Undoer of Knots

 

Thus Holy NATURE gave herself a Name. We call it the Saint « OTHER ».

Our Lady who undoes, those who are stricken with racial insanity riveted in the outer flesh with anomalous hybrideous rickets continuously tortured by the infamous  infernal doubts spawned by the Behemoth apparatus, conceived by an unholy biological madness.

She is our Soul’s incarnate supernal evanescent innate nectar. Our Haoma. Fountain of Zamzam.

Renewed eternally in the far off Pardes. She engenders we of the upheld celestial eyes, perennial Watchers in the Lower Heavens. 

Plotinus’ star children. Walkers of the Sîrat Bridge into the "OTHER’s"  World or hyper-dimension of becoming.

for Joe Sevnson and Los Hermanos del Silencio

δημον ονειρων

 

… tu t’es donné beaucoup du mal pour te mettre de coté;

tu croyais te faufiler tel un serpent qui s’avise dans sa fugue.

Qui de plus fait de l’effort pour se lever la tête. Alors que sommeil l’accable, l’endort, lui murmure.

Ramassée sur toi-même, nature brute organique, vase de tristesse; hymne à ceux parjures !

Elle se délecte dans le royaume des surfaces, dedans la convexité membraneuse qui parfois se romp pour peu que le MONDE de Bohm Einstein et Lenine lui tourne le dos.

« Trouve moi et je t’assure que je veillerais sur ta sensuelle frêle et mortel état !

Promène ton regard sur le contour du Soleil; il brûlera qui le mérite, préservera ceux et celles qui lui ressemblent.

Pour le reste, c’est comme de la viande hachée recyclée, encore & encore; les mêmes âmes mornes couardes corrompues s’en retourneront, de nouveau dans le Songe du Peuple des Rêves Illusoires.

Underneath the cellar Floor

 

« Behind closed doors, rats are plotting. In secrecy, yeah with mom & dad, Just after breakfast, in the kitchen. »

Your brains have been polluted from the start. On either side of the river of becoming. Whether in a natural surrounding full of birds and bees, or on the city streets with whores and such naught. At school or at the tennis court. In Glendale or Paris, or in Jack Heart’s neighborhood.

But really kidding this is all a joke, absolutely.

What can you think that hasn’t been thought if there were no kind of language nowhere to do the thinking for you ? Preordaining the linguistic architecture, all constructed unspontaneously to make you think that you might see or know thru words and syntax, accurately.

What there is…or what there is to be or not to be ! Talking to a rabbit or a mouse in a flood of tear water.

What IDEAL ! Which side of the qubitic coin should be selected. How many numbers in a numeral ? With what letters reveal an etheric pre-planned project engendered miraculously thanks to the holy ghost.

All for free, obviously !

Where does the soul come from ? …is it words that make all of this up ?

Are you only the psychotronic invention of Delgado Puharich & Marx ?

A sexual pervert because you read and studied what is the very best literature, written by psycho-neurotics of the fifth kind ?

Can you think without thinking with thoughts molded within the pre-established semantics of the forefathers. And let’s not forget the foremothers, too !

Hail Heraclitus, here’s to you, to Parmenides and Empedocles for fashioning the philosophical & scientific foundations of all illusory & ephemeral Western civilizations. What they were. Where they are going. And the END to it all. 

But I’m only exaggerating. Just kidding. 

We can and actually do in 5 th dimensional timelines think for ourselves without the usage of Grammar Dialectics & last but not least Rhetoric.

 

Cela se peut mais quand même sous la Lune, bis

Cela se peut qu’au-dessous de la moite Lune, par en bas, où des entities de tout genre rampent à même le sol brun,

Que des êtres diaphanes concrétisent subtilement au sein d’une matière évanouie, l’ensemble des corporalités que nous connaissons

Comme des chiffres et des lettres ! Des numéros en chair glorieuse. Des ailes pendentives attachées ou plutôt qui émergèrent des lobes temporelles.

Les planètes ou pour faute d’une meilleure manière de dire simple, les étoiles inférieures incrustent l’inconsciente intention comme un implant trans-cranial dans les particules phlogistisées, produisent avec embellissement de la vanité rien que pour admirer, les sept vices et sept vertus  en perpétuelle opposition.

Dans le ci-gît, une absence. La conscience qui manque. Rien que de l’intellect. Rien que le rien comme dans un ordi !

Car l’ésotérisme ne se peut définir. Ni les Archontes enjouées jouirent. 

You can't define Esoterism

 

Silly!, the guy thinks you can define a secret thing !

The dew drop on the back of a dinosaur's lips, before old Rex could even have a chance to poop on the backdoor steps at the next door neighbor's.

Go ahead. Define it, with an hidden interpretation only for friends, in the appropriate jargon so that auntie might be able to ponder why she even thinks she lives. 

"For those good old reasons; like saving the orcs, the kangaroos & the little street urchins burning shops & wearing nikes !"

Show me the absolute ZERO of it all. The contours of the invisible non existential wave form that can't exist. The buttocks faces of our dear ancestors mesmerizing themselves with pineal eyes, near cold lake waters, naked like uncooked biscuits. 

The mysterious coded material language carved on an Idol's skin, dug up from Atlantis' entrails, slivering on the edge of our kitchen sinks in a dusky ambiance of L.A. smog. 

Read for us what's between the lines. Tell us what's really there ?

" Those empty dark energy places where fairies & goblins teach our kids how they can be stupid & retarded TOO !" 

Oh tell us please tell us what's under the girl's skirt, before we die.

In the tenebrous painted caves of conceit, there's a man in the Grotto, wearing a "cave" man's speleologist's helmet. On it is attached a flash light, just where the third eye could be encapsulated. 

And with that, you can now UNDERSTAND ! Can you comprehend. Have you seen the light ?

Because now, you've become, an initiate. One of the elite. A person who knows. Like one of us.

An Epopte ! Like Jesus, wow.

"Ô my God, they think that they can think, when they only seem to think they know how to read and write what teachers tell them what it seems. 

In a narrow spaced parallel palace, next to Chino, not Ontario, in California ! They go to Clairmont College or Cal Tech, Berkley Stanford MIT, drink coffee smoke weed then work in Silicon Valley. 

...and it's all very ESOTERIC."

Teleportation launching pad.
For the SS only.

...and each planet from underneath the Moon

Those planets far beyond the northern hemisphere, will make, composing from such which is naught more bodies than need be.

 

Certainly this goes on & on. Presumably from the start of it all.

Beginning with Saturn then Jupiter, and also all those others. They make by the eventual molecular stratification of the inside of the Ether, those subtle vehicles that later become more dense through our birthing in the outer physical limits of what we call Mind or the Buddhi-electron state.

From nothing, I say. And I insist. It is so.

The etheric wavers(flag carriers or Neteru) in this nothingness-bath, assemble distraughtly or sometimes quite serenely, the organs of perceptions with their Schrondiger hypothesis tucked in the arse, the wind-envelops full of breath, that belong intrinsically to the school of becoming.

Underneath the Moon, in front of everyone's eyes not seeing, nor hearing, those whispers in the Wells of Being.

They put together what must come apart. Put together what must come into becoming. 

Only a god can see what is going on, what goes on inside these shells of humankind !

Mere mechanical computations on the moss, wiggling. Pagan shadows in the dross.

no eyes are the windows of the soul (2016)

No Eyes are the Windows of the SOUL

No eyes no ears can see or hear God.

No serpent in the spine is spiritual.

Only a silly ghost can come out of that neurotic electrical feature. Ectoplasme. 

No Lady, the END to all means.

No man a means to my vanity.

When you gaze into the eyes of others, you see your hatred for your own miserable self or the great enormous affection that you possess for your personal mortal penis !

Or maybe your spirit is free from rust. And therefore it’s the angels, fear you !

Ô man, what a little thing you are. And yet it seems a god makes you into his demure. A place of his accomplishment. The reward of sincere hearts. The infinite Temple of Freedom, where even my loved ones, I do not adorn them !

Ô God wherefore art thou if not inside the mind in me that is. A curious fantasy. A quibble in the astral parking lot. A maple tree in the wind. Bare and with out leaves. 

A naked girl that’s not coveted. Pure. But all the same, DESIRED.

ONTOLOGICAL DIVAGATIONS

le motif dans le rideau

des plis repliés sur un étendu ondulé, convertis sous forme de rides indéfinis!

Le motif complexe & intriqué regorge gigote se cabre s’agite, s’émèche dans la fabrique du rideau primitif:

scène des créations éphémères, 

qui pend depuis le Ciel céleste jusqu’au Sol…:

Le Vent primordial, s’y engouffre

se distend en courbure 

concède au dérive de l’ombre de l’Être prisonnière,

de Géométrie fluide, aléatoire!

L’image désormais se dessine dans le tissage

puis se le raconte:

« MAIS! je ne sçais ce qui m’arrive? 

Je ne crois en rien qui me précède dans cet abyss! »

ET le RIDEAU de cette Vierge Cosmique de se déchirer, s’effilocher! SE DISSOUDRE enfin en vacuité, VIDE.

** * ** **

MOI!, qui suis vent en ris! Je suis l’AIRE illimitée, qui se répand. Le NON-LIEU liturgique. Je suis l’OEIL dans le TRIANGLE. 

Au Creux avec un seul Poids

….dans la cadence des rythmes, le Pilier tourne au poids;

Alors le Soleil darde sa puissance en direct comme un faucon au plafond sur le globe de mes interêts!

Il gît en poussière. Sous une écume noirâtre qui abscons aspire l’AZOTH.  « L’Esprit reviendra à l’Homme qui est en  bière! »  Délaissé par le bruit de dehors.

Au creux lors de pesé, la main de Dieu hisse la Balance Miracle. 

Veille à ce que le corps se déshydrate, puis de nouveau imbibez! Calcinez. Puis de nouveau rend solvable!

Caché dans le grenier il y a un vase pellucide. Citrin qui verdoie.  

Les os apparaissent, au milieu des particules mondées. Pilez, pilez. Envoyez comme une toupie, l’Hékateon. 

ÔCRUXAVES

PESUNICA.

Là comme dans l’inquiétude sereine, résident les cendres délitescentes! Le moment des advenus. Le Salut du Demain.

Le lichen & la mousse y germe à la surface. Aimantent de vers Ciel, la joie de l’Élite.