What disappears Here

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What disappears here. Disappears into the unwanted, while the diamond fellow conquers still! No longer waisting the energy of the eyes that the brave once fell for when blinded by their own beauty, and now are glorified by and through a meaningful death. 


Soon the eagle will no longer even be a memory, here. Neither the stones I tread on, while I walk alone, a single road. As a pilgrim in Chaos, in a diseased country between Germany and Spain!


The stars watch for my coming. The Swan setting in the north west, at fall. 


The secret sulfur underneath inside me like a cauldron full of puss, rupturing the earthen floor. Dog grass cleaving to all the abandoned decomposing bodies, one lived in left behind. 

** * ** **

Who would be silly enough to hold back the skies and their departing? The sun and the moon and their demise. This disappearance inward, within the fiery Shakti, dissolved inside each middle center. The wheels of fortune colliding, weld into the Great Dharma-Padma. 

The death of a Hero, or of all the worthy warriors and of the great big bad dream of today that they fought against in this loka that wasn’t theirs! …would nevertheless persist, clutching still more, to a noble heart to kill it feeding on its entrails, to make it sink again into another burning furnace, to be forgotten by its own children!

 

Then just, to watch one more time, the eyes burning acid tears, what was beautiful, quashed again by brothers of  their own mongrel making.  

** * ** **

I’ll never give my soul ever again for a pipe dream. Nor ever, whatever come, desire once more any insult to injury, in the sight of dead aryan flesh!

Krishna and Arjuna can just go fool someone else. Sapping the life force from the gullible herd for some invented universal cause! Wherever or for whomever, never! 

My spirit will survive beyond the fire with my own kind, that I know. Or alone like a fairy never seen, I’ll dance on the tide, on the other side, on top of the cristal dome! And the tempest will not take me, anywhere if I dont wish it. 

I’ll fight again, but for what is real.

Nor will I ever be again entranced, enthralled or dumbfounded, like a conceited ass, by any make believe culture from before; because it’s all made up, not even dead and gone. A pseudo-compost for runic seedlings in another age or yuga

 The wind listens, while I speak. …and I know very well, how much Satan hates me and my kind.

I am the embodiment of a secret nation. Living on another plain in another place in another TIME. 

Tell your children now, that it’s too late. It’s time to build the inner aryan edifice. The spiritual seed of the soul that’ll cross the abyss, cultivate it and take care. Learn to die, &  go to your real homeland, where the lice of this world can’t be invited!

Tell them, here, everything’s a joke. But if they dont care to listen, then their not worth the land we’re fretting for!

Asgard at Untersberg beyond Hyperborea! Axis Mundi in Cordibus Nostris. Irminsul!

Le Poltergeist Céleste dans le Plâtre du Wyrd

  Le Ciel en toutes ses parties et sur toute son étendue prolifique, que se soit selon la hauteur, la largeur et/ou la longueur, en nombre, poids et/ou mesure est omniscient quant aux entorses qu’il prévoit et les balafres terrestres qu’il affectionne tant par amour qu’en indifference totale. 

  Quant à qui est responsable du tout puis de cela qui n’est pas, cela on l’invente quand on fait inventaire.

   Il s’amuse comme un enfant malade qui au lit s’ennuie, et devine comme il le souhaite, aux cubes magiques, l’envergure des malheurs ou le bonheur imprescriptible.  Il ferait croire que la coque en vaut l’invisible ou le rien qu’on ne voit jamais. Dans les mathématiques par lesquelles qui s’interprète le manteaux de ses largesses, à lui-même, comme une femme distraite & qui n’a pas encore vu son âge, et qui songe au Rimmel. A moins que la « loi d’inversion des prophéties » ne lui contrarie le parcours!

  Il attend toujours le dessert.

  Un dieu est mort. Un dieu en vit. Et en meurt encore, pour encore en vivre.  

  De ce qui est prévisible, de ce qui concerne l’opportune durée des cycles dans l’aire des probables comme pour une irruption que même le Grand Architecte n’eût pu prévenir!…, dans les siècles des siècles chez les organismes conscients et inconscients, à poils ou sans cheveux, qui contiennent de la sève, vêtus de corps ou qui vivent sur l’écorce en poudre de Perlimpinpin. 

  (Le Ciel est un voile qui me recouvre. Qui drappe mes épaules et qui me permet de bien boire.) 

  Dans le monde des mammifères au sang chaud ou froid, des végétaux acides ou alcalins, et des cailloux pleins du jus métallifère, ou remplis ou destitués ne sont pas prédestinés, tout comme en le domaine des êtres éthérées, recouvert d’ectoplasme sans densité, le Ciel honore et reconnaît, l’attitude altière, l’éphémère précarité de toutes les sensations susceptibles de narguer, taquinard, l’âme qu’il empêtre dans des atomes de poussière et un peu de H2O.

  Il sait tout ce qu’il y a à savoir et moi je n’en sais rien le moment je me déshabille afin de bien prendre un bain. 

  Au-delà du Ciel et du plâtre, c’est un poltergeist sans témoin. Un frère qui admire le frère quand des amis du même acabit, se voient dans la glace. 

  (Le voile flamboyant de la Shakti, évasive, intangible, tournoie autour des Pôles, sur  ces insoutenables continents d’eau glacée.)

  Majestueux et avec désespoir, ils transforment la mortelle glèbe et garce en tonnerre. Ca leur fait un mal terrible, et suscite en eux en dépit de tout autre désir une tourmente suicidaire et nihiliste, d’impuissance. D’effroi! 

  …mais le Ciel et qui est au-dessus, se régale et ils festoient donc encore une fois dans son enceinte, l’eau de vie à 90° qui bave au coin des lèvres! Edentés, le bandeau sur un Oeil Offert, et Unique dans le hall de Walhalla.

  Ils manient les Runes, il songent, en égrenant des morceaux de rancune. Ils endentellent de nouvelles structures avec du givre imbibé de leur propre sang, puis des flocons en forme de Hagal, éclairant de leurs reflets argentés le Grand Clos d’Asgard. 

  Et c’est un nouvel édifice de côté de Paderborn, près de Vigrid. Le peuple en porte le sceau comme une preuve dans la Tour de Nord.

  Mais il y a en a peu qui déclarent, avoir retrouvé le sentier de leur Coeur.

  & Les Vierges du Rhin non loin de là, éplorées versent en abondance la perte de qui étaient aimés.

  800 X 540 = 432,000 = Un Kalpa = Ragnarök.

All the Little Pixies

All the little pixies just go pouf!

Hiding in the woods, fleeting like dead leaves when the trees go bear. Life in the world with all its meditations vitalized thanks to the blood streaming across the innumerable arteries into the veins of a potential corpse, that’ll be left behind, stranded & of course lost in the dust till doom’s day. 

Death is indeed a very kind mistress to the secret soul. Embracing the loved-one in the inner temple; everyone there, is a burning bush, an un-depletable torch. Inspired by their own godhead, free and loyal till death. A chosen few who chose better to be not chosen! Because their individual affection springs spontaneously from an unwarranted certainty, illogical & based on nothing, always liberating inside, what dirties a ghost’s entrails. 

Who can lose, when its a real heart that wins, over and above eternity, with disdain for self pity, humiliating no one. 

They can keep their mongrel tyrant of a god, 

and speak with slave-angels all they wish, 

in the land they’ve taken from the ancient others.

The brave with their family are already

in Paradise,

but the body bot from here

falls into oblivion

with those who lauded

the scoundrel’s life and a petty god. 

Yet all the little pixies go pouf in a blitz. Wandering between white oak and mountain ash, on an astral plain. Because now even though the forests have been cut, never to be replanted: it’s time to go to the next place, where oak & ash are never felled! …and pretty pixies frolic.

…and yes, the pixies just dont go pouf, but stay and watch, the Aryan parade in a new Hyperborea. 

Its in you, but you have to fight. 

& lose but get the best of your enemy, first

before going off with the Pixie Folk. 

Fright is a fear a silly way of being 

when there’s no longer any god. People practice like programmed zombies,

so religiously, 

when it’s the bible god who’s doing it in their place.

No bravery. No courage. No honor. No selflessness. A desert god who thoroughly derives all pleasure, from olive trees, dry dirt and empty bones!

A country for devils & djinns. But all the little Pixies have fled…and dont go there!

 

Le Golem ה גלם

La sustancia del Enemigo es la inteligencia racional. Se podría por ello concluir que el pensamiento racionalista de los terrestres es un agregado demiurgico, una trampa por medio de la cual, el Demiurgo los retiene encadenados. Es inútil, por ello, pretender vencerlo valiendose de la inteligencia unicamente…

La substance de l’Ennemi est l’intelligence rationnelle. On pourrait supposer par conclusion que la manière de penser rationaliste des terrestres n’est autre qu’un agrégat démiurgique, une voie médiane par laquelle, le Démiurge les retienne enchaînés. C’est inutile, de prétendre le vaincre en se basant uniquement sur elle..

Desde siempre(y en este mismo momento), el Demiurgo se esfuerza por crear algo proprio. Y solo le resulta el plagio, la imitación deformada. Sabe que su astucia encuentra un limite

Depuis toujours, le Démiurge s’efforce de créer quelque chose qui serait sienne. Et seul en résulte un plagiat, une copie, une imitation déformée. Il sait que sa ruse rencontrera une limite (impossible à dépasser)…

La Biblia se refiere a ciertos seres extranos, que llama Sheidim, mezcla de hombre y animal.

La Bible raconte comme quoi il y a eu des êtres étranges, appelés Sheidim, un mélange d’homme et d’animal.

 

…(y) los magos negros, unos seres de sangre impura,…han inventado una creatura artificial…

…(&) les mages noirs, des êtres du sang impur,…ont fabriqué une créature artificielle…

…Son entes no humanos, que en nada se parecen a los que han caído prisioneros del Demiurgo…

…Ce sont des entités non-humaines, qui en rien ne ressemblent à celles qui étaient déchues, devenues les prisonnières du Démiurge…

** * ** **

La fabricación del Golem tendría esa finalidad, que hoy amplian con sus robots y sus « ordenadores » electrónicos que van restando toda iniciativa y capacidad individual inteligente a los humanos. Desde los anos veinte vienen trabajando con una maquina infernal, perfeccinandola (algo de esto pudo verse también en el film « Metropolis », donde se inventa un robot, un Doppelgänger de un ser humano…) con la utilización de partículas subatomicas, rayos « psicotronicos » de ondas psíquicas, electromagnéticas, como la luz y las microondas, destinadas a interferir o insertarse en la actividad cerebral, cambiándola. Se podría « leer los pensamientos » y también actuar sobre la mente-cerebro, dando « orden », semejante a como el cerebro comanda los organicos fisicos, sin que nosotros seamos conscientes de este estímulos.

La fabrication du Golem aurait comme finalité, aujourd’hui le remplacement de l’humain avec des robots commandés électroniquement à distance. Le but serait de retirer aux hommes la capacité pour chaque individu de penser pour soi-même, ainsi que toute initiative. Depuis les années vingt, on  se sert d’une machine infernale, qu’on actualise technologiquement(il y en a un aperçu dans le film « Metropolis », où est confectionné un robot, un Doppelgänger de l’être humain) en utilisant des particules sub-atomiques, des rayons « psychotroniques » à partir des ondes physiques, électromagnétiques, comme la lumière et les micro-ondes, destinées à interferer ou à s’insérer à l’intérieur de l’activité cérébrale, la transformant. Ce serait possible « d’y lire les pensées »  et aussi d’agir sur le mental-cérébral, donnant des commandes comme si c’était son propre cerveau qui commandait, et sans qu’on s’en aperçoive!

 

Text espagnol tiré de l’extraordinaire livre de Don Miguel Serrano intitulé: « Manu, por el Hombre que Vendra », « Manu, pour l’Homme qui Viendra ». 

Pondering amidst Scattered Thoughts

I pondered, upon a lake that dried. No water nowhere none to be seen or sensed, unconsciously, who could feel it. No wetness there. In the wake of forgotten tears, I smiled. Because now it was since death come each day, an incredibly happy thing to be elated, like gold in a furnace never diminished, but like mercury as well, stronger than the golden cupidity teasing men, yet more voracious than there greed for it. 

The destroyer of Gold and its sin in the deviated minds of our brothers and sisters who follow the pretentious god of an other tribe.

After all, what’s there in a desert hole. Filled with clay and dust and god forsaken corpses.

It wasn’t normal to adapt. To concede. 

Either for love or hate or whatever! Wasn’t natural to betray one’s truth inside one’s self. For peace of mind, the peace of mind of others who weren’t capable of hearing Nature’s voice. Scared to death by what is real. 

Those for whom the very foundation of their being was centered in this place and flattered by people betrothed to skullduggery, who were given to the lies inscribed in our heads, rewritten to hide our shame with historical fantasies of greatness! Only pleasing the bewitched who knew, shattering themselves against the great karmic wall of their short sighted incompetence.  

No pituitary gland that would function properly as conceived by natural law in its most intimate ways. Permitting true men to know their God as one with themselves.

Only religion replacing God’s absence in their daily actions. 

And now they are invaded in their brains since when & for how many disastrous miserly generations again, empty and inane to ensure it get worse? Insulting the mysterious aryan light  and beacon of mankind, for the fake reality that usury can offer! To the dead of soul who are lost forever from the thoughts of Anima.

When what is distinctly intuited within Nature’s bosom. Is that unique and homogenous Will which was conceived by the World Soul, in form and body, to endure hardship, whatever matrice presented itself. Ensuring Nobility to be the only reason for its coming into concrete mortal being.

Surely to ponder is a dangerous process. Puts into doubt the feeble minded! Inciting the hypocrite to lie again, for better in the bank and on the beach, and white girls naked turning their skin negro

They faint or are withheld from doing so, thanks to the poison they were fed at home or in public school. Living on usury. Borrowing on usury. Feeding on usury. Drowning their own in usury.

Buy and selling with usury on usury. 

Traitors to their own kind, for the benefits of semite Usury. Bowing to those who wield usury’s forces of nothingness.

Living stupidly for a fake god on the pavement, between four walls in Babylon. No trees nowhere. No blond infant, nowhere to be seen.

No pride and not a enough of selfless Self Love for Oneself as Nature’s Great Supernatural Ornament!

But in another place according to another kind of Time, Odin’s young will have abandoned the World of Rust. They will thrive with their own kind elaborated with love as the primordial Archetype of all humanity. In another sphere where there can be no Usury. 

 

  

The Best in the Best

Race is the best soul in the best bodies with a sacred constellation from beyond, consciously guiding its principles of involutive incarnation. Each race has its very own if I dare say, GOD leading it along the way through the chasms of darkness. A light in the shadows!

And as is with all true race, only the most good and honest within it, can hear the Voice of its Deity. Knows what is best for it. Precedes it by the sacrificial nature of its individual personality here in this place of duplicity and speculative meanness. The Führer was one of these Great Souls who incarnate the Racial God.

Here below among so many dissolving uncombinable genetic mixtures, the great soul of a Race has obviously less of a chance to bring down to earth that sacred spirit that moves things from within and not from without.

And all equilibrium in the Cosmos is lost. The Life Spirit is squandered through petty semantic quandaries by those who are unfit intellectually as well as morally, only to seek ways that would harden and frustrate Nature in her desired Sacred Order.

True Nature combats the disorganizing principle of the Demiurge, in and through the unanticipated cracks that she has so jealously laid down within the cosmological foundations that made his existence possible. Un-behest to those who pretend to secretly control by some artificial process Nature’s Will:

Which is always, i.e., the Best SOUL in the Best Possible Bodies. Even though it be in the worst possible world!

Because Nature is Eternal and Good from its very intangible base. She wishes what is best and good in every living thing to come.

The Demiurge is her mechanical dark enemy. Issuing constantly from the infinite abyss of nothingness. The Demiurge has no soul. No spirit. And therefore no truth can determine its innate ontological direction.

He is shallow and but a vain splash on the wall of Nature’s Great Plan.

Yes the Winds swing to and fro, while true men or what is left of them, debate their own personal and intimately vital intellection.

We should be confident, knowing that there is no need to prove anything to anybody. Our Noble Soul is a rejected offering and therefore need not regret the passing of eternity in grain of sand. A little « cork » bobbing on the waves, seeding the Next Satya Yuga, in spite of it all.

Hieros Gamos! The Time needed in order to realize this alchemical Higher Ideal, is of course of no importance. Time in eternity is nothing.

« …must one day become the ruler of the earth(and not of this ugly world). »

Truth conquers all obstacles, whether men and titans would betray her: that Truth which Our undefiled Racial Nature has given us from up above with the strike of a thunderbolt. Yet some of us have misused the great Gift. And now it all comes back in our face… through the « sins of the fathers » coming home to roost…

…to K.Y. and the Karmeraden.

88

Comme un éclat d’émeraude dans les Ténèbres

pari

Comme un éclat d’émeraude dans les ténèbres du jour, le regard alerte et vif sur l’écran interne de son crâne. Le noble homme de bonne famille, de ce qui en reste en tout cas, est debout au fond de l’astral dont la nature transparente surplombe l’événementiel de ces golems in the making…perçoit une « chose » intangible que même Littré, certes s’il le voulait avec toute sa tête de calcaire, n’eût pu en dire quand même pour toute la gloire de l’Académie, quelque mot précis, s’y déplace avec une aisance et incarne le corps de notre aryen égregore, 

…et de là d’où je le regarde, le Sang Aryen et Oeil de notre parèdre nous scrute, heureux de reconnaître, là de côté de Tautavel parmi les vents qui soufflent au gré d’un soleil pantin et ou patois, l’un des leurs!

A chaque plan sur chaque palier un monde spécifique se dessine selon les aptitudes et la sincérité que seul Dieu voit et constate chez les impétrants ici dans cette bulle immense et charnelle jusqu’au poli de l’os. Cette TERRE sera le creuset des métamorphoses perpétuelles. Un lieu si instable que seul un imbecile s’y attarderait! Ou sinon un aveugle né de mauvaise souche!

Qui n’a pas les yeux est damné, et qui en a, voit dans l’affliction de son innocence prisonnière l’absurde débâcle débattue parmi les obscurs spectres pour la possession propriétaire d’un nuage de poussière stérile!   

Et c’est nous l’Oeil du parèdre. L’indomptable élite caché dans la fabrique des champs atomics, telle une couleuvre qui glisse à toute vitesse entre l’herbe mouillée en bordure des anciens ponts de pierre creusée par les pluie le soleil et les pas des lézards.

Est-ce le refrain monotone du Monde qui s’estompe, et c’est dans l’air devant mais si discret que le Frère qui incorpore la puissance archétype, veille sur nous sur moi et même sur mes étincelles intimes. En témoigne qui parcourent des particules de cette matière imperceptible que j’appelle aethérique, l’âme individuelle, immortelle et aryenne.

Noble de vertue et d’essence céleste. Aux yeux clairs, quand même qu’ils soient noirs. Aux boucles farouches au jaspe ou de l’or. La peau pâle et du lustre clair.

Plein de vertu, sans mensonge. Sans crainte et ayant de l’empathie pour le brave et le courageux face aux pièges et aux embûches de ceux qui honorent le monde du Capital.

Il méprise l’escroc, l’arnaquer et le couard.

L’aryen est comme une tâche dans les ténèbres.

Qui a des yeux pour le voir?

 

Outside the Gates of Hell

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In the abyss out there amongst the starry nights, there is no community of acceptable consensus. What ever the effort, the physical brain breaks down, while the protective cortex layer which enveloppes the real mechanical functions of input and output sink into a wet kind of celluloïd confusion, as the connections of the secret fleeting mind disintegrate into the great void! The god mind between in the interstices, betwixt one barrier and another. Frightful to those who are depressed. Contemplating either suicide or damnation. The annihilation of self of self-awareness, of either the inside or the outside of things.

The cracks that hold the checker board together. Through which flow and reflow perpetually our life fluids, continually at the edge of what would be morally decent, yet would be indecent, if not surpassed by a man’s ontological courage. To destroy the stone and take the sword. Or to destroy all of it and pass on: leaving nothing in the bier, no one in the grave to weep for. No one mourning, nothing to mourn.

Death the revealer of the here unwanted new thing! Too magnificent but so simple and fine in aspect to be known sensiblement in a world made for red dross or the great psychic dissolution thanks to ayahuasca or some denaturing DMT de merde!

I would,…like a tremendous rapacious sky devour the universe in one drop of milk. But never butter up a kamerad! Nor dream of annihilating his family, or his home.

Beyond the perceptible optical horizon, which in constant worry is distorted parasitically, in those blessed hidden fields where Yggdrasil dwarfs all possible commentary to insignificance, the secret aryan mind pervades translucide yet tangible like the deep root of the Ash Tree in Hûrqalya thriving in the souls of the immortal white god of light in each of his kind.

 

Interdependent patterns in no locality dont quantify nor qualify the essential supernatural of a mind. Nor does the space between the brows make up in a nut shell, the heart’s unique spacial capacity to fathom its own proper monadic hennaed.

Off the shores where so many beasts of all kind have have sunken to their asphyxiating fate in the heavy waves beyond the solar light, a single mammal becomes a nothingness; and the supposed intricate algorithmic & complicated numerical formation which composed its wondrous dexterity, disperses into vacuity.

And the patterns mean nothing save in a room conceived in outer darkness. Life becoming or having always been a plaything to some blood thirsty divinity who with mathematical formulae across the counting of innumerable gnomons in an endeavor to wear exponentially within what some would call a space-time continuum, tortures what he has made and then says it’s certainly divine.

 

Hitler and the Third Reich

HSH.

What is too good is lost or utterly destroyed. And has been since so many years, of anger and combat, falling or being insulted.

 
But again we get up and go at it again, on an earth where we must lose once more, in order to achieve an Honorable Victory!

We are in a World where what is Perfect is despised & hasn’t its place, & what is horrendously ugly, mean, and awful, is unashamedly applauded.

The best have died, while the near good are so few that it is better that this world mess and its dead souls perish! …for in this great mental & moral illness which is everywhere to be seen, there is nothing to preserve or save.

Our inner immortal self as that of Nature’s, has nothing to do with what abides under today’s pretense of a « human » face!

SOLVE ab COAGULA!

HH

"Neues Europa"

by Anthony M. Ludovici
The English Review 63, 1936, pp. 35–41, 147–153, 231–239

The present temper of the German people, unlike that of their kinsmen before the Great War or under the Republic, is also unlike anything that Europe has witnessed probably since the Middle Ages.

The visitor to their country who fails to grasp this fact, like the stay-at-home Englishman whose Press does not enable him to appreciate it, misses the most fundamental feature in the whole of Nazi Germany.

For something akin to a new religious zeal has spread throughout the land, making the people wistful, but strangely light-hearted and confident in their earnestness. It is as if they had been not only raised from the dust, but also shown a star or ball of fire which will lead them to the fulfilment of their destiny.

It was to be expected that a great proud nation, broken…

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