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| 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!
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| 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. |
