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Kosmos

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  • Although I Am blAck,

    o dAughters of JerusAlem, I Am beAutIful.

    St. John of the Cross

    AlthoughI AmblAck,

    o dAughtersofJerusAlem, I AmbeAutIful.

  • The Gift of the Kosmos

    Cometh!I n

    p r A I s eo f

    n I g h tA n d k o s m o s

    damian murphy & geticus polus

    lhomme rcent, publisherbucharest

    mmxvintothe

    indigoabyss

    abcdf

    abcdf

  • The Gift of the Kosmos Cometh!published by lhomme recent in bucharest &

    printed on the Akhlys street,where All is crimson and gold

    All ruin and decaygateways upon gatewaysgateways upon gateways

    december, 1928

  • to the naked starlight, the immortal nectar whichoverflows the boundaries of the chalice of night,gushing forth in fountains and streams and rivulets,cleansing the gears of the machinery of sleep, rollingforth like a tide of radiant dew to wash away theiniquities of day. to the great night of the ancients,to stars and constellations long since forgotten, tothe night of blasphemy and heresy, to the senselesskosmos of the demiurge and of Azathoth, thesightless monarch of monotony's empire and regentof the infinite wastes. to Ain soph, the immaculatevoid of the kabbalists, the perfect potentiality of theAbsolute and the annihilation of the contemplative,the ascetic, the undefiled lover of the pure one. tothe abominable city of dreadful night, to the burnedand blackened ruins of piranesi and bruegel, to themiserable curses of the wretched and the damned,abandoned and forsaken beneath the ravenous starsof perilous winters. to n.o.X. and to lAYlAh, tobAbAlon and chAos, to nuIt, the nakedbrilliance of the voluptuous night sky, sublime andholy body of eternity unveiled, divine drunkennessof poets and of prophets, of mystics and ofmadmen. o guiding dark of night, o dark of nightmore darling than the dawn, your light is more dearthan the lilies of the day. there are gifts and sightsthat kos'mos brings to those with eyes to see. Weneed more eyes! We need more eyes!

    abcdf

  • "through the midnight thou art dropt,o my child, my conqueror, my sword-

    girt captain, o hoor! and they shall findthee as a black gnarl'd glittering stone,

    and they shall worship thee."

    Aleister crowley, Liber LXV, The Book of the Heart Girt

    with the Serpent

  • Galaction by Andrew Condous (9) The Dark Dao by Quentin S. Crisp (23) Vision to the Dark: An

    Adventure by John Howard (43) The Endless House, the Dreamless Sleepby Thomas Stromsholt (53) The Lost Words by Harold Billings (99) The Exctinction Hymnbookby Alcebiades Diniz (125) It is Kindness and Mythology by Joseph Dawson (145) Black Night Testament by Jonathan

    Wood (183) Sleeps Lost Labour by D.F. Lewis (217) Archontes Ascendant by D.P. Watt (243) Cast the Seed into the Heart of the Night

    by Stephan Friedman (257) Nocternity by Avalon Brantley (276) Altars by John Gale (290) Black Chroma by Adam S. Cantwell (297)

    The Hour of the Minotaur by Damian Murphy (316) Fire Fades andNight Have no Lords by Geticus Polus (330) Untitled Yet

    by Colin Insole (341)

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  • We waited for a secret word, that should bearwitness to the hope of nations, as nowaccomplished for ever. At midnight the secretword arrived; which word was Waterloo andrecovered christendom! the dreadful word shoneby its own light; before us it went; high above ourleaders' heads it rode and spread a golden lightover the paths which we traversed. every city, atthe presence of the secret word, threw open itsgates to receive us. the rivers were silent as wecrossed. All the infinite forests, as we ran alongtheir margins, shivered in homage to the secretword. And the darkness comprehended it.

    Thomas De Quincey's The English Mail-Coach (Section III: Dream-Fugue)

  • gAlActIonAndrew Condous

  • thIs vAst blAck shAdoW, this swelling, sterile seed that isencased by nothingness, is reclaiming this city with its blackmortiferous flame, devouring the last translucent mauve ribbons andrags, the last ghosts of the day, remnants of the malignant lightintruder.

    the wheel of instants started spinning again, inconsistently atfirst, slowed by the friction of the viscid last dream, before theferocious pace settled in and time regained its linearity.

    the last dream, watered by black internal jungle rivers that twistand turn and carry the decay of the past, the silt of darkness. thatlast dream, where landscapes, malformed creatures, mucilaginousmovements, were shaped, given textures and phantom physics bystrange sounds, aggressive unfamiliar smells, and by that foreignintruder that always came in, but only in his dreams, with its mul -tifarious forms, to infuse them with a dense, unspeakable horror.

    galaction demodolescu was the first born son of the richestlandowner of the eastern lands. he was born, and spent his child -hood, at the family stronghold of castelul demodolescu where hereceived his education through a revolving series of visiting scholars,an education that lacked consistency and linearity but was compen -sated by its richness and variety. It was never clear to what extentgalaction absorbed such teachings, no one had any idea of what he

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  • thought about the history of the lands, the sciences, philo sophies.he was never tested and never asked to answer any questions on whathad been taught. he just listened without any outward display ofeither enthusiasm or boredom, never raised an inquiry or relayed anobservation. A statue listening to the wind.

    outside of his education, his father and mother providedgalaction with all the opportunities to pursue what they perceivedas interesting endeavours. galactions younger siblings had all startedto excel in some form of artistic or literary pursuit which they suc -cessfully undertook with an extraordinary level of enthusiasm.

    galactions father sourced the best clays and softest carvingmarble available in order to allow his son to pursue the art of sculp -ture. Apart from carefully fashioning small balls and spheroids fromsuch materials, galaction did not display much enthusiasm for thistactile art. the fashioning of frozen corpses of time had little appeal.he did nevertheless create a number of sculptures, each a simplelump of clay or marble, all pock marked with craters by thumb orchisel, small hollows where he wished the silential darkness couldpermanently reside, before swelling in the freedom of night. eachof these sculptures supposedly represented a particular emotion. Youcould not differentiate among these creations, they all looked iden -tical. the lump that apparently represented anger was no differentto the one that depicted euphoria. his father encouraged his son tocreate representations beyond the internal but he vehemently refusedto create any sculpture that represented or symbolised the outsideworld.

    each summer, his mother would take him and his siblings tojoin the multitude of families that congregated at the valley springs.the orchestra of the summer swim played across the wetland pockets

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