wit and the third, the manifestation of the current we call Lammae Rouge, The Blood Moon, sibling and Vesica to our Archon, Solus Noir, The Black Sun.

And now the fruit of the vine we gather, render it as word, sigil and image, we call Axiomata and send these forth as the rays of our blessed sphere during this time, The End Of Days. Ritual has been replaced. Rite has been transcended as we become the avatar and manifestation of the work begun so very long ago. Our journey has been long and the mirror that is our mind, our reflection remains true to its purpose conceived long ago in the time of purpose and destiny. Many times have we stumbled, all but fallen to the ground in abject defeat and yet it is by grace alone that we survive for the power we serve, albeit lacking in compassion attends us in our moments of despair and ecstasy.

Our rites began with a simple invokation, Bring That To Me That Which Brings Me Unto Thee. In Truth the Rite Has Written Itself.

The Embrace Of Astarte

The beauteous one manifested in Grace and blessed our life and pursuit with her presence. Held our hand during the long nights and brought us to our understanding. Etched her presence upon our heart and lay with us in her sacred valley beneath her shining star.

As before this unfolded as three cycles of rite covering two decades and in this way the second mask was manifested. Its purpose to mask our heart in the way that the first mask served this purpose in respect of our mind, that we might remember. Our mask in this instance served that we might know rapture, that which rises from the heart, infuses its lifeblood into the mind and conjoined does the rapture unfold.

We began as a humble aspirant within the august body of the Typhonian Order under the sigil of Samael 131. Called to our path we undertook the path of Bhakti, as required and chose the noble ΠΑΝ as our chosen vehicle of devotion and yet we were not unaware that our sigil and deity bore the same numeration. May the erudite speculate on the implications.

Our first mask and its attendant rites were configured under the principle of chastity, the virtue of our wondrous Artemis and though we suffered much temptation at the hands of our siren and muse we survived after a fashion though it has cost us dearly.

Our second mask and its rites, by contrast were configured under the formula of Love Under Will. Again the erudite will glimpse our meaning. One came to us that served as Priestess in the truest of ways and the purity of our love cleansed our heart of that which had gone before. In this way Grace entered our life remained our ever vigilant companion and held our hand during these the rites of passage. Our humble aspirant took the first steps towards becoming Adept of his Arte.

The Embrace Of Astarte remains true at this time as it did when initially undertaken, two decades ago and stands as a testimonial to fortitude and the power of devotion.

Empty thy life’s blood, drop by drop into her chalice until the very last and in so doing receive the benediction which is hers alone to grant.

In Nomine Babalon.

The Boundary Lands

Across the mountains of the moon did we walk my love and I and in the vale of Astarte did we take our rest. The Vale Of Tears transforms, becomes The Palace Of Exiles and having endured we enter The Boundary Lands which borders the fabled city in The Night Of Time. Herein we manifested our third mask, that we might become that which we sought. The natural conclusion to our bhakti.

During our first cycle of rites the primary avatar manifested and during our second cycle his consort manifested that in unison they enter the third cycle and manifest the beloved, our Lilith. This our final cycle of rites takes place 15 years after we commenced our journey and is to be described in the octave we call Lilith Rising.

In the Night Of Pan dawn passes and mid day ascends, the rays of Solus Noir shine forth, casting no shadows, for there is

nothing that its light might touch that might remain whole. There is a light, there is an object and there is the shadow that is cast. The light becomes our Solus Noir, whilst our object becomes the avatar and the shadow casts these words before your eyes. In this fashion did we walk The Boundary Lands.

History unfolds and into the book of life is it scribed and whilst the world continues to unfold its dreams and desires we walk, mantled in a cloak of invisibility, the better to serve our purpose

… … … I speak to thee, yes thou who art writing these words and even unto thee who in turn reads these words, from the Boundary Lands I speak. Cast aside all that thou art, for i seek naught that is of thee, from thee. Your form but dissolves in my presence. Your Mind, the Reflection which thou art clouds over. The Heart which thou seekest, empties itself into the eternity which thou art. I accept All of this and more, I take only that which is freely given. I grant naught in return, for what in truth would thou, creature of Earth do with such, you alive in your world, I in mine.

Yet still you seek me. Look into your world, does not nature, my fairest sister stir from her slumbers, casting aside her mantle of repose. See you not the lifeblood stirring within her heart. The bounty of her body giving rise to the eternal cycle of Life and Death… … …

Liber 131 – March 2 1992ev

The Serpent’s Kiss

In preparation for our second cycle, a cycle unknown to us at the time we undertook that called which has been called The Firesnake, wherein did we cast our form into the arte of yoga which serves as the foundation of this work. Sigils we cast to represent the centres of power outlined by the hindu culture and in this fashion did we enter the embrace of Ananta.

… … … In solitude is the ocean churned. Barren waste turned fertile at her passing. But one kiss imparted and the world is turned.

Coiled serpent thou art beauteous in thy rising. Piercing the veil of dark Mara’s domain. Bathed in nectar sweet art thy lover. Who but for one kiss one embrace would leave this wasteland of times passing

Thou risest unto the realm of matter. Infinite coils of raptures passing pierced by thy ecstasy.

Yet still thou risest unto the palace of the sun thy handmaiden. Beauty in the trance that enraptures thee. The void but spins coalesces into myriad forms of resplendent being.

Thou risest yet unto the dwelling place of natures heart. Cast adrift upon the secrets of thy longing. A heart emptied yet filled by thy ecstasies.

Unto the palace of knowledge yet still thou risest. Casting off form and entering the bliss which art thy being. Thy handmaidens attend thee as from the void dost thou rise resplendent in thy glory.

Yet further art thy coils to rise entering the palace of thy being, caught up in thy embrace, an eternity passing in but a moment.

Now am I passed now am I no more as onward thou coursest. I but a shimmering scale upon thy body. An echo of thy passing. Standing before the gateway of eternity. Breath Mind and Body dissolved in thy presence. But for one kiss one embrace wouldst I die… … ...

Liber Ananta – September 18 1994ev

An Ocean Of Bliss

Amidst the travail that eternally attends us were we, by Grace alone permitted to partake of the nectar that drips from the lips of our Holy Lady Babalon and into her coils were we given to dissolve in the bliss that strips us of form and being, to become but one scale upon her body as she soars upon aethyrs burnished gold.

In this fashion did we, in part, complete the foundation of our bhakti through the rubric of The Firesnake.

… … … And who would walk this way with me, creature of shadow and dark repose, who yet yearns to feel the warmth of a human heart. The caress that calls the blood to flow, the breath to quicken, the breath dissolving the flesh in rapture, an angel passing between us.

Skin soft, warm, bathed in nectar as onward we spiral. For I have dreamed and in that dream a voice reaches out towards

me in welcome.

Casting new shapes and patterns before my eyes, shapes yet hard of surface, begin to yield, soften, flow in liquid curves, undulating as surface meets surface, moistens, liquefies and flows to a greater depth.

Shadows pass leaving a silven moon. Upon a hilltop amidst a forest glade, the purple legion of night around and between us. The dark silhouette of arboreal forms.

A stream wending its way across rocky terrain in quest of its continuance, its source, its end. For in truth we stand alone, and yet a time, a one whose heart beats to a similar tune.

A thought echoed across the aethyrs. The call of nature’s horn, that her creatures know of rapture and repose.

To what surface does this call? And from what depth comes forth the answer?

To you who walks in beauty these words, these echoes are sent. Shapes born of ink and wrought in thought. Each one bearing within itself a heart beat, a dream, a vision. Long may we walk in shadows, perchance that daylight beckons. And with this passing thought I bid thee adieu… … …

The Call – September 20 1994ev

Twin Pylons In The Night Of Time And out of the east a mighty wind did rise and at its heart a centre of silence. From the south rushing fire that turned all to ash. A mountain of iron did rise in the north eclipsing the stars themselves as it bore witness and from the west an ocean of blood stained the earth as it rose and lapped at the flanks of an iron citadel, sentinel in the night.

Above, the stars in their palaces of light shuddered as the whispered word issued from lips of molten lava. Below the Terra stirred from her slumbers, shook sleep from her ageless body and sang.

The sentinels, as one, sent forth their spells and incantations and from the depths of the ocean two towers of opalescence did rise, creasing the indigo sky with crowns of glory. The avatars feet rooted to the Earth beneath bathed their heads in celestial splendour and whispered to each across the void. Twin Pylons In The Night Of Time holding the reflection within their hearts and eyes of the horned crescent moon crowned by Solus Noir.

Before the fabled city they stand sentinels in the night, Grigori, thrice blessed and cursed and within that city the old ones do yet dream, wrapped in their mantles of slumber as the pageant eternal unfolds.

The curse of ages is lifted as the stooping dragon raises its head unto the stars and greets its twin, guised as maiden and whore. The queen of heaven bares her breast and honeyed milk flows from its crown, descends and enters the open mouth and lapping tongue of the dragon who drunk upon the blood of ages turns upon itself and distills the precious venom which art its nature.

As rays of ebon light it is sent forth and leeches the blind of their incarceration. Burns the heart of the tyrant with its ambrosial nectar and they bathe in the font of despair. The innocent, the true and noble drink from the font and ascend upon wings of rapture and are greeted by the by the pylons wherein they are absorbed and enter eternal rest. Lux Aeternam.

Twin Pylons In The Night Of Time stand at the gates of eternity and are greeted by the Grigori, eternal watchers in the night who raise their voices as one and whisper into the dawn.

And out of the east a mighty wind did rise and at its heart a centre of silence.

Lilith Rising

Samael within his palace of isolation broods and of his musings a blackened smoke does rise. In his heart a void opens and a cry burns the night. Thrice, through rite and devotion had he sought for his bride only to find her and lose her in the vastness of the ocean from whence she did rise. Persevere he did for his manifestation took an entire cycle, whilst that of his sister another and now they, conjoined entered The Triangle Of Arte to weave their spells and incantations, send forth the sigils of power to birth within the burnished aethyrs and invoke the fairest one, our beloved Lilith. A cycle unfolds and in the fullness of time the signs and manifestations bear witness to the event.

A vision unfolds and Isheth plunges her spear into the very core of our Samael and though he knows pain he rejoices. A second vision and Ygrat in her power decapitates him and from his sleeping self he rises. A third and the beauteous Na’amah

enters his heart and places her seal upon him. Long separated, the isolation ends as The dark lord Samael is united with fairest Lilith and in their conjoining does the portal unto Solus Noir reveal itself and beckon.

They step forth and weave their spells into the noble prima mater whereon a diamond pierces the Earth, aligned in the heavens to the stellar palaces of Triangulum and Ophiuchus, The Serpent Bearer, their points of origin and in truth, their homes. The diamond they spin and with each Moon’s peak does it make but one rotation and in this fashion are the rays of Solus Noir sent forth also. This act, this the extending of their primary triangle they name Trinity in memory of the ones who performed the act in matter whilst we perform ours in time.

The Portal Of The Black Sun opens and its radiance pours forth and with the manifestation of the Archon and Vesica of our Arte and their respective avatars, our Twin Pylons unfold the prophecy of the end of days.

And It Was Given Unto The False Prophets

To Spread The Lie Sow The Seed Of Doubt

Draw Aside The Veil And Reveal The End Of Days

The Night Of Pan

In The Night Of Pan it is dawn and The Black Sun rises and casts no shadow. In the citadel of silence wherein it was conceived and made flesh the old ones walk in the night of time, between the moments of the passing of thy breath. They stain thee with the tincture of their musings and intoxicate with the perfume of their speech. Bestial tongue, the experience thou partakes in, yet know that it be with the tongues of angels that they do speak their desire unto the firmament and the burnished aethyrs.

Thy laws crumble into inchoate night and thy temples are turned to dust as thou grasps the rags of thy faith around thy form, emaciated and devoid of a soul. IN sibilant whispers do we intoxicate thy waking days and slumbering nights. The Night Of Pan unfolds before eyes and senses jaded by thy lust and arrogance. Nihil Humani Est Puto and as one art thou consumed within the velvet folds of the unmaking.

Midnight, a promise issued down the darkened corridors of time. Twilight, a reflection vast upon the mirror that serves as memory. Dawn and the spell is cast and all unfolds as thy will, the very core of thy being unfolds before thee, silent witness and with Mid day do our rays reach their zenith and are capped with the stellar whispers that inform the heart, enrich the mind and make strong the temple that is thy body. As one thou steps forward, before thee the precipice beckons, behind thee thy history bears witness to thy passing. Above thee the stars but whisper to each other, unheeded and below Terra casts aside her slumber and rises. Her breath a mighty wind that sweeps all before her. Her tears an ocean that rises and washes away the stain. From her heart a thunderous bell and all crumbles to dust and within her eyes lightning rises and strikes, transforming all it touches. Solve Et Coagula in the matter of the great work and by thy will is it done.

In The Night Of Pan we cast aside masks, veils and forms. Strip ourself of artifice and proclaim our presence across and through time. Invisibly do we travel, thy senses comprehend us not for we proclaim the incomprehensible to the uncomprehending. We raise our visor and cast a glamour before us that occludes and grants us the silence we crave within the tumult that is thy presence.

We rise and boldly step forth and send felicitations to the ones who yet accompany us upon this our quest, our journey, our dream. Ave.

The End Of Days … … … History written in your stars, unheeded.

Your acts before your eyes, unheeded.

You dwell within a garden, unheeded.

Raised to beauty and splendour, unheeded.

Blessed by innocence, unheeded.

Granted dominion and responsibility, unheeded. Freewill and choice, your conceit.

Power in your world, hubris and lies.

Shackled in prisons of your own creation when freedom and mystery surround you.

Beauty in the wing of a butterfly, majesty in the gait of the panther, innocence in the eyes of a child.

And yet … … … ?

Justice do we serve and our sister blesses us in her travails eternal. Look into the mirror of your form, cast aside the veil of ignorance and know these as the end of days… … …

Anathema – August 2010ev

And now our task, all but complete, we take our rest from travail and our labour performed over our short lifetime, pluck the fruit from the vine and distill the wine of ecstasy and drink deeply of this brew. Nectar borne of blood, bone, muscle and the sweat of our brow.

Seek us not in the words and axiomata cast before your eyes. Seek us not within the vault of your understanding for we are but the stuff of dreams and with this passing thought we bid thee adieu.

At The End Of Days Two Grigori Will Be Upon The Earth

And They Shall Die

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