Bedlam

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!

*******

…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. 

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. 

black brother

I have become a dense & black thing seeping & absorbing within, the whole Night and all its un-detached Creation. A black thing drinking in, all absence of refraction.

All life telling, in this world, is lies. All staying in this place of absolutely no salvation is a stupid thing to do.  Your heart without hope has no place for it!

« I am dead, but prevail like something that can never be construed despite the primal barriers that lock men’s fears, leveling them to colored octaves within a spectral dust." 

It’s an animated plaything Sun does the rest, baking corpses for noontide meals.

I am a dark ghost, darker and more brilliantly blackened than the shades gathering in the underworld corridors which yore, unmistakably frightened me!

I am an Abyss with a bodiless formlessness, ingurgitating the great & grand oh very dear Nothingness, which surrounds all the living to die put astray! 

Day and night are but pale reveries of a deceased me in the boot of a car that I’m driving to and fro, eternally. A silent star issuing into a sea of carelessness.

** * ** **

Dont forget who you are! Never ever lose your memory. Whatever it was that tackled you, beset your weary self; all the good & bad never forget!

This is the outer core of your Eternal Diamond Abode. What ranks stinks & sucks…what was hated & loved: be infinite and take all that in. A faithful warrior is no better than his Master.

Across Aeons & Aeons thru the most profound gapping gaps between the stitches holding all the indefinite worlds together: strive hopelessly & be glad! until you reach the deep des-incarnation of yourself. Hail. Hail. Middle and extended a key to all enigmas: a Child of the Black Sun.  An Angel of Death. Another brother to Lucifer’s Horde of Black Pilgrims.

Gottinnelichkeit

If you say that in this perverted age,

The luminous body has never been seen to occur,

That would mean, a rejection of the Aryan Dharmakaya…..

Is that what you wish to say, that today,

In this land where we live…

That the teaching of the Vajrayâna is no longer valid? 

                                   from the text —- « Death’s Pellucid Light »  

Peut-il être autrement, que celui que tu assènes

ne ressentisse autre que l’absence de concerne profond pour la folie des mondains?

Un tel, qui ne soit redevable envers quiconque, aurait-il faim

de quelque chose, désirerait-il des facsimiles et alors insensible persister dans l’ombre à guetter des squelettes de son passé maudit, une opposition à l’ombre comme une flame qui défie l’épaisse déception obscure?

Tout comme un lambeau de tissu à flot, imprégné d’eau sans pesanteur discernable ne coulerait ni toi, sans affecte ne désireras plus rendre vulgairement tangible le pourtour décousus de ces choses mortes sur une terre sans pourquoi? Ni comment? Hélas quelle énorme  supercherie t’eût séduit? 

Tout cela dans le vacarme, hélas concession! Tous ces prétendus humains dépourvus d’honneur! sans honte qui accablent sans ardeur jamais qui pousse pour le vrai envers l’innocent enragé. Toute la fantasie cultivée qui dénonce la face rude de qui seront absents sur l’autre rive d’Urda quand sera à moi mon tour de mépriser dans sa totalité l’ensemble du Monde Perdu! 

Et le Krist à mon côté buvant avec moi la parole perdue retrouvée dans le sang des miens, dans la coupe de notre amertume! Le Hakenkreuz tournant comme un immense Néant du vide sur les rouages des ossements broyés de ma Mère et de mon Père, en ma poitrine et qui ne laisse de fendre la chair fine d’un coeur agri alors enfin immobile dans le calme cadavre dissout de notre espoir déchu!

Salut à toi ô âme apaisée en Enfer. 

Fils d’Odin qui marche sur l’eau qui brule. 

Que la Terre dévore et digère dans la mesure du possible, le calcaire et l’oxide de fer de Nifelheim, l’acre bile de toutes celles qui lui ont fait masquerade de bonté…

… & maintenant qu’elle accouche de son regret sur le trône de Dieu dans la salle de ses compères!

Der Christus wird in Helheim hinuntergestiegen! Ich heiz im Hagaldom, das Gottinnerlichkeit!  

Das Auge der mein Auge.

Eine unauslöschliche Lampe, die ohne Nachsicht verfolgt, diese widerwilligen höllischen Schatten!

the Barren Idea of You

Against shame & unfair odds, I fought you
while all the while  you despised me, belligerent.

I shuddered, shivering, would or did you care for us ?
yet I knew you hated us outright, with all the tidy inattention that smelled of you,
the clean & quite tidy corners
Of a sacred space. With incense and lit wicks, trembling.

And I fell, like a star smashing on the pavement !
…wishing oh dear Lord, that Eternity be placed, inside some ephemeral vessel!

« My dear darling, up and dancing awkwardly in a very vain story, where all is fake & fakery from one level to the next witnessing endlessly the spectacle underneath God's awful scrutiny.

It has no mystic use for you or me, nor does it ever consult our sweet bigotry.
It vibrates longitudinally in complete and resonant discompassion
across the temporal fibres wrinkling, the dead surface that insects thrive on.

There is nothing bold & wonderful!  Nothing worth taking to the grave to ponder till doom's day.»

Pleading with all this in unkempt mind, we fight unjust battles for romantic reasons, without any favor from gods or demons or men or ghosts or those fickle titans hiding in the air we breathe, covered in hair & fur. 

We fight rebellious bodies, our souls twitching in the wide & silly shooting range of sickly horreurs, 

... embedded in the vernacular from the start of younger years defaced with time, the pure & unnatural innocence obliterated.

But now I know how forlorn it was arduously desiring to reduce you and your intangible pith into some soothing stale-mate phrase. 

Placing you in a tight and holesome digestable frame: 

to make a gruesome image of you in accordance with my disfigured light! 

To make of you, a static sterile thing ! An Idolatrous revery. Into a barren idea of you and your numinous secret soil.

« Love is an ungrateful & abominous joy which can be unearthed from beyond the Aether. An inspired lovely brave and sometime solemn quintessential liqueur, inebriating the wakeful in the heart; longing to quit at last that idle twittle sound of murderous arrogant spleen. »

the next world's realm

I confide my soul to the wilderness

  to my darling in the cold water

Streaming round the rocks, rushing

  down between the banks of greasy grass

With lichen and golden moss, a fox looking by.

Seeking Hamlet’s daughter, under the big wheel

  in the cold water running through the crannies :

The miller’s child, on the dewy hillside.

I confide my life and soul to the wilderness,

  to these stones from heaven fallen down.

To the snake and the black beetle the wild pig.

  A wanderer like the ancient King, offering

My strength to the ancient & antique spirit in the Heart.

Overhead, the polar vortex churns the huge abyss

  spinning like an empty top, covered with bright specks

Scintillating through the dark azure of my darling’s hair.

  There is certainly a place in the celestial sphere. Where even though, father and mother, had lost there way among the brown brambles and ruddy thorns, they could be salvaged or spared by our secret special activity. In the sanguine memory circulating in the brain. 

  Yet if weary of it continually, your spontaneous perception would be theirs as well, even if they trespassed unawakened. These ghosts who lost their way among the brown brambles & red thorns. Unawares of their plight.

  Renewed surely on your pilgrim journey to the Northern Pit having found all three roots of Igdrasil. 

I confide all my soul and life and pounding heart

to the wilderness.

To the rushing water running round the rocks

seeking Hamlet’s daughter.

With lichen and moss on either side

a fox looking by.

desiderata unbound

“Malgré la saine discipline qui s’impose, sois bon envers toi-même.”  Max Ehrmann

“On  nous a appris à ne pas nous aimer nous-même. A nous mépriser. A haïr le dieu blanc hyper-polaire qui est en nous. Que ne dis-je, qui est nous-même. Car comme il est évident, nous ne faisons pas partis du Plan de Yod Hé Vav Hé. (Et nous ne le voulons pas, et n’y pouvons non plus) Ce verbe primitivement conjugué et qui avec tant de peine chevauche le souffle primordial du respire aryen, esquisse les débuts de l’attention hyper-sidérale, portant un masque de gorgonne barbue sans y atteindre l’ombre de ceux qui le défient. Sans la terreur existentielle d’en assumer le poids métaphysique du Grand Vide Eternel et Noble. De même que d’évaluer sincèrement le poids de sa déchéance éventuelle et certainement illusoirement matérielle.”

   

   Ce dieu maître d’ici aux cornes d’hybride-cocu, sans Race Préternaturelle s’adonne aux opiates sécrétées d’une congestion cérébrale et également pérenne; Il dénigre et méprise ce qui est au-dessus du plafond parce-qu’Il ne le conçoit pas. Il ne perçoit pas plus loin, par-delà les limites élastiques des neurones rose-gris; ne peut en aucune manière évaluer une Chose Idéale conçue sans Lui ou avec sa participation qui se mêle de tout, qui Le dépasse d’envergure en perfection et qui serait contre son unicité mécanique, burlesque & du bureaucratique, totalitaire. Et si Il ne nous supprime pas pourtant c’est quand même avec la secrète intention néanmoins de nous priver de notre pouvoir réel et inhérent à notre radicale conscience, du pouvoir de décision puis d’assurer l’éradication permanente si tant est que cela se peut, de tout contact avec la Radicale Immortelle Essence de nous-même. Parce que si sommes divisés dans notre Âme Radicale et très personnelle il s’ensuit que par là notre attention ne se donne que de seulement à vaquer de nourrir les 5 appétits biologiques que ce Suprême Dieu a voulu nous assembler : attributs du domaine mortel concrétisé qui commandent à l’ensemble asymétrique des organismes inter-dimensionnels, mortifères, et avec au rictus un préjudice assimilés par un centre de direction défigurée intérieurement, a-structurée à l’avance, qui n’est pas en lui-même le dirigeant, mais seulement un lieu organique confiné, et qui rend aveugle,... un moyen vers un discernement acquis mais atténué toute fois, et préalablement élucidé que par Lui et ses acolytes-serviteurs bien faisants. 

  Un discernement qui serait biaisé, donc ! Une anomalie construite, inséminée dans les espaces intimes du Coeur Pensant. Un mauvais côté de nous-mêmes, d’après et selon l’image d’un Jaloux Dieu imparfait. Le Satan qui accable, et dont le Nom ne se dit que parmi les esclaves-archontes du Démiurge-Architecte des Mondes Virtuels à travers les chambres mitochondriales qu’Il a façonnées dans la boue de l’excrément de ses antécédents déboires en Edom !

      Donnant des avis édulcorés. Permettant de rendre étriqué, une Vision innocente du Monde où nous sommes ses mules immodestes et mulets vains et où esclaves porteurs de vanité, nous sommes dépourvus comme des imbéciles impardonnables de conscience polaire. Ensorcelés tels des ivrognes épaves, déchus de l’Esprit qui veille en nos Coeurs, de Païens Profonds et issus du Germain !

   Et Adam à l’origine chez lui se nommait ODIN. Mais avec le temps écoulé par et à travers des processus de miscegenation politique, il a oublié ! 

“And now he hangs again on that axial Tree. But with his blood memory finally restored, brings back Home again the blood sacrifice of himself. Will start again. The sacred Runa alive & breathing the Holy Breath draped with Ice and Fire circulating in the Soul of himself and his Very Holy Progeny.”

In Unterberg’s Belly Reclined

die Tür von guten Männern

                             
             « Ils assassinent toute la Création afin de bouffer baiser et déféquer ! »



   Within your chaste crowded bosom, and all my tortured pleading heart, those now burnt sundry unnamed shiver at the mere touch of you, inside down there at their new hostel in Nebelheim.

   A heavy chest, a terrible pressure between the two ears, I had. Drivel at lips’ corner. The old the ill the young the new born, our Mothers. Our Fathers too. Ghosts torn from their hearths to tear.

   Now. Strips and disheartening shreds of a Dark Face haunt us. The black adversary. Our shadow selves, the Judas in the bottom drawer.

** * ** **

   Reclined upon the couch of Inner Earth. Sustained secretly by the Vril of now, our long gone parents, lost to us unabashedly in the palm of a deluded & terrifying stupidity. Will come transmigrated into new vessels of elated value. Their worth an amber sap bubbling impatiently till a New Sky and New Earth in the Aïther renew…

   Like a Mad Jester, practicing the Ancient Magic Charms of Bon : on oneself & on the others with us without knowing. The corpses laugh, draining the sky into the Mind’s torch.

   A middle stellar-sun. Clutched in agony , with roots and worms, betrayed beyond comparison, stifling hatred. Inebriated with bitters and aloes. Absorbing the organic tissues, digesting the black bile in a rotten vesicle. Crushing with the akashic muscles the crisping thwarting shame.

   Yet all honor has returned. The Great Spirit resurrecting the Polar stature from a pile of bones and melted flesh.

   From this Time in Eternity on a better stage with odds on this forsaken God’s side, we shall permeate with yellow acid bowels the lavish mountainsides while the souls of Dresden seethe thru the calcaire cracks and iron oxide, budding green and marigold.

The Aryan Dharma Wheel

The body.

   In the cellar underneath, where rats & vermin hide, scattered among the bones of your royal blood, flooding into the rushing chasms that fill your vanquished heart with ill fate & rending distress.

   Bleak sadness in a dark solitude. Inside an invisible cave, dissolving the reticent corpse. No spot on the surface of this world globe to go to for comfort. Black walls of desolation covering the extreme antipodes of earthen eyes weeping egotistically and limited constraining visions on the horizon of a forgotten dusk spirit.

   The soil of the soul is wet with untold tears of distraught despair ! Where can Hope deserve a dwelling but in your own sweet grave. All true friends and true brothers shall enter with you there. Within theirs.

   It’s in a crypt one buries the cadavre. The Holy Cross above tunneling a passage way to the shiny stars. An Echo all around you replying to your solemn song. In a sound like a great vaporous ghost, the Dark One, your hidden self shall find. United in Un-Death, one single primal and supernal Certitude.

The Soul.

   Now it’s time to climb outside. Thru the Tempest at the Crown. The Al Father is the glaive you hold in your hand. You are its Active Awareness. The Great Spirit, its Aryan Soul. The body you had, transformed into a rainbow.

   The Black Sun is the Mark of Real Conversion. The Sacred very Personal Place of a Second Birth.

   12 steps from one state to the next. Spiraling from space-time floor to floor. These are the Reich Eagles that go beyond & come back, striking dread. Imploding.

   The 13 in the Middle is beyond the stellar ceiling. Squeezed into a non-existing physical locality.

   Now you can hold Death upon your head as a Bridegroom of Darkness.

   A lantern anatomy of ethereal matter wearing linen, a golden cord at your waist. The Morning Star at the brow. A Prince of Lucifer. Dharma-dhatu.

   « It’s when my Soul in all its emerald green returned to the ruined house down below ! In the gutted clay. Among the bickering. In a realm where innocence fled.

   I wondered. Did the snail that I stepped on pardon me ? Did Odin finally lose his raving Mind after so much fitting & tiring damnation ?

   There were dead crows on the pavement.

   My spirit was mixed with sulfate, & the nitre made me drink more than I needed.

   Flame surrounded me. I sunk into the residual bitume of all I had wished for, & did not attain ! I became the darkness that frightened the gods ! »

   Who was harassing him ? Was it the brain ? The morphic resonance ? The devils in the waves, thrilling in the air above, all the naughty kids below ? Was it the J__ ? !! Or was it just the backside of his skin ? 

   Or was it what the worms eat, just like what happens in our gardens when the soil's ready for planting vegetables ?