Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft



The following text comes from  Apocalyptic Witchcraft by Peter Grey, published by Scarlet Imprint. I stumbled over it a couple of months ago, and while I do not agree with everything in it,there are some point worth of your thoughts. Especially now, expecially today.

Go find out more about  the book here


Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft

1. If the land is poisoned, the witchcraft must respond.

2. It is not our way if life, it is life itself which is under threat

3. Witchcraft is our intimate connection to the web of life.

4. We are the Witchcraft.

5. Our World has forever changed. The trodden paths no longer correspond. Witchcraft thrives in this liminal, lunar, trackless realm.

6. We are storm, fire and flood.

7. We will not be denied.

8. Witchcraft is the recourse of the dispossessed, the powerless, the hungry and the abused. It gives heart and tongue to stones and trees. It wears the rough skin of beasts. It turns on a civilization that knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

9. If you have no price you cannot be bought. If you do not want you cannot be bribed. If you are not frightened you cannot be controlled.

10. Witchcraft is folk magic, the magic of the people and for the people.

11. We call an end to the pretence of respectability.

12. We will not disarm ourselves.

13. The war is upon us.

14. Choose then to become a Mask.

15. Those with nothing left to lose will dare all.

16. There is one Witchcraft under many names. There is one Grand Sabbat on one mountain. There are many ways to fly. There is no witness present at the Sabbat.

17. Witchcraft is a force, not an order. Witchcraft is rhizomatic, not hierarchic. Witchcraft defies organisation, not meaning. We simply bear the marks.

18. Witchcraft is power and possesses this in ekstasis, sex and ordeal.
Witchcraft is unbridled sexuality.

19. In witchcraft it is the woman who initiates. We challenge man to be the equal of this woman.

20. Witchcraft is the art of inversion.

21. Witchcraft is the beauty which is terror.

22. Witchcraft is a myth, which drawing on the past, clothes itself in the symbols of (its) time.
Witchcraft does not mistake myths for history, it harnesses them to transform the future.
Witchcraft knows the ground upon which it stands.

23. Witchcraft honours the spirits. Witchcraft enchants for the lost. Witchcraft will not forget.

24. Witchcraft embodies our ancestors and saints, they carry us with them.

25. To Her is offered the blood, to use the care of the ask and bones.

26. The example we follow is our own.

27. The practice of witchcraft is one of revolution and of the power of woman.

28. The Goddess who speaks through us is known among men as Babalon.

29. Witchcraft concerns itself with mystery. Through the gates of mystery we come to knowledge. Knowledge enters us through the body. The highest form of this knowledge is Love.

30. Every drop of blood is sacrificed to the grail. Love cannot be bought with any other coin.

31. We seek and drink this wine together.

32. Will is finite, passion infinitely renewed.

33. Witchcraft is present, its is ensanguined and vivified. Witchcraft is prescient, it gazes on the future. Witchcraft is oracular, it will not hold its tongue. Our time has come



A prayer of protection


           .:. A .:. PO .:. TRO .:.

         PA .:. IA

Hearken! Oh gorgonic huntress, night-wandering mistress and enemy of mankind!

For our adversaries are many and their heads have risen!

Come! Averter of evil, working your will from afar!

Serpent girdled and torch-bearing maiden with fire in your eyes!

Welcome! With blood-reddened feet and followed by hungry dogs!

The sound of clashing armor signals your triumphant arrival!

Protect us, oh terrible One from those that wish us ill!

Silence their slandering voices with you earth-shuttering roar!

Turn their rusty weapons against them if they dare to point them at us!

May their neglected ancestors’ retribution find them, for the dishonor they bring upon them!

Kourotrophos! We beg you! Watch out for our children! Hide them from ill-wishing eyes!

May our enemies be blinded by your radiance, oh bright-coiffed flower of the night!

Let their curse-speaking tongues be muted by the bite of your serpents!

It is their own poison I wish them to choke on!

Make barren the soil on which they plant their execrations, oh three-necked Goddess of titanic descent!

May they know your wrath IF they choose to advance ill-mindedly!





(Image By Pearson Scott Foresman – Archives of Pearson Scott Foresman, donated to the Wikimedia Foundation→This file has been extracted from another file: PSF G-400001.png, Public Domain,

Kindling a fire

Tired from a long and arduous journey through the thicket you arrive at your chosen destination. A small clearing near a long forgotten cave at the very heart of the woods.  Amidst oaks, rowans and other trees you take a deep breath. Your cheeks bruised by some rebellious shroud, your ears cold as ice. The air is cold and lies heavy in your lungs, it tastes of moss. Slightly nervous and slowly starting to regret your journey you  look back and try to catch a glimpse of the trail you just followed. Not a hint of it to be found. Nothing.

No trail but the Trail…

Now or never. You take off your worn out backpack. Your numb fingers unpack your belongings and arrange them before you. The dim light of your flashlight grows weaker by the second, and the hazy clouds of your condensing breath blinding your already dwindling eyesight.

No light but the Light…

Engulfed in what feels like a void of black tar you lower your now useless flashlight. Fear creeps up your spine. The sound of the forest, so unfamiliar and threatening. You close your eyes, trying to find a safe place within yourself. There is nothing safe out here. Nor within.

You open your eyes and wait for them to adjust to the lack of light.  You unsheathe your knife,  a gift forged by your fathers brother . Stumbling in the dark you draw a circle on the moist and leaf-clad floor with its hilt. Big enough for two.  Once, twice, thrice . Against the sun. Deep. Deeper. Done.

No castle but the Castle…

After a while the cold temperatures force you to continue. You baptize a fist full of poplar twigs, gathered weeks ago, with sweet smelling spirits.  The temptation to lick the poisonous liquid off your fingers  a constant companion. You place the twig in your small iron cauldron and set them alight. A beacon of light, shining bright. The world changes, the woods come alive.

No life but Life…

And now?  You tread. Clasping your hand tightly around a forked bone. A  deviled drum pounding deep within your chest. You tread the mill and wait. For what? For whom? For how long? You tread and wait. Staring over your left deeply into the fire to ignore the darkness around. You tread and wait. Hearing the woods sing its bizarre and ophidian song. You tread and wait and stare.

The fire dies. Thick smoke rises to the skies, carrying a strange perfume to realms beyond. Your heart skips a beat. You stumble over your feet. Your lips blue, your eyes bright. He is there. Behind the smoke. Behind the iron womb. Darkness flees, the bonds to your earthen vessel loosen and you continue your journey. A journey down the wytches track…