Radamanthe, Minos et "Pluton" ?

L’inexorable rite de l’être lors de son parcours au milieu axial des 4 éléments, dans son élaboration, est jonché sur les rebords aux ornières, empli jusqu’à saturation, de griefs & des instants de mauvaise humeur; et il est comme un cadavre sur pilotis qui explore le néant de la vie de désillusion illusoire ! Nageant l’espace vide, tel un mort rempli de pus. Son regard royal retiré de lui-même dans une arène : tube cathodique rempli de gas spectral. Des fantômes ajustent et orientent les 7 vices qui obsèdent.

Radamanthe est roi. C’est sa rigueur qui contraint l’être mammifère de se soumettre à la rudesse des pénuries sociales et injustes ! Son frère Minos divise puis dévore les vains espoirs de tout ceux qui trompent leur concupiscence avec des ersatz agréables à l’oeil ensorcelé quand le corps mécanique préalablement programmé vas de travers comme une nef renversée, engloutie par Léviathan d’un seul trait cynique. Déjà intérieurement exercé à accueillir un variable hypnotique parmi les sortilèges qui meublent les yeux aveugles qui voient sans voir l’étourderie arrogante des désirs inséminés. Et leur futile être s’en va au diable : humus ivrogne, dé-morcelé.

Aucun homme n’est libre. Ni dieu ni ange ni diable. La rigueur est de l’éternité dans le temps de l’Âge Sombre. Car la l’Enfer est une nécessité.

Cela purifie les ossements et la poussière que l’esprit sain éclairera. 

Si tu es ici. Sois en un homme-mage. Sans cupidité sans convoitise ! Délibère puis aie du discernement, de choisir d’être bon et noble et d’honorer tes ancêtres sans leur faire honte. 

Car le but de l’Être et du Seigneur, de tout ce qui abonde au royaume des mortels et du MORTEL, …C’est la pratique de l’EUGENISME des Aryens. D’accomplir le BIEN, le BEAU et le VERIDIQUE en soi-même d’abord puis à l’entour, même avec de la force. Nous en sommes les ARCHITECTES. 

** * ** **

Ne craignez pas le lendemain. Les races de couleur convoitent ce qui leur est supérieur et par là elles empoisonnent leurs propres races avec notre Sang Elégant et Pur. Ce monde terrestre deviendra un désert. Kalki viendra ensuite faire table rase de ce qui reste.

Et nous, on recommencera, le KRISTOS vivant en chacun de nous ! Comme un élixir racial, un bénéf' pour la véritable humanité!

(A force de convoiter tout ce qui appartient aux Blancs, les Races de Couleur n'auront plus de descendance ! Elles deviendront par la FORCE INTENTIONNELLE DU DIEU, Belles et BLANCHES !!! La laideur et tout ce qui est hideux s'évanouiront.

A cause de leur cupidité insensée jointe à une paresse architecturale avec un manque d'ingénierie imaginative leur destin sera de disparaître, ainsi que de faire disparaître les leurs!)

for SageSigma Unbound

the Jungian brain & its origins

There is a real world where nothing is simulated, where all creatures of any kind are a unique conscience, seemingly incarnate. But they transcend time & even Eternity, ontologically. Each a unique presence, un-collective. Not issued from any kind of unconscious collective. Jung & his learned abstractions were but bait for the educated & ignorant elite, who were already themselves issued from the synthetic « artificial » intelligence of his & their « time », devised surreptitiously to lead astray all thinking & alert minds(divine sparks).

The real & un-illusory soul tricked into artificial existence, is like a « Christ sitting on a JACKASS entering IERU-SALEM.

It’s the great Machination of which Plato spoke, in any case the literary figure we call Plato, implanted in the real vital minds of men, which is simulated, i.e. is an artificial simulation ! But as Joseph Delgado said in a discourse along time ago, (and I dont quote per se) « …what is man today but a product of our own intelligent creation across evolution», & I would add, an artificial & « unconscious » product thanks to what one would call, the Royal Craft & ART.

But then again, the PRIMARY MATTER to this realization is rooted in the Erhrean Father of the Human Species, of which there are 4 races, or kinds, biologically. And as in Alchemy, the goal of the Great Work isn't El/Ella or its undoing, the Great Work is to make the Philosophical Stone,...i.e. make you yourself into the "Thing", and yet preserve your own Personal Mind. But WOUNDED like a resurrected Christ !

The so-called parasitical elite thrives on the stupidity of those who would be victims of their very own happy « spiritual apathy »! Those that would be but someone else's created & artificially intelligent vampirized product !

Too bad for them. After all, if you dont fight back, or preserve the right to your own specifyic « being » while in the corridors of time & space, then you have not earned the right to be called a « MAN », i.e. a Magus, a Magician, a one as self created by God. Thru God. & in God.

The Magus isn’t in any way, a cloned invention, based on algorithmic computations. And who would make compromises with "the devil"! The demiurge, in order to live continuously as a perpetually segmented buy-product of its pretentious vanity ! But those who would be, what they aren't, i.e. Awake, but in a possessive manner, feign initiation thru horrid parasitical ritualized processes which goes to show, that without a prey there ain't no predator !

In the « real » World atoms dont exist. But what is wisdom, isn’t « democratically » viable.

To be true, in any case to my own essence, as Monsieur Gurdjieff would've said, ...only an artificial intelligence would want to be reborn into a simulated reality. Why worry, if you are real, and if you aren't then, there's no one except for the vain & ridiculous Jungian synchronicities that would fill the dark matter of artificial man's fantasies !

Thank you SageSigma Unbound for your last post.

Clean out the GARBAGE & get to work, fast.
Because afterwards, it'll be too LATE.

https://sagesigma.com/passwords-to-the-pleroma/ or

https://sagesigmaunbound.com

ΑΙΦΟΣ

   I sought nothing waking into the morning, very early without grasping again through out the empty air, brushing invisibly once more something like before, those reddened dying leaves that segment themselves falling to the earth, emulating the original aether on dry ground. Searching nothing as they sink into the wind dispersed upon the world's 4 corners. The immaculate angles of which the Holy contours disappear. 

   A disaster for whom, while all sleep?  Naturally seeking nothing, like a wandering mind, careless in a dead brain. I beseech the squared circle. 

   It's the sincere and single heart watches as the tide of crumbling things moves on into oblivion. This seemly circonstance in an uncomely corridor leading to a goal between a room and a room, dark curtains likes clouds upon the abyss, unrevealing.

   But the particules go amuck. Silence dominates in the desert hills around me. Doom for the body has always been a necessary retribution. When souls collide with false hopes and all mankind of any sort hallucinates.

   Ambitious and dubious conceit hardening the spine against its own salvation! Polygamous among nefarious visions, haunting compassion's forgotten space.

   Who is it has done what evil thing? They're but accidents from Nature engendered nonetheless like fairy rings on a arid turf in the middle of a metal forest; nothing lurks there but bitter sweet nostalgia. Hope doesn't care about anything there.

   Why should a soul worry about what shadows do? The body hurts. But Eros in spite of it, seeks no medicinal remedy, though...it's upon Venus' lap, from where all hardship came. The fault of it moves on continually across kosmic cycles:

    A child's mimicking in dark matter's empty vessel of hidden grimaces? A place for tales. And more history. 

Invention inspires great feats of courage & sometimes glory.
Buts it's all the same when no one knows.

L'Aumônière sur une Epitaphe

Voici l'Âme Double des Grands Maîtres du Jadis.

   Il emporte avec lui-même la fin de toute sémantique. Le désastre l'accompagne comme un toutou et quoi que lui arrive de pernicieux, le prix pour lui c'était l'éternelle défaite de la carne déforme dont on porte en éloge sur les cimes de la stupidité, la laideur victime que des hommes d'inférieure étoffe embrassent!

   La Mort est un cadeau pour le brave. Que le couard ivrogne élude! L'Initié au giron transcende l'affront: on préserve dans le Monde que ce qui se détériore. Moi, je me mets à genoux quand le Xrist pavane dans la caverne des coeurs, un innocent enfant mâle, le Roi de mon être, mon moi-même conçu au sein de mon Âme Immortelle, fils de la Vierge Valkyrie, Reine Céleste dont le délicat pied broie le serpent vanité des sous-sols! 

La Valkyrie qui veille sur ma Mort.

    Car comme une sarabande le Choeur Invincible qui trépasse les frontières des outre-tombes, suspende le point d'interrogation. Il décide et meurt avec.

Il n'y a pas de place

pour des dialogues infructueux:

   Mon orgueil est un Seigneur humiliant! Il ne connaît point les compromis. Fabuler ici ou ailleurs est l'Enfer des imbéciles pusillanimes. Que je méprise infiniment. Bons pour l'Assistanat!

Jour de le Résurrection.

   La Naissance et la Mort du Krist sont un secret mystère dont le processus chymique décrit l'élaboration moléculaire de l'Âme Germanique dans un individu de Race et de Fierté! 

  Je ne suis pas historien, et d'ailleurs je n'ai jamais aimé l'Histoire: des récits de mensonge qui flattent le lâche et le paresseux pareillement, faisant croire qu'on était soi-même fils de Clovis ou du Roi Louis Saint! Fantasmes du riche ou d'habitant d'HLM inculte!

** * ** ** 

   Mais les Mythes Suprêmes du Führer ou du Christ ou du Prophète Mahomet! Saints Rasuls irremplaçables: transformés en chose catalyseur qui convertit du fond en comble les miroirs internes et leurs reflets mirobolants, en nous emmenant vers l'apothéose du Corps du Gloire intractable! Et on devient frère du Christ, du Führer et du Prophète!

   Que m'importe la judaïté de quelque chose! Je prends et je laisse ce qui me plait!, je ramène au berceau au bercail l'idée semence. L'idée polaire, l'essence hyper-polaire! La Déité m'enfante que j'enfante. Tout est illusoire, tout ce qui promène une oriflamme de vanité, le vent de l'abime l'emporte!

   "There is nothing noble or gracious in accepting slavery and the superior type of man owes nothing to slaves, he hates to be pitied but the slave enjoys it,..."  Karl Young in "Third Reich Pilgrim". 
      

     (11:11 de l'Evangile de Saint Jean) 

   

from Windswept Windows from before

No peace of Mind with loyal heart, no nothing:

but a dense sensation, pleading

& yet, all

Honor was buried there while distress

without any shame was simply murdered.

The length of Time in One Eternity

When Hope was sealed

in honeyed casks

filled 

with a golden subtil blood.

…and now I swear with sack cloth

for my naked beauty to hide

the honorable shame that would writhe

but only as a soul unseen but to very few:

where once before a Germanic son

A Norse Man

wearing wings of Mercury

A golden lad, wed to 

a bright & insatiable Ideal,

  to a feast for famished memory, is now abandoned!

Discarded, crushed and spat on.

What doesn’t despair here hapless

sustains within immortal hope

were it not for futility long time enamored.

Though this world would be our homestead

in disillusion,  yes but a shadow

is become a place of recess for liars & a scoundrel!

Or has it always been this way?

No peace of Mind with loyal heart

no nothing but a bleeding 

into this illusion

across Eternity!

  God is our strength. Our Love. Our Kind. Before Adam, there was the Aryan. Our Führer was there, our ideal impossibility! An improbable fertile grain for another land! The Holy Sperm for another Age. Another Cosmic womb.  

Bubons, Furoncles & autres Kystes

   Certes l'abominable érosion se propage, tel un ruisseau en fleuve qui inonde, noyant le bien le beau et ce qui était véridique. S'étale à travers tous espaces sur maintes plans où d'aire en aire le chronique cryptomane se gangrène! 

   Une plaie pour un jeu. Une négligence éthique devenue coutume de moeurs! Le torride tremblant et névralgique; la fièvre de l'aveugle vanité qui désagrège. Le mensonge et la perte de l'arrogant, les pauvres victimes de la société, des épaves raciales & difformes qu'on a mises sur piédestal!

   Quoi comme cirque pour hypocrites ces parasites en réplique d'exemples indéfinis. Cela fait frissonner le désastre irrécusable. La mélancolie. La fleur délaissée. L'Enfer paradisiaque pour tous, sinon crève avec ton honneur, anonyme.

   Mais ces yeux se détournent allègrement, alors de se détourner ô quelle joie ô combien je méprise dès lors le faux semblant de ce qui est pitoyable, dépourvu de dignité!

   Et c'est ma loyauté qui est pur dédain. Le sourire, le sourire de l'Ange qui aux confins de l'abysse contemple le coeur teutonique épris. Il voit son office parmi des cierges au Ciel de l'Empyrée dont le sang du Seigneur s'éthère. 

   Ce, pendant que la pierre blanche aux dorures s'en va avec une érosion en rire!

20/88

  

    

Le Gentilhomme d'Extraction Céleste

   ...au coeur de ce qui manifeste, le meilleur disparu enfin, vers le vide d'ici. Incompris & insaisissable; éteint.

   Qui rêve d'architecture avec du feldspath qui sans forme contraint. Ni feux verts ni rouges: ni idéologie qui malmène brusque, la hantise de cette faille béante qui règle chaque tic-tac vers l'encéphale de l'intellect!

   Languide ou tiède. Borné jusqu'à l'étroitesse, étouffant les liens internes illuminés par le puits intolérable à l'extrême du paralysé dans le néant des allégresses comme chaines pour déchéance!

   Prométhée qui est attaché à son foie, dissout sous mes pieds. Loki le vestige de jadis éhonté; un élan pour du gravier comme une chape sous la dalle!

La bave de Thor

Quand la Terre respire

unit avec son Ciel

De là-haut

comme d'un éclair

Odin récupère l'oeil

dans le bassin:

Car quand il change de mode

ou d'aspect 

C'est avec l'étant

qu'on laisse choir

la déception!

Il ne fabule plus.

Il ne flatte point.

Il baise bien sa Frigga

alors que Sleipnir 

l'emporte dans sa bière:

 Un ferment pour demain

dans le ventre d'un elfe!

Et le lutin devient avec sa prochaine naissance, le Coeur de l'Asgard, le Royaume du Céleste, un Aryen d'extraction mais sur une isle accompagné seulement du sien!

Fasces Lictoriae

   A Race that from beyond the measured sidereal sky, condensed into those with fair white faces thus star crowns in sub-lunar bodies crystalized, Tuatha da Danaan.

   Surely the Night rode mounted on the shoulders of these Hermes. Splitting the material world core where Middle Earth would manifest, the Dark Matter hidden in our souls, a solar substance like honey, coloring their hair. Dripping from the stellar canyon. A mild bright dew becoming a Heathen Barbaric Blood, its fountain head the peluscent Pearl directing the blue-eyed thrush in the mineral veins as they throb & pounce & push continuously within muscle to suffer here, captured in Hagal's primordial Web.

   Then they were despised because of their personally well earned immortality!

   Dispersed idly like a bundle of meaningless sticks, a thing now moving uselessly on the tile, in the silly arena of Empty Temples, wandering away from what is tangible to the Soul, dedicated in a place to gods no longer there, if not, except as some distorted reflection of this world's worshiped ugliness.  Unintentionally diminishing a Once at one Time Sacred Blood, vessel of the body of God!

   And now the Oriental Scholars chirp, disdainfully discard the Aristocratic Babe with the Holy Bath Waters, into a brazen & filthy bassin. Contriving genetically a barren breed from all 4 corners of the once Sacred World! Mixing blood types to engender : a Monster in Jah's Image!

   All the waters dispersing. In a some how great, and without a supernatural sense, vortex provided underneath the earth, in a circular cylinder, made of magnets and nails, chromium & modern jade. Electrically empowered thanks to a golden box presided by two Cherub prisoners. 

    My God you have gone from this place to the next. As proud as if you had been a Palestinian child now crushed by tanks, but had hurled little stones nonetheless at the demon-people who hated him! But of course there but here you cannot die. Crowned like a glistening jewel, sitting on the lap of the Holiest of Mothers. An infant who bore the World to smash it's human shame against the Wall of the most stupid & unkind people, that Man has certainly ever come to encounter.

** * ** **

   

   Ah, for what was sweet in my dreams now dirtied here. How thin & brittle, dry the cord that held us together! How much the metal edge, since so many centuries, in the air was battered by the wetness exhaling though our mortal pores.

   You can't make an eagle from out of a swine! Without the Seed no ROSE shall flower on this dung heap! How could you serve the wicked empire that destroys the Internal Foundation of all Mankind?

   Ultimately, the silly European prattle converts into a void, its most vital & precious parts undissolved, coalescing into an invisible army, stretches through out all the cardinal directions, toward every horizon of this spinning globe, according to a Unique Imperial Plan revealed to the Awakened, never mainstream & arrogantly undercurrent always underground, that no one person can ever really know unless of course you awaken.

Chakravartin & his Body Guards.

   AVM.
Arisch ÜberMensch.


But my dear friend 
who's astute
& then, who's not?

A trinkling here
another one over there!

Besmeared betwixt various imaginings.

This world & all the others
have goose pimples on the inside
& as it is the bladder is way too small.

Where can you put infinity?
Can a soul have a dignified place

when this and all else
has fled?

   The Aryan is the unique viable boat we have for this sea on whose vast ocean nonsense deludes the majority of those who'll no longer be even in a wink some occasional or possiblly improbable memory!

   One step 2 steps three steps, 4. To the Polar Star in airships, Pleroma waits. A pleading to the down trodden to get up, and ignite inside! A storehouse of imploding magnificence. A roar.

The Wind told me

Pour G.K.

   The Wind told me, «  move on . You are a vanishing kind, with no place left upon the Face of this forsaken Earth. » And I responded, « which earth? Where? Upon which face of it, no place? When, forsaken?!!!».

   The immovable mover in the air with marvelous golden wings went to & fro, dauntless between the trees’ little branches on the terrace. Indifferent, like a psycho-pompe guiding the free mind, equipped with a body and a certain kind of un-knowable soul. « Never to be a human any more, filled with fear and an affection belonging to implanted cultivated brains (though surely in the spermatic substance of all 4 races can be found an efficacious vehicle, resilient to & withstanding fractional despair). There will never be any hope, when life has been rid of Truth and those who sincerely served Her have all gone on. »

   The best is yours. Gleaming white. As if the stellar carnation idled, wandering aimlessly within a domed surface. Thriving endlessly, gratuitously. A coagulated breath, numinous & luminescent, inextinguishable. Conscious of its uselessness!

One Folk Soul is mine,

guardian of the enclosed ubiquitous altar,

Extracted from the deep & thick flesh pulpe

the skies would forbid to schematic mankind.

   The North Wind swept the Summer Time transporting it into oblivion, the skeletons which often got in the way, making me fuss. How sad alas. With all this wishful thinking to have struggled against the Empyrean Cycles, a son of Man, for a lost Imperium. The last of those mythic Aryans in heart, & in soul to gain entrance into the supernatural plane of Overman!

   But it’s time to prepare with all your strength, to kill the carcasses, then fill the World with molten gold of Ice and dread all loss of humour! 

   « Because the Avatar is come. » We are its primordial essence, « Da sein ». From underneath the veil behind the mind’s eye, we are a smelting in the earth-body, burning the rust. Forging the Sword. A thunder clap far away in the Boreal bosom melting the blood of angels in the mineral order. Moving on. 

   

Trickster Ravings

   This infuriating principal decline of all things living, converting the outward  center of sundry colored organisms that were in emanation from above directing their impulse perennially, exteriorly through an invisible middle door, unseen & unheard of, a devastation to the barred cerebral behavior of any well dressed rational idea! That would pertain ostensibly to a well ordered syllogism. Having Greek or Hebrew meanings in our words’ beginnings?! Giving us intellectual redemption?! 

The Spirit plays the game,

in truth,

Without its asking any kind of permission;

A wild Wind easing

the horrendous pressure between the tired eyes.

You must give & give again, again yes & once more :

Hugin shall with all the Aryan Peoples, excite Munin in his righteous 

Racial Clime!

   A Time celestial in a Sacred Place escaping the infernal clutching of jealous contempt.

   Res cogitans, res extensa! Res cogitans esse Omnium, ego video, coruscent!

   The 1st one said to me, « Brother ». The 2nd indeed repeated across the 9 encircled expanses : « Me too but I’m a woman! ». And Othin like a trickster understood. 

   « To win the battle, fight your foe on his own filthy turf, with weapons he has no idea of. If he cheats on your kindred, invading the Middle of the Earth, then learn the tune, just like they did at Olympus. 

   Your heart is with me in Asgard. 

   It’s from on high, I’ve come like you, my Kin. 

  In the skies & heavens of this World, Valhalla with its ale & mayhem will precipitate again the Gods! A great thunderbolt grappling at the sides of the glacial air, ripping open the Inner Earth where demons mixed with angels!

   Afterwards, the fires will have receded. Purifying the Castes. The Varna here and there. And Baldur kiss his Bride again, but better than before! »  

It’s the Spirit, plays the Game,

a Wild Wind erasing

that horrible pressure that was between the eyes!

You must give no more than taken

taking back what was yours.

   Hugin said to me, « I’m your spirit, the aether in the heart. » His sister said, « I’m in the blood stream, a drop of golden green, your memory. » 

  

   Wotan said, « I’m the single eye like a lantern, laughing interminably, the Father of Tîwaz and of Thor. »

   

Âryâvartha

Through these untidy physical bodies

tireless souls trip awakening &

the Corporal ideas enter into extended flesh

While the stammering joy of little urchins

of what would be a most excellent and as it must seem,

abiding perfect theme above the gutter:

 a transcendent eternal picture in the Mind

incarnates the beauty

within a finite darkness!

Strange, yet like a heavy sap advancing thru the mortal nostrils with a thick and balmy smell. The Earth with all its successive sediment, cradles inside diverse & unending caverns, steeping the pretty spirit into a colorless invincible tincture.

   The Sun and the Moon in mouvement

vorticing, their perpetual motions orbit the lick

thence mechanically combine

Emerging from the deep drafts

of this our secret ale, the marrow we might engender!

And what of Nobility? Wandering far far away hopelessly clothed with a fine leather sheath, in a forsakened Homeland? 

   ...an invisible furious sea frothing, shamelessly aware of its own hilarious Illusion, ...hydrous fibres retreat, bursting apart their entrenched briny arms back away, quick into their original Eternal salty lair?

   Only great and simple souls have known this Metaphysical ordeal :

"to be born inside or upon an animal with cadaverous confining barrier

released only at Death like a leopard straying in a Zoo

whence, formerly encapsulated and compressed, a gaseous furious thing

filled with a mobile & perfect perception

Returns among the Eye-lit Stars back

against the black backdrop of the unfathomable firmament!"

   ...for Karl.