Second Edition! Improved production values! Critically appendicized by the leading lights of Thelema/Crowleyanity!
“The voice is dead perfect… I can’t imagine a hip Thelemite NOT having this book in her library.”
–Don Webb, former High Priest, Temple of Set
“This ‘picaresque graphic novel’ reads like an account of Crowley’s death-bed fever dream or an afterlife bardo journey gone terribly wrong, wherein the fifty-eight Wrathful Deities take on the aspect of warped and sinister versions of Looney Toons archetype…. the result reads like a trippy, post-mortem, long-lost epilogue to The Confessions.”
–Richard Kaczynski, author of Perdurbo: The Life of Aleister Crowley
“Reading Elmer Crowley is like reading Crowley’s inner dialogue at 3am, after an intensive journey into his own inner abyss. It is, therefore, a magickal working that Crowley himself would be proud of.”
–Gwendolyn Taunton, author of Northern Traditons
“Of Aleister Crowley’s many fictionalizations, this novel gets best into his head. Erudite, prideful, lascivious, funniest man of his time, and the mightiest spiritual spelunker–he speaks and shouts from these pages as clearly as he did in his Autohagiography, which is paradoxical, given the irreal setting.”
–Barry Katz, HTMLGIANT
“This book…captures the feel of Crowley with his bawdy, politically incorrect irreverence, his arrogance and his committed magickal spirituality and awareness.”
–Charlotte Rodgers, author of P is for Prostitute
“Crowley, Fudd, Hitler, Buddha, Yeats, Heliopolitan hierophants, the Goddess Baubo, assorted “Nilotic dream despots”, a carrot-eating Madame Blavatsky, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and their Warner Brothers producer, Leon Schlesinger bounce and boing their way across human history. These are the launch points for Bradley’s inquiries into questions of meta-ethics and truth against a background of ‘Esoteric Hitlerists.'”
–John-Ivan Palmer, Fortrean Times
Set during Nero’s psychotic reign, this BLANK VERSE EPIC plunges a transsexed priestess of a Phrygian fertility cult into the becalmed Adriatic. He/She’s attended by his/her erotically indecisive traveling partner who can’t swim a stroke, and is clinging to him/her in this exhausted frame of mind–
…For me the Adriatic’s sickly-warm,
as one imagines amniotic sauce
to be, or maybe recollects it as.
Existence dragged beyond the edge of surfeit
this time around, I balk to get re-sucked
into the crumby syrup of the womb…
unhymens this prairie,
obtruding on soil
like a smooth hookah-tube
urged on a flippant girl,
trying to get her to
do smoke as vulvas do semen?”The painter and poet, in a death-wrestle, try to disentangle their protean identities, or at least to maintain a numerical tally of the limbs, heads, and torsos their shifting persons comprise.
Publisher Jonathan Penton says, “This is the most peculiar book of erotica, and the weirdest book of poetry outside of psychoses outright, I’ve ever seen. This is BHAGAVAD-GITA PORN
Carol wanted a running commentary that furtively pursued—she cringed at the word—psychoanalytical strategies. She envisaged an infestation of ten-point type skittering along the bottom of her novel like army ants underfoot.
“‘We need a literal subtext!’ she cried…”
Cover art and illustrations by Nick Patterson.
Black and white version from Jaded Ibis Press, described by Forbes magazine as a "hotpoint where the novel is undergoing radical transformation to reflect its time."
Depicted here is Sheila the She-God, who presides over London’s formerly semi-fashionable Goneril Square. Inspired by the Cathars and the Bogomils, the Chabad-Lubavitcher Hasidim and the Mohel Rabbis, the