Hugin & Munin bis

Inward awareness and conscious eternal life.

Thought and memory. The two wings that belong to the normal mind.

Creatures in heaven and in the sky, to move unabated.

Impervious to all who touch and deem spatial frontiers, accessible. To decaying hands and earthen brains.

Creatures in and on the earth. Living and moving in their own kind of Aether. Within their predestined mind set, immaculate and pristine soul. Archetypes which are divine agencies unharmed by scientific vanity cast shadows on the reflective mud. Shimmering.

Creatures underneath. Held at bay at arm’s length. And genies preventing the telluric sulfurs from hurting the breathing beasts, thoroughly and lavishiously peopling the earth’s belly with diverse life forms of an inherently unspeakable beauty.

And at times Hell’s host will shed ugliness on the lot of it all! Pretending to claim some sort of supremacy on it. Making ugliness the golden mean, and then on top of it, to be perversely proud of it: a kind of inverted unsacral meme!

Ripples on the quiet in our profound unbending unheard of darkness. A bright unfathomable energy. Giving no explanation of itself. Nothing to be said then squandered!

Written in ciphers on some torn shredded parchment. To be stolen then lost, then sold.

** * ** **

The light doesn’t curve in a great emptiness. But goes straight onward, back and forth, into the infinite. Never-ending in a watchful briefness. Uttering secret never known words, into hurdles of wind, beneath the firmament.

While archons decide man’s fate through the filtering obstructions of positioned planets and stars, weaving in the dark blue wilderness, a web of greater and minor beings, intermingled from within and out. Entangling god’s eyes in a crisscross of embarrassing perplexity.

Sometimes there are miscellaneous stones thrown into the quiet pond, like meteors in the night sky offending the universal transparent order!

** * ** **

Where then, is what is relative? Who told these lies from the start? In what injured clime did a preposterous scoundrel with a white lab coat make believe with mathematical gibberish in a planet lost in space?

Nothing to be really understood or quantified? Theorems to blind ignoramuses, educated like good dogs. Seeing what mystifies, then eventually losing touch with real life and themselves.

Integral integers delineating. Wanton mistakes for flattering Nobel Prizes!

Islands floating indefinitely going no where. Until hitting some inexplicable, unawaited wall. Abashed and humiliated. Foiled in a terrific conceptual ineptie.

Surprised within a Great Lie. For fairy idiots. Becoming simply stupid then appalled!

Bowing to some desert alien mongrel who with its vicious mashing teeth swallows blood and joints. Mangled flesh. A vampire.

The Babylonian myth monger. Parading in a desolate wasteland, where only a thick black blood can rise. To filthy the earth, and what’s above, in the air where pretty sprites wander, as well those organic things that move, on the world’s lonely surface. No gods nowhere, just a silly uncatered barrenness: the conceited post-modern man who squints in the dark.

** * ** **

Hugin says in disgust how undelightfully feverish he feels. Misinterpreted as he is. When he can fly from east to west. North to south. By fake science, its seers and new age priestesses.

Munin only regrets it all occasionally, while wetting Odin’s chest, with relentless tears.

Waiting for that special time with his pals, when barren earth shall give rise to purple irises and two-toned daffodils on the sea front where we’ll harvest salt for the future banquet of good tidings.

Here on this stationary flat globe, dazzled by marvelous stars. Yearning for today.

Hugin & Munin & Pals.

Hugin & Munin

Inward awareness and eternal life.

Thought and memory. Creatures in heaven and in the sky, to move unabated. 

Impervious to all who touch and deem spatial frontiers, accessible. To decaying hands and earthen brains. 

Creatures in and on the earth. Living and moving in their own kind of Aether. Within their predestined mind set, immaculate and pristine soul. Archetypes which are divine agencies unharmed by scientific vanity cast shadows on the reflective mud. Shimmering. 

Creatures underneath. Held at bay at arm's length. Preventing the telluric sulfurs from hurting the breathing beasts, thoroughly and lavishiously peopling the earth's belly with diverse life forms of an inherent mysterious beauty. 

And at times Hell's host will shed ugliness on the lot of it all! Pretending to claim some sort of supremacy on it. Making ugliness the golden standard, and then, to be perversely proud of it: a kind of inverted unsacral meme!

Ripples on the quiet in our profound unbending unheard of darkness. A bright unfathomable energy. Giving no explanation of itself. Nothing to be said then squandered! 

Written in ciphers on some torn shredded parchment. To be stolen then lost, then sold.

** * ** **

The light doesn't bend. But goes straight into the infinite. Never-ending in a briefness. 

Where then, is what is relative? Who told these lies from the start? In what injured clime did a preposterous scoundrel with a white lab coat make believe with mathematical gibberish in lost space? Nothing to be really quantified? 

Integral integers delineating. 

Islands floating indefinitely going no where. Until hitting some unexplainable, unawaited wall. Abashed and humiliated. Foiled in a terrific conceptual ineptie. Surprised within a Great Lie. For fairy idiots. Bowing to some desert alien mongrel having big vicious teeth. 

The Babylonian myth monger. Parading in a desolate wasteland, where only black blood can rise. To filthy the earth, what's above in the air where sprites wander, as well those organic things that move on the lonely world's surface.

** * ** **

Hugin says in disgust how undelightfully feverish he feels. Misinterpreted as he is. By fake seers and new age priestesses. 

Munin only regrets on wetting Odin's chest, with relentless tears. 

Waiting for that special time, when barren earth shall give rise to purple irises and two-toned daffodils on the sea front where we'll harvest salt for the future banquet of good tidings.

Here on this stationary flat globe, befuddled by marvelous stars. Yearning for today.

Living in the New World Ghetto

It's always justified to ban from one's own homeland what ever it is one does not want there.

It is your right to be prejudiced. And that said, to have your own self-made convictions without television commercials. 

To defend one's own blood family, one's children, one's natal home. To uphold first and foremost the survival of an earned heritage to freely determine your folk's destiny! 

To be sure, it is rightful and honorable to be racist. As racist as Muhammed Ali. Yet kind and courageous if only for spectators, as well as a fraught ridden personal publicity

** * ** ** 

Better to kill a tiger and feed your Mother. Rather than, to think on some selfish inebriating autistic nirvana. 

Becoming the cyclical Maitreya, rewarding the brainwashed burgeoning of the oriental clone!  

Let Shakyamouni live his past lives in his burning homes. And that to some extant,  as well without an Ego? 

...it is better to live your own life as you see fit! ...& to hell with the buddha and his tyrannical dogmatic intoxication!

Better to be proud and have an "I", than to lose your self esteem, losing to some leach, what is yours!

Protecting borders, one's land one's country. Respecting one's own personal body. 

Than to see one's own child outside in the gutter, in the rain, dying from hunger, just to feed an ungrateful savage horde of uncultivated savages. 

Abandoned, only to feed wistful crowds of aimless cowards, that left their own at home to be injured or die helplessly unprotected! 

Better to stay home and defend one's own kind than to run off like cowering sheep, leaving your home your nation your people, your defenseless lambs to be murdered!

Better to die in a war of righteous defense, than to jump on a rubber boat like scared domestic animals, just to get free social care and a free smart phone. 

To get parked like used cars in some abandoned empty lot?

Fleeing your people's intruder!

To become an unwanted intruder elsewhere! 

...and shameful dreg.

** * ** ** 

How like cattle herded without dignity, into Occidental Slums where slaughterhouses burst, filled with a moo and a bah!

Human meat and a horrendous unvirtuous quality all in one.

New World Order Ideal.

And  yet all the world will become, our own one great ghetto.

Saint Perclus l'Heureux Psychopathe des Braves

Perclus le Psychopathe Héroïque des Justes

Hitler was probably, "a neurotic psychopathe, bordering on schizophrenia" and that "he wasn't insane, but was emotionally sick and lacked normal inhibitions against antisocial behavior."

Walter Langer 

Parfois quand c'est le mode d'emploi que d'être fourbe, compromis et lâche, Saint Perclus tout en haut au Ciel Très Suprême, se décide, à force d'entendre maints cris et larmes incessants,  que il y en a assez! Que cela suffit, ces tourments visant le bien être des Peuples Innocents et Fiers! 

Et dans la graine, le gland. Réside une semence d'or de souche aryenne. Une lumière de source extra-polaire. D'une qualité hyper-exceptionnelle, qui provient du Néant trans-cosmique! 

Cette luminescence qui devait se manifester au niveau des corps qui périclitent, sous une forme composée de particules fines avec une adhérence réciproquement interdépendante n'a pas été prédestinée! 

Pris en compte comme discernable selon des mathématiques. 

Une anomalie un bug dans la Cité. Dans la structure préétablie et civile des Ponts et Chaussées. La chose était imprévisible: car ici, il n'y a aucun salut dans la prison.

Mais Saint Perclus tout en haut là HAUT, voyait les choses autrement. Bien qu'il sût qu'il devait perdre. Ici chez les couards au royaume des nains spirituels.  

C'est ainsi que l'Infule des Tûatha ne peut couronner une tête de Maure pour long temps et rester en état! 

Car c'est au Ciel au-delà que l'on reconnaîtra les siens dans les halles de Valhalla. Le Monde des Saint Perclus. 

Il n'est ici bas, d'aucune manière, possible de le prévoir astronomiquement. Selon quelque manie sidérale!

Pour les badauds d'ici, cela reste toujours à démontrer!  

Un Astrologue  de bonne fréquentation ne saurait quoi en dire. Auprès de ses pairs. Les sages des Temples Bureaucratiques de ce Monde n'en aient pas la moindre science qui saurait prédire astralement ce qui au fond n'était pas concrètement probable.

Qu'un tel phénomène perturbateur pourrait, dans cette vie plan plan être raisonnable à même considerer éventuel.

Heureux les braves psychopathes car c'est à eux qu'appartient Le Valhalla!

Le Tombeau de Saint Perclus le Psychopathe

from behind the Haunted Painted Scenes

It's just vapors come from 'neath the ground. Ancestral toils churning. The concrete honorable souls who in Hell, assure our strength here in this mutually lonely combat, together weaving sword and axe. For us and in us for the Godly! Here in Turmoil's favorite arena.

Vapors which just before were vaporous when in human guise walked on this earth, and were in this ungodly matrix, like us. Never fooled by the compass or the square, or either when encircled.

Its with your own reclaimed awareness, that you put things back into place: if you dont, then all you'll have in the end, is compasses and squares and bleak bad taste for those potential cavernous holes that walk and fill their abysmal innards. With dross and rust and metal worms. 

But dont they wish for it? To have more and, some more.

Scarecrows in a maze built by frightened tyrants. Engineers sapping the life sap from what is the vital virgin stuff of things. 

A life insulted by the semblance of a man, ...and it wears clothes perhaps just like us, but unlike those who in Heaven live in Hell, but do not belong.

We are the unpredictable enemy of those who hate our Lord Christ, the golden one. 

We come stealthily from beyond the North Polar Axis. Falling into a realm of cynical madness. Where harpies rule weak arrogant men.

** * ** **

Be adamant.

Help only those whom you suppose worthy. And those who squander or pillage all that is pretty, get rid of! 

Or if not, flee them that relish in their destined ghetto squalor, and then blow the whole damn thing up! 

Be good to all but never be respectful to those who disrespect, 

your child, your kind, your spiritual soil and holy blood!

** * ** **

The immortal fountain's child. The supernal eye in the yuletide cradle. These are the seed from which you come. And dont forget!

This is why, there is an adamant faith distills your unified ghost from this place to where your courage takes you.

Think on the end.

the Barren Limits of it All

Surely, the vast quarry belonging to yesterday's errors is filled with a disastrous internal enmity. In the shape of hidden mineralized things to be mined, then "quarried" for another tomorrow's dubious aberration! Another kind of civilized foundation. All that, just to fill some coffers! Heaping metallic fiduciary in a cellar underneath the staircase.

To live on and ever afterward by some usurious means, tolerated by those who are just to become afflicted.  

A sad sight underneath the watching stars. Tuned to a sacred fibre of celestial affection.

Un-alerte yet there. The beasts in the dark bosom of those graves, belonging to fallen men and women who deceived themselves for one drink. For the devious nature of their own kind, shall once again sprout within the cellular proteins of their own progeny, to grow on the surface of the world again, continuing with their mixed bad blood, the birthing of some more evil biological sort!

** * ** **

Yet it is not the fault of any good honest stock. 

There have always been bad apples in the bunch, but because some vermin has entered by its precious sustaining enveloppe, the good ones are stricken ill, and thus a noble nature has little chance to survive. 

Having to combat from within and from without many incredible pitfalls! This place where Satan strides.

...and yet, a true man like the Christ, was born amidst a very bad lot of lower men. A self made miracle in a barren land, born from a god!, to be mistreated apparently by a pretentious comely "human" mammal tribe.

An aryan graft in an ever unstable mortal mud.

Fiana

These are the spiritual warriors that watch, keeping wake between here & there.

They can see if you lie. To others or to yourself. They watch and search for the true heart. They know as the thing in itself, the diamond eye. 

Your Honor is the armure revealing sincere intent. With it you are preserved from the cowardliness  of the sundry! Those who cheat, pretending loyalty are blown asunder into desiccated atoms: fodder for the weeds in tomorrow's fields. Becoming eventually of some use. For the wild things!

These men in black, in the picture above, are the Black Sun's Innocent Faithful who really do fear nothing, no thing whatever, whether alive or dead. Be it here or there: they are those, whose consciousness devours the mortal sum of everything! 

They watch, as we in this stupendous hypnotic maelstrom, query here, our inevitable demise. Seeing nothing.

...and they wait to escort our brethren to Valhalla!

For leuchovius' ghost.
I fight for justice, only for the best, among the just who fight!

A Holy and Bewildering Graft

A bewildering shock. With an inestimable inner will, saw the light of this world thru the perennial mammal dust of our ancient forefathers. 

That which by its own demiurgic and disastrous outer nature, as well as by the processes of eternal cosmic cycles was going toward an inevitable spiritual and physical catastrophe, had for but an moment in the sands of Time, been spliced majestically.

A god's hand had slipped on, the carnal glove of human mortality. But the gods are of an incombustible thing in their  substance, and therefore cannot burn neither in Heaven nor in Hell. 

A gravitational shock wave shivered, hit the outer surface of the earth. Reverberating across land and sea and ocean. Even unto the wild forests of the deepest darkness! Overturning the affairs of this world in that which they possessed as infamous and unclean in their secret intentions.

When the gods show how much mercy they have. It isn't by way of some priest clothed like a woman, that they send, because of compassion's sake, to their sons a pacific savior,  but a warrior of obscure ascension, in modest garb, so as that no vain glorious man might suspect somewhere in some place obvious, his noble birth.

** * ** **

A drop of awareness. The eye of an ancient warrior. The head dress and the visage of Great Kalki. 

When a cyclical "humanity" of hyperborean descent falters, the inner earth shudders in dismay, desperately. And from the Skies they call on "the Holy Graft". And God sends His only son, amongst those who need him. Into their pur hearts!

This is without a doubt what the Kristian Esoteric Tradition is all about. 

Because, as beautiful and intellectually superior as it is the aryan race, it languishes. It is stuck so horrendously into a moral quagmire of a mortal hearth of organic particules. Lost in a great dream of yesteryear, distraught and laden with sadness, quashed by its great celestial Spirit. 

Je suis le paratonnerre de mon Peuple.

***

la Greffe de l'Aryen

...d'une extraction, supersiderale. C'est l'Esprit Radical, qui s'achemine d'outre-monde et qui de dessous d'une épaisse croûte de désespoir divin, provient en dépit de tout obstacle mesquin, de par-delà les bornes des limites animo-sensuelles des 9 sphères, interloquées, immobiles, en activant l'engrenage perpétuel des astres sans lassitude, comme amoureux de l'idéal déchu, mais qui ne déchoit nulle part, sans se saisir de sa propre affection intégrale et indomptable. 

Il puise dans son propre néant! 

Comme un éclair éclate la matière crue, qui se refuse. Il n'attend pas la sainte grâce du Ciel avec tous ses anges en 100,000 exemplaires clonés! Qui viendraient assouvir leur esclavitude dans le tourment des Innocents terrestres.

Il est tathagata-gharba, la pure volonté dont l'origine s'écoule comme de la Rosée Céleste, hyperboréen de nature. Créateur de lui-même dans l'usage honorable de l'Art Royal.

La Greffe de L'Aryen implantée dans une souche brute de la Race Pale qui n'a pas froid aux yeux! Parvenue jusqu'ici depuis le royaume de la Satya.

Dans la vaste fluidité des vagues infinies qui de progression en progression tournent, l'incommensurable inadmissible courage d'un seul, prend à lui seul à bras le corps, le despotique penchant de l'universelle paresse fatale.

Il est humble et affiche l'air hautain. Même dans les zones de la vie mondaine, les plus abjectes.

Une déjection de l'Etoile Polaire, immergée au milieu de la misère et de la dégénérescence, les pires parmi l'humain visage.  

** * ** **

Que les jaloux maudissent tout courage et effort audacieux.

Que m'importe! 

Que ceux qui sont victimes, se relèvent et devient de vrais hommes et de vrais femmes! 

L'Hyperboréen est le produit royal d'une greffe qui par l'Art des Nobles Immortels s'introduit dans la chair psycho-pneumatique du meilleur des mammifères terrestres chez le mortel des humains.

** * ** **

Il est une tempête surnaturelle de rage et d'amour qui bouillonne dans la vacarme au milieu de ce qui est vile; tout en bas dans les régions inférieures du Monde, la vermine des faibles adulent avec rire et sarcasme du cynique, l'atrocité du jeune homme libre et bon, et soldat-martyr.

  

Immaculate Intolerance

Where there is no male pride or any viril presence, it isn't conceivable,  could not be possible, even for one second, that one ounce of any of the 4 human races, could ever subsist! Nothing human would be possible, let alone probable . All would be just, infra-man!


No human of any kind! No human species worthy of life! No manly awareness of anything, and the gods would be dead things to fill in the holes where dust heaps eternally.

Only mutants and clones, and a couple of Avatar D's. Perhaps some by-products from the city jungles. And a lot of idiots not knowing the difference between a vagina and an ass-hole!

The black solar principle that leans on nothing if not its own incomprehensible will, would have no place here, at any time!

The only vital quality capable of defending its right to be in spite of the unconscious inhuman thriving on the earth among so many barbarians, of an insatiable soul, to conquer a private place in this great void where uselessness and wine and meat and sex are the only thing that spurs the degenerate "human" crowd onward towards its blind abyss, possible could not be were it not for its Will to Power! 

Beauty which is in the eye of the beholder wouldn't have any part in the great spatial desolation of almighty Jah! 

This is why today, even more so then ever, although this isn't new, sustained ugliness and the lack of faith in oneself, rule more so than ever the mind of the effeminate western nations of this world. 

Because, so very few are beholders of beauty from within, meanness is become the ubiquitous ruler, littering the earth's arena with plastic bones and brass: 

the inedible imperfect fruits of a spiritually demented and autistic democracy. 

** * ** ** 

And what one sees are just walking bipedal discharges filled with hate, reckless and useless wandering nowhere, always jealous of the other, living for no reason but to spread the evil of their infernal unnaturalness. Drugged and capricious. No personal mastership. No one really there! Nothing present, where God is dead.

Cavernous biological holes devouring what little well-being might again persist. 

No place where, an invisible holy sanctuary would harbor kingly roots.

** * ** ** 

What you perceive writhing in the streets outside at night, are like grey rats come from the sewer, carrying some kind of deliberate contagious infection, synthetically concocted by our own cry-baby well-care state with its indoctrinated genderless worker-slaves! 

In the place of a  soul, nothing burns, nothing is alit. Not even Mother Nature's natural darkness can stand the odorless satanic boredom lingering in these harvested transplanted organic aberrations.

Give them something clean and they'll make it dirty! 

Respect them, and they'll stab you in the back.

Share, and they'll find a way to steal it!

These are the wastes products of a failed species!

Perishing from Wounded Pride

48. Nobility and Race. Nobility belongs exclusively to the man of race. There is no such thing as moral nobility, only a moral egoism. The downfall of a master caste is the very essence of tragedy. A sense of honor is inborn in every aristocrat, and the duel is the knightly principle incarnate. Only he who is without race can endure disgrace. The master scorns the very idea of a negotiated settlement. The master perishes from wounded pride. (RR p. 245) 

Cosmogonic Reflections - Ludwig Klages

The insufferable disgrace loitering in all that mundane life intentionally distributes to our best kind. The genetic poisons that obnoxiously scorn their venerable cortex, their ethnical will. 

What a disgrace, not to carry one's own cross. To follow the Lord, proud even when humiliated and undone. To our Golgotha! Persecuted by those not worth forgiving, yet forgiven because their's is of a lesser racial strain. 

It's of no use to tread where they linger.

A mongrel's blood quivers in their veins!  

** * ** **

Being perfect or not, to muster up from within one's own self the primal quintessential cause, that essence which comes from one's own ancestral seed. 

It is the primordial light, gives life to light and by its avowed nature cannot but be insulted among those who haven't any noble inner attitude. 

These animals need religion in order to be governed or to govern themselves! 

Be humiliated then, yet fight again. Lift yourself from underneath. Be shamed but pursue all that is Good in and of itself. 

Be mocked by the crooked crowd. What is it to us the collective golem unconsciousness!

What others believe to be the reason for living makes no sense means nothing to me. 

I walk upon an earth which hasn't any longer the desire to continue, no more so than myself, if not to leave behind, far far behind, what desecrates the pure intention. 

We'll surely die together. She and me embraced. And  I'll bet, she'll be glad to damn it all! Giving me that final kiss when the mob no longer thrives.

The Aryan Man between inferiors!

CLOAKING and the LUNAR WAVE

I will put on a gleaming spectacle on the celestial screen, for all of you from me, a heavenly simulacre. 

An ethereal facsimile, in the atmosphere just above. 

And you won't tell the difference between what you're shown and what is really there, hiding really hidden

...not seeing that what's going on behind, in the chemically filled smokey space, is only really just hidden by something like painted, or so one would muse, 3dimensional figures on a moving curtain!

Underneath the great firmament, mankind has its eyes stuck, glued inside, in its own arse or is voracious obsessed by its lower infernal parts! 

Mesmerized.

** * ** **

No one sees. No one knows. 

What is hidden outside the Dome? Who commands from beyond the second terrestrial ring made of subtle earth?

Brainwashed and dumb! Deaf and unkind? Disconnected.

** * ** **

Set has taken Horus' left eye. The Moon. 

From his right eye, Horus spews out from his own luminous bosom the world in actual time watching each and every day the Eternal Return in a circle go round and round.

Each and every day, he makes the world what it is. 

12 and 24  

48 to 96

In a cage with a secret voice,
free.