The Higher Man

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Je veille sur la Machine du Corps Mortel.

 

Ce n’est certainement pas l’homme enseveli dans les fibres charnues du corps ni l’opinion que l’on a du soi à travers tendons et muscles.  La cervelle défaite de mille combinaisons articulées; rabattu sur le sol de nos amour-propres! Le produit ignoble d’une mauvaise et inepte culture de l’esprit hominid. 

Le rire cynique de telle manière ordonnée d’où a germée l’incomplete abomination de Vitruve et de Léonard. L’automate à tissue organique, golem pour les plages et le Métro de mes souvenirs. La fantaisie cybernétique de l’imposition tyrannique du nombre d’Or. Un illusoire ramassis d’illusoire confection qui se vante.

Les Idoles de son Idéale le prendraient en dérision: ils diront que voyez-vous là? Ce n’est que du vent de la sueur et une densité du peu poids. Un agrégat d’éléments. Une illusion quantique? Le respire des aïeux qui dévie. Le clapotis d’une vague comme le facies de ses parents d’avant et ses enfants après, un évanouissement des heures pendant lesquelles on s’est donné tant de peine pour y évacuer notre sang:

 

   « le résultat de tant d’hypnoses consensuelles! Ô pour le bref instant d’une  Vanité      

    que l’on réalise!

    

L’homme est une tombe. Ses enfants le sont. 

    

    Et lui-même fait hommage devant des hypogées 

    à base de calcaire & de gypse tandis que

    des larves-mânes et lémures lui habitent sous la peau: 

    c’est un regard narquois qui le guette

    depuis la géhenne de Hell-Nifelheim. 

 

Âmes perdues englouties alors que le Vide les toise dans la plus grande indifference! »

 

** * ** **

 

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Ergo sum angelos. Quia exulto Hominis desuper! Lux aeterna vita coelorum. Crux in cordem canticum clamoris. Canto verbum arbor vitae.

…je suis celui qui terrible brise les sobriquets de tous genres. J’annule la signification d’antan. Jadis est un mot que je ne connais pas.

Je surplombe la maladresse inhérente aux idées que l’homme-fourmis d’en-bas apprécient avec tant d’excès malicieux!  Je suis le regard de l’Homme Céleste, l’Oeil qui voit dedans. Je déchire! 

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Aucune métaphore humanitaire n’a de prise sur moi. Dieu est l’abîme perpétuel qui réside dans ma poitrine. 

The tempestuous wind at high tide! The eagle in the black dust of gloom scrying the portals that connect the stars to our only God.

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Hélas pour l’homme au-dessous de moi. Il est comme l’holocauste d’un lion sur l’autel des joutes littéraires, prétentieuses et savantes: une carcasse maintenant exsangue évidée.  Un jeu d’esprit futile ou frivole, purulent.  Un tas de tripes en l’air pour des bestioles parasites éprises de l’avide cupide mondanité.

Pour le seul profit du Démiurge et son royaume vampire.

Publicités

Travels in Oz Part III

S I D D H A R R E I C H

The bus past Pine Gap on the way out of Alice Springs, the station is run by the C.I.A the NSA and the NRO. About one thousand people work here within the confines on a full-time and part-time basis. Pine Gap station is part of the Echelon program, which is a surveillance operation, one of the « Five Eyes ». The Echelon program was formed in the 1960’s to monitor military and diplomatic communications of the Soviet Union during the farcical « Cold War ». The facility then upgraded to a broader range « global surveillance ». From my window I could see the white « radomes », which are radars hidden within a domes. The domes are meant to protect the radar antennas. The fiberglass radomes looked like large white mushrooms sprouting up in the flat red desert landscape, they looked like an abstract art installation, they looked farcical, like a landscape folly – and that is…

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Resurrection Body

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Ego sum Via Vita et Veritas.

These are … the antique processes known from immemorial times practiced by a certain elite here in Europe and by the Oriental men of before, as well it seems. They only befit our friends who walk on a narrow roadway, sacred liars, holy fighters for the Good Fight. So as they too might become immortals in their own right. Preserving the Grail Doctrine. 

Only God will guide. Only God can hear you.

All men as they are, are as Nothing.   

How not to become some mere lost ghost at death, caught in the existential threads that keep mankind prisoner?

Gliding in some « in between land », astral make-believe world. Stuck in a perpetual flight from here to there! Saddened to the marrow’s soul, by the tum-tum of Talia’s drum. To wander toward another windmill, once again. 

Fallen to the depths that inertia dictates. Getting board. A pilgrim wasting away on the path to a star on the north-western horizon. 

While gleaming eyes seek a miller’s daughter!

** * ** **

archeveque leo arkfeld

Served my first Mass under this great man.

Glad this won’t fool an averted man that’s dead & free. He’s warned, I hope for him. 

A spirit stepping on vast waters. The great spheres above move incessantly, grinding away the bones of contention. Or is it merely just contempt? 

You can hear the iron milling away. The walls between worlds extending into infinity, rubbing endlessly, expelling melancholic gravel from the cosmic bladder. Making musical notes, each of which are made into a vowel peculiar sound withdrawing within each round inhaling. 

Bidding, « stay and wait for Christ’ sake ».

In each pole heart, the physical enveloppe is transformed. Then God & His Angels will precipitate you back down into a clamoring density. Back again into a phenix plaint.

Phoenix-Fabelwesen

Borne on the gust rising from the winds inside you. Throbbing head and heart, …now alive again! 

A luminous intelligent weighty human thing in the middle of Valhalla. A Chief among thieves! A Trickster.

…a Resurrected Warrior like Jesus in the Mob! 

(…afterwards you’ll inhabit a revitalized purified body that’s been extracted, taken from the quintessential « ugly » dregs of you, and then you’ll climb up on top of the Yggdrasil Tree, to embrace your God, the High One, with just as High, and the Third, all inside you.) 

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A Brother in the Highlands of Montserrat.

 

Plain Personal Pride

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All this terrible stuff is a living circle of strife as a Man evolves back into his Eternal Innocence.

Up from within our personal underworld disasters, seeps a badly cooked mess. Embroidered in the fecal tissues. Which in upheaval, blacken the mind’s clear sight, & the autonomous self.

WHAT?! …would you without a god, dare sing some tune to your own outright bitter triomphe amongst fat fools, the intellectually inferior, then kiss Goodbye a fallen daydream world? 

Oh Dear me and you, who would seek a root in something else but the Aether around you breathing; …

close these glimpses on your lost childhood and be a MAN.

For Antarctica is your secret stone. Your foundation. Inside, the turning capillary tubes suck the earthen grease. & thru your carnal pores ejects a brightness like the dew. A place of Honey and affectionate warmth. A refuge from those olden days where we so much loved only our useless mortal selves! 

Those solemn days when women so much affectioned baking their tits under a scorching polluted sun. 

How infinite we were! Eternal righteous beings. Better than the literary scum promenading the boardwalk in the grand cities of Babylon.

Yet Antarctica is built on a multitude of tombs. Hives’ nests in the ICE. Sucking in the leavened lard! Inside the earth it’s all an imbroglio! A Cosmic Joke. 

But yeah! I’ll damn the bitterness through my blood and at Earth’s End my children will strike the lightning today into the feeble broken and shattered clay of Men. Cause God is One when the Man in our Blood awakens the true and only SELF.

Mine eyes are God’s when He sees in me His own kind!

Then afterwards, what was a furor in the North was and will be, only me; as God saw thru mine eyes. So He’ll see today, « now », & tomorrow. 

If not. Then…I’ll just have to do a better job the next time, and make him see like I do!

נזי

…ha, pour le vent des astres qui s’engouffrent dans les cheveux ébouriffés,  

Cela laisse songeur, comme j’enjambe des bris épargnés par des regards indiscrets! Les rues disparaissent sous les pas lourds, où le réverbère cligne d’incompétence: Ce qui était n’est plus. On se torche le cul d’Orwell. On rit d’ici noyé par l’ennui moteur des plèbes!

Je suis le vautour qui dévore les cadavres des braves hommes et femmes qui jonchent les halles de mon Eternité.   

L’Homme est une fosse à os, un couac de non sens, ses pieds dans la mélasse des pseudo-souvenirs de bienveillance de peine & du malheur. La pretension de l’Instant, évanouie dans le sol. 

Un rêve dans un rêve dans un rêve qu’une folle sans animus engendre, sur le trottoir du Marché, le Dimanche. Un Ricard sans glace sans eau sans verre. Un prétexte qui se doit de remplir comme devoir de l’Eté envers la famille de nos macro-molecules charnues, pour le bien-être de nos insalubres bides entartrés, qui ne défèquent plus comme jadis à travers la grêle des tuyaux souterrains!

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…je ne te manquais pas hélas quel bonheur pour moi ce trépas de Gloire. Inondé de la Shekinah, un délice du répit le Sabbath le jour du Vendredi! Séclu. Inerte telle une transe d’entre les Estoilles du bonheur.  .נזיר

Une greffe d’Arya, dont l’arôme parfume les poils au beurre de karité. Oui, comme un cerf le Dimanche le Jour de Notre Fureur! Ave et persistant astre insoumis. 

 

hercule cerbère

Le 12ème Labeur des Fols sans Espoir.

A Place for Truth

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She’s naked, and pretty, … yet no one issued from the great pit can perceive her. Even those shadows roaming in front of their opened eyes, leaves them speechless, …they were born to endeavor as blind ones from here to the end of Eternity’s wages. Dazzled by nothing. Enamored of nothing. Dead to the spirits which surround our solitary tracks in the Ether. 

No historical man is real. Let alone his concubines. Only the Ghost in the heart knows her. Beseeches the Royal Activity, which an innocent youth, boy or girl, would cling to, in all distress. In a City bewailing cavernous meaninglessness.

Naked and pretty. Silent between the behooved leaves. The trees of all colors, glistening. 

Who would honor her? Which man can hold her in his bosom and yet without burning to a crisp, can gasp, maintaining his sanity, then embrace the red lips of Truth and continue existing to continually cherish living in a LIE? 

In a body made by death from the start. Fallen from between two thighs! 

Into the wet dust of numerical whimsies! Directed ‘neath the dark avenues constructed by Minos.

She’s naked and is the sole thing alive. This ontological essence who is weary from carrying crosses among human shells. 

A Prince of Darkness أنا ملك الموت

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E col suo lume sé medesimo cela.

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What a sweet moment and yet the sweetness has gone away in a baffled moment, strident in song. 

I have become a Prince of Darkness, standing in the air!

With this in turn, far off in a strange wilderness on wet narrow streets, is it as judges that now we wait in this unheard of place, estranged.

Archons in a scattered unsacred age?

Blond Boys descending on Mount Hermon once again?

My brothers, are we these angels of Death, awaiting in Exil, the singular command? Is the Wind in the rain between halls, the vital crack in a crumbling edifice, a bewildered raging madness pulsing in the internal fibres?

Muddled yet undying, fore with awaiting patiently. An awareness. Dense and black. Dark as night, a light so fierce it floats on a throttling sea of renewed and well founded rebellion? Blinding deafness till ears swell into horns of glory.

Incorporating our injured shadows. The aristocratic self, denied its Natural Right. Murmuring to the Self: ô God is it true, we have become your Battalion and Karmic Tribunal?

«  There is no other Judge but you.

Who is it condemns? Who the one who lets go bye? Wink and the World turns to naught. Goes astray. Or becomes a joy.

Close your eyes, and it’s you who merges into the Great Dark Earth of Heaven. It’s what shines in the face beneath society’s rags. What outlasts all mortal riddles.

A Prince of Darkness, an Angel of Death. An Eternal Warrior. You my Son. »

But we do not fight with our fists. It’s our Souls that condemn them. Our hearts breathing  with a big gasp, the individual aryan spirit into the Aether of Neverland. To burst the evil clamor all around! Shredding to bits the carcasses of what were men.

No wall shall hold us here. Neither the barrier belonging to Nothingness. Nor those children who have been corrupt in their old age. A shame to the Polar Star.

My will will not beckon any unsought advice. On this the great Abyss all ideals shall fail. Save the thoughts of those who quibble never, when they perceive behind them that there’s not one soul to save!

NAZI DIS-ILLUSION

S I D D H A R R E I C H

https://www.amazon.com/Nazi-Dis-Illusion-Poems-Man-Come/dp/1984199226/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1525565218&sr=1-1

New book from Kristof von Kanwetzburg – NAZI DIS-ILLUSION

The title is apt, I mean, it is Total Disillusionment – the beginning of wisdom is Disillusionment… I would say that if one wants to come to a State of Dis-Illusionment then one should become a Nazi, no quicker way to become disillusioned with Life and the World…. No quicker way to become disillusioned with National and Socialism than to become a Nazi….The World of Illusions does not fear National Socialists, the World of Illusions fears « Nazis ».. An even more potent acid-bath of a word is the neologism – « Neo-Nazi ». But that has now transformed into a, kind of, « Neo-Gnostic Nazi », a new Gnostic Fascism where possession is meaningless and only dispossession has any meaning. We are completely and utterly dispossessed and proud of it! In this new Light, the Old Reich Testament of the Holy Land of Germania appears…

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The Grail Cup & its Illusive Jokes

The sweet and sour thought processes which squeeze the soft dove tailed brain with eloquence, besiege the dormant mind. A minstrel pacing in the woods. A plaything himself his opportun joke! Querying from crack to crack until sleepiness drowse him to dizziness. 

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For sure, he was tempted to lie by. To wait again. To be patient with al and with his. Struck to stupefaction. Gleaning on the maze. Following Ariadne’s severed cord! With which way out. Again when?

** * ** **

   There is no surprise for a man on the wake. Nothing to shudder, to elude, to caress then conquer. For whom? Some broken toy house of a world. 

   For the sake of summits once climbed. Ideas that flourished then abandon us while we bystander, look hither, over our sorry hearts, wondering why?

   Incivility. Discourteousness! Ignoble fetiches clamoring their do. Ideals issuing from pigeon holes in the attic, unassuaged! Hopes dashed on a heap of moral dross and mis-tuned musical usages?

My friends, all this and more slumbers in our yet again uncultivated taste for boisterousness. I pray we wade the tide that gushes on the Great Dream whose roots are elsewhere, erupting in the Grail. 

A Foreigner in Hell

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Now, to invoke the presence of intruders is mad, and to whisper nonsense into the ears of those who listen, will surely undo the foundation of pure hearts. Yet simply and lacking hesitation the lies pile up one atop the other.  

   These things fondle the brevity which life is worthy of. What you saw, wasn’t. What we heard, lasted ephemerally. These things you attributed to all life essences turned round and round til in their crazy dissipation, birds fell dead from over our un-inquiring heads. This is how the gods should die if we dont wake them ever: Submitting them to our wishes.

   Binding oaths to olive trees, felling ash and oak till dawn, loosing our very unique and personal perception! Invoking invasion. Elaborate intrusions that instill in our bodies coming from the outside manifestations which stroll in the Sun’s heavy unleaded rays, a parasitical miasma. An organic algorithm created and invested with the cortex cells in a mindless lazy brain.

   But as it is, all this, here, is just a playground for the gods. The very bad and the sometimes Good. In the internal organs thus reflected, the World Illusion makes playthings of what you cherish. Of what you might have loved and cultivated. Yes, oh friend it’s all a supernal Sham. 

* *  * ** **

   Cloistered in filth yet abiding each day. Afraid of one’s unassailable stupidity. Awkward and tired. Upright like a royal lion, leaning on the the cage’s bars! Stuck within one’s own intimacy. Never wishing it otherwise! But to melt the mirages, that make one sleepwalk day to day, embalmed in a dark night’s embrace. A foreigner in Hell. 

 tibetab astrology thangka1kalachakran.org