Bubons, Furoncles & autres Kystes

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

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

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

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

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

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

20/88

  

    

Le Gentilhomme d'Extraction Céleste

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

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

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

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

La bave de Thor

Quand la Terre respire

unit avec son Ciel

De là-haut

comme d'un éclair

Odin récupère l'oeil

dans le bassin:

Car quand il change de mode

ou d'aspect 

C'est avec l'étant

qu'on laisse choir

la déception!

Il ne fabule plus.

Il ne flatte point.

Il baise bien sa Frigga

alors que Sleipnir 

l'emporte dans sa bière:

 Un ferment pour demain

dans le ventre d'un elfe!

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

Fasces Lictoriae

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

** * ** **

   

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

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

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

Chakravartin & his Body Guards.

   AVM.
Arisch ÜberMensch.


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

A trinkling here
another one over there!

Besmeared betwixt various imaginings.

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

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

when this and all else
has fled?

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

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

The Wind told me

Pour G.K.

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

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

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

One Folk Soul is mine,

guardian of the enclosed ubiquitous altar,

Extracted from the deep & thick flesh pulpe

the skies would forbid to schematic mankind.

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

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

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

   

Trickster Ravings

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

The Spirit plays the game,

in truth,

Without its asking any kind of permission;

A wild Wind easing

the horrendous pressure between the tired eyes.

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

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

Racial Clime!

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

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

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

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

   Your heart is with me in Asgard. 

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

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

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

It’s the Spirit, plays the Game,

a Wild Wind erasing

that horrible pressure that was between the eyes!

You must give no more than taken

taking back what was yours.

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

  

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

   

Âryâvartha

Through these untidy physical bodies

tireless souls trip awakening &

the Corporal ideas enter into extended flesh

While the stammering joy of little urchins

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

abiding perfect theme above the gutter:

 a transcendent eternal picture in the Mind

incarnates the beauty

within a finite darkness!

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

   The Sun and the Moon in mouvement

vorticing, their perpetual motions orbit the lick

thence mechanically combine

Emerging from the deep drafts

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

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

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

   Only great and simple souls have known this Metaphysical ordeal :

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

released only at Death like a leopard straying in a Zoo

whence, formerly encapsulated and compressed, a gaseous furious thing

filled with a mobile & perfect perception

Returns among the Eye-lit Stars back

against the black backdrop of the unfathomable firmament!"

   ...for Karl.

Νίσοϛ

   Et dans ce corps, sa luxurieuse exuberance, la clameur distincte mais oisive des pas d'amont qui précédèrent l'ultime exégèse des forces subtiles qui résident avec discrétion dans l'antre des promesses de l'éternité inachevée.

   ...fulminante d'outrage insatisfaite et inassouvie.

   ...ils ont été façonnés par ceux-ci même qu'ils façonnèrent. En cercle. Du cercle en cercle. Par delà le firmament qui contraint. Dôme qui extrait et qui retourne en vapeur leur sang qui exude au toit, où ni oiseaux ni sylphes n'osent s'attarder.

   Et l'expression incongrue sur leur demeure faciale pleine de leurs ineptes ambiguïtés les ponctionnent sans remords ni cessent jamais,  le mensonge de s'écouler en effluves à travers les gestes chevaleresques de jadis oubliés.

   Ô heureux Malheur à l'être qui avec une âme dût éprouver l'unique unicité de sa propre et inéluctable existence, intégrale au milieu du dissolvant! Indemne et qui perdure. Puis...

Pourtant, cela est la même; la Vision inhérente à mon oeil. Depuis l'immortel, dans l'évanescente farce que peuple certes l'humain fait de chair et du sang retirés du mélange depuis un bourbier, ...et du fruste l'issu, le fruit maclé. 

Sans goût et malsain du coeur.

Les 4 participants au corps de l'Âme.

Our Kinsmen Die

   ...and our kinsmen die. We die if not, unless we pull ourselves within from without, but for a stammer they die. 

   What you planted has withered. What we did while dreaming has withered. What we hailed while offering our homestead has flourished into oblivion! The fruit of our kinsmen has waisted in the midst of awful negligence!

   But for a stammering in the wake. Upon a land in the mighty mind.

** * ** **

   Make your Soul a fortress. What ever batters against the sacred inner doors. Close the kind heart. And drink to the defeat of all spiritual ignominy! 

   Let us dance the heart felt gig on their filthy corpses and hail while blessing with complete condamnation of the heap, the Golden Flower in our ancestral memory. There is no hope here, and yet neither does despair find a haven in our home.

   For alas, hope has gone. Has left the home without ado. 

   Make soldiers of our boys, to win and not ever to lose! We will not lose! 

   I'll make of Death a foundation for my Ideal. 

** * ** **

   Remember mankind is an ape when it's not you or your kin.

   You are a Lucifer fallen from the upper firmament. All that just to redeem some synthetic genetic program, senseless, without a heart, without a divine Soul. Made of biological zeros & ones. Created and fashioned by the False One laughing in the gutter. Inside his nothingness.

   They are jealous selfish & mean. Rust on the moss between the cracks in a degraded place. Uninspired. Without a King's Heaven to be spirit born.

   Remember, mankind is not even like the ape! But you have been distilled on high before the High One: you are his son. And so are all your Kin. 

A beautiful boy engendered in the sphere
of the Demiurge.

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!