vendredi 6 avril 2018

black brother

I have become a dense & black thing seeping & absorbing within, the whole Night and all its un-detached Creation. A black thing drinking in, all absence of refraction.

All life telling, in this world, is lies. All staying in this place of absolutely no salvation is a stupid thing to do.  Your heart without hope has no place for it!

« I am dead, but prevail like something that can never be construed despite the primal barriers that lock men’s fears, leveling them to colored octaves within a spectral dust." 

It’s an animated plaything Sun does the rest, baking corpses for noontide meals.

I am a dark ghost, darker and more brilliantly blackened than the shades gathering in the underworld corridors which yore, unmistakably frightened me!

I am an Abyss with a bodiless formlessness, ingurgitating the great & grand oh very dear Nothingness, which surrounds all the living to die put astray! 

Day and night are but pale reveries of a deceased me in the boot of a car that I’m driving to and fro, eternally. A silent star issuing into a sea of carelessness.

** * ** **

Dont forget who you are! Never ever lose your memory. Whatever it was that tackled you, beset your weary self; all the good & bad never forget!

This is the outer core of your Eternal Diamond Abode. What ranks stinks & sucks…what was hated & loved: be infinite and take all that in. A faithful warrior is no better than his Master.

Across Aeons & Aeons thru the most profound gapping gaps between the stitches holding all the indefinite worlds together: strive hopelessly & be glad! until you reach the deep des-incarnation of yourself. Hail. Hail. Middle and extended a key to all enigmas: a Child of the Black Sun.  An Angel of Death. Another brother to Lucifer’s Horde of Black Pilgrims.

samedi 31 mars 2018


If you say that in this perverted age,
The luminous body has never been seen to occur,
That would mean, a rejection of the Aryan Dharmakaya…..

Is that what you wish to say, that today,
In this land where we live…
That the teaching of the Vajrayâna is no longer valid? 

                                   from the text —- « Death’s Pellucid Light »  

Peut-il être autrement, que celui que tu assènes
ne ressentisse autre que l’absence de concerne profond pour la folie des mondains?

Un tel, qui ne soit redevable envers quiconque, aurait-il faim
de quelque chose, désirerait-il des facsimiles et alors insensible persister dans l’ombre à guetter des squelettes de son passé maudit, une opposition à l’ombre comme une flame qui défie l’épaisse déception obscure?

Tout comme un lambeau de tissu à flot, imprégné d’eau sans pesanteur discernable ne coulerait ni toi, sans affecte ne désireras plus rendre vulgairement tangible le pourtour décousus de ces choses mortes sur une terre sans pourquoi? Ni comment? Hélas quelle énorme  supercherie t’eût séduit? 

Tout cela dans le vacarme, hélas concession! Tous ces prétendus humains dépourvus d’honneur! sans honte qui accablent sans ardeur jamais qui pousse pour le vrai envers l’innocent enragé. Toute la fantasie cultivée qui dénonce la face rude de qui seront absents sur l’autre rive d’Urda quand sera à moi mon tour de mépriser dans sa totalité l’ensemble du Monde Perdu! 

Et le Krist à mon côté buvant avec moi la parole perdue retrouvée dans le sang des miens, dans la coupe de notre amertume! Le Hakenkreuz tournant comme un immense Néant du vide sur les rouages des ossements broyés de ma Mère et de mon Père, en ma poitrine et qui ne laisse de fendre la chair fine d’un coeur agri alors enfin immobile dans le calme cadavre dissout de notre espoir déchu!

Salut à toi ô âme apaisée en Enfer. 

Fils d’Odin qui marche sur l’eau qui brule. 

Que la Terre dévore et digère dans la mesure du possible, le calcaire et l’oxide de fer de Nifelheim, l’acre bile de toutes celles qui lui ont fait masquerade de bonté…

… & maintenant qu’elle accouche de son regret sur le trône de Dieu dans la salle de ses compères!

Der Christus wird in Helheim hinuntergestiegen! Ich heiz im Hagaldom, das Gottinnerlichkeit!  

Das Auge der mein Auge.

Eine unauslöschliche Lampe, die ohne Nachsicht verfolgt, diese widerwilligen höllischen Schatten!

jeudi 22 février 2018

the Barren Idea of You

Against shame & unfair odds, I fought you
while the same time you despised me, smirking.

I shuddered, shivering, would or did you care for us ?
yet I knew you hated outright, with all your calculated attention,
the clean quite tidy corners

Of a sacred space. With incense and lit wicks, trembling.

And I fell, like a star crashing on the pavement !
…wishing Eternity to be placed, inside an impossible vessel !

« My dear darling, up and dancing awkwardly in a vain man's story, where all is fake & fakery from one level to the next spiraling endlessly just underneath the scrutiny of God.

It has no mystic use for you, nor does it ever consult me
it vibrates longitudinally in complete and resonant discompassion
across the temporal fibres, Death does thrive on.

There is nothing bold & wonderful about it. Nothing worth taking to the grave.»

Pleading with all this in unkempt mind, we fight unjust battles for romantic reasons, without any favor from any gods or demons or men or ghosts or awful giants hiding in the air, covered in fur. We combat rebellious bodies, the souls twitching the wide & fickle range of sickly horreurs , which embedded in vernacular from the start of younger years deface in time, the pure natural innocence we saw immediately at once thru our eyes.

But now I know how forlorn it was desiring to reduce you and your intangible beauty into a soothing stale phrase. To want to place you into a frame. To make a gruesome image of you in accordance with the disfigured light of my own trusting ignorance. To make of you, a static sterile thing ! An Idol revery. Into a barren idea where the internal soil of our mutual inaccessibility just wont bother.

« Love is an ungrateful & abominous joy which can be unearthed from beyond the Aether. An inspired lovely brave and sometime solemn substance, wakeful in the heart, longing to quit the idle sound of murderous spleen. »

It’s certainly not some barren idea of you which you despise ! Nor is it some refrain randomly plucked on the cat gut, elaborated from 3 to 4 to 5. On a tortoise shell under your pillow. The wind in the room lost in the darkness. Not dead.