Transfer the Gleaming

These unclean fetters on the dining table. Lacquered with envy. Dripping grievously through the tiny lines. Underneath these darkened eyes redeeming nothing.

Can you make it into thin air, transfer the gleaming heart elsewhere into darkness, or like a brittle branch never bare the imagined dead end in front.

 

Oh, what a terrifying expectation, boundless with immortal hues of dew on the brow. 

The tree bends slightly just ever slightly all the glamorous ramurage replete with the eagle at the summit baring the immense gift of God, the squirrel in the midst on the bark, the soul’s imperial monster irate at root’s end. …while the wind gushes out & through innumerable ordeals, in all the portals unremembered. To be sought out. And vanquished. Just so.

Imperial like an arrogant walker on receding tides. Blistering. Carrying within the runic lore in the breast. One eye asunder now in the well dwelling eternally. 

The Age is nigh. Death a whisperer elated. The underground streams of Yggdrasil gnawed to plight. The dragon now gasping.

Ô bleakness now done away;
whisper the end unto death,
receding under a Star.

in the Mounds

In the mounds, there is a dreaded awe, lurking. Drenched in the semen of bygone regrets. As no one was burned but buried in their homes. With wings on their helms, containing a treasure of Mysteries; & the secret alphabet was carved on the Earth's pale daunted skin.

And the irrational racial aberration abhors the Eternal Majesty come from supernal constellations.

These memories are not for them. The rich eternal flux does not swish in their miscegenated brains which washing upon the oblivious useless shores of physicality becomes mute in Hell! 

Certainly, …

My mind swims in the Ether, wandering to & fro from whence to where; I am my own blood its eyes of Infinity, scanning Mimir’s dwelling on the Abyss! A well beyond upsetting. A gay lark at the edge. A single man. A God from Gibor. 

But when, what sadness had outraged me, has benumbed the elementary senses; do not abide by quirks of distress: Death is my visage embalmed on the air, threading all things together not to none but to a sacred heart above the interstellar waters! 

Woe, woe, woe, oh how thrice happy I am! The quiver in the creatures that the gods made now rebel against human error. The unsacred sin of mixing to no purpose to no avail, the squandering of the vital vril to any extent thru misshapen inadequate vehicles of incarnation! 

But here no god sighs no further. No god is dismayed. No song in the heavens no longer tainted. A thrashing on the harvest floor. This world will be dismantled. 

***

In the Ether , Man is but a stepping stone. A way up and down and all around back unto himself. A calling card in exchange for a shining boat in the Skies. 

Tell me my dear sir & double deed doer, what is there more to all of this? 

« I will thrust my sword into the world’s liver, drawing out the insipid poison. My spirit will cleanse for a time all the Earth from its unredeemable turpitude: the mixed man who has no soul of mine! » The gods will forgive nothing. I will set the World back on its AXIS, while no anomalous mortal entity shall survive. »

...here in this place, I was buried in my fleshly home & never burned.
My immortal remans have no shelter
nowhere, save
in a dragon ditch between the 2 Great Bears. 

 §§§

How happy you will be in those supernal azotic places with your polar kind. Deaf to dirty mouths, unseen by all who were meant to be blind! All silent and unseen bravery will be crowned with lady bugs on the heath at the summit of Lord Thor.

Augeidos Ochema

The Aryan Man is but a brief sejour where damnation is the rule. 

die Unordnung

...this entier animated machine wielding thru God's sacred Will, the Destiny of all its occupant entities! Electrically inclined of which no one could be responsable save of course for those pre-determined morphically resonating bodies, which were intended from the very beginning by Chaos to encompass logic envy and desirous passion, but finally had no say in the mysterious matter!

Up in the heavens God seeks down here the ideal mutable vessel. The race most adequate in accordance with those places which He Himself has in some previous supernal context, decided would be proper and becoming to his innate and fathomless Wondrous Will. 

After all it’s just us who stubbornly insist on staying here inside these organic confines, irrigated with blood and filled with bone as well as potential ash: bearing the weight of God’s master minded plan, to make of us the guilty ones….and He is all powerful, but declines from taking the full responsibility for the god made mess, thus shoving it onto shoulders of the little ones. 

Man’s fault was to have made carnal sexual love to the woman who originated from himself at the separation of his soul from the clay body. 

Leornado would intimate this later on, in the self-portrait of himself as the ideal woman (he was wise enough and avoided projecting his maiden soul into the tangible outer presence of a mortal woman). 

Yet the God seeks his mortal vessel, making use of us till he feel guilty for His deliberate concupiscence! 

Now, all is hybrid.

Sur un Autre Plan

Like a distilled life animating sprite, you live and breathe on some other plane. While here it’s true, you defecate drink & eat the meat that's inside shells! Though you believe you walk hand in hand with Nature sometimes reclining on her voluptuous bounteous bosom, intending uselessly from here to there; here is just a shell. An empty cockle laying on the sand. A pretentious life where dictionaries dictate to the innocent mind a false life of useless hope and inculcating middle truths!

A place of shades, the abode of dead souls, replete  with education, culture & lies in the eyes! Oh, alas for the devastating quickening that protrudes into the seeing heart. Make to do. Quick to the mantle. Get a bowl!

Who has a soul was issued on another plane. What was shown here, was no more than a curtsey, an inclination of Mankind. A paper doll. A useless yearning. Who’s has a mind is but the god who would die. But can’t! 

a maker of difficult things

Surely, what a silly man in a silly suit, parading about on all this litter, like a big black cat doing his thing; while all who are there & who see, muse on the well being of tomorrow’s death knoll! Hey but wait a minute, and what about my children? And my children’s children and their children’s children till the dark dawn come on what was made like in a collective dream of automated dumb hopes!

Chose this or that. Ponder on your invisible strength. Your absence in front of the great monster; which is really quite a beautiful Aryan benediction. … there are no gods watching out for you. And like a god you are an invisible incomprehensible phenomenon. Subtle as a plasma…immense within as the stars in the heavens revolve in your heart. The which has no bounds, no boundaries, therefore nothing worth saving. To make and undo. Courageous without moral principles colliding with your intellectual volition! Your Ethics would be your whereabouts, a magnificent demeanor that follows you, as a shadow would a corporal body; yet you haven’t none! No registered name of any worth, would be natural worth. A god between branches living as unseen; a kosmic burning cinder quenching its infinite thirst with it very own tail: a Maker of the heavens and the earth!

My Sisters Scold

I beseech thee, ever incandescent sky, all enveloping Master Mind. Spirit to nothing. Intangible heavy substance. Dense as dense could be, become and thrive, here in the bottomless net of all things made up in make believe. Worshipping no man as sinner, condemning no man as honorable!

Obliterating cancerous thoughts before they make it to the vestibule or outhouse on this illusory Earth. Rapt in an idole who waits in some depression somewhere far from friends and foes invented in a kind of sanctuary or havre of peace. 

O great Spirit interpreter, dead to New Age mumbo. Undrugged fiend, with no heartless and hopeless handicap. But a whisper in the eye. A magical trick teetering into oblivion. 

Does a man here with other migrant fellows, believe really believe in the crap that comes from his belly, to be an obstacle to his wellbeing of worthlessness? On the skirts of some hellish liar decked with teats, the wayfarer goes off to the side and watches carefully. What is it covers my pupils in dismay if it isn’t the dross of CO2? A wink and a batter in between several buns doesn’t make my day. Yet, what levitates deceives, what goes round, but hesitates! 

My Sisters in Heaven Earth and Hell doubt the ascertainable existence of their own children who now weaned from their bitter nipple, will necessarily with displeasure aggravate their single heartfelt endeavor!  They cut the bite, but no lever holds; nothing binds. No string attached no scissors to cut.Where’s the indefinite spool turning inside the august ethereal  corner in my bedroom?

I beseech thee then with my steady arms uplifted, to unshake the befuddled bystander. To make him disappear because it’s of no use or better to make him or her become a cup bearer to your tidy plan. Then scuttle back to the cupboard where nothing is to be known.

From the Principles of Nothing

There in a dark place. Very un-redeeming. In a portentous wrought of chaotic giddiness, I sought mayhem unrequited.

Surely from the great pithy depth of all Mankind’s innate stupidity, there could be found somewhere there a particular remedy. That would confound my personal perplexity. Mouth opened visage dumbfound, in front of such a dire chronic and incurable immaturity or selfish egomania if you will!  

But no there is none shall never be any….certainly this makes me very happy; as there would be no hope in any thing of a material demeanor, I would be free to love and think freely without fetter! doomed to to be lost within the magnificent abyss myself as unique fellow friend or guide. My Love would be without attachement, having no profit from nothing, save itself and its perfectly inclined buoyancy on the etheric surface of our World, diverse and multiple and inconsolable! A no-thing within nothingness, more adamant than God’s buttocks, in his chair  of Cassiopeia!

Trust me. There is no Will other than mine. The Crown on my head leaks into Eternity’s froth. All my marrow has become my immortal outer-self. I’m drunk on my own spilt blood. There is no more thirst in me for a fleeting shadow.