After having died [psychologically] within myself, I was confirmed in the Light, and then I entered the temple and signed my documents.
To ascend into the first heaven of a lunar type was the next step. The Adepts taught me how to protect myself against the fatal attraction which the sub-lunar infernos exercise upon oneself.
A branch was given to me in order to smell, which influenced me in a very special way. Such a delicate fragrance had, indeed, a taste of sanctity. “With this perfume you can defend thyself against the lunar attraction,” exclaimed the Adept who was instructing me.
Indeed, I know that Adept; he is no other than the Superior Instructor of the temple of the Twice-born. His character is similar to the taste of a lemon; however, he irradiates infinite wisdom and love, without limits or boundaries.
Whosoever wants to ascend must first of all descend: this is the law. Every exaltation is preceded by a humiliation.
It is obvious that to annihilate the lunar bodies was necessary for me, since these bodies were constituted for me like a fatal appendix.
Therefore, I started with the body of desires, the famous Kama Rupa cited by H. P. Blavastsky. Many pseudo-esotericists and pseudo-occultists have confounded such a body with the Astral Body.
It is evident that every Intellectual Animal possesses the Kama Rupa, which, indeed, is the same demon Apopi from the Egyptian mysteries.
Hence, I exclaimed with The Book of the Occult Abode:
Oh demon Apopi! You must die in the profundity of the lake from heaven, within the lunar atomic infernos, there where my Father who is in secret has commanded death for thee.
Get thee hence, then, oh malignant demon of desire, before the arrows of my light which inflict severe pain upon thee!
Behold, the Gods who assist me rend apart thy chest without any kind of mercy. The frightfully divine Lion-Head Goddess immobilizes thy limbs; She removes from thee the bestial force that thou possess.
The Scorpion-Head Goddess, the third aspect of my Divine Mother, while walking inside of thyself, transformed into a mysterious scorpion, makes to rain upon thee her cup of destruction.
Hence, Apopi, enemy of Ra (the Logos), disappear definitively. Thou also wanted to enter inside the mysteries of the White Lodge, to victoriously pass through the regions of the internal East while conserving the venom of thy desires. Yet, thou mistook the door, because thy fate is the abyss and death.
Apopi, thou hast been overthrown! Thou certainly hast felt very well the pain that the Scorpion-Head Goddess has inflicted upon thee! The enjoyments of sexual passion no longer will be felt by thee! RA, my Internal God, makes thee, fulminated by the lightning of cosmic justice, to withdraw! He wounds thee! He injures thee to the death! He makes a thousand cuts on your passionate face! He breaks thy bones asunder! He reduces thee into dust!
Delectable enchantments, terribly malignant and fascinating beauties, exist within the sub-lunar, atomic infernos. Remember, beloved reader, that crime is hidden within the miraculous cadences of poetry.
Delectable infernal verses surge from within the exquisite regions of concupiscence, which inebriate and derange. As a mode of illustration, we transcribe the following:
I would like to surmount that distance,
that fatal abyss which splits us asunder,
and to be inebriated with thy love, with that fragrance,
mystical and pure, that thy being did render.
I would like to be one of the laces
with which thou adornest thy radiant temples,
I would like, in the heaven which thy body embraces,
to drink the glory which in thy lips thou couples.
I would like to be water, so that in my waves,
in my waves thou canst come to bathe,
so that I may, as when I dream alone, with raves,
kiss thee everywhere in a single swathe.
I would like to be linen, so that in thy bed I may rest,
thus, in the shadow, I may shelter thee with ardour,
and tremble with the heaving of thy breast,
and to die while embracing thee with this pleasurable amour.
Oh, I want much more! I want
to hold thee in me, as the cloud holds the thunder,
but not as the clouds that in its billowing rant,
burst and divide asunder.
I would like to blend me in thee,
to blend me in thee to the core,
I would like, in perfume, to convert thee,
to convert thee into perfume and to breathe thee more.
To breathe thee, in one whiff, as an essence,
and to join into my pulses thy pulses,
and to join into my existence thine existence,
and to join into my senses, thy senses.
To snuff thee as one puff from the vault of heaven,
thus, to look at thee calmly upon my life, and prowl
the whole flame of thine ardent body’s haven,
which is the whole ether from the blue of thy soul.
The fire of pain is as the flame of the glass within which the myrrh is consumed. Sometimes it purifies, elevates, and embalms, changing the rough aloe that inflames into delicate and heavenly perfume.
I cannot, in any way, deny my intense, abysmal sufferings. It is obvious to comprehend that in the world of the dead, we, the ones who have died in ourselves, must annihilate the lunar bodies.
Apopi, the Theosophical Kama Rupa, is the memory of ancient sexual passions, secret impudence, sometimes mystical and ineffable, romance that deranges, poetry that inebriates with its tales of love.
I relayed myself to the arms of my Mother, so that she could do with me whatever she wanted. Thus, oh God of mine, She saved me.
Apopi has died. What a joy! Now that beast can no longer afflict my painful heart.
The throng of passions has passed. The voice of the ineffable Gods resound on the abutting jungle.
The sexual passion of Apopi has died. Thus, not too far from the nest within which the birds of mystery are cooing with their tender melodies, I feel more happy than the luminous swan who saw from Leda that immortal whiteness.
I am the one who just yesterday uttered the blue verse and the profane song. As the Gongorism of Galatea, indeed, the Marquess Verleniana enchanted me as well. Hence, I was joining to the sublime passion a sensual human hyperesthesia.
Among the living sound of sounding music that animates the choir of inebriated Bacchantes, who drink wine, water roses, and weave dances, I wallowed like the pig within the mud.
Apopi has died. The hour of the supreme triumph, granted to my tears and offerings by the power of my Divine Mother, has arrived.