jeudi 29 juin 2017

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!








samedi 24 juin 2017

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.














mercredi 14 juin 2017

When God doesn't come



Gone off with the Sword.


   When god doesn't come anymore, it's for a very good reason.

   Shame, has befallen his outer visage. As the wandering away of what is best has fled, gone off into the wilderness, where only Nothingness can preserve what is best & noble, lodged eternally as a metaphysical possibility in the Aryan Root Soul, having once been clothed with earthen flesh, filled with calcium and bundled nerves.

   A fire within the channeling veins, reflecting a celestial or better, supernal Will, that many wanted to enchain!

   But it isn't when imitating those who do evil, on this plane, un-spontaneously, that'll make the angels come down here on this sickening surface of ill will, to incarnate in blood filled clay vessels! Among the debilitating kind or diseased uncreated souls of Judah.

   The Aryan is surely going to invent the next real world. Not rebuilding here some unwarranted heaven in a hell spot,
  
   ...the old one could have, but failed, derided & misshapened by organic turncoats, ...
   ...we must leave the rust & soon will.

   To another place, another time, giving birth to our better selves on the same higher level as gave life to the ultimate Avatar. Creating a secret domain. The others of our kind shunning this world's miserable ugliness, like an old snake skin worthy of filth.

   Let us leave Usury to traitors, and to all those parasitical golems who thrive on the street. Let them ignore racial injury. Flees on a dog's back. Ready to die.

   Alas, you the blessed child with golden hair. Returning to the Sun. Going into its awful middle land, penetrating within the forbidden blackness. Turning as Green Fire ripping the air. All the mortal debris disassembling. The thunderbolt's son. A brother far from here, living in God's ulterior palace, among the same, where no jealousy can invade.

   Republica Platonica de Arya. 


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNGTEaRuyr0

“schreite mit stolzer geringschatzung durch den pfuhl menschlicher Unzulässigkeit...” 

"stride with proud disdain thru this swamp of what is humanly inadmissible..."      Joachim Peiper


The Middle of the World in plain sight.




vendredi 9 juin 2017

Almost at the Bottom of Hell



Forgive me if you can if I write in 2 languages! I could perhaps write in 3 or 4 in a manner intermix, but of course that would be unseemly, something like with Ezra Pound(but perhaps he was never sure of what he really wanted to say(the world was already on its way to a general dissolution) & à défaut de mieux, he just played with pretending to be profound. & suddenly he was put in a cage!), but how silly of me if I did, & therefore I'll stick with 1 or 2, except for German, because I'm not quite there, in mastering neither the grammar nor the genders, but apparently even genders won't be needed for fear of offending the idiots of our race as well as the races of others here or elsewhere... & c'est ainsi que cela fut!

Here on the next to the last floor of dire stupidity, in a place or LOKA filled with the hordes of a minor species, we clamor dismayed at disgruntling situation, something like robins in a pigs pen, not quite use to the urine and the stink, & that obnoxious stench exhaling from the feces of what we call manure, & they, I mean the piggies, their caca!

But it doesn't matter. really doesn't matter in the end. Give a kick in the ass to Krishna & tell Arjuna to fuck off, if he really doesn't want to fight, to get involved, to be responsible for his own personal misdeeds etc etc etc and so forth!

For in the end, Hell isn't wonderful, no! not a bit...just a stupid silly mess we can't take any more, or perhaps never could. But in the end, we fight whether in the skies or on earth, not to win but honor ours and those who supposedly lost somewhere in the past? 

But in dying their is no dishonor and nothing lost! On the other side, even beyond the remnants that Asgard leaves behind, We can if we wish with all our Will stop reading Nietzsche and create in another sphere where the fairies dance at twilight in Midgaard, in rounds with flowers in their long beautiful hair, bowing & lifting, lifting & bowing ever so till the time we've mustarded up enough POWER & STRENGTH, that we can make another land with our shaktis in another place for ours  in the nether world and their's elsewhere.

My God, how I've ranted on. Waiting for you to come. But you won't and you can't...oh how silly of me,...you were already there! But not like expected.

I found you like a frog in my tomato plants, hopping.

** * ** **

...je fais comme les oiseaux, en parlant leur langue
je ne parle que pour qui m'entende,
en m'écoutant, les autres s'entendent.

Comprenant leur chant, leurs sonorités discordes
C'est leur parole qui garde le secret du mystère de l'Aryen!

Où donc, sont partis, les braves et les coeurs vaillants & propres?

...c'est dans l'affection de leur MORT chérie & honorable qu'on atteint au plan sidéral, l'Ombre Vestige de leur Sang Irascible & indomptable!,...déversé.

Méditez sur le Sublime Domicile des Héros,

...il siège dans les chaudes vapeurs, en subtile nuage
de glace qui fond, s'exhale...

Comme un souffle mémorial, plein de joie :

C'est eux dont les coeurs sont vraiment impétueux,
Lisses dans l'écoulement circulaire à travers

La Grande Aorte, qui inonde en Pensée Bienveillante
l'intime de mon âme.

Ne triche pas comme le juif
n'arnaque pas.

Mais tel le Tigre des Neiges,
règne donc dans ton royaume!

Sois rusé, & fais tout
pour connaître ton adversaire!

Sois bon et courtois, Maître
de tes décisions.

Sache porter la détresse des tiens
mais en aucune manière
n'agit pas en juif.


"...je ne m'abaisserai pas pour ainsi agir
en être infâme!,

Si on se bat, c'est au quotidien
& tous les jours de ton vivant.

La Mort, ici sera ma récompense de Salut
quand je m'en irai, vers mon
DIEU."






jeudi 8 juin 2017

Le Corps du Retour


L'Aryen 2 fois né qui porte au cou Elle & Lui
& Tiwwaz comme emblème de sa fierté
sur son ecusson. 


Le refuge élevé sur un plan hautain, se loge dans l’Aether, le chemin du Retour est vers l’Ether. Sans doute c’est là que comme la Dame des Torrents, moi aussi je planterai mon verger, où des essences de tout acabit verront le jour d’un autre Soleil, fils de l’Ancien.

Celui, lequel émane perpétuellement sans aucune relâche en faisceau doré de mon propre sein, pour celle que je ne verrai jamais. Car c’est Elle qui règne là bas, depuis la mire de mon regard au sein de ma conscience intangible, c’est une sève d’arbre inépuisable, incorruptible. Implacable. Trop forte en poids de poussier d’or moléculaire pour ces vaisseaux d’argile façonnés sur la girelle de L’Ourse qui parade au Pôle!

Mais se déplacer cependant, vers le plus haut, plus loin après l’étroite voie glacée du Pont du Bifrost, par-delà le Pont Sirât, le corps de Xvarnah splendide.

…plein de la semence des étoiles sur la voûte attelées. Issues de la Linea Viridis qui traverse de part en part à travers les couches successives de toutes les gradations échelonnées des vies incorporées en un seul noyau de loyauté. Eclair d’Emeraude, Fils du Soleil Noir! Au-dessus du firmament, beau néant de mes souffles concrétisés sous forme de roue sans cesse en mouvement rond.

Là, pour assuré, la belle vertu de sans crainte réside! Aucune mouche n’y moleste ni personne qui dégrade en humiliante pourriture, la Face de ma Belle. C’est ce qui n’est plus humain au-delà de l’humaine comédie qui y séjourne.


Tu es mon ami, parmi nous, une Croix Gammée aux ailes déployées iridescentes.

Hagal! Au-delà de ce qui fut homme, inhumain et sans pitié, plein de compassion pour la Création de son Dieu qui a failli quand tu fus investi de l’image du mammifère aveugle, mais innocent


….et donc maintenant, restauré en Aryen, Übermensch.


ÜBERMENSCH



mardi 6 juin 2017

Mountain of the Soul



"Como dirigidos y presionados por una fuerza irresistible, los mitos toman siempre la dirección "hiperborea", por así decirlo, se dirigen hacia los polos y a la resurrección allí o rejuvenecimiento "apolineo" del héroe solar.

...in El Cordon Dorado de Dom Miguel Serrano

"I lift mine eyes towards the mountains: where will help comme from?"

...Psalme CXX




Where ever you go, it is a mountain that goes. And all your brothers go each as their own mountain, on the dark path, through the innumerable galleries which we call nerves and nerve endings, the totem blood flowing from pole to pole!

To each an Asgard, a Mount Meru, a Qaf Mount. Towards and beyond the north, the interior sunrise unveils, hidden from the behind clouds or curtains of this World's making, the Great Venus Star : your Gardian Angel, the She that watches over the culture and guidance of that secret special knowledge. Your very own other in the midst of you, outside of this space held at bay in your mind, suspended!



This might very well be the last breath in a well built body of earth, but then again from up to down and down once more to even further than expected; it just doesn't stop. But the Fall was worth it. I tell myself continually, no tear no nothing no affection for what I did must do or fail is what awaits all that struggles to win paradise in this Hell Hole of hypocrites.

But be sure, it's my God in me puts me on my feet. It's me the god that'll leave when finally the outward mountain crumbles!

From Pole to Pole.


Well tuned to A.  In a dissonant cacophony. A bedlam of earthworms eating dirt! 

Where to, till again, we wait apart? Distant from within one's self evading. Yonder again, with all this sweat and oil on a defeated wolf. Wounded, who outraged, was forbidden to be proud.

Guilty among crooked cheats. Innocent and believing throughout all endeavor, once its done. 

Your soul quakes, tearing at the flesh's tissues. The internal organs pleading that everything be stopped. But the emptiness withstands, perceiving. The tendons and the joints severed.

I am the essence of Asgard, since it's me pervades! We are inaccessible, here in our mountains in the Middle of the World Sea.











lundi 5 juin 2017

παράκλητος : Hieros & Agathos Parakletos





...& ego rogabo Patrem, et alium Paracletum dabit vobis, ut maneat vobiscum in aeternum, SPIRITUM VERITATIS, quem mundus non potest accipere!, quia non videt eum, nec scit eum:

vos autem cognoscitis eum, quia apud vos manebit, et in vobis erit.

Evangilium secundum Iohannem xiv: 16,17.



...Paracletus autem, SPIRITUS SANCTUS, quem mettet Pater in nomine meo (le Kristos & l'Eclair d'Emeraude Etincelant du Soleil interne qui pénètre en totalité l'être mortel qui engendra filiumque amicum Dei. Ab stella matutina, fulgur in corda, fulmen percutit, pectus percussum. Ergo sol-niger putrfactio fecit.), ille vos docebit omnia, et suggeret vobis omnia quaecumque dixero vobis

Ibid. : xiv: 26.




dimanche 4 juin 2017

Aryan Maiden



You & your Other.


  She's frigid cold & mercilessly indifferent to what haphazardly engages the fraught & stricken attention, of what is going on, on the surface of the lower dark waters. The fleeting individual waves in the watery mobile mass, hoping, beseeching comfort, tending toward their consolation in this world's dissolving, ...alas, thru the activity of their meager and ephemeral lives, killing themselves reciprocally without using the slightest kinetic strength, emptying their essence into pot dreams; life's glance defending, whatever would send it meaninglessly straight to Hell.   

  Untouched by all and every kind of touch, but ever abiding at her knight's backside, holding to him, from the opposite corner, diagonally through out his many ceaseless efforts to undermine and overcome the shadows of carnal distress. 

  She laughs defiantly, full of compassion when he advances nearer almost winning the contest, failing physically into this world's twilight. Life's serpent dancing in all its curves, the wrinkles wobbling in the curtain fibres. 

  Because he's still so naive, skeptical. Still a good man. What jew wouldn't laugh at him or at his back side when his back is turned?

  He acts as if others were as he were, straightforward, trusting, and loyal, seeking no reward in any transaction. Being a vessel of honorable goodness. However never entrusting his soul to no mortal lady, safe to the inner pretty self contemplating, the wondrous light in the mirror, tugging at him from inside his own beautiful being.


The conception of the Astral Body.

  The Maiden is your soul. Your hidden self watching, perceiving from the inner regions of the Aether, as the colored waves ripple across the breathing air. Disappearing, reappearing. In peace in conflict. In birth, in death. In love and hate!

  She's the back side of the head. Your head's reverse and sweet darling face. The dawn in the dark with the nightingales singing. The Black Goddess in the brazen Pit, reaching out to you clasping your hand to lift you to your selfless courage, when you've fallen. Embracing you each day you die. 

  Telling you to get up and fight again, again...my Love. My darling dear.


It's only Smoke & Mirrors.




  

vendredi 2 juin 2017

A Nasty God of others who interferes with our True God



Simply stated. True man has been interfered with. His higher self maliciously tampered with and,  ...it's now been so long, been many centuries, even many many millenia. Way before the dawn of the Iron Age, that a dark and hideous political & religious demonology hosted and lived in the hijacked consciousness of man, due to humanity's own fault and idiotic undoing, as he was terrorized by a desert usurpateur's menacing threats. 
All this with bombs and bullets and lots and lots of fireworks: Smoke & Mirrors and Mirages! Ancient aliens of the Sinai!
When true man had lost his unique connection to the essential root of his impervious awareness, then the Demiurge rushed in onto the long awaited scene, where man had neglected his creational duty, 
...All this while the Architecte archontic played civilizational savior through all manner of rhetorical & numerical linguistic magical formulae, imposed on whom he would deform inwardly, a host of geometrical and hypnotic rites that would ensure surreptitiously, the total destruction of mankind's 4 inimitable racial souls and of the divine cosmic hierarchy that kept all in balance from the spheres beneath even unto to the most infernal regions of all worlds to those that were above.
On a certain list was Odin and his 11 Kinsmen. Those angels who fell from heaven ( perhaps in order to restore to the White Race, to its lost memory, the emerald link, that through out Eternity's recycling across biological processes of organic generation, drives its impulse of Will over Mortality into all worthy living things despite their specific existential situation, emanating from infinity's breasts without ever stopping, from the Great Vortex of Hyper-Being), to fight against the desert vampire who would eventually intervene shamelessly like a horrid leech, distorting with his no-mind of Chaos the divine plan of each true God, by the sucking of the aryan blood. Both astral & spiritual, as well physical.
But to each race their god, or to none their god, and to the godless, no god at all. Condemned karmically thru racial sin. They became the murderers of  their  GOD. And thru or because of their unconscious innocent kindness and the great profusion of an abundant heated vitality, they mixed liked children who didn't know what would fatally befall their kind and kindred and hindered the Great Cross of Holy Life from bestowing health and wisdom on its children! On all its children from the lowest to the highest in moral and intellectual qualities.
Then inevitably thru Time's patience the Holy and Guiding Ghost of one transparent people shall flee this land where the Angels because of a pious  fear will longer want to tread
And thus having been inconsiderate toward its privileged responsibility inside the hollow cosmic world, deep black Africa will annihilate the land (of those who dared reach beyond the stars,  having been entirely conceived mysteriously beyond the 9nth Circle of the Heavens), only to devour with their ape-like uselessness the fruits of those who labored so hard, even to the point of destroying the very earth of the others that fed them.
Condemning all earth to a pernicious and degrading decline till death, excluding all possible redemption, thru the Mass Extinction of White Humanity, not the least being the impossibility for any glimpse of Aryan beauty to further bless etc. with its sacred presence, the stars the moon the sun by the Sacred Application of the Order of Phi.

The Aryan Kin in Heaven without Mongrels.


jeudi 1 juin 2017

fierté!



On élague les couilles tout comme les membres des dextres, puis de tout ce qui reste du faire semblant au visage d'homme, on retire l'orgueil, au buveur d'éthyle en bas de gamme, on en élabore des bavures bipèdes, ou des épaves de poussière au sang souillé, pleurnichards et mendiants! Des individus au moral brisé, des choses variolées et immensément immondes ou pathétiques: ou des tapettes dont l'huile essentielle de l'âme s'en va, comme des feuilles tombées piétinées au gré des bêtes qui broutent, une rouille  faite de chair et d'os sans aptitude de conscience et qui dans le temps se rendra stérile et inutile, ...vie qui ne voudrait plus subsister, honte de la Nature, joie naturelle qui de désespoir s'accable. Les bras qui en tombent!

Sans l'homme blanc, véritable et aux cheveux couleur d'or aux yeux clairs, qui de tout ce qui pourrait s'engendrer serait apte à naître avec un dieu dedans, tel un Ange des Cieux déchu, puis incarner le Ciel et sa Conscience Sidérale? 

... ce n'est qu'échec racial sous une tente terrestre au destin mortel voué à l'oisiveté, sans fierté sans rage de vivre libre!...modelé par l'appétit binaire comme un mammifère en rût dans un enclos de porcs? Qui se répandent et qui délirent, mals et malades. Une maladie cancéreuse qui recouvre tout ce qui est vert et plein de fleurs. 

...des assistés sombres et sales, comme des cafards qui surgissent au bord de la Seine. Vicieux et signe de Kali à peau typée: désastre de l'humain qui dégénère et qui ne vit plus que pour déféquer. 

Qui se bouffe lui-même
la queue
quand il y a
disette
et
plus rien à déteriorer!