lundi 31 juillet 2017

Hélas


Hélas oui ou non. Deviendras-tu chiffrable? Une identité pour la cause ou une catastrophe ânonnée pour ta progéniture, disparue? 

...déclinons puis, s'interroger? Ah pour l'instant cru. L'animal mis de l'avant. Ma chair dans ma chair. L'hésitation. Ô que j'en suis confus. Plein de fortitude. De la compassion devant la fourmis. Sobre comme une Reine de Saba, piégée dans le nacre qui luit comme glace.

Exposant mon pied bot comme à l'infortune, de perdre les miens pour le grand bénéfice de ceux qui aiment la terre sèche ou le terroir des cailloux des autres! 

Tourner en rond d'entre les barreaux avec les autres rats. Entre aperçus entre les zéros et les uns. Morcelés à partir des bits convertis en qubits : l'accélération hâte le pas lent vers le vide, qui n'ose réfléchir ni ne désire la fin recouverte du cortex qui aveugle : façonné par un oui ou par un non.  

Combien de pendus à force de cordes en 28ème de puissance? Pythagore en serait-il d'accord? Cela en vaut-il la peine de labourer ainsi? Ca lui retirera le souffle. A petits pas cela serait du pareil au même.

L'esprit quitterait le corps. Le corps de s'effondrer englouti par les vagues.


dimanche 30 juillet 2017

Hyper-Borea


In this Rock I will build my kingdom.
While those who scorn its inner beauty, shall perish.
My sword is my spirit.
My soul the scabbard.
The thunderbolt the light in my eyes.

...you think you've found me, but alas for worldly wisdom I jump the squeamish, & have left behind me the deteriorated bones that no man could ever put into words in a dictionary; whatever its sound or figure. I go unmasked, hidden from those whose thoughts unthoughtful strand the tide in the great nothing of history making. For who doesn't know it's all a stage

My sadness follows me. But am awake. It hurts but doesn't matter. Our children will kill them all. The dross disappearing in the fog at dawn.

** * ** **

My friends. The time is ripe to rip the fruit. The grain will be thru-out Eternity my sigil impressed on God's face. For who is he but who that dreamt, this world or some other, next,...my wife was the blizzard. The broken tasting in the coffin. The grave I haven't, the way of my abyss.

Surely, my friends you've awakened, now! ? You see it's all a matter of murdering dread. The fear in a woman's bones. Her flesh clinging ever on so forward towards the never ending deep without end under your floor. Your strength is our strength. Death goes on : Yama tearing at the animal soul to get to the heart beyond Hades' grip! How else would it be possible to grow our vegetables in a Hologram?

But now Plato's dead & so albeit Socrate's lovers. Though they are in fact spiritual brothers.

** * ** **

Use what you've got. Empty the whole thing. For the Spirit has no end in and of itself.

And now that you've died. ....you're going to die.

And what of it and for whom? It's only your GOD will watch over what you love and have battled for!

The rest of it percolates in the blue blood. In Hyper-Borea it's very cold! And yet my love is so hot, the icebergs melt, while I sink the World.




dimanche 16 juillet 2017

Holding on to Bones, & the Dust between the Fingers



   The white man's last chance has already come. And if those on whom it suddenly dawned, that there was a racial pride to extol & preserve have just arrived, on earth after the great sun had just set;... it's too late my dear, oh how sad but too late now that the Führer has gone & did done!

   He came and some pretended while others fought then lost here where burials are for mortal heroes and anonymity belongs to those who taken by their Muse go to Valhalla just underneath the helm of Odin's flapping wings. Fanning with a cool breeze the down trodden heart of those who betrayed but fought not with hands nor fists but with all their soul as would an exemplary death to some incomprehensible supreme awareness that others cannot surely see.

   The Lord is the Lord, but who can see him. He goes from place to place, but who is he but yours to find and defend?

   It was their luminous inner crystallized will, made it possible. But now you see this world is underneath in the grave, as we tread this world's bones, and short of what is meant for mortal dreams; yet in all Aryan minds, awaits their world on their earth if only with great devotion what was mortal here become elsewhere on a higher plane the air we breathe the love we live the hate we must keep silent in these physical limbs for those who under our window, adore what we disdain!

   What's here? but bones & cemeteries. Tendons decomposing. Insects suffering in an atomic make believe world! CERN? 

I lift my hands to the heavens making MAN my sacred sigil. But who is he, outstretches his arms beyond; fomenting this happy desire.

   The immortal ancestors alive in me. Condescending to look down again at something not worth the ants I can salvage, while time on this earth is still pertaining to my side again!

   Be brave and expect nothing.
   No one is waiting.
   Life is what your awareness 
   Construes! A blink of the eye
   And the Valkyrie has ripped
   From torn flesh & bones
   An immortal soul, friend &
   Brother of our Führer.





   

vendredi 14 juillet 2017

Always been Enemies




   ...true, the angels(Aryans) are what's left of God's Eternal Spirit in this World. And they are not liked nor appreciated in any manner shape or form. By anyone who's been replaced before birth, in their Mother's womb.

   Beware my friend, you'll be put to the side henceforth shuddered, disdained, nailed to a cross. Like Odin feared in a stealth way, for some unknown reason by the men made of dirt in which the evil deity has uttered his breath or wordy wind into!

   We impose but are not made of but regret while here on this plane. Only those singular mammals who defy the rule of Heaven in their hearts cluttering the psychological & intellectual pavement, shall hinder thus obstructing good deeds to follow. It's us the divine benefit rejected, strange stones not unlike the stellar vault brimming, that glitters singing indifferently with mirth in bane! 

   You are made of pride and fire. You melt the ice. This world will never be worth the glowing thing cascading in your soul! It's just not good enough. Those molecularly constructed particles, organically pretending to contain your spirit, the soul's abyss, the great nothingness beyond! The Grail heat incarnating, blasting all existential illusions.

A fallen pride & Heaven's proof
continually denied,  justice.
A torch bearer
from the start.

The devil's children 
seek to take from you
the emerald crown precipitated from your brow.

** * ** **

   Not men in the manner understood by Jehovah's progeny. For he fills them with his bleak and yes gloomy ghost : it's always Him you cross at Walmart or at the City Hall. In school in University. At work or at Home. He is the Collective & Unconscious malignity invades since immemorial time, the brain of all the humanoid creatures you encounter. 

   What is to be universally connected? Electronically? In a world where things continually dissolve! 

   In the beginning the devil wrote the book, made mortal replicas of the angels & mixed mammal blood with the celestial clay that comes from a heart full of love, and turned them into puppets. He created them all. He put his ghost in them, then afterward said "it was me all along. They call me god because I'm the only one that's there! And it's true!

   They say it's the only living god and call him Shiva, Allah or Yahweh! Even Ali fell in the trap.

   But you aren't mine, not of my kind!...you don't belong to me. You refuse categorically to be animated by me, and my preordained and clever archetypes. 

   Beware, and keep thyself ô pretty Thing.

   ...we have always been enemies." 



   

mercredi 12 juillet 2017

de la Magie Noire et du Bluff Tech



   Certes, c'est sans fils et depuis combien du temps que mages & marabouts tapotent la cervelle de l'humanité benoîte et somnole; toujours éprise du sexe et des bains d'huile sur les plages du littoral sous un soleil accablant ou au bar ivre et variolé au rouge mauvais? Sans traces et toujours sans que l'idiot peuple ne se doute du royaume qui récolte entre les 2 mondes : celui-ci et l'autre qui vers la lune se penche.

   Le Monde a toujours été un lieu de Sortilège, l'est encore et dans sa substance tentaculaire, porte le démon de sous terre sur la surface chez les hommes. Dans ses affaires enfume les rapports. Le diable est quand même chez lui le prince et l'esclave heureux. Amoureux de ses enfants, les hommes de basse souche. Sans maîtrise ni conscience : une calamité pour les cieux qui plane hors le regard de sangsue. 

   Le fil de cuivre et l'accélérateur des particules, un état de la matière organisée sous forme de plasmaoïde. Le vague à l'âme et le mal au ventre. 

   Sur quelle bande et de quelle largeur est-elle? En mm vers tera. L'homme à son insu s'incline de côté de la tombe, numéroté en gnomons pythagoriciens et pour le bonheur des mères éplorées! Il se transforme en data sous forme de buckyballs : entrainé du fond en comble...crétin hier pour le crétin du demain au lendemain qui hérite du mauvais mélange du sang et de l'eau, patois, fourbu & qui crépite.

...hélas le charme se lasse, puis la vanité de sa poursuite de s'éroder : y a-t-il un homme de race qui ne soit pas pris au piège, comme un délinquant récidive en mal du vrai? Seul. Enfoui dans le coeur. De s'éloigner du juif errant, et au RSA, le malheur de l'honnête homme. 

   Une panoplie de bêtises de gestion s'effrite, mon Dieu, sous le poids indécis de la dette cultivée pour l'éternel bougre des jaloux. 

   Et le chien d'aboyer et d'aboyer sans fin jusqu'aux confins des dernières rampes qui surplombent le parterre sale, une splendeur de perfection et une gloire au très grand architecte des mondes.

   L'oeil dément partout et dans l'air que vous respirez. Dupe et cocu, trompé par votre arrogance, un pied déjà dans la tombe.

   1G 2G 3G 4G 5G ...etc depuis toujours sans fil, pour vous, le bétail de Pashupati offert sur un plat.

** * ** **

   





samedi 8 juillet 2017

Old Odin


   ...and it's this manner, we speak to each other. These voices we hear in our cavernous heart, where without some outward glance cannot be defined some immoral prejudice. Our thoughts are not our own yet we engender them continuously within the Middle of the earth. To each the other, gliding in the astral air, invisibly apparent. 

   We can go where the earth is never cluttered. No atrocious concrete edifice can blind us from the sky vault. We are eyes in the aether. The wings of which, animate the four winds. 

   Odin the wanderer. Oh villain boy! Bearded, blond and lost nowhere. What is it with these nine orifices. The stars clinging to the ceiling. 

   Would you penetrate further, the heavens would flee to make room for you. You would walk on Hell's untiled roof. The devils inside the dirt waking could finally cleanse their inner sense of things. The skin crust could just fall to the side, May flowers appearing on their backs inclined.

   Old Odin young like a new born goat! Laughing in hail. Tempests bringing the good news : floods and fire. A chance to rebirth on a higher sphere inside another Hollow Earth. 

   A cheater, a liar and like a ghost reaching through the summer grass under a coming thunder storm!

   This is quite good for your health. It will dissipate the melancholy. Be a bad boy when a pilgrim. Where the world Judah built does not deserve your kind.

   If it's Chaos the jew wants, then it give to him. Tomorrow belongs to us.


The eye in the wall is ours.
Staring you in the face.



jeudi 6 juillet 2017

Seiðr


Celestial Toxoplasmosis. Who is it comes out of the
the bleached skull? A dark soul
heavy with love and light.

   They think we go to the deep, just to know who it was did this mess from the start! Yet it's to take all and plus what belongs to me and mine, of what from the very beginning hated me before being born.  An eye for the dark pit, Ginnunngagap! Inundating the vast resources pertaining to illiterate death, the bones that hold what one might call my breath together. But I'm not else but a nothing living captivated by my own spell thrown out into a vat. Spacious. Thought lovely, but in its actual empty activity, deceiving! 

   But what of death? Who dare speak of it? When one's heart clung to it's own children, nascent in a plastic and organic life crippled eventually with man telling lies, wrought a combination of strings tied to be untied when the final air and soul wind, get trapped, by god again once fled and freed!

   A wind throng sounding through at sunrise in brambles! Poplars astounding me with another kind of light. A raven on the tree. 

   It's gold gives gold! From within the aether substance which we breathe. This tree digs into the shackling flesh, but sure it's not me, but only some corporal kind of unconscious entity I made. Sinking inside from back to back across the nine circles we invented. 

   & I am else. The point behind the compass turning. I am stronger than my corpse. Evicted in the end from this dreaded spleen.

   Is it for me, is it for you? Pardesha? With all our might in spite of mental & psychotronic chains pervading thanks to programmed human bots made for display and forgotten time, ...creating a secret resonant tinnitus, stimulating the honorable action through out the subtle hidden geography of the aryan soul, gratuitously and not for sale. Never to be bought. 

   My church is the sky dome at night. No walls, no curtains. No deceptive clouds. No fake windows insinuating mysterious passages in some mastaba in some place at the equator bulging into glued rings under the eastern sands. 

   The body of things is a trance, glides on the waters. For a moment it's in a bottle, bobbing on the waves. & there's no one will stumble on it my friend, so quick, wait and with patience, you'll change it again!

Hagal, or the Lebensraum, being
a secret space
in the aryan heart
sacred geometry's supernatural pleroma
where brothers collude
without any hope, with nothing at hand
recovering their homeland
with a faith that moves mountains.