Gaza

https://www.bitchute.com/video/HxYuTSxDbhpn/

Pro Amici Dei

 

Ô pour les calamiteux, de regard aveugle

Qui des hauteurs sont précipités.

Le grand coeur tout en haut, altier!

Le geste du glaive à l’ancienne

  d’abattre la fugue envie de s’enfuir!

Que le Grand Dieu nous emporte

Prenne la Tempête pour char.

Le sourire au visage serein,

l’Âme dans l’Illimité de l’Éternel

  définie comme gageur de l’algorithme

  des cadences harmoniques:

Héritiers du Monde « of our own Making ».

*******

The thrush ponders: “ Yet all living creatures deserve our loving thoughtfulness? No Man Woman or Child, should live who does not honor another. No inhuman mammal deserves the life it cannot give.”

Life and faithfulness belong to those who are brave & sweet, have given their breath to Heaven, even for a nightingale.

And what of a toad?

Even for him.

***********************************

le Maître des Martinets (Master of Dark Swallows)

“La Roue à Trois Moyeux, roue immortelle, infatigable, d’où dépend tous ces Mondes.” Lecture III: Hymne 7, le Rig Véda

Mankind is but an ontological allegorical entity. A swap at the market place. A good or bad deal. Regretted. Regretful, regrettable ungrateful & undeserving.

Pump the breath of me in this handful of magistrally teleportated(sic) souls. Who not knowing, unknowingly, linger in the make-up of a pretty face. Dust in the bin.

Save, the soul who watches like a one-eyed pirate in the skies. Ô great angel of Man, how deceived thou art! A pilgrim on earth just like when in the heavens you decided just to let go of it and fall.

Yes. My doubled self made friend. You were there in the little opening, taunting me to go on, into the Middle of it All. A trouble maker of good health & happy laid back society!!!

The tiny children on the wink of dead men, laughing near Mimîr’s Pond.

Yes, my son my boy, leap from the edge of this elaborated roof into the polluted chemtrailed air. Fly in it. Take of it what is proper to your soul desire. Take what belongs to you.

You are the EYE of GOD & Goodness. Without your simple elegance, it can only be Dust in the bin on some pretty face meant for nothing.

My dearest friend, son & now a Man. Like a Swallow dark and harrowing, leap!

the Aryan Dharma Wheel bis

The body.

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

Bleak sadness in a dark solitude. Inside a well known cave, dissolving the reticent corpse. No spot on the surface of this world globe to go to, for comfort and meek solace. Black walls of desolation covering the extreme antipodes of earthen eyes weeping so selfishly;  limited within constraining visions on the horizon of a forgotten dusk.

The soil of the soul is wet with untold tears of distraught despair! 

Wherefore can Hope deserve a dwelling, but in a misbegotten grave. All true friends and true brothers shall enter there. Within theirs, inside a holy spell.

It’s in a crypt one buries all hope of here. The Holy Cross above tunneling a passage away onto a sinking ladder to beyond the shinny stars. An Echo all around replies to the solemn song. Inside a sound like a great vaporous ghost in a bulb, where the Dark One, the hidden left over self shall find, united in Un-Death, a single primal and supernal Certitude.

The Soul.

Now it’s time to climb outside. Thru the Tempest at the Crown.  

You are its Great Spirit. The body now a rainbow in the living room.

A Sacred very Personal Place of Second Birth.

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

 

Now we can hold Death upon the head as a Bridegroom of Darkness in waiting.

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

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

Oh how I wondered. Did the snail I crushed, hate me ? Did Odin finally lose the raving  when Huginn didn't go ?

Flame & sulfate surround. Sunk into the residual asphalt of all that's wished for, but did not attain! ...became weary of the darkness that frightens gods !»

Who harassed? What was it in the forgotten brain ? The morphic resonance? 

The devils in the waves, thrilling in the air above, or all the naughty kids below?  Was it the Jew? 

Or was it just the backside of the skin ? 

Ω μέχρι θανάτου

& qui dit que ces orbes scintillants d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des sphères d’acier qui réfléchissent l’âme qui halète, plongeant leur furie sidérale si loin au fond du puits que même l’abysse aveugle ne peut en aucune manière nous dérober le grand éclat d’arrogance immortelle que mon souhait secret si humble y trouve un pretexte pour le régal de l’hiératique ? Du retour sur le chemin de la Borée. Vers l’illustre sang arboréel du rubis inimitable ! 

L’édifice aérien sans contours de promulguer mon souffle entre l’Ourse et sa petite, le dragon le siège de Koré. Vierge pure, hautaine. Emanation rayonnante. Pluie étincelante d’astres qui navre. Raptée par l’inéluctable prédestinée. Automate. Et belle. Envirante, qui déborde sur l’oeil en rapture devant un tel perpétuel mouvement esclave !

Tout le tissu bariolé de mensonges s’effiloche, répandu sur le parvis des platitudes. Le jacuzzi prêt pour le bain des dépouillés ! L’entorse faite bovins. Quel homme crétin ne voit pourtant jusqu’où se déverse l’embarras ? Accroché aux lambeaux des cadences perplexes. Le cadavre de Kali sur les genoux d’Hésiode qui larmoie frustre.

Je devine la grandiose entreprise. L’absence de sortie, en bas vers l’exit ! L’obscurité épaisse étouffante. Le souffle qui manque. L’attente de la rupture d’anévrisme libératrice. Le point sur le plexus qui navigue comme un forcené asymptomatique. Le corps sans substance tel un vague bruissement. Las. Vers l’illustre sang rubis diaphane. 

Veilleuse au Temple de mon catafalque. Chevalier non perfide. Un pied dans l’astral imperscrutable, l’autre dans la dure glèbe des charniers nostalgiques. L’esprit comme un silence indéfini. Illimité. Noir enivré de pourpre. L’Astrum.

& qui dit que ces orbes blancs d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des éclats d’un nombre triangulaire, qui dans leur fragmentation renvoient l’ombre de l’âme invisible ? Dans l’attente libératrice d’une rupture ? Raptée. Automate. Suprême. 

You Will be a Warrior

 

You don't have to count the time, the seconds going off into the the abyss. Your Ghost is all that counts. Now and for ever. 

Your ghost and the ghost of others, i.e. if they have ONE! While shadows will wander about you, your spirit thru GOD will guide you. This is how it is. There is no other way.

An angel is your reflection in the UNDERWORLD as well as in the supernal regions where Infinity will accept no boundaries!

Your wings are the eyes of the soul in waiting, to sink in GOD; not as a mishapen mishap, but as an eye of HIS beauty in the stars. Watching down beneath the game that has been tricked!

Underneath it All

Underneath it all! 

At the behest of our unknowing, we turn around on a dead coin. Unmoved by death throes. Perculated to the utmost of our physical being. And then we drop to the ground like a night moth on the asphalt, benumbed by some bat who hit us sideways, between all those young yearning souls who glean in their sleep the distress that went away while they slept hopping between eternities!

The street lamps went off.

But my Mother said: Go now my boy to your Father's bosom and become a MAN; because afterwards you'd have to start again. Dreaming then dreaming till TIME stops in your Mother's lap. Like a babe suckling until all dries out.

After the daffodils, the poison comes. An elixir only for immortal creatures, capable of thought & rebellion like some silly unconsequential Promethius! Who offers grease and bones.

Smiting the mighty pride that makes up Zeus' horrible thunderbolt!

Oh how great is GOD in our hearts, throbbing. Royal blood dripping in the magic flow of our veins and arteries! The SOUL navigates on the tempestuous waves of our silliness. Grenat.

The SOUL is eternal but the carnal cadaverous body does not know it! The SOUL is GOD's keeper in this holographic world.

Nothing is real. But assuredly everything hurts and smells and seems oblivious to the core of all this nothingness so grand. Your children are real your wife your loves. All LIES come from Satan.

Hail GOD!

Epave de Vanité

Qu’en est-t-il des hommes, de l’Homme? De ses ambitions funestes ou exiguës? De sa joie éphémère, qui s’étale tout de travers de l’esplanade de son horizon mal défini; Il se prosterne devant l’image de lui-même défigurée, amoureux dénaturé de sa servilité agacée! 

Une épave de vanité. Certes, avec une clope au bec un verre de vin à pied. L’effondré aux vaines entreprises, la marotte imbue de boue et de sueur. Raide comme la bourde de Moïse. Tout couvert d’éclats de costume, épris de la vie nomade pour la gloire du souffle qui l’interne. Le verbe acerbe d’une véloce substance aérienne. Futile Adrop sans qu’il ne se fixe au grès de son parèdre.

Une épave. Tout juste un évadé, la noyade manquée de peu. L’échec devant Dieu, mais heureux devant la figure torturée des siens, ressemblante: un cul de jattes de l’esprit éternel, incarné à force de reproches. Une âme dont la sève écume du feu. Un rayon de l’immense néant encapsulé qui surplombe l’abyss des soucis fructueux! Le chéri de sa mère mortelle qui lui eut inspiré le terrible visage mondain qui le toise perpétuellement dans le ronron du manège qu’il déplore, le fuit et le poursuit. Puis revient, après l’ombre qu’il dépose, comme une épave de vanité? 

La Caverne d'Ephèse

La Caverne d'Ephèse

Nous avons oublié. En dormant. Nous les Sept du Pôle, enfouis dans les replis de la glèbe. Au haut du Ciel au Septentrion prés du trône.

Sereins, et béats. Benêts comme des enfants bienheureux de sommeiller quelque peu sous le regard de notre Père Immortel.

Dans notre royaume éternel. Par-delà des mésententes. Avides du silence, de l'absence des plaintes cimmeriennes enténébrées!

Désireux d'enstase, du bucolique esprit. Emmurés aux quatre éléments tournoyants. 

Le chien noir de Cerbère aux aguets, des yeux féroces qui dissuadent attentifs aux moindres ambiguïtés timides. Qui brulent la chair putrescible. Dont la bave est de l'acide des sous-sols du soufre infecte. Des dents qui plongent la dépouille de l'âme! Entravent le cadavre avec des vers durs d'ivoire. La salive écoule. Les particules du corps pédestre.

 

...not a good deed doer, but an Assassin!

 ...from atop of all disaster, in an astral corps 

I flew in front of blind eyes, not seen, even by a child!

Has the Maker of all things living forgotten his beloved? Does he even think on the sadness of those lost in the sands & dirt of Kurdistan? Does it matter? Or does the devil, does he possesses all wealth & doom & gleam, here & there amongst the deplorable abominations that have deformed the human visage, masquerading underneath the carnal sheathes of all the 4 races that make the multitude of mankind,  this forlorn world? 

Buried in an abyss of oblivion. Wearing masks perhaps just to show how stupid a deteriorated species of a man can become! Drinking in thru one's own narrow nostrils the filth one can breathe in when breathing out? Madmen in Bedlam effeminate.  Dangerous perverted imbeciles vaxxed to the limit of losing their soul. If ever a soul they possessed! 

In another life long before this one, I was once an evil Assassin. A friend of those evil Knights Templars. A protector from the spiritual realm, protecting pilgrims, killing only the ruling class of that period in time who were corrupt & did indeed necessarily fear Death. Betraying only those who betray the truly humble & poor. Not those by welfare assisted, who now persist as parasites on the back of a social corpse decaying!!

Seyyed Khalil Alinejad

 

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 so 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!