...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!

My Sisters Scold

I beseech thee, ever incandescent sky, all enveloping Master Mind. Spirit to nothing. Intangible heavy substance. Dense as dense could be, become and thrive, here in the bottomless net of all things made up in make believe. Worshipping no man as sinner, condemning no man as honorable!

Obliterating cancerous thoughts before they make it to the vestibule or outhouse on this illusory Earth. Rapt in an idole who waits in some depression somewhere far from friends and foes invented in a kind of sanctuary or havre of peace. 

O great Spirit interpreter, dead to New Age mumbo. Undrugged fiend, with no heartless and hopeless handicap. But a whisper in the eye. A magical trick teetering into oblivion. 

Does a man here with other migrant fellows, believe really believe in the crap that comes from his belly, to be an obstacle to his wellbeing of worthlessness? On the skirts of some hellish liar decked with teats, the wayfarer goes off to the side and watches carefully. What is it covers my pupils in dismay if it isn’t the dross of CO2? A wink and a batter in between several buns doesn’t make my day. Yet, what levitates deceives, what goes round, but hesitates! 

My Sisters in Heaven Earth and Hell doubt the ascertainable existence of their own children who now weaned from their bitter nipple, will necessarily with displeasure aggravate their single heartfelt endeavor!  They cut the bite, but no lever holds; nothing binds. No string attached no scissors to cut.Where’s the indefinite spool turning inside the august ethereal  corner in my bedroom?

I beseech thee then with my steady arms uplifted, to unshake the befuddled bystander. To make him disappear because it’s of no use or better to make him or her become a cup bearer to your tidy plan. Then scuttle back to the cupboard where nothing is to be known.

From the Principles of Nothing

There in a dark place. Very un-redeeming. In a portentous wrought of chaotic giddiness, I sought mayhem unrequited.

Surely from the great pithy depth of all Mankind’s innate stupidity, there could be found somewhere there a particular remedy. That would confound my personal perplexity. Mouth opened visage dumbfound, in front of such a dire chronic and incurable immaturity or selfish egomania if you will!  

But no there is none shall never be any….certainly this makes me very happy; as there would be no hope in any thing of a material demeanor, I would be free to love and think freely without fetter! doomed to to be lost within the magnificent abyss myself as unique fellow friend or guide. My Love would be without attachement, having no profit from nothing, save itself and its perfectly inclined buoyancy on the etheric surface of our World, diverse and multiple and inconsolable! A no-thing within nothingness, more adamant than God’s buttocks, in his chair  of Cassiopeia!

Trust me. There is no Will other than mine. The Crown on my head leaks into Eternity’s froth. All my marrow has become my immortal outer-self. I’m drunk on my own spilt blood. There is no more thirst in me for a fleeting shadow.

Megalithic Mein Herr

I went to the very end of what I was. To the extreme boundary of my unique stupidity! Till no chime was heard. Till the birds died out at Night’s bottomless meaninglessness. Yes to the very end where nothing was worth a cent’s sweat of blood. 

And I was a knight in brittle armor. Black as ebony in a raven’s but! A pure by-product of grandiose affection. A God’s ideal incarnate. 

Pretentious! Ô yes. Oh…my darling dear. Dearest darling lost in worthless frolicking. 

I was an upright stone in the field. The dew was on my head. Amongst the wet grass. My dogs played yonder.

The starry mirth of Maidens had wet my sad brow. But into the sky I pointed my secret mind. My heart was a god not yet dead on a gallows stage. 

These were places within my physical grasp. I would to the final end keep the head high till HELL swallow all that’s considered like earth, in a dumb girl’s embrace.

But oh my. My wonderful charming hole in the ground. The heavens twisted and thrived, shivering in a swoon. Until my only love, … the end of my great and only LOVE muttered: 

Wait till the Valkyria kiss your darkened scalp. While the sweet light protruding from your soul hastens to devour the corpse of yesterday.

Yes I went to the very end of what I was. To the marrowless bone. To where worms chatter. And all was melted, a sloppy mess dripping back into the glass. Till the birds died out at sunset. And all there was was meaningless. 

Till the Maiden from the lofty sky did swoop down and lift me up!

She said: Fight and fight again,

ἐπιλαμβάνειν

…quand le vulgaire téméraire de plébiscite touche au sujet initiateur & de sens sacerdotal avec ses potentiels pléonastes truffés de sang mixé ou charnel d’aberration contre nature qui à mesure d’une élaboration métabolique n’esquisse qu’avec vaguerie la valeur réel du but du Monde, il blasphème par ce geste buffon ou insensé contre l’Architecte (son être le plus intime au haut du ciel autre que la voie lactée) & sans qui, l’humain mammifère ne serait, il est certain, que balbutiements macro-moléculaires au sujet de l’Être et du Sentier de l’Ens dans la voie du Salamandre igné.

Rude et frustre. Inapte et inopportun. Vaniteux hélas comme quelque singe updated de l'Austin, l’infra-humain augmenté de gras acide! Plein d’extensions qubitaires. Le golem des possibles le zombie de l’Eden, l’esclave de sa femme garce & mégère au pied de l’arbre anthropogyne, qui dans la crainte le plus outré, le mène à travers maintes égarements incohérents vers la parodique apothéose de l’animal apeuré qui mendie l’assistanat; 

…sous la tutelle d’une idole artificielle et ou biblique. Ange déchu & Maître de poussière et du carnage irradié. Le Supreme castrat du désert! Le Grand Satan de Mont Sinaï. Qui prive des yeux sains et adéquats. Et qui mélange TOUT.  Pour enfin régner en Grand Eclopé. Seigneur des manchots & des épaves de l’Âme accablée.

Pute de Babylone.

** * ** **

…je t’invoque Ô Dieu Suprême, Malheur des Idoles, Salut du Vrai contre cet IMPOSTEUR!

Tu méprise l’angoisse de ceux qui t’aiment. Tu délectes dans la souffrance interminable à travers les acquis héréditaires, sous les tumuli de nos cadavres empilés, les crânes recouverts de mousse gaëlique, de ceux qui comme moi se parfaisaient! Ô calamité d’AMOUR du VRAI. Oh que le seul beau puisse subsister. Comme une fleur d’Ipomée, sur les rives de l’au-delà Eternel.

a Viking

Do you see how in this weeping, those colliding particules that wreathed in the vine, fondly loved in past reveries, like a babe before the dawn wrapped its beloved arms out of a beast-less desire, round the nothingness that stared him in the face. 

Forgotten. Just dust and grease covering. The dew on the edge of grass blade, emerging like crystal tears, diaphanous.

Now just cheap rags. Used, & disappearing into worm-holes, as the fabric breaks meaninglessly into seamless threads.

The Polar-cap blistered. The waning waves sinking beneath the waft! 

Underneath the stars as angels tread

the faint breath of the morrow

awaits no new dawn from yesteryear.

Surely, the cat’s out

climbing out of trash & bins.

And the babe will grow

as a torch in the darkness

inaugurating exponentially, to engulf the greater Night!

A new young honorable Man of Promise

superseding the outer limits of all Worlds!

A Viking.

Hanging in the Void

And now perhaps they’ll understand, but comprehend nothing. These two sons of Ra hanging on the inferior abyss, glued to the physical internal firmament. Steeped in pitch. With a kind of symmetrical regularity wandering each and every day in one same place! Entrancing. And harmoniously unmingled. The same ancient synchronistic prison pace advancing! 

The gods muttering relentlessly, again and again.

On the palm of the Al-Father’s left hand. Suspended between the higher and the lower waters within the deep void of his incommensurable heart. Luminous and sad darkness glitter together and apart.

This is Balder. And this is Loki. Horus and Set. Mimir’s Well the eye that knows deep from beneath. The other, on up high, the supernal wisdom kept for frolicking and new joys of detached beatitude. The sage’s eternal present to himself…..

Odin hanging from Yggdrasil. 9 great spheres with every one its own personal amniotic sea: the Mead that flows without ceasing into the Grail Cups of those who’ll be slain, for their God! 

The Demiurge is but Wotan’s dark backside. His eyes are the sun and the moon watching continually, save when the clouds of mankind’s ignorance saturate the Aryan Way with useless hustling, bickering and mean backbiting.

His eyes are the sun and the moon. Bestowing plethoras of two creature kind. Together they project human destiny and fussy conceited social busy business. Quarrels and plight. Hate and anger. Jealousy and spite. 

It is from those two mobile pools in the sky that all distraughtness and heart hardening are emanated.

As & Vanir.

The earth and its baneful woeful womb is Shiva’s supper: a meaty repast for the Aesir Thor who hungers for battle as well as to no purpose.

the Grain in the Ashes

These bounteous branches to be covered in lime, issued from a single seed of ocean salt. Burgeoning on the tide of sands, washing on Eternity’s cliff. 

While down below in life’s sewers hair raising phenomena stretch the vulgar mind beyond its tethered intent!

Wo, yet the animated mud sinks into the dark caverns. And there is nothing to say. At all to say again or so one pretends? All’s been seen & done so many times before! But not like Now!

Cycled truths for recycled blasphemy. Unsacred hymns sung for the sake of new found fake héros. Where is Dasein? 

In the bleak where ashes gather

a dew drop in the morn

Unable to fathom

the desert wind, the grass

where the earth stutters.

And now it’s certain yet I’m hopefully filled with doubt, a single grain of single malt, ushers in tomorrow’s futur dawn for dying ever again through the new born sands of tomorrow!

Comme un Ange Oublié

Comme un ange oublié veilleur quelque part dans quelque niche absconds, sous terre sans désir ni l’envie d’appétit de sortir. Ou fuir s’en aller.  Aucun secours qui vint du dehors; hélas cela exprimait d’avec l’obscure ténèbre alentour. Maelstrom perpétuel. Hantise rugueuse inepte et coupante! Le Ciel son ardeur pétrifiée!

Le hâle vêtement effiloché qui reluit se terne. L’oeil voit. Clair regard aux yeux solaires tant et tels blues. Le titan se trémoussa à terre, assis.

C’est son Dieu qui l’eût fait, l’eût parfait tout en haut des Cieux, par-delà le dome désert dépourvu d’astres. Mais certes la crinière hautaine dorée malgré le vaste béant, éclairait de ses lustres les plus inviolables les prémices de l’enfer dévastateur. En bas revêtu de terre il scrute imperturbable.

Du coin de l’œil, l’auburn s’étire. Il voit du sein de l’abime la terreur qui attendait tout débâcle. L’âge n’est plus de ce temps songeur. La nef s’affrète! L’eau ruisselle dans d’étroites rigoles. La terre s’agonise sous les pressions insupportables là où l’âme s’enfle sous la délicate ambroisie, qui recouvre sous le feuillage converti en humus sa chrysalide de pierre. Figure d’étoile en regain de l’empyrée!

Enterré dans le roc il respire, se heurte face à sa mauvaise humeur, irascible inconsolable, et impatient. Vaincu par le poids illusoire qui vaut la pénurie de l’esprit, dans ces limbes sub-alternes, s’étouffant sous le couvercle aérien,  blême & gris. 

« Là haut, ma Muse m’attend.

Effritée comme une huitre en porcelaine.

Le bris des brisures.

Eclat de l’éclair.

J’ai rêvé d’Elle, je rêve d’Elle.

Son Ombre en soie m’illumine

au-dedans. 

Son Ombre m’est douce

et rêche,

y pénètre tout ce qui endure.»

L’harmonique de sa symétrie azure s’accorde aux souvenirs impalpables. Vestiges irrécupérables fuyant l’intangible mémoire! Ce Paradis d’Asgard jadis notre possession je vous en conjure, tant une précieuse gemme qui dans notre coeur veillait autrefois sur les parterres fossiles autour du Monde du Nord. 

Ce demain ressenti avec anxiété tant esperé par nous c’était d’hier, qui s’impatiente impertinent; nos très chers frères de la Voûte céleste qui jadis des astres au ciel, déchurent dans ce cimetière de l’idéal!