Living Place

By: David Hoyne


Earth embraces the deepest, darkest, underworld
And all its peoples to regain
For they deserve the return…
Their return, to our Earthly domain.

And all those equally lost in Heaven
Righteous, so indignantly insane
Forever wandering through their corridors, ideals
From which, only Earth could ever save.

Every single perspective
Humanity, no matter our ways
Walking back to balance, Earth, home!
Our only living place!

Hymn to Pan


Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token erect of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I rape and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !

Aleister Crowley


I’m crawlin’ outta my skin,

Like a festerin’ wound I

Gnaw it. scratch it. bite it.

I have t’get outta here,

Outta this cage an’ fight it!


I feel trapped, choked, and charred

By life;

Crawlin’ from one cage to the next.

From rat nayest to rat nayest;

A bee leavin’ the hive.

I get in my car and drive;

Fightin’ tooth and nail for a penny.

Sittin’ in my four-walled prison

‘Til my fettered hands are free.


I’m a shadow of my own existence.

A photocopied sack of piss and shit

With a name-tag and nothin’ more.

Another sheep in the herd a’grazin’

On another blade o’ grass.

Another corpse to toss

In the hungry maw of the bloated earth.


I’m crawlin’ outta my skin,

Like a festerin’ wound I

Gnaw it. scratch it. bite it.

I have t’get outta here,

Outta this cage an’ fight it!


Dancing With the Seasons

I try to stop you, but I know I can’t.

The ashes of yesterday, still warm in my mouth.

No hidden secrets lurk here inside this wizened skull.

No ancient text scrawled upon this wrinkled brow.

Only the silent word of Time.


I dance with the seasons,

To the rhythm of the earth.

The age old song so many

Have heard before.


I can hear it sometimes,

Forgotten and forlorn;

Like a lost child crying for its mother.


Change, how I loath to love you.

You, who steals the moon and the stars,

And the nights I wish I could remember.

But without you, would I still be the same?



The American Dreamer


By: S. DiSparti

If there ever was a perfect dream, what would mine be?  That proverbial American dream that America strives and dies for?  Perhaps.  Yes, I have a beautiful wife and daughter, but I have a dead-end job that ends at a small desk with four insurmountable walls; a number-crunching rat in a cage, feverishly looking for a way out.  And these dreams still pervade my every day.  Dreams of becoming a rock star, an actor, a painter, even a circus carny; just something different, or more accurately something with less responsibility.  But what can I do with irresponsibility?  What would I have to show for a reckless life?

You think you know what you want and once you’ve acquired it, you want to keep your receipt just in case you want to exchange it.  If I could just be single again, young again, thinner again life would be much better…but would it?  These are just thoughts that stream across my line of vision as it has for so many others.

If the American Dream is more stress, then I have accomplished that.  And I find later in life that that is what the whole reason for human existence is.  This biological necessity to keep the species alive, to survive.  And the only way for that to happen, one needs to be challenged, to stare into the face of adversity and overcome it.  Is that not why I am here?

I see a stranger pass me by and you wonder what their life is like, wondering if theirs is better.  If their shoes are more comfortable to walk in than my own.  If their dreams parallel my own.  The grass is always greener somewhere else; the ever-covetous neighbor.  The old envy the young, the poor envy the rich, or the ugly envy the beautiful; it is all immaterial.

These lives all diverge and converge on the same elusive path we struggle to follow.  Dreams change as you get older, some die as soon as they are born and some live on, ever-changing, ever-growing into something new.  And though some days are harder than others, I know that this was the path I was meant to walk and I wouldn’t walk anywhere else.




Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Amid the beer cans and cigarette ash.

Ugly legs scurry about looking for more;

Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Looking for shelter, itching to explore.

That vermin that swims inside your glass.

Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Amid the beer cans and cigarette ash.

By: S. DiSparti