the Barren Idea of You

Against shame & unfair odds, I fought you
while all the while  you despised me, belligerent.

I shuddered, shivering, would or did you care for us ?
yet I knew you hated us outright, with all the tidy inattention that smelled of you,
the clean & quite tidy corners
Of a sacred space. With incense and lit wicks, trembling.

And I fell, like a star smashing on the pavement !
…wishing oh dear Lord, that Eternity be placed, inside some ephemeral vessel!

« My dear darling, up and dancing awkwardly in a very vain story, where all is fake & fakery from one level to the next witnessing endlessly the spectacle underneath God's awful scrutiny.

It has no mystic use for you or me, nor does it ever consult our sweet bigotry.
It vibrates longitudinally in complete and resonant discompassion
across the temporal fibres wrinkling, the dead surface that insects thrive on.

There is nothing bold & wonderful!  Nothing worth taking to the grave to ponder till doom's day.»

Pleading with all this in unkempt mind, we fight unjust battles for romantic reasons, without any favor from gods or demons or men or ghosts or those fickle titans hiding in the air we breathe, covered in hair & fur. 

We fight rebellious bodies, our souls twitching in the wide & silly shooting range of sickly horreurs, 

... embedded in the vernacular from the start of younger years defaced with time, the pure & unnatural innocence obliterated.

But now I know how forlorn it was arduously desiring to reduce you and your intangible pith into some soothing stale-mate phrase. 

Placing you in a tight and holesome digestable frame: 

to make a gruesome image of you in accordance with my disfigured light! 

To make of you, a static sterile thing ! An Idolatrous revery. Into a barren idea of you and your numinous secret soil.

« Love is an ungrateful & abominous joy which can be unearthed from beyond the Aether. An inspired lovely brave and sometime solemn quintessential liqueur, inebriating the wakeful in the heart; longing to quit at last that idle twittle sound of murderous arrogant spleen. »

the next world's realm

I confide my soul to the wilderness

  to my darling in the cold water

Streaming round the rocks, rushing

  down between the banks of greasy grass

With lichen and golden moss, a fox looking by.

Seeking Hamlet’s daughter, under the big wheel

  in the cold water running through the crannies :

The miller’s child, on the dewy hillside.

I confide my life and soul to the wilderness,

  to these stones from heaven fallen down.

To the snake and the black beetle the wild pig.

  A wanderer like the ancient King, offering

My strength to the ancient & antique spirit in the Heart.

Overhead, the polar vortex churns the huge abyss

  spinning like an empty top, covered with bright specks

Scintillating through the dark azure of my darling’s hair.

  There is certainly a place in the celestial sphere. Where even though, father and mother, had lost there way among the brown brambles and ruddy thorns, they could be salvaged or spared by our secret special activity. In the sanguine memory circulating in the brain. 

  Yet if weary of it continually, your spontaneous perception would be theirs as well, even if they trespassed unawakened. These ghosts who lost their way among the brown brambles & red thorns. Unawares of their plight.

  Renewed surely on your pilgrim journey to the Northern Pit having found all three roots of Igdrasil. 

I confide all my soul and life and pounding heart

to the wilderness.

To the rushing water running round the rocks

seeking Hamlet’s daughter.

With lichen and moss on either side

a fox looking by.

desiderata unbound

“Malgré la saine discipline qui s’impose, sois bon envers toi-même.”  Max Ehrmann

“On  nous a appris à ne pas nous aimer nous-même. A nous mépriser. A haïr le dieu blanc hyper-polaire qui est en nous. Que ne dis-je, qui est nous-même. Car comme il est évident, nous ne faisons pas partis du Plan de Yod Hé Vav Hé. (Et nous ne le voulons pas, et n’y pouvons non plus) Ce verbe primitivement conjugué et qui avec tant de peine chevauche le souffle primordial du respire aryen, esquisse les débuts de l’attention hyper-sidérale, portant un masque de gorgonne barbue sans y atteindre l’ombre de ceux qui le défient. Sans la terreur existentielle d’en assumer le poids métaphysique du Grand Vide Eternel et Noble. De même que d’évaluer sincèrement le poids de sa déchéance éventuelle et certainement illusoirement matérielle.”

   

   Ce dieu maître d’ici aux cornes d’hybride-cocu, sans Race Préternaturelle s’adonne aux opiates sécrétées d’une congestion cérébrale et également pérenne; Il dénigre et méprise ce qui est au-dessus du plafond parce-qu’Il ne le conçoit pas. Il ne perçoit pas plus loin, par-delà les limites élastiques des neurones rose-gris; ne peut en aucune manière évaluer une Chose Idéale conçue sans Lui ou avec sa participation qui se mêle de tout, qui Le dépasse d’envergure en perfection et qui serait contre son unicité mécanique, burlesque & du bureaucratique, totalitaire. Et si Il ne nous supprime pas pourtant c’est quand même avec la secrète intention néanmoins de nous priver de notre pouvoir réel et inhérent à notre radicale conscience, du pouvoir de décision puis d’assurer l’éradication permanente si tant est que cela se peut, de tout contact avec la Radicale Immortelle Essence de nous-même. Parce que si sommes divisés dans notre Âme Radicale et très personnelle il s’ensuit que par là notre attention ne se donne que de seulement à vaquer de nourrir les 5 appétits biologiques que ce Suprême Dieu a voulu nous assembler : attributs du domaine mortel concrétisé qui commandent à l’ensemble asymétrique des organismes inter-dimensionnels, mortifères, et avec au rictus un préjudice assimilés par un centre de direction défigurée intérieurement, a-structurée à l’avance, qui n’est pas en lui-même le dirigeant, mais seulement un lieu organique confiné, et qui rend aveugle,... un moyen vers un discernement acquis mais atténué toute fois, et préalablement élucidé que par Lui et ses acolytes-serviteurs bien faisants. 

  Un discernement qui serait biaisé, donc ! Une anomalie construite, inséminée dans les espaces intimes du Coeur Pensant. Un mauvais côté de nous-mêmes, d’après et selon l’image d’un Jaloux Dieu imparfait. Le Satan qui accable, et dont le Nom ne se dit que parmi les esclaves-archontes du Démiurge-Architecte des Mondes Virtuels à travers les chambres mitochondriales qu’Il a façonnées dans la boue de l’excrément de ses antécédents déboires en Edom !

      Donnant des avis édulcorés. Permettant de rendre étriqué, une Vision innocente du Monde où nous sommes ses mules immodestes et mulets vains et où esclaves porteurs de vanité, nous sommes dépourvus comme des imbéciles impardonnables de conscience polaire. Ensorcelés tels des ivrognes épaves, déchus de l’Esprit qui veille en nos Coeurs, de Païens Profonds et issus du Germain !

   Et Adam à l’origine chez lui se nommait ODIN. Mais avec le temps écoulé par et à travers des processus de miscegenation politique, il a oublié ! 

“And now he hangs again on that axial Tree. But with his blood memory finally restored, brings back Home again the blood sacrifice of himself. Will start again. The sacred Runa alive & breathing the Holy Breath draped with Ice and Fire circulating in the Soul of himself and his Very Holy Progeny.”

In Unterberg’s Belly Reclined

die Tür von guten Männern

                             
             « Ils assassinent toute la Création afin de bouffer baiser et déféquer ! »



   Within your chaste crowded bosom, and all my tortured pleading heart, those now burnt sundry unnamed shiver at the mere touch of you, inside down there at their new hostel in Nebelheim.

   A heavy chest, a terrible pressure between the two ears, I had. Drivel at lips’ corner. The old the ill the young the new born, our Mothers. Our Fathers too. Ghosts torn from their hearths to tear.

   Now. Strips and disheartening shreds of a Dark Face haunt us. The black adversary. Our shadow selves, the Judas in the bottom drawer.

** * ** **

   Reclined upon the couch of Inner Earth. Sustained secretly by the Vril of now, our long gone parents, lost to us unabashedly in the palm of a deluded & terrifying stupidity. Will come transmigrated into new vessels of elated value. Their worth an amber sap bubbling impatiently till a New Sky and New Earth in the Aïther renew…

   Like a Mad Jester, practicing the Ancient Magic Charms of Bon : on oneself & on the others with us without knowing. The corpses laugh, draining the sky into the Mind’s torch.

   A middle stellar-sun. Clutched in agony , with roots and worms, betrayed beyond comparison, stifling hatred. Inebriated with bitters and aloes. Absorbing the organic tissues, digesting the black bile in a rotten vesicle. Crushing with the akashic muscles the crisping thwarting shame.

   Yet all honor has returned. The Great Spirit resurrecting the Polar stature from a pile of bones and melted flesh.

   From this Time in Eternity on a better stage with odds on this forsaken God’s side, we shall permeate with yellow acid bowels the lavish mountainsides while the souls of Dresden seethe thru the calcaire cracks and iron oxide, budding green and marigold.

The Aryan Dharma Wheel

The body.

   In the cellar underneath, where rats & vermin hide, scattered among the bones of your royal blood, flooding into the rushing chasms that fill your vanquished heart with ill fate & rending distress.

   Bleak sadness in a dark solitude. Inside an invisible cave, dissolving the reticent corpse. No spot on the surface of this world globe to go to for comfort. Black walls of desolation covering the extreme antipodes of earthen eyes weeping egotistically and limited constraining visions on the horizon of a forgotten dusk spirit.

   The soil of the soul is wet with untold tears of distraught despair ! Where can Hope deserve a dwelling but in your own sweet grave. All true friends and true brothers shall enter with you there. Within theirs.

   It’s in a crypt one buries the cadavre. The Holy Cross above tunneling a passage way to the shiny stars. An Echo all around you replying to your solemn song. In a sound like a great vaporous ghost, the Dark One, your hidden self shall find. United in Un-Death, one single primal and supernal Certitude.

The Soul.

   Now it’s time to climb outside. Thru the Tempest at the Crown. The Al Father is the glaive you hold in your hand. You are its Active Awareness. The Great Spirit, its Aryan Soul. The body you had, transformed into a rainbow.

   The Black Sun is the Mark of Real Conversion. The Sacred very Personal Place of a Second Birth.

   12 steps from one state to the next. Spiraling from space-time floor to floor. These are the Reich Eagles that go beyond & come back, striking dread. Imploding.

   The 13 in the Middle is beyond the stellar ceiling. Squeezed into a non-existing physical locality.

   Now you can hold Death upon your head as a Bridegroom of Darkness.

   A lantern anatomy of ethereal matter wearing linen, a golden cord at your waist. The Morning Star at the brow. A Prince of Lucifer. Dharma-dhatu.

   « It’s when my Soul in all its emerald green returned to the ruined house down below ! In the gutted clay. Among the bickering. In a realm where innocence fled.

   I wondered. Did the snail that I stepped on pardon me ? Did Odin finally lose his raving Mind after so much fitting & tiring damnation ?

   There were dead crows on the pavement.

   My spirit was mixed with sulfate, & the nitre made me drink more than I needed.

   Flame surrounded me. I sunk into the residual bitume of all I had wished for, & did not attain ! I became the darkness that frightened the gods ! »

   Who was harassing him ? Was it the brain ? The morphic resonance ? The devils in the waves, thrilling in the air above, all the naughty kids below ? Was it the J__ ? !! Or was it just the backside of his skin ? 

   Or was it what the worms eat, just like what happens in our gardens when the soil's ready for planting vegetables ?