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. 

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. 

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. 

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 δᾳδοφόρος  qui éclairent les Ténèbres.