Gerda

   What is the Earth, but a kind of situation within the perceiving Mind, invaded by parasites of all sorts, infiltrating the harmonious calamity that the Eternal Spirit forces on the souls of all those who enter its englobing and pervasive perpetual discourse. Because the Spirit is free and transcendental, it entraps taking the soul to its appointed ending making one think its something other than oneself. But in the end its your God in you abiding by you in all and eventually through all that's in your waking and unawakened field of perception. Becoming a concrete thing. To die in some Wasteland. Because the soul needs a better place in which to thrive attaining its abstract beauty. Here where nothing would be decent enough to stand it!

   What is it you call the Earth? Is it all the pretty and ugly little things you see and experience? Crowding the outward surface of the World Place around you? From inside the brain's tentacles?

   And is it with these mortal senses providing you a 3 dimensional habitat, that you are able to deem you understand, comprehending what? While truly, Life is but a trifle something nonetheless? A situation in which and by which purported physical orifices assay thanks to your gullible mesmerized state, excitement. Pleasure. Love. & sadness?

   Everything all around is but a situation. A place in the brain taunting you, your naivety.

   Are those rocks we fathom down deep underneath in some occult region? In the pulp and the pith? Is that it? For those gems we find, unearth and kill for? Making from a whore for one minute a make believe Lady of Honor, of worthy kind? But just all the same a slut.

   ** * ** **

   But it's all in the Race, all that's best in it, a kind of Mankind that's gone, got up, fed up, and fled? Or just indeed got board and died off with this 3 d locality? The confines of which, withheld the Sweet and Noble Aryan Soul in rank and stench captivity?

    In a place of broken mirrors and fickle glances. Nano-particulates pervading stubbornly through out the outward organic vessel? Here in these outside places you would call your Home?   

   What unites the brilliant and enduring inward awareness, feeding on eternally on the ethereal Soma, is, that which is good has no badness in it and can have no opposite that would thwart its being. 

   Gerda, is the crucible where our God awakens the True Conscious Earth of our Souls. 

A monad from which a real life issues.

Lucifer's Lantern

   ...and what would be left but the hallow wind, and my curt understanding, for how little it would serve me?

   Yet there is no sound in the brush, the children sleep, the wolf amidst the dead stillness where trees no longer abide on the summits. The hills ripped naked by a UFO fire. The Sun gleaming somewhere else : the stars aligned, no allowance for hidden mischief.

   Surely I must indeed advance?

   Loitering. The mind dispels the awkward tendentious brain.

   The Sun, the Star, the Thunderbolt. Is this how you see me? From within a secret Cloud? Yet, is it with this in mind, you filled my Soul with your loving eyes, together? In friendship for one of yours, here on Earth, where battered souls incline intrepid, where we won't stay? But like you with a deep breath, leaving me alone again in solitude?

    A warrior unkind among the sheep?

   Certainly the giants of yore have gone and disappeared. There enormous stride crushing the broken toppled branches that lay waste; those I myself have climbed on in those upper regions they abandoned.

    A dreamer. A poet. A knight defeated.

   The sword of my Self, a lit wicker in a tenebrous carnal abode.

Truly right from the start

I fought, in spite of me

Clamoured such as Sorcerer.

A son of Satan.

A misplaced man.

A magic crown from which to leap

Toward the very narrow door in Heaven

Watching me.

O.P.O.R.O.F.

   ...on another plane, in another residence. Throughout the inner back stage of the golden shining Sun. A blackness awaits me. In its regal depths a portal of darkness, across the platonic bodies and their mysterious mingling, my spiritual ancestors speak to me, they say : 

Awake & dance, Child of God.

The hot blisters from the mortal skin, hot as hell

Falling on the Earth's retreating lap!

Awake & dance, ô Lovely Kindred!

Let the mongrel beasts keep their kind.

They'll inherit all that's destitute,

Because no innate beauty can withstand 

For more than what's necessary to the sweet & honorable 

The pitiful vulgarity they bring

Here where the World 

Is only the Devil's seat & latrine!

   Like a Green Ray, a lightning bolt breaking, yours & only yours, ride on Venus' loins. A Great Star made of the stuff of Pleromic Hearts.

   Leave the bastards eat the crumbs that fall from Evil's dearth. 

   Your place is in a Viking's Palace, made of oak & ash & pines from the North. But in another sphere, where astral bodies cohabitate, congealing their Kristic sheaves, glorious like the Face of your Aryan God!

   Each one a Black Sun, within which a Green Dragon has conquered moral & physical stupidity, and forgotten memories from the Sky invigorate the once lost Soul.

H.S.H.

Lapis ex Coelis

...et ta couronne est tombée du haut de ton ciel de vers le pôle de ton être intime, ami âme et bien aimée qui au regard dérobe ta sur-célestielle racine. Déchanté, le charme enlace le cordial, et avec précaution tâte l'invisible, ici aux yeux pleins de rage et de fureur! 

Pleure, s'il en est de ta plainte! Que tes larmes abreuvent la dureté des pasus qui ignares se vantent et claironnent leur inapte vanité de geindre, ou gémir la colossale bêtise. 

On combat mais on se plaint et heureusement jusqu'à ce que la terre dévoile et déterre le coeur meurtri. Telle notre preuve de bagarreur! 

Peste! Puis plains-toi encore, puis frappe le mur qui bastionne l'innocent dans un clos de préjugés ou quelques préalables stéréotypes ou modèles pour des moulages futurs de clones de copie-collé indéfinis. 

Une armée sans personnalité, sans être, aucun sens de soi dans aucun de ses éléments individuels!

Le Dernier Bataillon possède un corps de Siddhas-Guerriers dont aucun de ses membres ne peuvent ni ne se ressembler ni lécher le cul d'aucun autre camarade d'armes! 

Si tel est ton souhait, plains-toi puis lutte in kampf d'ici que les idées en ce Monde fugaces ne disparaissent dans le Vide dans le Rien dans le Grand Néant où nos frères nous attendent blessés, couverts de plaies, porteurs de séquelles innombrables, réconfortés cependant par leurs Dames de leurs Amours, leur Valkyrias. 

Leur sang noble et 2 fois né colore la terre en fer. Là où la semence de notre or nous attend. Le souvenir du Paradis libéré de ces entrailles qu'on appelle la Terre Creuse. 

Et comme Plotin sera un oeil au Ciel du nouveau, à faire connaître l'obscurité des nuits éternelles avec comme lanterne l'âme qui purgea la Plainte.

le Maître de l'Âme

   ...je te rassure que tu n'iras pas plus loin que ton ombre opaque sans lueur ni florescence, écartelée contre les anfractuosités que la mélancolique obscurité dessinent. Là quand jour, où des moineaux se baignent dans la poussière, chassant les bestioles sous leur mince plumage. Les chuchotements se laissent détourner, alors qu'au recoin de ton âme le désert de ton esprit se forge : aride & inhospitalière, c'est une solitude de crépuscule où des cauchemars qui ne t'appartient pas te harcèlent à répétition juste devant l'aube avant que la nuit de tristesse ne s'achève. 

   & c'est vrai, des larmes qui ont infecté la chair de l'astral, humectent le creux entre l'oeil et l'os du nez droit. 

   Le songe mauvais te laisse pantois. 

   Vénus à l'horizon annonce avec ses anges-déments, la fin de la nuit dans le vent & dans les forêts qui ne sont plus là; résidence qui autrefois étaient l'hôte habituel & aimable des lutins des gnomes & des élémentaux perplexes et sans maison ni refuge ni abri, hélas. 

   L'ange haut de 7 pieds ou sinon plus te conseille, te portant le secours te prévient qui du néant s'aventure : "sois le maître de ton âme!

   "C'est toi qui décide quand tu aimes ou quand tu devrais haïr. Toi qui te repose chaque instant, que tu abandonnes la veillée du sommeil qui fuit, te laissant gagner par le fatigue enfin, des vigiles; ton corps mis au marécage. Sans bière. Sans fleurs. Sans témoins de valeur! 

Les roseaux qui pliés sous les astres, plaignent la durée des supplices de qui combattent pour perdre, perdant encore, vers le malheur, et perdent cependant illustres martyrs inconnus dans l'ignominie parmi ceux indigne d'eux! " 

Le Linga Shârirâ qui terrasse la dépouille des erreurs
 issue du néo-cortex du Démiurge!

Hélas

Hélas oui ou non. Deviendras-tu chiffrable? Une identité pour la cause ou une catastrophe ânonnée pour ta progéniture, disparue? 

...déclinons puis, s'interroger? Ah pour l'instant cru. L'animal mis de l'avant. Ma chair dans ma chair. L'hésitation. Ô que j'en suis confus. Plein de fortitude. De la compassion devant la fourmis. Sobre comme une Reine de Saba, piégée dans le nacre qui luit comme glace.

Exposant mon pied bot comme à l'infortune, de perdre les miens pour le grand bénéfice de ceux qui aiment la terre sèche ou le terroir des cailloux des autres! 

Tourner en rond d'entre les barreaux avec les autres rats. Entre aperçus entre les zéros et les uns. Morcelés à partir des bits convertis en qubits : l'accélération hâte le pas lent vers le vide, qui n'ose réfléchir ni ne désire la fin recouverte du cortex qui aveugle : façonné par un oui ou par un non.  

Combien de pendus à force de cordes en 28ème de puissance? Pythagore en serait-il d'accord? Cela en vaut-il la peine de labourer ainsi? Ca lui retirera le souffle. A petits pas cela serait du pareil au même.

L'esprit quitterait le corps. Le corps de s'effondrer englouti par les vagues.

Hyper-Borea

In this Rock I will build my kingdom.
While those who scorn its inner beauty, shall perish.
My sword is my spirit.
My soul the scabbard.
The thunderbolt the light in my eyes.

...you think you've found me, but alas for worldly wisdom I jump the squeamish, & have left behind me the deteriorated bones that no man could ever put into words in a dictionary; whatever its sound or figure. I go unmasked, hidden from those whose thoughts unthoughtful strand the tide in the great nothing of history making. For who doesn't know it's all a stage. 

My sadness follows me. But am awake. It hurts but doesn't matter. Our children will kill them all. The dross disappearing in the fog at dawn.

** * ** **

My friends. The time is ripe to rip the fruit. The grain will be thru-out Eternity my sigil impressed on God's face. For who is he but who that dreamt, this world or some other, next,...my wife was the blizzard. The broken tasting in the coffin. The grave I haven't, the way of my abyss.

Surely, my friends you've awakened, now! ? You see it's all a matter of murdering dread. The fear in a woman's bones. Her flesh clinging ever on so forward towards the never ending deep without end under your floor. Your strength is our strength. Death goes on : Yama tearing at the animal soul to get to the heart beyond Hades' grip! How else would it be possible to grow our vegetables in a Hologram?

But now Plato's dead & so albeit Socrate's lovers. Though they are in fact spiritual brothers.

** * ** **

Use what you've got. Empty the whole thing. For the Spirit has no end in and of itself.

And now that you've died. ....you're going to die.

And what of it and for whom? It's only your GOD will watch over what you love and have battled for!

The rest of it percolates in the blue blood. In Hyper-Borea it's very cold! And yet my love is so hot, the icebergs melt, while I sink the World.

Holding on to Bones, & the Dust between the Fingers

   The white man's last chance has already come. And if those on whom it suddenly dawned, that there was a racial pride to extol & preserve have just arrived, on earth after the great sun had just set;... it's too late my dear, oh how sad but too late now that the Führer has gone & did done!

   He came and some pretended while others fought then lost here where burials are for mortal heroes and anonymity belongs to those who taken by their Muse go to Valhalla just underneath the helm of Odin's flapping wings. Fanning with a cool breeze the down trodden heart of those who betrayed but fought not with hands nor fists but with all their soul as would an exemplary death to some incomprehensible supreme awareness that others cannot surely see.

   The Lord is the Lord, but who can see him. He goes from place to place, but who is he but yours to find and defend?

   It was their luminous inner crystallized will, made it possible. But now you see this world is underneath in the grave, as we tread this world's bones, and short of what is meant for mortal dreams; yet in all Aryan minds, awaits their world on their earth if only with great devotion what was mortal here become elsewhere on a higher plane the air we breathe the love we live the hate we must keep silent in these physical limbs for those who under our window, adore what we disdain!

   What's here? but bones & cemeteries. Tendons decomposing. Insects suffering in an atomic make believe world! CERN? 

I lift my hands to the heavens making MAN my sacred sigil. But who is he, outstretches his arms beyond; fomenting this happy desire.

   The immortal ancestors alive in me. Condescending to look down again at something not worth the ants I can salvage, while time on this earth is still pertaining to my side again!

   Be brave and expect nothing.

   No one is waiting.

   Life is what your awareness 

   Construes! A blink of the eye

   And the Valkyrie has ripped

   From torn flesh & bones

   An immortal soul, friend &

   Brother of our Führer.

   

Always been Enemies

   ...true, the angels(Aryans) are what's left of God's Eternal Spirit in this World. And they are not liked nor appreciated in any manner shape or form. By anyone who's been replaced before birth, in their Mother's womb.

   Beware my friend, you'll be put to the side henceforth shuddered, disdained, nailed to a cross. Like Odin feared in a stealth way, for some unknown reason by the men made of dirt in which the evil deity has uttered his breath or wordy wind into!

   We impose but are not made of but regret while here on this plane. Only those singular mammals who defy the rule of Heaven in their hearts cluttering the psychological & intellectual pavement, shall hinder thus obstructing good deeds to follow. It's us the divine benefit rejected, strange stones not unlike the stellar vault brimming, that glitters singing indifferently with mirth in bane! 

   You are made of pride and fire. You melt the ice. This world will never be worth the glowing thing cascading in your soul! It's just not good enough. Those molecularly constructed particles, organically pretending to contain your spirit, the soul's abyss, the great nothingness beyond! The Grail heat incarnating, blasting all existential illusions.

A fallen pride & Heaven's proof

continually denied,  justice.

A torch bearer

from the start.

The devil's children 

seek to take from you

the emerald crown precipitated from your brow.

** * ** **

   Not men in the manner understood by Jehovah's progeny. For he fills them with his bleak and yes gloomy ghost : it's always Him you cross at Walmart or at the City Hall. In school in University. At work or at Home. He is the Collective & Unconscious malignity invades since immemorial time, the brain of all the humanoid creatures you encounter. 

   What is to be universally connected? Electronically? In a world where things continually dissolve! 

   In the beginning the devil wrote the book, made mortal replicas of the angels & mixed mammal blood with the celestial clay that comes from a heart full of love, and turned them into puppets. He created them all. He put his ghost in them, then afterward said "it was me all along. They call me god because I'm the only one that's there! And it's true!

   They say it's the only living god and call him Shiva, Allah or Yahweh! Even Ali fell in the trap.

   But you aren't mine, not of my kind!...you don't belong to me. You refuse categorically to be animated by me, and my preordained and clever archetypes. 

   Beware, and keep thyself ô pretty Thing.

   ...we have always been enemies." 



   

de la Magie Noire et du Bluff Tech

   Certes, c'est sans fils et depuis combien du temps que mages & marabouts tapotent la cervelle de l'humanité benoîte et somnole; toujours éprise du sexe et des bains d'huile sur les plages du littoral sous un soleil accablant ou au bar ivre et variolé au rouge mauvais? Sans traces et toujours sans que l'idiot peuple ne se doute du royaume qui récolte entre les 2 mondes : celui-ci et l'autre qui vers la lune se penche.

   Le Monde a toujours été un lieu de Sortilège, l'est encore et dans sa substance tentaculaire, porte le démon de sous terre sur la surface chez les hommes. Dans ses affaires enfume les rapports. Le diable est quand même chez lui le prince et l'esclave heureux. Amoureux de ses enfants, les hommes de basse souche. Sans maîtrise ni conscience : une calamité pour les cieux qui plane hors le regard de sangsue. 

   Le fil de cuivre et l'accélérateur des particules, un état de la matière organisée sous forme de plasmaoïde. Le vague à l'âme et le mal au ventre. 

   Sur quelle bande et de quelle largeur est-elle? En mm vers tera. L'homme à son insu s'incline de côté de la tombe, numéroté en gnomons pythagoriciens et pour le bonheur des mères éplorées! Il se transforme en data sous forme de buckyballs : entrainé du fond en comble...crétin hier pour le crétin du demain au lendemain qui hérite du mauvais mélange du sang et de l'eau, patois, fourbu & qui crépite.

...hélas le charme se lasse, puis la vanité de sa poursuite de s'éroder : y a-t-il un homme de race qui ne soit pas pris au piège, comme un délinquant récidive en mal du vrai? Seul. Enfoui dans le coeur. De s'éloigner du juif errant, et au RSA, le malheur de l'honnête homme. 

   Une panoplie de bêtises de gestion s'effrite, mon Dieu, sous le poids indécis de la dette cultivée pour l'éternel bougre des jaloux. 

   Et le chien d'aboyer et d'aboyer sans fin jusqu'aux confins des dernières rampes qui surplombent le parterre sale, une splendeur de perfection et une gloire au très grand architecte des mondes.

   L'oeil dément partout et dans l'air que vous respirez. Dupe et cocu, trompé par votre arrogance, un pied déjà dans la tombe.

   1G 2G 3G 4G 5G ...etc depuis toujours sans fil, pour vous, le bétail de Pashupati offert sur un plat.

** * ** **

   

Old Odin

   ...and it's this manner, we speak to each other. These voices we hear in our cavernous heart, where without some outward glance cannot be defined some immoral prejudice. Our thoughts are not our own yet we engender them continuously within the Middle of the earth. To each the other, gliding in the astral air, invisibly apparent. 

   We can go where the earth is never cluttered. No atrocious concrete edifice can blind us from the sky vault. We are eyes in the aether. The wings of which, animate the four winds. 

   Odin the wanderer. Oh villain boy! Bearded, blond and lost nowhere. What is it with these nine orifices. The stars clinging to the ceiling. 

   Would you penetrate further, the heavens would flee to make room for you. You would walk on Hell's untiled roof. The devils inside the dirt waking could finally cleanse their inner sense of things. The skin crust could just fall to the side, May flowers appearing on their backs inclined.

   Old Odin young like a new born goat! Laughing in hail. Tempests bringing the good news : floods and fire. A chance to rebirth on a higher sphere inside another Hollow Earth. 

   A cheater, a liar and like a ghost reaching through the summer grass under a coming thunder storm!

   This is quite good for your health. It will dissipate the melancholy. Be a bad boy when a pilgrim. Where the world Judah built does not deserve your kind.

   If it's Chaos the jew wants, then it give to him. Tomorrow belongs to us.

The eye in the wall is ours.
Staring you in the face.

Seiðr

Celestial Toxoplasmosis. Who is it comes out of the
the bleached skull? A dark soul
heavy with love and light.

   They think we go to the deep, just to know who it was did this mess from the start! Yet it's to take all and plus what belongs to me and mine, of what from the very beginning hated me before being born.  An eye for the dark pit, Ginnunngagap! Inundating the vast resources pertaining to illiterate death, the bones that hold what one might call my breath together. But I'm not else but a nothing living captivated by my own spell thrown out into a vat. Spacious. Thought lovely, but in its actual empty activity, deceiving! 

   But what of death? Who dare speak of it? When one's heart clung to it's own children, nascent in a plastic and organic life crippled eventually with man telling lies, wrought a combination of strings tied to be untied when the final air and soul wind, get trapped, by god again once fled and freed!

   A wind throng sounding through at sunrise in brambles! Poplars astounding me with another kind of light. A raven on the tree. 

   It's gold gives gold! From within the aether substance which we breathe. This tree digs into the shackling flesh, but sure it's not me, but only some corporal kind of unconscious entity I made. Sinking inside from back to back across the nine circles we invented. 

   & I am else. The point behind the compass turning. I am stronger than my corpse. Evicted in the end from this dreaded spleen.

   Is it for me, is it for you? Pardesha? With all our might in spite of mental & psychotronic chains pervading thanks to programmed human bots made for display and forgotten time, ...creating a secret resonant tinnitus, stimulating the honorable action through out the subtle hidden geography of the aryan soul, gratuitously and not for sale. Never to be bought. 

   My church is the sky dome at night. No walls, no curtains. No deceptive clouds. No fake windows insinuating mysterious passages in some mastaba in some place at the equator bulging into glued rings under the eastern sands. 

   The body of things is a trance, glides on the waters. For a moment it's in a bottle, bobbing on the waves. & there's no one will stumble on it my friend, so quick, wait and with patience, you'll change it again!

Hagal, or the Lebensraum, being
a secret space
in the aryan heart
sacred geometry's supernatural pleroma
where brothers collude
without any hope, with nothing at hand
recovering their homeland
with a faith that moves mountains.

   

le nom inconnu du bien caché

God's Evil.

   ...j'ai oublié le nom et ce qui allait avec.

   Juste pour un instant, par-delà mes propres fantaisies chez les Manes mais non des autres : j'étais la continuité du monde spirituel au milieu de la ruine, du havoc et du vacarme, parmi des larmes inutiles, et mal dépensées. Au gallop sont-elles parties les frustrations idiotes!

   C'était un rêve l'ami d'hier pour demain l'ennemi. Quel soulagement qui console, dont les suaves contours internes ne caressent rien qui puisse flatter le corps qui déchoit délabré, en sommeil confit.

   ...Un oeil pour l'être, le temps de l'apercevoir, la vitesse en retard. Le nom d'un instant au milieu de l'amical et fraternel gâchis. Pour l'amour un instant feint, puis feint outre mesure sans allure. Converti en haine. Tel un ange qui tombe la furie au front rougissant! 

   Que la Terre se retourne. Se laboure de mille façons. Une pierre se facettera. Limpide comme l'âme qui méprise le corps qui meurt. 

   Une pièce pour un sourire, deux pour la fille qui n'en vaut même pas 1. Le clin d'oeil de qui scintille désastre dans la nuit de ceux qui sont méprisables. Anubis ô Anubis, bleu comme bel en iris du roi :

C'est un chien bleu

du royal, un danois.

L'Hermès qui m'est cher

qui vient me rejoindre!

Le guidé qui guide

le Mehdi du Nord.

Le polaire exude

le voile du fond

qui me couvre

du regard.

Le diamant sera brisé

et mes frères

de se retrouver

Ici, parmi les brisures et éclats

de ceux qui furent

leurs adversaires.

Car le Mal que je chante

c'est celui du Bien Eternel

qui avec sa densité immense

foudroie puis

broie le caput du diable!

Voici le Mal du Bien pour le Mal!

Lovely Hatred

Finally it was hate filled up my unfortunate heart. The terrible sadness took such possession of me, that my great love for god and the godly became a haven which only an intentional good for one's own kind consoled!

How many times did I retaliate? Ô how often did I refuse to listen to the god in me saying :

despise the lower ones

my child

my lost boy in an evil mirth

mocking light

& Love.

But my christian conceit was such that I did abide, like an asshole in pig's mud. Letting them rape and slay what I loved with all my tempestuous bosom. Filled with wrath and hate; but in the end sinking in a quagmire where pity is lost on those who whimper, cheat and corrupt what's left of heaven's shadows on earth! I did concede, defeated.

God said, lift thyself up

my son my pretty child,

misled to

earth's dirt and rot

below.

It's me your 1st nature

forgotten

here within principalities

high above hidden in the air

where men breathe

yet cannot see.

For the life of me

what wouldn't I give

to die in my fairy's arms,

a good and honest lad.

True, men are liars, thieves, mechanized and programmed robots from birth to death, they'll never know! How close they were to the Son of Man, but slept like hogs in a filthy brothel. Working in the week for nothing. Sleeping in the night like rusted black beetles useless on their backs and wet, in the weeds., turning into dreams where thoughts enquire far from swallows toward morning glories.

But hate has filled me with its tremendous evil blackness. My love frothing still in spite of night, in secret corridors underneath the earth's crust. I hate so much what is poor & filthy in its indecent spiritually perverted anatomy. I hate the stupid unconscious lot weaving uselessly, unkempt and unaware bewitched in that tremendous lie and all the hideous hypocritical meanness that goes along! 

My heart is dark. A raven singing that doesn't exist, in a grotto, a soft organic mammal sheath deteriorating till the waves drown me within immortality. Is evil an unimpeachable principle swaying goodness to overshadow evil?

What is it, when god seeks

in clay

what he put there from

the start?

Is it truth to live by,

or the Will should conquer

whatever be;

that's truth it seems to me

even when thru lies

it lives to be.

Be god then.

Where ever wandering is

to be sure, there's fatigue

& moreover, getting lost

is part of it;

if not, you wouldn't dream of it

a haven for brave

and good men,

in a land 

we call Asgard.

Making it to be.

ATROCITÉ