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!

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!

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…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. 

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.