Holding on to Bones, & the Dust between the Fingers

The white man’s last chance has already come. And if those on whom it suddenly dawned, that there was a racial pride to extol & preserve have just arrived, on earth after the great sun had just set;… it’s too late my dear, oh how sad but too late now that the Führer has gone & did done!

   He came and some pretended while others fought then lost here where burials are for mortal soldiers forgotten and anonymity belongs to those who taken by their Muse go to Valhalla just underneath the helm of Odin’s flapping wings. Fanning with a cool breeze the heroic heart of those who were betrayed but who fought not with hands nor did they covered with bloody fists but with all their soul sweating as would an exemplary death to some incomprehensible supreme awareness that others cannot surely see. And would not if they pleased. The Lord goes from place to place, but not everyone is the Lord.

   It was their luminous inner crystallized will, had made it possible. But now you see this world is underneath in the grave, as we tread this world’s bones, and short of what is meant for mortal dreams; yet in all Aryan minds and of course it’s only me supposes, awaits their world on their earth in an AEON of merited bliss, if only with great devotion what was mortal here become elsewhere on a higher plane the air we breathe the love we live the hate we must keep silent in these physical limbs for those who under our window, adore what we disdain!

   What’s here? but bones & cemeteries. Tendons decomposing. Insects suffering in an atomic make believe world! CERN?

   I lift my hands to the heavens making MAN my sacred sigil. But who is he, outstretches his arms beyond; fomenting a happy masculin desire? :

   « The immortal ancestors alive in me. Condescending to look down again at something not worth the ants I can salvage, while time on this earth is still on my side again! »


   Be brave and expect nothing.

   No one is waiting.

   Life is what your awareness 

   Construes! A blink of the eye

   And the Valkyrie has ripped

   From torn flesh & bones

   An immortal soul, friend &

   Brother of our Führer.


runres a - copie

Always been Enemies


The Knights Templars, the Cathars and the SS Kameraden honor eternally their own True God.

   …true, the angels(Aryans) are what’s left of God’s Eternal Spirit in this World. And they are not liked nor appreciated in any manner shape or form. By anyone who’s been replaced before birth, in their Mother’s womb.

   Beware my friend, you’ll be put to the side henceforth shuddered, disdained, nailed to a cross. Like Odin feared in a stealth way, for some unknown reason by the men made of dirt in which the evil deity has uttered his breath or wordy wind into!

   We impose but are not made of but regret while here on this plane. Only those singular mammals who defy the rule of Heaven in their hearts cluttering the psychological & intellectual pavement, shall hinder thus obstructing good deeds to follow. It’s us the divine benefit rejected, strange stones not unlike the stellar vault brimming, that glitters singing indifferently with mirth in bane! 

   You are made of pride and fire. You melt the ice. This world will never be worth the glowing thing cascading in your soul! It’s just not good enough. Those molecularly constructed particles, organically pretending to contain your spirit, the soul’s abyss, the great nothingness beyond! The Grail heat incarnating, blasting all existential illusions.

A fallen pride & Heaven’s proof

continually denied,  justice.

A torch bearer

from the start.

The devil’s children 

seek to take from you

the emerald crown precipitated from your brow.

** * ** **


Not men in the manner understood by Jehovah’s progeny. For he fills them with his bleak and yes gloomy ghost : it’s always Him you cross at Walmart or at the City Hall. In school in University. At work or at Home. He is the Collective & Unconscious malignity invades since immemorial time, the brain of all the humanoid creatures you encounter. 

   What is to be universally connected? Electronically? In a world where things continually dissolve! 

   In the beginning the devil wrote the book, made mortal replicas of the angels & mixed mammal blood with the celestial clay that comes from a heart full of love, and turned them into puppets. He created them all. He put his ghost in them, then afterward said « it was me all along. They call me god because I’m the only one that’s there! And it’s true!

   They say it’s the only living god and call him Shiva, Allah or Yahweh! Even Ali fell in the trap.

   But you aren’t mine, not of my kind!…you don’t belong to me. You refuse categorically to be animated by me, and my preordained and clever archetypes. 

   Beware, and keep thyself ô pretty Thing.

   …we have always been enemies. » 

de la Magie Noire et du Bluff Tech

 Certes, c’est sans fils et depuis combien du temps que mages & marabouts tapotent la cervelle de l’humanité benoîte et somnole; toujours éprise du sexe et des bains d’huile sur les plages du littoral sous un soleil accablant ou au bar ivre et variolé au rouge mauvais? Sans traces et toujours sans que l’idiot peuple ne se doute du royaume qui récolte entre les 2 mondes : celui-ci et l’autre qui vers la lune se penche.

   Le Monde a toujours été un lieu de Sortilège, l’est encore et dans sa substance tentaculaire, porte le démon de sous terre sur la surface chez les hommes. Dans ses affaires enfume les rapports. Le diable est quand même chez lui le prince et l’esclave heureux. Amoureux de ses enfants, les hommes de basse souche. Sans maîtrise ni conscience : une calamité pour les cieux qui plane hors le regard de sangsue. 

   Le fil de cuivre et l’accélérateur des particules, un état de la matière organisée sous forme de plasmaoïde. Le vague à l’âme et le mal au ventre. 

   Sur quelle bande et de quelle largeur est-elle? En mm vers tera. L’homme à son insu s’incline de côté de la tombe, numéroté en gnomons pythagoriciens et pour le bonheur des mères éplorées! Il se transforme en data sous forme de buckyballs : entrainé du fond en comble…crétin hier pour le crétin du demain au lendemain qui hérite du mauvais mélange du sang et de l’eau, patois, fourbu & qui crépite.

…hélas le charme se lasse, puis la vanité de sa poursuite de s’éroder : y a-t-il un homme de race qui ne soit pas pris au piège, comme un délinquant récidive en mal du vrai? Seul. Enfoui dans le coeur. De s’éloigner du juif errant, et au RSA, le malheur de l’honnête homme. 

   Une panoplie de bêtises de gestion s’effrite, mon Dieu, sous le poids indécis de la dette cultivée pour l’éternel bougre des jaloux. 

   Et le chien d’aboyer et d’aboyer sans fin jusqu’aux confins des dernières rampes qui surplombent le parterre sale, une splendeur de perfection et une gloire au très grand architecte des mondes.

   L’oeil dément partout et dans l’air que vous respirez. Dupe et cocu, trompé par votre arrogance, un pied déjà dans la tombe.

   1G 2G 3G 4G 5G …etc depuis toujours sans fil, pour vous, le bétail de Pashupati offert sur un plat.



Old Odin


The eye in the wall is us, looking at you.

 …and it’s this way we speak to each other. These voices we hear in our cavernous heart, where without some outward glance cannot be defined some immoral prejudice. Our thoughts are not our own yet we engender them continuously within the Middle of the Earth. To each the other, gliding in the astral air, invisibly apparent. 

   We can go where the earth is never cluttered. No atrocious concrete edifice can blind us from the sky vault. We are eyes in the aether. The wings of which, animate the four winds. 

   Odin the wanderer. Oh villain boy! Bearded, blond and lost nowhere. What is it with these nine orifices. The stars clinging to the ceiling. 

   Would you penetrate further, the heavens would flee to make room for you. You would walk on Hell’s untiled roof. The devils inside the dirt waking could finally cleanse their inner sense of things. The skin crust could just fall to the side, May flowers appearing on their backs inclined.

   Old Odin young like a new born goat! Laughing in hail. Tempests bringing the good news : floods and fire. A chance to rebirth on a higher sphere inside another Hollow Earth. 

   A cheater, a liar and like a ghost reaching through the summer grass under a coming thunder storm!

   This is quite good for the health. It will dissipate the melancholy. Be a bad boy when a pilgrim. Where the world Judah built does not deserve your kind.

   If it’s Chaos the « j__ » wants, then it give to him. Tomorrow belongs to us.


Frontispice du Mystère des Cathédrales - 1910 Fulcanelli

Celestial Toxoplasmosis. Who is it comes out of the the bleached skull? A dark soul, heavy with light and love.

They think we go to the deep, just to know who it was did this mess from the start! Yet it’s to take all and plus what belongs to me and mine, of what from the very beginning hated me before being born.  An eye for the dark pit, Ginnunngagap! Inundating the vast resources pertaining to illiterate death, the bones that hold what one might call my breath together. But I’m not else but a nothing living captivated by my own spell thrown out into a vat. Spacious. Thought lovely, but in its actual empty activity, deceiving!

   But what of death? Who dare speak of it? When one’s heart clung to it’s own children, nascent in a plastic and organic life crippled eventually with man telling lies, wrought a combination of strings tied to be untied when the final air and soul wind, get trapped, by god again once fled and freed!

   A wind throng sounding through at sunrise in brambles! Poplars astounding me with another kind of light. A raven on the tree. 

   It’s gold gives gold! From within the aether substance which we breathe. This tree digs into the shackling flesh, but sure it’s not me, but only some corporal kind of unconscious entity I made. Sinking inside from back to back across the nine circles we invented. 

   & I am else. The point behind the compass turning. I am stronger than my corpse. Evicted in the end from this dreaded spleen.

   Is it for me, is it for you? Pardesha? With all our might in spite of mental & psychotronic chains pervading thanks to programmed human bots made for display and forgotten time, …creating a secret resonant tinnitus, stimulating the honorable action through out the subtle hidden geography of the aryan soul, gratuitously and not for sale. Never to be bought. 

   My church is the sky dome at night. No walls, no curtains. No deceptive clouds. No fake windows insinuating mysterious passages in some mastaba in some place at the equator bulging into glued rings under the eastern sands. 

   The body of things is a trance, glides on the waters. For a moment it’s in a bottle, bobbing on the waves. & there’s no one will stumble on it my friend, so quick, wait and with patience, you’ll change it again!


Hagal, or the Lebensraum, being
a secret space 
in the aryan heart
sacred geometry’s supernatural pleroma
where brothers collude
without any hope, with nothing at hand
recovering their homeland
with a faith that moves mountains.

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!

Lovely Hatred

runres a - copie 2


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 cheat and corrupt what’s left of heaven on earth! I did concede, defeated.


God said, lift up thyself 

my son, my pretty child,

misled to

earth’s dirt and rot


It’s me your 1st nature


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 unspiritual 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, living within a genetical deviation! Reprehensible to its infectious marrow, hard to stop then kill. 

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 aghast impervious to my immortality. Is evil then, an unimpeachable metaphysical causal principle swaying goodness to overshadow evil? Can evil rightly used destroy these roots of blind evil that render joy here so difficult to grasp?

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.


Therefore hatred is a useful tool, used for good and light and love, so that evil kill itself and finally will be gone. Ever into oblivion. And Nature therefore redeemed, here in this teeter-taughtering sphere. Balancing through emptiness in the middle of the ultimate Tathagata’s heart. Throbbing infinitely. Annihilating all that pretends to be true man, the which having no soul no spirit no morality guiding a profound inner sense, means nothing when gone away into the abyss. Empty tombs, the dead believe are graves.

When God doesn’t come


No cadaver, & no mortal remains; he’s taken the sword with him.

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.


The Spaceship to Asgard.

German Forced Labor and its Compensation

"Neues Europa"

A Postwar Problem to Be Finally Resolved

Source: http://codoh.com/library/document/1749/?lang=en

By Prof. Dr. H.C. Emil Schlee
Published: 2004-12-01

The public discussion about the compensation of former concentration camp inmates and forced laborers is not only characterized by covering up facts and raising legends and horror stories to reality. It is far more marked by a partiality and one-sidedness which can hardly be surpassed. As is customary, it is also here again overlooked, that the German people, which has had to pay the bill over the past five decades for the so-called reparation, has itself suffered far more under the unjust treatment by the victors and their Allies. Described below is the injustice of the internationally illegal deportation and forced labor of millions of German men, women and children – uncorrected and not even publicly recognized as such – and a minimal restitution for this injustice is calculated.

German Prisoners of…

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