jeudi 16 novembre 2017

ΑΙΦΟΣ




   I sought nothing waking into the morning, very early without grasping again through out the empty air, brushing invisibly once more something like before, those reddened dying leaves that segment themselves falling to the earth, emulating the original aether on dry ground. Searching nothing as they sink into the wind dispersed upon the world's 4 corners. The immaculate angles of which the Holy contours disappear. 

   A disaster for whom, while all sleep?  Naturally seeking nothing, like a wandering mind, careless in a dead brain. I beseech the squared circle. 



   It's the sincere and single heart watches as the tide of crumbling things moves on into oblivion. This seemly circonstance in an uncomely corridor leading to a goal between a room and a room, dark curtains likes clouds upon the abyss, unrevealing.

   But the particules go amuck. Silence dominates in the desert hills around me. Doom for the body has always been a necessary retribution. When souls collide with false hopes and all mankind of any sort hallucinates.

   Ambitious and dubious conceit hardening the spine against its own salvation! Polygamous among nefarious visions, haunting compassion's forgotten space.

   Who is it has done what evil thing? They're but accidents from Nature engendered nonetheless like fairy rings on a arid turf in the middle of a metal forest; nothing lurks there but bitter sweet nostalgia. Hope doesn't care about anything there.

   Why should a soul worry about what shadows do? The body hurts. But Eros in spite of it, seeks no medicinal remedy, though...it's upon Venus' lap, from where all hardship came. The fault of it moves on continually across kosmic cycles:

    A child's mimicking in dark matter's empty vessel of hidden grimaces? A place for tales. And more history. 

Invention inspires great feats of courage & sometimes glory.
Buts it's all the same when no one knows.





mercredi 15 novembre 2017

L'Aumônière sur une Epitaphe


Voici l'Âme Double des Grands Maîtres du Jadis.


   Il emporte avec lui-même la fin de toute sémantique. Le désastre l'accompagne comme un toutou et quoi que lui arrive de pernicieux, le prix pour lui c'était l'éternelle défaite de la carne déforme dont on porte en éloge sur les cimes de la stupidité, la laideur victime que des hommes d'inférieure étoffe embrassent!


   La Mort est un cadeau pour le brave. Que le couard ivrogne élude! L'Initié au giron transcende l'affront: on préserve dans le Monde que ce qui se détériore. Moi, je me mets à genoux quand le Xrist pavane dans la caverne des coeurs, un innocent enfant mâle, le Roi de mon être, mon moi-même conçu au sein de mon Âme Immortelle, fils de la Vierge Valkyrie, Reine Céleste dont le délicat pied broie le serpent vanité des sous-sols! 



La Valkyrie qui veille sur ma Mort.



    Car comme une sarabande le Choeur Invincible qui trépasse les frontières des outre-tombes, suspende le point d'interrogation. Il décide et meurt avec.

Il n'y a pas de place
pour des dialogues infructueux:

   Mon orgueil est un Seigneur humiliant! Il ne connaît point les compromis. Fabuler ici ou ailleurs est l'Enfer des imbéciles pusillanimes. Que je méprise infiniment. Bons pour l'Assistanat!

Jour de le Résurrection.

   La Naissance et la Mort du Krist sont un secret mystère dont le processus chymique décrit l'élaboration moléculaire de l'Âme Germanique dans un individu de Race et de Fierté! 


  Je ne suis pas historien, et d'ailleurs je n'ai jamais aimé l'Histoire: des récits de mensonge qui flattent le lâche et le paresseux pareillement, faisant croire qu'on était soi-même fils de Clovis ou du Roi Louis Saint! Fantasmes du riche ou d'habitant d'HLM inculte!

** * ** ** 

   Mais les Mythes Suprêmes du Führer ou du Christ ou du Prophète Mahomet! Saints Rasuls irremplaçables: transformés en chose catalyseur qui convertit du fond en comble les miroirs internes et leurs reflets mirobolants, en nous emmenant vers l'apothéose du Corps du Gloire intractable! Et on devient frère du Christ, du Führer et du Prophète!

   Que m'importe la judaïté de quelque chose! Je prends et je laisse ce qui me plait!, je ramène au berceau au bercail l'idée semence. L'idée polaire, l'essence hyper-polaire! La Déité m'enfante que j'enfante. Tout est illusoire, tout ce qui promène une oriflamme de vanité, le vent de l'abime l'emporte!

   "There is nothing noble or gracious in accepting slavery and the superior type of man owes nothing to slaves, he hates to be pitied but the slave enjoys it,..."  Karl Young in "Third Reich Pilgrim". 
      

     (11:11 de l'Evangile de Saint Jean) 



   

vendredi 3 novembre 2017

from Windswept Windows from before



No peace of Mind with loyal heart, no nothing:

but a dense sensation, pleading

& yet, all

Honor was buried there while distress

without any shame was simply murdered.


The length of Time in One Eternity

When Hope was sealed
in honeyed casks

filled 
with a golden subtil blood.

…and now I swear with sack cloth

for my naked beauty to hide

the honorable shame that would writhe
but only as a soul unseen but to very few:

where once before a Germanic son

A Norse Man
wearing wings of Mercury

A golden lad, wed to 
a bright & insatiable Ideal,

  to a feast for famished memory, is now abandoned!

Discarded, crushed and spat on.


What doesn’t despair here hapless
sustains within immortal hope

were it not for futility long time enamored.


Though this world would be our homestead
in disillusion,  yes but a shadow

is become a place of recess for liars & a scoundrel!

Or has it always been this way?


No peace of Mind with loyal heart
no nothing but a bleeding 

into this illusion
across Eternity!


  God is our strength. Our Love. Our Kind. Before Adam, there was the Aryan. Our Führer was there, our ideal impossibility! An improbable fertile grain for another land! The Holy Sperm for another Age. Another Cosmic womb.  

mardi 31 octobre 2017

Bubons, Furoncles & autres Kystes



   Certes l'abominable érosion se propage, tel un ruisseau en fleuve qui inonde, noyant le bien le beau et ce qui était véridique. S'étale à travers tous espaces sur maintes plans où d'aire en aire le chronique cryptomane se gangrène! 

   Une plaie pour un jeu. Une négligence éthique devenue coutume de moeurs! Le torride tremblant et névralgique; la fièvre de l'aveugle vanité qui désagrège. Le mensonge et la perte de l'arrogant, les pauvres victimes de la société, des épaves raciales & difformes qu'on a mises sur piédestal!

   Quoi comme cirque pour hypocrites ces parasites en réplique d'exemples indéfinis. Cela fait frissonner le désastre irrécusable. La mélancolie. La fleur délaissée. L'Enfer paradisiaque pour tous, sinon crève avec ton honneur, anonyme.

   Mais ces yeux se détournent allègrement, alors de se détourner ô quelle joie ô combien je méprise dès lors le faux semblant de ce qui est pitoyable, dépourvu de dignité!

   Et c'est ma loyauté qui est pur dédain. Le sourire, le sourire de l'Ange qui aux confins de l'abysse contemple le coeur teutonique épris. Il voit son office parmi des cierges au Ciel de l'Empyrée dont le sang du Seigneur s'éthère. 

   Ce, pendant que la pierre blanche aux dorures s'en va avec une érosion en rire!

20/88


  

    

mercredi 25 octobre 2017

Le Gentilhomme d'Extraction Céleste


   ...au coeur de ce qui manifeste, le meilleur disparu enfin, vers le vide d'ici. Incompris & insaisissable; éteint.

   Qui rêve d'architecture avec du feldspath qui sans forme contraint. Ni feux verts ni rouges: ni idéologie qui malmène brusque, la hantise de cette faille béante qui règle chaque tic-tac vers l'encéphale de l'intellect!

   Languide ou tiède. Borné jusqu'à l'étroitesse, étouffant les liens internes illuminés par le puits intolérable à l'extrême du paralysé dans le néant des allégresses comme chaines pour déchéance!

   Prométhée qui est attaché à son foie, dissout sous mes pieds. Loki le vestige de jadis éhonté; un élan pour du gravier comme une chape sous la dalle!

La bave de Thor

Quand la Terre respire
unit avec son Ciel

De là-haut
comme d'un éclair

Odin récupère l'oeil
dans le bassin:

Car quand il change de mode
ou d'aspect 

C'est avec l'étant
qu'on laisse choir
la déception!

Il ne fabule plus.

Il ne flatte point.

Il baise bien sa Frigga
alors que Sleipnir 

l'emporte dans sa bière:

 Un ferment pour demain
dans le ventre d'un elfe!


Et le lutin devient avec sa prochaine naissance, le Coeur de l'Asgard, le Royaume du Céleste, un Aryen d'extraction mais sur une isle accompagné seulement du sien!






dimanche 15 octobre 2017

Fasces Lictoriae



   A Race that from beyond the measured sidereal sky, condensed into those with fair white faces thus star crowns in sub-lunar bodies crystalized, Tuatha da Danaan.

   Surely the Night rode mounted on the shoulders of these Hermes. Splitting the material world core where Middle Earth would manifest, the Dark Matter hidden in our souls, a solar substance like honey, coloring their hair. Dripping from the stellar canyon. A mild bright dew becoming a Heathen Barbaric Blood, its fountain head the peluscent Pearl directing the blue-eyed thrush in the mineral veins as they throb & pounce & push continuously within muscle to suffer here, captured in Hagal's primordial Web.

   Then they were despised because of their personally well earned immortality!


   Dispersed idly like a bundle of meaningless sticks, a thing now moving uselessly on the tile, in the silly arena of Empty Temples, wandering away from what is tangible to the Soul, dedicated in a place to gods no longer there, if not, except as some distorted reflection of this world's worshiped ugliness.  Unintentionally diminishing a Once at one Time Sacred Blood, vessel of the body of God!

   And now the Oriental Scholars chirp, disdainfully discard the Aristocratic Babe with the Holy Bath Waters, into a brazen & filthy bassin. Contriving genetically a barren breed from all 4 corners of the once Sacred World! Mixing blood types to engender : a Monster in Jah's Image!

   All the waters dispersing. In a some how great, and without a supernatural sense, vortex provided underneath the earth, in a circular cylinder, made of magnets and nails, chromium & modern jade. Electrically empowered thanks to a golden box presided by two Cherub prisoners. 

    My God you have gone from this place to the next. As proud as if you had been a Palestinian child now crushed by tanks, but had hurled little stones nonetheless at the demon-people who hated him! But of course there but here you cannot die. Crowned like a glistening jewel, sitting on the lap of the Holiest of Mothers. An infant who bore the World to smash it's human shame against the Wall of the most stupid & unkind people, that Man has certainly ever come to encounter.

** * ** **

   



   Ah, for what was sweet in my dreams now dirtied here. How thin & brittle, dry the cord that held us together! How much the metal edge, since so many centuries, in the air was battered by the wetness exhaling though our mortal pores.

   You can't make an eagle from out of a swine! Without the Seed no ROSE shall flower on this dung heap! How could you serve the wicked empire that destroys the Internal Foundation of all Mankind?

   Ultimately, the silly European prattle converts into a void, its most vital & precious parts undissolved, coalescing into an invisible army, stretches through out all the cardinal directions, toward every horizon of this spinning globe, according to a Unique Imperial Plan revealed to the Awakened, never mainstream & arrogantly undercurrent always underground, that no one person can ever really know unless of course you awaken.


Chakravartin & his Body Guards.

   AVM.
Arisch ÜberMensch.


But my dear friend 
who's astute
& then, who's not?

A trinkling here
another one over there!

Besmeared betwixt various imaginings.

This world & all the others
have goose pimples on the inside
& as it is the bladder is way too small.

Where can you put infinity?
Can a soul have a dignified place

when this and all else
has fled?


   The Aryan is the unique viable boat we have for this sea on whose vast ocean nonsense deludes the majority of those who'll no longer be even in a wink some occasional or possiblly improbable memory!

   One step 2 steps three steps, 4. To the Polar Star in airships, Pleroma waits. A pleading to the down trodden to get up, and ignite inside! A storehouse of imploding magnificence. A roar.


vendredi 6 octobre 2017

The Wind told me


Pour G.K.


   The Wind told me, «  move on . You are a vanishing kind, with no place left upon the Face of this forsaken Earth. » And I responded, « which earth? Where? Upon which face of it, no place? When, forsaken?!!!».

   The immovable mover in the air with marvelous golden wings went to & fro, dauntless between the trees’ little branches on the terrace. Indifferent, like a psycho-pompe guiding the free mind, equipped with a body and a certain kind of un-knowable soul. « Never to be a human any more, filled with fear and an affection belonging to implanted cultivated brains (though surely in the spermatic substance of all 4 races can be found an efficacious vehicle, resilient to & withstanding fractional despair). There will never be any hope, when life has been rid of Truth and those who sincerely served Her have all gone on. »

   The best is yours. Gleaming white. As if the stellar carnation idled, wandering aimlessly within a domed surface. Thriving endlessly, gratuitously. A coagulated breath, numinous & luminescent, inextinguishable. Conscious of its uselessness!

One Folk Soul is mine,
guardian of the enclosed ubiquitous altar,

Extracted from the deep & thick flesh pulpe
the skies would forbid to schematic mankind.

   The North Wind swept the Summer Time transporting it into oblivion, the skeletons which often got in the way, making me fuss. How sad alas. With all this wishful thinking to have struggled against the Empyrean Cycles, a son of Man, for a lost Imperium. The last of those mythic Aryans in heart, & in soul to gain entrance into the supernatural plane of Overman!

   But it’s time to prepare with all your strength, to kill the carcasses, then fill the World with molten gold of Ice and dread all loss of humour! 

   « Because the Avatar is come. » We are its primordial essence, « Da sein ». From underneath the veil behind the mind’s eye, we are a smelting in the earth-body, burning the rust. Forging the Sword. A thunder clap far away in the Boreal bosom melting the blood of angels in the mineral order. Moving on. 

   

mercredi 4 octobre 2017

Trickster Ravings




   This infuriating principal decline of all things living, converting the outward  center of sundry colored organisms that were in emanation from above directing their impulse perennially, exteriorly through an invisible middle door, unseen & unheard of, a devastation to the barred cerebral behavior of any well dressed rational idea! That would pertain ostensibly to a well ordered syllogism. Having Greek or Hebrew meanings in our words’ beginnings?! Giving us intellectual redemption?! 


The Spirit plays the game,
in truth,
Without its asking any kind of permission;

A wild Wind easing
the horrendous pressure between the tired eyes.

You must give & give again, again yes & once more :

Hugin shall with all the Aryan Peoples, excite Munin in his righteous 
Racial Clime!


   A Time celestial in a Sacred Place escaping the infernal clutching of jealous contempt.

   Res cogitans, res extensa! Res cogitans esse Omnium, ego video, coruscent!

   The 1st one said to me, « Brother ». The 2nd indeed repeated across the 9 encircled expanses : « Me too but I’m a woman! ». And Othin like a trickster understood. 

   « To win the battle, fight your foe on his own filthy turf, with weapons he has no idea of. If he cheats on your kindred, invading the Middle of the Earth, then learn the tune, just like they did at Olympus. 

   Your heart is with me in Asgard. 

   It’s from on high, I’ve come like you, my Kin. 

  In the skies & heavens of this World, Valhalla with its ale & mayhem will precipitate again the Gods! A great thunderbolt grappling at the sides of the glacial air, ripping open the Inner Earth where demons mixed with angels!

   Afterwards, the fires will have receded. Purifying the Castes. The Varna here and there. And Baldur kiss his Bride again, but better than before! »  


It’s the Spirit, plays the Game,
a Wild Wind erasing
that horrible pressure that was between the eyes!

You must give no more than taken
taking back what was yours.


   Hugin said to me, « I’m your spirit, the aether in the heart. » His sister said, « I’m in the blood stream, a drop of golden green, your memory. » 

  
   Wotan said, « I’m the single eye like a lantern, laughing interminably, the Father of Tîwaz and of Thor. »
   

lundi 2 octobre 2017

Âryâvartha



Through these untidy physical bodies
tireless souls trip awakening &
the Corporal ideas enter into extended flesh

While the stammering joy of little urchins
of what would be a most excellent and as it must seem,
abiding perfect theme above the gutter:

 a transcendent eternal picture in the Mind
incarnates the beauty
within a finite darkness!


Strange, yet like a heavy sap advancing thru the mortal nostrils with a thick and balmy smell. The Earth with all its successive sediment, cradles inside diverse & unending caverns, steeping the pretty spirit into a colorless invincible tincture.

   The Sun and the Moon in mouvement
vorticing, their perpetual motions orbit the lick
thence mechanically combine

Emerging from the deep drafts
of this our secret ale, the marrow we might engender!



And what of Nobility? Wandering far far away hopelessly clothed with a fine leather sheath, in a forsakened Homeland? 

   ...an invisible furious sea frothing, shamelessly aware of its own hilarious Illusion, ...hydrous fibres retreat, bursting apart their entrenched briny arms back away, quick into their original Eternal salty lair?

   Only great and simple souls have known this Metaphysical ordeal :

"to be born inside or upon an animal with cadaverous confining barrier
released only at Death like a leopard straying in a Zoo

whence, formerly encapsulated and compressed, a gaseous furious thing
filled with a mobile & perfect perception

Returns among the Eye-lit Stars back
against the black backdrop of the unfathomable firmament!"






   ...for Karl.







mardi 19 septembre 2017

Νίσοϛ



   Et dans ce corps, sa luxurieuse exuberance, la clameur distincte mais oisive des pas d'amont qui précédèrent l'ultime exégèse des forces subtiles qui résident avec discrétion dans l'antre des promesses de l'éternité inachevée.

   ...fulminante d'outrage insatisfaite et inassouvie.

   ...ils ont été façonnés par ceux-ci même qu'ils façonnèrent. En cercle. Du cercle en cercle. Par delà le firmament qui contraint. Dôme qui extrait et qui retourne en vapeur leur sang qui exude au toit, où ni oiseaux ni sylphes n'osent s'attarder.

   Et l'expression incongrue sur leur demeure faciale pleine de leurs ineptes ambiguïtés les ponctionnent sans remords ni cessent jamais,  le mensonge de s'écouler en effluves à travers les gestes chevaleresques de jadis oubliés.

   Ô heureux Malheur à l'être qui avec une âme dût éprouver l'unique unicité de sa propre et inéluctable existence, intégrale au milieu du dissolvant! Indemne et qui perdure. Puis...

Pourtant, cela est la même; la Vision inhérente à mon oeil. Depuis l'immortel, dans l'évanescente farce que peuple certes l'humain fait de chair et du sang retirés du mélange depuis un bourbier, ...et du fruste l'issu, le fruit maclé. 

Sans goût et malsain du coeur.

Les 4 participants au corps de l'Âme.

dimanche 17 septembre 2017

Our Kinsmen Die



   ...and our kinsmen die. We die if not, unless we pull ourselves within from without, but for a stammer they die. 

   What you planted has withered. What we did while dreaming has withered. What we hailed while offering our homestead has flourished into oblivion! The fruit of our kinsmen has waisted in the midst of awful negligence!

   But for a stammering in the wake. Upon a land in the mighty mind.

** * ** **

   Make your Soul a fortress. What ever batters against the sacred inner doors. Close the kind heart. And drink to the defeat of all spiritual ignominy! 

   Let us dance the heart felt gig on their filthy corpses and hail while blessing with complete condamnation of the heap, the Golden Flower in our ancestral memory. There is no hope here, and yet neither does despair find a haven in our home.

   For alas, hope has gone. Has left the home without ado. 

   Make soldiers of our boys, to win and not ever to lose! We will not lose! 

   I'll make of Death a foundation for my Ideal. 

** * ** **

   Remember mankind is an ape when it's not you or your kin.

   You are a Lucifer fallen from the upper firmament. All that just to redeem some synthetic genetic program, senseless, without a heart, without a divine Soul. Made of biological zeros & ones. Created and fashioned by the False One laughing in the gutter. Inside his nothingness.

   They are jealous selfish & mean. Rust on the moss between the cracks in a degraded place. Uninspired. Without a King's Heaven to be spirit born.

   Remember, mankind is not even like the ape! But you have been distilled on high before the High One: you are his son. And so are all your Kin. 

A beautiful boy engendered in the sphere
of the Demiurge.