le Pont de Bifrost

le Hall de Heimdhal

Le Pont du Souffle de l'Être en vérité, respire la santé Sacrale des siens selon la mesure de leur cosmique activité. Et depuis sa souche Heimdhal érige à travers les 9 Mondes , le sentier triangulaire de l'espace de Plaine de la Vérité de Plutarque et de ses compères antécédents:  le Pont de Bifrost! 

L'haleine d'air pur et glacial sustente la substantifique moelle des Runes du Mystère.

Rune sur rune, articulation de l'aether diaphane qui grave la pierre de leur infatigable intégrité. Une vérité qui s'issue du Soleil de Victoire, sur-céleste et qui assure pour les nôtres, le corps de l'immortel noble.

Ici et ailleurs, selon l'état en temps réel de chaque Aeon, la conscience sincère, sans subterfuge, se départit lestement des choses composées, empreintes de corruptions aliennes.

Le but, est l'Eternité du Bien dont l'aspect diamant se dépouille de la scorie psychique héritée du Monde du Hylé. 

Que dans chaque étape de sa progression spirituelle, l'être avec sa vitalité resème du palier en palier. La griffe personnelle et runique, come un sceau de sa conquête ontologique.

En lui la gamme des possibles instaurera, de force car juste son droit, de ce qui Beau et Bien des êtres aux entités malfaisantes des ténèbres obscurcissantes. Enfouies dessous des déchets de leurs effondrements immoraux, fétides.

** * ** **

Il y a ceux qui sont fils du Soleil, et les autres oui certes mais c'est ainsi n'en déplaise aux parasites, que d'aucuns prennent pour des hommes avec une étincelle divine, qui seulement profitent des rayons gratuits de son infinie largesse (car il donne et n'est ni radin ni pingre, mais tout amour déversant affection à n'en plus finir: une chair de pomme d'Idun).

Notre Soleil Mithraïque est dans son incarnation terrestre, la règne de la Bonté. Il est la Luminescence qui provient du grand Néant et répand sur les créatures de perdition aussi, en tous les mondes ou Aeons l'aubaine fortunée de son essence extra-terrestriîelle.

Bifrost est le respir des Runes, dont la composition articule l'appartenance aryenne:

...le Seigneur Sagesse, Âme des Waffen SS, des guerriers de la Dernière Bataillon. Fils et filles d'Odin. Ceux qui portent au front l'Oeil de l'Eclair, qui leur inscrit et élabore l'affection du Grand Mage, aux 2 Beau corps du noir aigle et bicéphale.

Cela fait trembler la structure des veines et artères de l'être délétère. Cela lui altère les 6 sens intimes, et fait fondre les préjugés acquis, l'asseyant sur le siège de l'humilité des animaux et fauves sauvages. 

Le programme imposé par le démiurge comme résultat, en est secoué, de toute sa masse faite de rafistolage, rien d'incertain ne tienne!

Cependant les tresses tendres des Valkyries vibrent sonore en silence pour ce Monde de sourds et de muets; elles saturent le corps subtil de l'élu et myste Viking! Alors donc qu'Odin réclame avec toute sa beserke affection le coeur de ses chers enfants:

sang de son sang, chair de sa chair:

Vidarr à Birkenbaum

dans la Westphalie. 

Unearthing the Mystery

Unearthing what was dormant of an uncultivated intimate mystery. To awaken from an unwanted hallucination. All the secret soul drenched in ashes of used hate.

...and from this round about serpent vehicle colliding with the winds of cycles and those stars that turn, implacably listening, we enlarge a certain perspective, which would diminish into tiny scripted particules:

Inventing scientific points of view, to couple with psychic electromagnetic powers. Draining vitality for the sake of recognized mutual vanity. Published by prestigious faculties, indoctrinating the limpid naif mind. 

** * ** **

...do you see how it is?

All this greatness in these empty vessels we feed into? Your understanding attention giving them life and existential meaning. Applauding the circus show. Pretending they have some abstract ontological or metaphysical value!

And now dead, and fled; what was worrisome dissipates into a residual "shade", left behind haunting people and beasts, immersed in a grand controlled trance:

Seeing what is wanted, doing as is done, blinded having no circumference. Spilling the bad and good of all beautiful blood...onto a virtual public place where there can be no worthy renown. Neither it be for gods nor Titans that've vanished in the cracks.

** * ** **

The angels have seen this folly from a afar and are taken aghast in front of such a stupendous and conceited stupidity, that they vomit from their soar eyes what makes mortality so ugly. All the more so painful, that men relish in this opened Pandora's Box of holographic squalor.

Who could, but some perverted scoundrel, admire such cesspools as Crowley or Hubbard!

These blackest of empty organic calamities are an incarnate ethical illness, and the idols of those sick organic abominations who have lost their eternal right to divine immortality, only to live like leaches in their loges and on their desolate astral plane of horror.

** * ** **

Now it is time to sweep the floor and wash the sullied tiles. Time to breed the eternal who's waited in what appears to be real. 

Time to unearth the Mystery, to walk with daemons and those who are truly Lucifer. Bearing the Torch above this wheel of incessant wandering. 

Being what is Happy in the middle of that un-located center. A non-local entity equaling nothingness. Talking the bird language, speaking with fairies. Feeding the wolves and the wild boar before their extinction comes to pass!

Es Sulphur Aethereum Ario

Ut ille erit principium esto suphur aethereum!

la montagne polaire pleine de promesse.

...et parce qu'il n' y a pas d'issue. Le feu de l'âme se réveillera dans l'obscurité de l'antre sous la colline. Le sang de l'Aïeul enfin éveillé dans les veines et artères du corps subtil de sa progéniture, se retourne et se débat avec toute sa conscience royale. 

Ce monde est une effigie du vrai.  C'est cela qui a été enseigné. Et pas d'autre doctrine!

La religion des spectres, c'est pour les spectres; l'initiation aux mystères reste un don du Sang astral. Qui n'a pas le sang ne peut le savoir, et qui l'a, même en dépit de son accablante indifference envers, sera arraché du sort du monde delusionel: la farce et attrapes qui meublent l'atmosphère psychique de l'être hylique.

Cela est un présent de l'empyrée, mais néanmoins en dépit de l'heureuse aubaine, une infernale charge pour l'esprit léger de l'hyperboréen, qui de nature est libre et insoucieux. 

Mais il honore ce leg tant il est hilarant comme défi! Vers Valhalla se dirige son destin. L'Arbre Ygdrassil de ses branches gorgées de sève se verse de toute son ardeur dans le désir de l'héritier qui s'est élu lui-même.

Face à l'abruti incongru du mongoloïde, le grand ciel intellectuel qui réside en son esprit, lui inspire dédain et mépris. 

Ma place dans le Monde des Artifices de Yahweh, n'est pas ici. Mais j'irai tout de même, que cela déplaise aux minions robotisés:

il faut un témoin dans cette débâcle dissolutive des moeurs que notre avatar a combattues, jadis. Que lui ou moi nous perdions, nous avons su par nos efforts, préserver le Grand Parvis de notre Temple Sidéral.

Car autour du Ciel règne le soufre éthéré. Celui même que je choisis de réanimer au sein de ma tête, là où se loge ce, mon coeur d'insolent.

...qui non sanguinibus(flux liquide et mortel des mammifères), neque ex voluntate carnis(qui provient de l'appétit programmé des "ziobots"), neque voluntate viri(la brutalité bestiale des êtres primaires chez les peuplades de souche infra-humaine), sed ex DEO(ton être sur-céleste, qui plane au-dessus des eaux du dessus le Firmament) nati sunt.     -secundum evangelium Iohannem

In the Coffer

In the coffer and ready! With my beloved who isn't there!

And just can't be. Not even dead, just a cerebral maelstrom taunting the soul.

Out yonder far out into the sea where there is nothing, but the endless tumultuous waves hurrying in the mind! On a wasted isle near, to no watch tower, there. Drunk on the afterthoughts that fill my desperation with regret! 

Later than yesterday, only indifference waits at the doorway.

Where was she, but in my very spirit, attending in cloister, inside the bowels of my own Hell! Damp with her own sweat from teasing. Moistened by stone tears without regret, pardoned with God's forgiveness.

Now a church goer!

A witch but only mine, invented within my hurting entrails. Stars that sent into my brain sulfur and brimstone, that sort of soot that can veil wearied eyes that dreamt aloud. Preventing clairvoyance!

There is no she but yourself who lingers, patiently. A soul like yours but made of you, healing the bleeding rupture in the clouds of your inner heaven. Holding in place in its own distraught sacred head, your very visage, enamored!

But you. Again. Waiting in eternity. 

** * ** **

You. And no one else, can be there! Your inside beauty guiding the wonderful noble mind. 

There is no mortal facsimile could deceive the honorable onlooker who heeds nothing that could come from atoms of dust and mud. It is his own internal restless nature pushes him on. Into the abyss. 

He becomes a plaything to himself. And mortal woman still needs a Soul!

What is quaint for a vulgar man, is the marvelous beauty of the Tree, your forefathers were killed for without shame, but save for those tears come from a down trodden knight, in his grave, alone with his soul-heart in Paradise. 

In the coffer with my beloved who's just not there. In the Polar star, watching me come.

Odin's Knot and Falling Down

What an absurd undoing in the wake of Nothing!

I fell from my own root, toppling on a hillside next then into a well. And this was of my own doing, binding and unbinding my hopes through delusional dreams...makeshift in mischief, what I wanted with all my darling's love!

I would kill myself, yet would not die. I would live but in truth would be dead even for god, and my chest would be heavy, cluttered with messes, dainty too dainty to withstand all this empty weight that I had wished for.

I would be sad but excitedly elated! Happy but knowing all this around me to be but a brief breath in a fog lifting. 

What I loved was gone, but my will frothed on the wrinkled waves from underneath, maintained its uneven mass, the dark waters which were hard as stone: dust in dust transparent pentagrams teaming together in unseen boundaries electrified! 

But true that even with one eye I can see, even blind to things outside where things move unavoidably, it would be my spirit holding the Wind with my absent heart. 

I am from above. And there is no above. 

To undo the binding falls to waste, binding once again; loyal to our Father.

Aye, myself the Father now unbinding!

Odin's Alchemical Pot.

These are the black figures of ravens in the sky. Sacred strikes sharply cutting the succeeding thick layers, that straddle the great space between God's left and right hemispheres glancing beyond.

Torch bearers transmitting the word. 

They draw great circles in a sacred hearth. Turn the flame into "the right to Life". 

Our eyes are the abyss that watches over the little things. Insuring their posterity across time and all ordeals. 

Because, first, we are the tree, Irminsul, then, afterwards concomitantly we live in the white fox, the wolf and polar bear. Through out eternity, we burst into beauty from the flower bud burgeoning. We are like dead leaves that dogs who chase, trample.

The sparrow is my guide as I take up my sword. To thrash what disappears, falling in love again.

Raven Shadows.

Rude Labyrinthe

Mon Amour reste de toute sa  longueur étalée sur son dos lisse et blanc de kaolin, et dans son caveau illustre avec dédain son dépit. Vestige épluché qui recouvre sur le billard dans sa Tombe: Elle est prostrée, mais retournée le tendre ventre en l'air, ... et couverte de feuillages moites; le ciel sombre éclaire et s'obstine au-dessus de sa tête endormie. Où plus rien d'elle ne réside, sauf ici au plexus meurtri.

Elle se dissout sous les ronces au pied de son être. Le subterfuge s'en est allé d'entre des ramurages, rameaux brunis par des discours usés. 

L'Hiver s'estompe.

La vanité de dire ne se taise jamais. Il faudrait plonger encore plus bas dans l'amas labouré, afin de voir à quel point, combien le futile appétit que l'éclat d'ici incarne, s'illusionne!

L'ange blond se barre et laisse déchoir le déchet d'homme dont seulement des victimes à force de pitié sur eux-mêmes se plaint!

Rude et austère. L'âme rendue rêche, parcourt avec tout son inestimable néant et caresse la grande rocaille qui surplombe son imaginal espoir.

Aux aguets le fantôme est dévasté! La terreur apaisée. La Mort ma seule et loyale amie d'un élan dance sa ronde sur la dépouille que je n'ai pas laissée!

Or, j'ai tout pris avec moi de ce Rien que je suis. Cela est diaphane. Ca n'a pas de matière substantielle. Des particules ne la pénètrent point non plus. Pas de traces ne s'effacent dans le sable. 

Comme des pas ouïes dans un puits de sortilèges. Creusent jusqu'au sol la hauteur inestimable de mon Idéal.

Le Crane de Satan sera brisé ou ne sera que les ténèbres que j'avale!

Aryan Interface

Time and all its durational boundaries are a stupendous manifestation of spontaneous mechanical processes, fluctuating indefinitely with no sense of propriety. And as it is, is unavoidably entwined or embedded in an invisible fabric of numerical chemical-biology,  atoms ever colliding betwixt, and programmes every temporal locality concentrically across absent spaces, having no clue of being anything, anywhere. What is wide and long and great and big or small is of no necessary ontological importance. It dissipates back into nowhere.

It never was or is nor will be.  

Back into the Great Aeon. 

Through its own inevitable hyper-abstactional limitations, dissolves, till eventually through out itself concomitantly in a state of paralyzed stasis, a god has construed a living thing, based on some unknown mode, between six walls in the midst of empty space. 

Why pursue in decay a pearl in the rot? A precious stone that isn't there in the dark ashes of sterile rust? And yes, was never but in fantasy a day dream for democratic asses. 

Always in search of putting a god into chains, to slaughter what is best coming from the heavens. Hiring accountants who count the big and little sins: inscribing on tree bark or animal skins the holy rules we should go by? 

Ripping forests, devising mayhem. Constantly praying something that just isn't there in Granny's house? 

Putting disgraceful and ungrateful children on marvelous thrones of inhumanity, which, were built on nothing but vainglory, adding insult to injury!

Great concrete cavities reaching over sand into a vast white blue intangible celestial ceiling. Bombs and shattered innocence; all destroyed in the wink of an eye, underneath rubble, broken into missing limbs. 

Camels and petrol. And money, the meaningless debt dealt to dummies.

** * ** ** 

All my hope is detached from the ciment. The sacred spirit is gone but there, like Plotinus among the starry deep with his friends.

The busy rotors of daily living dazed in a transe in suburban metro tunnels. Predestined by chance in a cave somewhere near Greece or on some island near Lesbos.

Living inside a windy place of dust and wetness, unless my eyes can see if God permit, should I prevail; as a non programmable interface ready to invent. ...originating inadvertently from a super aethereal doorway. 

Unpredictable, hiding at once in the curtain folds swaying in front of unseen worm holes.

Blond and blue eyed, surfing on the international kosmic net. A god-man Aryan. Drinking haoma and eating amber, sitting with the Krist and Zarathustra, laughing quite loud!  

The little bear swinging in the sky.

A super-conscience astrally interweaving into unconscious cordes, full of numerical bits and bites. Nano-scratches clasping at calcium on a tortoise's back. Delineating compassionately, from afar, in the distant playgrounds, while admiring foxes, and star-fish on the beach at the edge of the world. 

Swinging to and fro on the dragon road. Extracting the inexistant pebble; making beer and never one piece of gold.

Never getting sick of one's self. Never stern!

mein Ehre heist Treue

You break me and yet I stand at the edge of Paradise. Like a perfect thought in the god mind, suspended in Chaos between two pillars of contradiction.

You spat on my face, but I abide. The best when left alone, are those who carry their cross as the Golden Mean!

Cloaked with the chasm of my soul, entitled to nothing. I make no plea for help, not to anyone! 

In this heart there's no room for intolerable plight, where blame or dishonor could beg yet without shame. 

Our fortunate or unfortunate predestination, is ours from the beginning by choice. 

But if not, I'll make it mine and bet against Satan even if I should lose. It's not his corpse'll hold me back when I'll get off to elsewhere!

My pride is such that both my unquenched thirst and insatiate hunger just can't make me bow down.

I stay cold inside. 

Like a haunting that wakes me in the dark, saying: " Wake"!

... from a horrible slumber I rise. And like a lantern in the shadows, when all else seems without life, I put all the spectres in my home to flight. 

I am the blood-ghost of all my noble friends. 

Their souls together beyond their each consort gleaming like a star in the sky, behind in the background blackness, breathing, the supreme mantra: 

"Heil, Sieg Heil"!

** * ** **

I am happy to die for the earth grave that waits for me. Or the pyre that'll burn. Or the wild animal who's in hunger. Or because of a stone thrown by some likeness of a man of lower breed.  

To be in Hell with the brave is all that I wish to fulfill. 

To be with my Blood, bleeding for Eternity with the best of what Almighty God conceived in human shape:  Great serpents of Light from the infinite crypte, thunderous and heart rending!

Knights at the Temple Door of the Great Abyss, awake.

A Knight Templar at Chinon.

  

A Place In the Realm of No Where: الواقت

To abide by nothing, yet in all places to be nowhere. Having been stricken by a bolt of dark emerald. Seething downwards from the battered cindered soul, ablaze. Blasting through the weary head, awaking what is wise with Eternal Love near to the entrance of the Immortal Fountain.

The Sun in the grey clouds, arisen and the stellated-mind lashing at the dregs of it, which recoiled, from within the seat of our curtailed awareness, beclouded the secret mind who was waiting, in all friendship for good Love's sole purpose to shower its sacred dew on our foreheads.

Here in this forlorn and rejected country where the waste material of dejected and mutilated races, suffocate those who are wise, ...the good as if damned by god!

But we navigate internally, far from what rusted eyes of unhealthy intellect might interpret, like seafarers in the heavens unseen. Breaking the intolerant waves of ludicrous misdemeanor. We are black suns hailing on this flat plain of no requital. Our hearts unafraid of illicit church and state.

From this abysmal darkness germinates the lord of our light in sweet love. The Black Wheels  discretely healing from within the hurting wounds, the injured and down trodden warriors. 

Those who were neglected. Who were scoffed. Who were too proud. Abandoned!

Faithful to theirs and yet forgotten. Derided.

On the edge of high precipices. Laid down to rest, betrayed.

...and there beside, waterfalls cascade downwards into distant dispassionate desperation.

** * ** **

The great gammadion churns the whirlwinds on the face of the Deep. Revealing through indefinite Time, our Eternal and always Final Victory because of an Honorable and much awaited Death! Above murder and rape and without reparation, nor without repent. Becoming through out eternity those myriad stars of Holy Martyrdom. Between the Great Boar and its Polar Child. 

Yet unredeemable. Having died with all one's bodily self but not dead.

...and this, because of a silly trick at Mekone, for the sake of all true Mankind. 

And again, this one dies because the other is alive.

Hail to all Kamerads.

  

CRAPULE

La Croix à bras égaux définit le Monde & son équilibre naturel.
Voilà pourquoi il y a 4 Temps, 4 Races et 4 Eléments.
Tous les 4 sont dans le Cercle du 5ème.

A force d'agir en crapule, ce qui était un homme se transforme du fond en comble en inpardonnable déchet. 

Après, il n'y aura point de retour. Aucun amendement ne sera possible.

Eh, non,... même s'il croit que comme tout est une illusion, que tout ce qu'il fait, ne signifie rien en fin du compte, l'inactivité morale qu'il incarne à travers maintes et maintes excuses et pardons, ne sera pas absout ni dans ce Temps ni en aucun Temps.

Et hors même de son propre Temps cyclique, il sera expulsé. Inconscient et oublié. Une honte même selon le Temps le plus inférieur!

Un Temps est un Yuga, et le Yuga est l'état réel du Temps qu'un être perçoit selon son état personnel du Sens Moral. 

On récolte ce qu'on sème! 

Le Temps mécanique de l'Arché-daemon le veut ainsi. Mécanique dans les rapports et functions internes qui gouvernent le chemin "karmique" des êtres organiques et minérales, qui préprogrammés, seront inéluctablement passés au peigne fin. Détruits en fin de suite et réduits en un bouilli de détritus plein de larves.

Pour le Haut il faut bien le Bas! 

Alors que des êtres de nature céleste fréquentent les plus bas quartiers de ce Monde, celui qui serait dans sa conscience efficiente du matériel de l'Âge Sombre ne saurait en aucun cas avoir de la juste estime vis à vis du Temps de ces êtres et de leur Nature, qui est Angélique!

Le Bon est Bon et le reste reste sans valeur aux yeux de notre Père.

** * ** **

Et comme il y a 4 états du Temps et de l'Être qui se diffèrent radicalement entre eux, autant il y a de méprise et de la mésentente conjecturale probable...autant il y a d'écart dans l'aptitude de se comprendre et partager un même sentir ou une même idée avec une honnêteté valide.

4 types de personnes qui habitent ensemble dans un même Monde divisé selon 4 parts du Temps. 4 Yugas ou Âges qui se le partagent le gâteau des Cycles et des marées hautes et basses qui tournent en Ronde!

Inondent le décor du votre Monde et du Mien, mais qui se croisent sans se connaître car entre les 4, s'étagent et s'opposent en complément harmonique, l'essentiel des Races. Leur véritable raison d'être, leur être, et l'inévitable conflit de leur Nature, prédestiné par le TEMPS! 

D'un même Temps chacun vit selon Sa Race.

Comprenne qui pourra, ...& ne confondons plus les divers plans (Yugas) de l'Être d'avec la Conscience Immanente qui surplombe en dehors des Cycles du Retour, la Totalité des Hiérarchies.

L'Homme Bon est du Krita, c'est l'enfant des Hyperboréens.

Sa nature est pur Satya.

Pour chaque descente dans les sphères du Devenir les hommes se dégradent en Vérité à cause de leur moindre qualité en Être. Ils devient sanguinaires, fourbes et jaloux. Difformes dedans et laids. Le Bien devient le Mal et Le MAL devient la Règle! 

Quand une Race n'est plus à sa place, le Monde se rend cruel, sans coeur. L'ami devient l'intéressé, l'opportuniste, une canaille, un fripon. L'érotisme mute en porno, l'art, l'éloge de la dégradation. 

Alors on est dans le TEMPS des Crapules. 

Et selon les Couleurs ou les Varnas naturelles qui dominent lors du Cycle, Dieu nous indique par là, la situation de notre globale déchéance!

Ou la qualité de vivre dans son Milieu.

  

The Blessed Immortals of Good Truth

The Secret Self of Creation

Everywhere in every crack and cranny, truth penetrates the tattered seams.  

A happy disaster for the contented wellbeing of wanderers: knowing who and what they are to be, here, where the light of the stars crumble into shiny stones in lime. 

Among termites in the quantic woodwork. 

On endless trails, pleading to understand and then transported, wash off the sad stains of their past invented histories. 

With their very own and heavy vision: gazing undaunted into the greater abyss below, while from above they gladly thank the severed skies. Severe but full of joy.

No tears fall from these eyes.

** * ** **

A sweet benevolent conscious light, descended from among the Immortal Factions of Heaven, a child of what is true. Infant of Good Facts. A Titan of Light & Love. 

** * ** **

Yet a cur is a cur, forthwith!

Whispering baseless ambiguities that arise holographically, without an ounce of fact which could support the aimless thesis!

Speaking and listening thru fodder for earthworms. 

Mistaking spectral reflections for the cause! Of what is seen and heard and lived.

** * ** **

To what extent does Evil lurk in the clockwork, bewitching living things?

Ihren Geist und Seele.

How many more creatures will it empty of awareness, gouge the flesh then defile? Proudly displaying these botched works of anti-art heaped liked unclean blankets on the bed of the earth? 

So bereft of life, that even a ghost would not there, abide. 

Who are these golems, enslaved to hapless uselessness? Who have no Moral Self of Inner Man? 

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

Ahura Mazda

Liebe ist ein süßes Licht.
Wie die Erde strebt zur Sonne
Und zu jenen hellen Sternen
In den weiten blauen Fernen,
Strebt das Herz nach Liebeswonne;
Denn sie ist ein süßes Licht.

The Blue Island of the Black Sun

To turn the air around you, inside out, inverting what was apparently something measurable. Distracting the devious ways of the world from the precincts of our holy secret ground. 

...leaving out 18th century calculus, in order to see much better, what it is, pours visually into the soul's simple chalice.

And watch how it seems that outside, this wasn't, but some feverish enbittering hallucination. Brought about by tinkers meddling, with the earth's subtle body in some inefficient and stupid manner. Throwing wrenches into the harmonic mechanical workings of the kosmic mouvement. 

Never been. But for an instant. 

Then all shuts up and disappears. 

Elves dancing in fairy rings on the heath.

** * ** ** 

Just some bad daydream waking in the wretched sewers of lower humanity. On the concrete, between yellow lamps in the ghetto evening! Debating violently with what is less valuable than the animals made by God.

Surely, at the same time, indecent blood defeats its very own reason to live, eating its own kind. Sweating through its frigid skin! To be devoured by its own internal lack of worth and fame.

Yet if I close my physical eyes, I see inside my heart, the Blue Island and Hyperion's arrival from the Southern polar cap emitting. Wondrous and unequal in its majestic solaire stature, advancing gradually in short even strides. Tearing down all electro-magnetic barriers, calmly. Dividing asunder into distinguishable parts what was once a tightly knitted invisible firmament.

Interrupting the immediate mathematical order inlaid between the planetary orbital paths. 

To cremate all untruth. Eradicating the bad memories that made this battered and worn out earth forsooth suffer to deteriorate in the hands of a decaying made up organic Evil.

** * ** ** 

...to go down into and salvage the other's opposite, at the risk of dirtying the third eye, the infernal chasm where a blatant slut thrones, horrid and despicable.

And behold! ...it's a scum harlot of popular cheap songs. A product of gospel hypocrisy with all its tepid splendor.

Decomposing from inside out onto the stage, in the lime light, for tattered teenage dolls and smart phone pics at Dodger Stadium. 

** * ** **

...and yet, if I close my physical eyes, I see inside my heart, the Blue Island and Hyperion's arrival from the Southern polar cap emitting. Wondrous and unequal in its black solaire stature, advancing gradually in short even strides. Tearing down all the electro-magnetic barriers, calmly. Cutting asunder into sacred individual parts what was once a tightly knitted invisible firmament in the once inner world.

And God saw that it was good.