vendredi 8 février 2019

Penury to the Heart




With each & every useless effort, a penury to the heart. Smokeless mirrors reciting never been myths. While at last the flavor went stale in a wink.

But it’s sure as has been is better than never; it’s all quite the same like a fainting on the ground in chemtrail dust!

All the grail chalices in Spain and Southwest France, mean as much as nothing once you’ve been there, really been. The mystery man just can’t tell himself no more lies!  A pilgrim when on « the way to get there »  finds out & knows for sure, then dies. 

Gets bored at even hearing something said about the GRAIL CUP or how once even Ezra or Miguel climbed the one and only famed Monségur! (All rebuilt from start to finish with all the other Cathar castles that never were.)

Let the archeological tourists go to bed with the regional commercial whores! Let them sleep in the same cozy bed filled with pseodo-promethean lies fabricated for the pre-educated gullible. 

Put a cockle on your hat & go the road way. Or just shut up & dont lead any longer the young ones that come from behind, astray!

Carry your conscious load & let only a single light enter your heart. And that one is emitted from a Single Mind.


samedi 2 février 2019

Blithe



What was & is but elsewhere.


If man wishes to abide so selfishly. Destroying the cupboards of the perennial organic mainstay. Then so be it. Blast him and his kind that would make better that which is best. Or worse degrade the equilibrium God made in Hell. Let the flux from the great cyclique tide inundate the playgrounds of those who would be petty minded and thus deceitful in their malicious out smarting.
There’s no worry to that. So I continue to thrive here in my cave. Like a mineral deposit mummified in the clay covered with ice and copper buckles. A living « terma « hidden in stone. Spending no breath on costly trivialities. Bequeathed and bellowed on the stone-walk.
While surely, there are plenty who notwithstanding by the wayside wait the long awaited debacle. Innumerous the rare number, who watch from Hermon. Like gods tired of being feathered, as Azael. 
Lo, trees are smitten and cats beg at doorsteps. The air is unbreathable. All living things from within without irradiated! The hypnotic sun down trodden in terrestial goo. The steps that climb up into and through the waxen skies, blithe. The angels never weeping. The devils in all shapes and sizes, terrified and mourning the desert place they so long worshipped. 
And now a desolation is waiting in a virtual aluminium tidbit made of glass, plastic and gold! This will be the next place where devil worship is had.

« Non mortui laudabunt te Domine;
neque omnes, qui descendunt in infer-
num. SED NOS QUI VIVIMUS, BE-
NEDICIMUS DOMINO, ex hoc nu-
nc & usque in saeculum. » liber psalm-orum cxiii: 17,18.

La Swastika Tour



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Elle brille pour lui comme telles des fenêtres yeux au miroir des Cieux qui incarnent l’âme sa corpulence diaphane. D’étage en étage ne concède au monde souterrain sa munificence de perle. 
Et le sawastika meule l’abyme sans cesse. Une Tour de défiance face aux malices des technocrates incongrues. Tant on est chérit par notre Muse-Valkyrie. 
Je t’adore quand tu mourras, demain ou hier, peu m’importe, mon amour.
La reflection de nos coeurs transpirent à l’unisson, inquiets que de nous-mêmes; 
                         « Que le gouffre avale la maelström
                             que les hommes mauvais soient pilés
                              en poussière fragile!
                              Aucune tentative de nous échapper 
                             ne réussira ni en aucun lieu tangible
                          ne saura tempérer notre rage, notre colère! »
Rien ne tempérera notre colère.
Tu verras ce coeur aux confins sans encombre, s’épurer, vaste telle une grotte aux astres infinis que l’Esprit constelle à sa guise, : 
L’Homme Noble est de notre gage, notre création, l’unique et tant souhaitée anomalie harmonieuse! Qu’à peine les anges des enfers oseraient le scruter en pensée ou d’avec comme esquisse, quelque prétendu apocryphe écrit. 
« Mes os sont de nacre, mes yeux translucides. Le sang qui flue une fréquence métaphysique d’or et d’ambre. Je suis l’édifice que ton âme en tout sa candeur irréconciliable avec le faux éclat du Monde confectionne: Le Graal issu de tes conquêtes anonymes; seuls les gnomes les sylphes les ondins les elfes, les salamandres qui copulent avec des ifrits voltages, t’admirent se disant: « Voici, quelqu’un comme nous enfin de retour dans son royaume de gloire étincelante. Voici enfin un homme aryen de nouveau chez lui au-delà des Carpathes, une souche de la Dacie, enfant du Pamir. Engendré de lui-même depuis l’Ancienne Hyperborée pommelée et qui préserve encore d’ici la fin des Temps des vicieuses aberrations , notre Olmlungring!» 
Je t’adorerai demain ou hier
peu m’importe
Que le gouffre engloutisse le Maelström!
Le Sawastika pille perenne
le vaste enclos du Rien,
Et il érige pour l’Eternité
la Tour d’Ivoire de notre ébène:
Tu verras ce coeur sans encombre
s’épurer!
Ma joie y réside.
Cela est mon corps de résurrection.
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vendredi 1 février 2019

Here in his Reign



Brave and dead and gone away. Yearning for the unexpected desire round the corner on the circle squared. Watching intrepidly.
No hope to be found on the corpse of my epitome!
Truly a thorough blackness has entered my soul, yet all that’s forbidden resides in the disjointed bones covered with golden green moss and been drenched dry at Mymir’s Well. Half way up thru Vanir’s Home in a hallway of sturdy robust Ash & Oak. The three bodies emptied of themselves on a Christian Cross in Muslim garb. 
And there isn’t any shame in that. No shame, alas, when a Krist entombed.
Wary in the pickling. Decidedly enamored with the sparkling dust in high places. Stranded like the eagle in the shadows of Yggdrasil, till the day after doom. 
This is my Love now gone to the heavens, deceived as should be by the bestial sociatal trappings Loki proffered. My embittered terrestrial & meaty clothing regenerating. Eternal soul steeped in unseen blood and salted flesh. 
A resurrected deity. Here in his reign. 
The Wind says, go away. The earth rattles, yet the tempest says, go away. And why?
The wind?    This or any other world would be just fine! I’ll make a seat in the adamant rock, here. It’ll be mine, for always. My name is written in it. It’s mine all white alabaster. A secret name there upon. My godliness calls to me from within.
And the Maidens will always dance round the Pole. Undermining our naivety and the innocent eyes. Making fools of the little boy tethered inside the warrior lad.
All this is good and bright. Nothing will be shunned! Unless I make but spittle of what were words said ignorantly.
And so be it:
     the wind says, go away
but I’ll stay
this great stone is mine, it’s
my Viking blood feeds it all the while.
I give it a Soul. It becomes mine in the hereafter!
It is mine, now.


Au Banquet des Fourbes



Cela a été dit maintes et de multiples fois à de maintes reprises, pourtant les mesures d’antan se délitèrent dans le rond des parjures. God is but a dead man waiting for nothing, seeking nothing; contented within of himself, elaborating no new cycle of thought or deed.
Comme la véridique absence du fiable,…mais à chaque occasion une part de Dieu ne meurt pas. D’ailleurs rien de moi ne meurt. Jamais.
La Mort est un louange de tes tentatives victoires. Ton insoumission à ce qui en l’homme pour toi l’abaisse ici, sur le trottoir se dégrade, t’abreuve d’une incommensurable finition interne & exulte. Ton esprit au fils de rapier incise. 
Dieu est un épouvantail desempli du sens qui pour ses braves mules au dos brisé, exhorte le refus, chicane, et élève le ton de l’esprit. Le chien de garde ou loup indomptable Cherub au seuil au glaive qui flamboie; au banquet des fourbes. Une détresse déchirante dans l’oreille de ceux & celles qui sont sourds devant leur innommable vacuité.
Ô combien la marée monte? Du Néant sur l’imbécile de notre nouvel âge ahuri, retords et cru du PNL. Zen Astrologue de mon cul! Pedo-sodomite de notre grande culture de boeufs trans-genres. Horreur et honte qui pliés en 2 aux pieds de Hel, brulent! 
Atrocité morale!
Couards maudits de mes plus intimes souhaits. Cadavres que je piétinerai avec une joie hardie, avec l’espoir de les voir enfin, se dissoudre dans les couacs du WEB naufragé. Nano poussière à jamais. Autant de bites pixelés égrenés sur le sol de mon parterre inférieur.
Dont je serai ravi de voir VIDE & évidés comme des carcasses de boucher prêtes pour la vente au Grand Banquet des Fourbes, dans leur rêves éveillés enfin humiliés!

lundi 5 novembre 2018

Au Dieu Qui Venge



…que de mensonges qui étalent leur puissant ennui, un futile harcèlement à compter sur les vagues doigts diplomates depuis le socle des imprécisions mièvres, et qui lassent et hélas lassent la vigueur de notre amour pour la chose invisible que nous respirons pas comme les autres, et qu’hélas encore une fois de plus tourne en dérision, la brave humanité de Carrefour et de Le Clerc avec insultes et injures, dans l’insolence habituelle tout comme des larves-spectraux qui dirait « Yeshuah »! ; que cela importe peu…que cela importe si peu…Dieu même en a détourné son regard de ce ridicule spectacle abandonné aux déchets;  » quel ennui que la croix en bois que l’Homme abomination & sans un dieu, adule ».
La Colère est une réserve de puissance, une havre un refuge, une impasse qui repose le coeur abattu! C’est la coupe de l’anathème que je jette sur le peuple tricheur; avec toute mon âme quelle paix profonde que de maudire le décrépit le bossu menteur & l’hypocrite bourgeois et des HLMs (dont le souffle infecte microbien qui les habite n’est que pure perte de temps devant mon august et celeste attention). C’est un baume envers et pour assuage. Un élixir de bien-être qui au bout du compte, apaise la sainte rage!
Ô béni soit-il le Dieu le MIEN, qui écorchera avec un dernier coup de pied de biche tranchant, la peau purulente des devantures républicaines,…mettant au raz, l’édifice prétentieux de ce qui a été bâti au nom des peuples plèbes vains inutiles et arrogants!
Au nom de la racaille assistée, mes amis fourbes!
Au nom de l’immense épave éthique des démocrates aux lèvres ricaneuses!
Au Nom de Jésus. Ha! Jamais. Non JAMAIS!
Au Nom de ce Dieu aux Cornes de Wotan Qui Seul, est sans la Malice des conventions consensuelles! : La Sainte Rage qui fulmine, qui siège dans le coeur des braves, et qui abattra le LOUP de la Putain Usure.
Au Jour de la Vérité et qui ne viendra non jamais!
Buvons! A la détresse du Monde Post-post Moderne.
BUVONS!
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mercredi 24 octobre 2018

Waiting for No One



Surely you’ve noticed, that the brain is only a center of command and in itself is like an outgrown gland in a calcium box, biologically preprogrammed to transmit and/or receive a perceived world place thru its senses, filled with artefacts and things, or just not filled at all! With all the trappings. Out there in the emptiness where people pretend in utter ignorance, that things are REAL. Surely this came to mind. God’s kingdom is not in the mud forever, debating chains of DNA! Enamored with silicon and carbon. 
The brain and all the other organs were pre-conceived in some outer structure afterwards the seed of existing was put there by the god. Like a shoe yes like nothing but a simple shoe, organically related intimately to the rest of all subtle & biological(whether visible to the eye and/or ear & sex) existing! The brain is a part of the natural structure. It belongs to all the rest. Was put there from the start like all the rest!
Only the Mind(the seed-thing put there by the god) when it wakes to itself, sees that it doesn’t belong. Is something other. A non-thing from a no where, not beyond nor below. Initiation is the bringing into account of the Eternal Tragedy of all incarnate souls striding the so-called strings of matter. Tendrils & dendrites interconnected, throbbing with pulses, inside the sacred number. 
Your eye has been mutilated by the darkness. But a lamp endeavors to endure, shining on this nothing of a Void.
And only the Mind-Soul can see, reflect and conceive. Thru the biologically pre-arranged gland. Out there in the midst, real souls of Mind are imprisoned. Dont disdain them! Honor the invisible divinity. Reality pervades because the Loving-Mind believes in nothingness’ existence. The fermenting Holy Spirit inebriates the fettered Soul. 
Whereas the god does exist, unconscious because forgotten, by the god himself! 
The soul is what is real. It empties itself here. Then when death comes, inhabiting perpetually the earth & all creatures, the Soul takes itself back. Living and being eternally, no where. A fountainhead of life and love. A place from which hatred stems occasionally, when the Soul contemplating a terrible deception is taken aback while in a strange place, it has forgotten, it belongs nowhere, when here.
Seeing the illusion of the believing mind is only the beginning of becoming an Initiate. This is the Path of the Noble Soul-Mind. 
Where we are now, is unfortunately a desecrated Temple, which in principle was meant to be a sacred abode for the Soul!
And that is the beginning of the Root-Races. Which inhabit the Void thru Harmonics. In the Guise of a moving Swastika, the 4 in equilibrium. Through out Eternity in a Transparent Sphere.
It has no walls and no center.


jeudi 6 septembre 2018

The Higher Man



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Je veille sur la Machine du Corps Mortel.

Ce n’est certainement pas l’homme enseveli dans les fibres charnues du corps ni l’opinion que l’on a du soi à travers tendons et muscles.  La cervelle défaite de mille combinaisons articulées; rabattu sur le sol de nos amour-propres! Le produit ignoble d’une mauvaise et inepte culture de l’esprit hominid. 
Le rire cynique de telle manière ordonnée d’où a germée l’incomplete abomination de Vitruve et de Léonard. L’automate à tissue organique, golem pour les plages et le Métro de mes souvenirs. La fantaisie cybernétique de l’imposition tyrannique du nombre d’Or. Un illusoire ramassis d’illusoire confection qui se vante.
Les Idoles de son Idéale le prendraient en dérision: ils diront que voyez-vous là? Ce n’est que du vent de la sueur et une densité du peu poids. Un agrégat d’éléments. Une illusion quantique? Le respire des aïeux qui dévie. Le clapotis d’une vague comme le facies de ses parents d’avant et ses enfants après, un évanouissement des heures pendant lesquelles on s’est donné tant de peine pour y évacuer notre sang:

   « le résultat de tant d’hypnoses consensuelles! Ô pour le bref instant d’une  Vanité      
    que l’on réalise!
    
L’homme est une tombe. Ses enfants le sont. 
    
    Et lui-même fait hommage devant des hypogées 
    à base de calcaire & de gypse tandis que
    des larves-mânes et lémures lui habitent sous la peau: 
    c’est un regard narquois qui le guette
    depuis la géhenne de Hell-Nifelheim. 

Âmes perdues englouties alors que le Vide les toise dans la plus grande indifference! »

** * ** **

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Ergo sum angelos. Quia exulto Hominis desuper! Lux aeterna vita coelorum. Crux in cordem canticum clamoris. Canto verbum arbor vitae.
…je suis celui qui terrible brise les sobriquets de tous genres. J’annule la signification d’antan. Jadis est un mot que je ne connais pas.
Je surplombe la maladresse inhérente aux idées que l’homme-fourmis d’en-bas apprécient avec tant d’excès malicieux!  Je suis le regard de l’Homme Céleste, l’Oeil qui voit dedans. Je déchire! 
seraph-feathers copie
Aucune métaphore humanitaire n’a de prise sur moi. Dieu est l’abîme perpétuel qui réside dans ma poitrine. 
The tempestuous wind at high tide! The eagle in the black dust of gloom scrying the portals that connect the stars to our only God.
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Hélas pour l’homme au-dessous de moi. Il est comme l’holocauste d’un lion sur l’autel des joutes littéraires, prétentieuses et savantes: une carcasse maintenant exsangue évidée.  Un jeu d’esprit futile ou frivole, purulent.  Un tas de tripes en l’air pour des bestioles parasites éprises de l’avide cupide mondanité.
Pour le seul profit du Démiurge et son royaume vampire.

jeudi 30 août 2018

Plain Personal Pride

An unforseen disaster on the face of Order.


Up from within our personal underworld disasters, seeps a badly cooked mess. Embroidered in the fecal tissues. Which in upheaval, blacken the mind’s clear sight, & the autonomous self.
WHAT?! …would you without a god, dare sing some tune to your own outright bitter triomphe amongst fat fools, the intellectually inferior, then kiss Goodbye a fallen daydream world? 
Oh Dear me and you, who would seek a root in something else but the Aether around you breathing; ...
close these glimpses on your lost childhood and be a MAN.
For Antarctica is your secret stone. Your foundation. Inside, the turning capillary tubes suck the earthen grease. & thru your carnal pores ejects a brightness like the dew. A place of Honey and affectionate warmth. A refuge from those olden days where we so much loved only our useless mortal selves! 
Those solemn days when women so much affectioned baking their tits under a scorching polluted sun. 
How infinite we were! Eternal righteous beings. Better than the literary scum promenading the boardwalk in the grand cities of Babylon.
Yet Antarctica is built on a multitude of tombs. Hives’ nests in the ICE. Sucking in the leavened lard! Inside the earth it’s all an imbroglio! A Cosmic Joke. 
But yeah! I’ll damn the bitterness through my blood and at Earth’s End my children will strike the lightning today into the feeble broken and shattered clay of Men. Cause God is One when the Man in our Blood awakens the true and only SELF.
Mine eyes are God’s when He sees in me His own kind!
Then afterwards, what was a furor in the North was and will be, only me; as God saw thru mine eyes. So He’ll see today, « now », & tomorrow. 
If not. Then…I’ll just have to do a better job the next time, and make Him see like I do!


dimanche 19 août 2018

נזי



Le 12 ème Labeur des Fols sans Espoir


…ha, pour le vent des astres qui s’engouffrent dans les cheveux ébouriffés,  

Cela laisse songeur, comme j’enjambe des bris épargnés par des regards indiscrets! Les rues disparaissent sous les pas lourds, où le réverbère cligne d’incompétence: Ce qui était n’est plus. On se torche le cul d’Orwell. On rit d’ici noyé par l’ennui moteur des plèbes!

Je suis le vautour qui dévore les cadavres des braves hommes et femmes qui jonches les halles de mon Eternité.   

L’Homme est une fosse à os, un couac de non sens, ses pieds dans la mélasse des pseudo-souvenirs de bienveillance de peine & du malheur. La pretension de l’Instant, évanouie dans le sol. 

Un rêve dans un rêve dans un rêve qu’une folle sans animus engendre, sur le trottoir du Marché, le Dimanche. Un Ricard sans glace sans eau sans verre. Un prétexte qui se doit de remplir comme devoir de l’Eté envers la famille de nos macro-molecules charnues, pour le bien-être de nos insalubres bides entartrés, qui ne défèquent plus comme jadis à travers la grêle des tuyaux souterrains!

*******

…je ne te manquais pas hélas quel bonheur pour moi ce trépas de Gloire. Inondé de la Shekinah, un délice du répit le Sabbath le jour du Vendredi! Séclu. Inerte telle une transe d’entre les Estoilles du bonheur.  .נזיר

Une greffe d’Arya, dont l’arôme parfume les poils au beurre de karité. Oui, comme un cerf le Dimanche le Jour de Notre Fureur! Ave et persistant astre insoumis. 



mercredi 8 août 2018

A Place for Truth



She’s naked, and pretty, … yet no one issued from the great pit can perceive her. Even those shadows roaming in front of their opened eyes, leaves them speechless, …they were born to endeavor as blind ones from here to the end of Eternity’s wages. Dazzled by nothing. Enamored of nothing. Dead to the spirits which surround our solitary tracks in the Ether. 

No historical man is real. Let alone his concubines. Only the Ghost in the heart knows her. Beseeches the Royal Activity, which an innocent youth, boy or girl, would cling to, in all distress. In a City bewailing cavernous meaninglessness.

Naked and pretty. Silent between the behooved leaves. The trees of all colors, glistening. 

Who would honor her? Which man can hold her in his bosom and yet without burning to a crisp, can gasp, maintaining his sanity, then embrace the red lips of Truth and continue existing to continually cherish living in a LIE? 

In a body made by death from the start. Fallen from between two thighs! 

Into the wet dust of numerical whimsies! Directed ‘neath the dark avenues constructed by Minos.


She’s naked and is the sole thing alive. The ontological essence weary from carrying crosses among human shells. 


lundi 14 mai 2018

انا الملك الموت A Prince of Darkness




E col suo lume sé medesimo cela.
Purgatorio xvii

What a sweet moment and yet the sweetness has gone away in a baffled moment, strident in song. 

I have become a Prince of Darkness, standing in the air!

With this in turn, far off in a strange wilderness on wet narrow streets, is it as judges that now we wait in this unheard of place, estranged.

Archons in a scattered unsacred age?

Blond Boys descending on Mount Hermon once again?

My brothers, are we these angels of Death, awaiting in Exil, the singular command? Is the Wind in the rain between halls, the vital crack in a crumbling edifice, a bewildered raging madness pulsing in the internal fibres?

Muddled yet undying, fore with awaiting patiently. An awareness. Dense and black. Dark as night, a light so fierce it floats on a throttling sea of renewed and well founded rebellion? Blinding deafness till ears swell into horns of glory.

Incorporating our injured shadows. The aristocratic self, denied its Natural Right. Murmuring to the Self: ô God is it true, we have become your Battalion and Karmic Tribunal?

«  There is no other Judge but you.

Who is it condemns? Who the one who lets go bye? Wink and the World turns to naught. Goes astray. Or becomes a joy.

Close your eyes, and it’s you who merges into the Great Dark Earth of Heaven. It’s what shines in the face beneath society’s rags. What outlasts all mortal riddles. 

A Prince of Darkness, an Angel of Death. An Eternal Warrior. You my Son. »

But we do not fight with our fists. It's our Souls that condemn them. Our hearts breathing  with a big gasp, the individual aryan spirit into the Aether of Neverland. To burst the evil clamor all around! Shredding to bits the carcasses of what were men.

No wall shall hold us here. 

samedi 5 mai 2018

the Grail Cup



The sweet and sour thought processes which squeeze the soft dove tailed brain with eloquence, besiege the dormant mind. A minstrel pacing in the woods. A plaything himself his opportun joke! Querying from crack to crack until sleepiness drowse him to dizziness. 

   For sure, he was tempted to lie by. To wait again. To be patient with al and with his. Struck to stupefaction. Gleaning on the maze. Following Ariadne’s severed cord! With which way out. Again when?

** * ** **

   

   There is no surprise for a man on the wake. Nothing to shudder, to elude, to caress then conquer. For whom? Some broken toy house of a world. 

   For the sake of summits once climbed. Ideas that flourished then abandon us while we bystander, look hither, over our sulking hearts, wondering why?

   Incivility. Discourteousness! Ignoble fetiches clamoring their do. Ideals issuing from pigeon holes in the attic, unassuaged! Hopes dashed on a heap of moral dross and mis-tuned musical usages?


My friends all this and more slumbers in our yet again uncultivated tastes for boisterousness. I pray we wade the tide that gushes on the Great Dream whose roots are elsewhere, erupting in the Grail. 

jeudi 3 mai 2018

A Foreigner in Hell



   Now, to invoke the presence of intruders is mad, and to whisper nonsense into the ears of those who listen, will surely undo the foundation of our hearts. Yet simply and lacking hesitation the lies pile up one atop the other.  

   These things fondle the brevity which life is worthy of. What you saw, wasn’t. What we heard, lasted ephemerally. These things you attributed to all life essences turned round and round til in their crazy dissipation, birds fell dead from over our un-inquiring heads. This is how the gods should die if we dont wake them ever: Submitting them to our wishes.

   Binding oaths to olive trees, felling ash and oak till dawn, loosing our very unique and personal perception! Invoking invasion. Elaborate intrusions that instill in our bodies coming from the outside manifestations which stroll in the Sun’s heavy unleaded rays, a parasitical miasma. An organic algorithm created and invested with the cortex cells in a mindless lazy brain.

   But as it is, all this, here, is just a playground for the gods. The very bad and the sometimes Good. In the internal organs thus reflected, the World Illusion makes playthings of what you cherish. Of what you might have loved and cultivated. Yes, oh friend it’s all a supernal Sham. 

* *  * ** **

   Cloistered in filth yet abiding each day. Afraid of one’s unassailable stupidity. Awkward and tired. Upright like a royal lion, leaning on the the cage’s bars! Stuck within one’s own intimacy. Never wishing it otherwise! But to melt the mirages, that make one sleepwalk day to day, embalmed in a dark night’s embrace. A foreigner in Hell. 


mercredi 2 mai 2018

Odin's Lament




But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity…

Sonnet 94 Shakespeare



I went on that road to eternal mud un-awakened, 
   My mouth filled with earth & dirt in the eyes:

In a land where two gods laid dead. Nailed 
   To the soles where my feet stepped, alas 

Like a Prime Rose that’s now buried in a dry stomach!

To each horizon to either antipode, the screech owl
   now laments my tears when I had them, now stale!

Certainly, I thought if I die, then God would too, with me
   Lavish in the sumptuous liberty to let drop the horrid mess
   He made as us.

Yet He did not dare, would not subside, and let out
   Without squeamishness: I live yes with dirt in the eyes
   And a wet mouth full of earth, a broken heart!

Fallen from unheard skies, like a Monster from Heaven.
   Banished and flayed of my golden gown! 

There’s lightning in my fierce look with rage teaming
   Froth in the soul flooding what was simply hoped for?


  And yes up there where no Evil can abide, I tore all the palaces down to earth, wreaked havoc, spored some terror in my own solemn self then yawned. 

   Yes I would start all over again! And damn the Eternal Self to perennial traveling, just to beat down all that ugly vanity smiling on the Death of all that’s innocent  & who bled just to feed frivolous USURY!

  My immortal being would perpetuate the outrage unashamedly, bashing the narrow and selfish little upstart divinities, and scorn with unceasing laughter the contemptible unnatural immorality of their elected peoples until everlasting, even unto the crumbling brink of all their Cosmogonic World views, that they would invent to hide my Proud Spirit. I would keep on, just to bury in the dung heap, 2 dead Gods amidst their rusted offspring of bitter brats.


Pour les δδοφόρος  qui éclairent les Ténèbres.