Νίσοϛ

   Et dans ce corps, sa luxurieuse exuberance, la clameur distincte mais oisive des pas d’amont qui précédèrent l’ultime exégèse des forces subtiles qui résident avec discrétion dans l’antre des promesses de l’éternité inachevée.

   …fulminante d’outrage insatisfaite et inassouvie.

   …ils ont été façonnés par ceux-ci même qu’ils façonnèrent. En cercle. Du cercle en cercle. Par delà le firmament qui contraint. Dôme qui extrait et qui retourne en vapeur leur sang qui exude au toit, où ni oiseaux ni sylphes n’osent s’attarder.

   Et l’expression incongrue sur leur demeure faciale pleine de leurs ineptes ambiguïtés les ponctionnent sans remords ni cessent jamais,  le mensonge de s’écouler en effluves à travers les gestes chevaleresques de jadis oubliés.

   Ô heureux Malheur à l’être qui avec une âme dût éprouver l’unique unicité de sa propre et inéluctable existence, intégrale au milieu du dissolvant! Indemne et qui perdure. Puis…

Pourtant, cela est la même; la Vision inhérente à mon oeil. Depuis l’immortel, dans l’évanescente farce que peuple certes l’humain fait de chair et du sang retirés du mélange depuis un bourbier, …et du fruste l’issu, le fruit maclé. 

Sans goût et malsain du coeur.

Les 4 participants au corps de l’Âme.
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Adolf Hitler: The Ultimate Avatar. limited edition

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

New release of the deluxe limited edition of Adolf Hitler: The Ultimate Avatar by Miguel Serrano (English Translation). Limited to 25 copies. Green Linen cover with quarter bound black leather with gold intaglio titles. The printed pages are of the finest black ink printing. Archival quality books. Please email:   hermitage75@yahoo.com.au  for purchase inquires. Please no Germanophobes, Third Reich haters, anti-Hyperboreans or anti-Aryans, only genuine individualized Hyperborean Fallen Angels…

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The Kinsmen Die

   …and our kinsmen die. We die if not, unless we pull ourselves within from without, but for a stammer they die. 

   What you planted has withered. What we did while dreaming has withered. What we hailed while offering our homestead has flourished into oblivion! The fruit of our kinsmen has waisted in the midst of awful negligence!

   But for a stammering in the wake. Upon a land in the mighty mind.

** * ** **

   Make your Soul a fortress. What ever batters against the sacred inner doors. Close the kind heart. And drink to the defeat of all spiritual ignominy! 

   Let us dance the heart felt gig on their filthy corpses and hail while blessing with complete condamnation of the heap, the Golden Flower in our ancestral memory. There is no hope here, and yet neither does despair find a haven in our home.

   For alas, hope has gone. Has left the home without ado. 

   Make soldiers of our boys, to win and not ever to lose! We will not lose! 

   I’ll make of Death a foundation for my Ideal. 

** * ** **

   Remember mankind is an ape when it’s not you or your kin.

   You are a Lucifer (Torch Bearer) fallen from the upper firmament. A Burning Star on the ground! All that just to redeem some synthetic genetic program, senseless, without a heart, without a divine Soul. Made of biological zeros & ones. Created and fashioned by the False One laughing in the gutter. Inside his nothingness.

   They are jealous selfish & mean. Rust on the moss between the cracks in a degraded place. Uninspired. Without a King’s Heaven to be spirit born.

   Remember, mankind is not even like the ape! But you have been distilled on high before the High One: you are his son. And so are all your Kin. 

A beautiful boy engendered in the sphere
of the Demiurge.

Remember. Use what you need. Transform all the dirt even its culture, even its religion. Whatever the words whatever their symbolic nature. Push the dead man off the cliff!

Tell the hangman to come down, & become the Runes. Whatever is good in my eyes, I keep. Whatever is bad I leave to those who frolic in fanatical fantasies invented by others!

I am above the Triangle. And without ritual displease the plastic made-up gods.

 

GERDA

   What is the Earth, but a kind of situation within the perceiving Mind, invaded by parasites of all sorts, infiltrating the harmonious calamity that the Eternal Spirit forces on the souls of all those who enter its englobing and pervasive perpetual discourse. Because the Spirit is free and transcendental, it entraps taking the soul to its appointed ending making one think its something other than oneself. But in the end its your God in you abiding by you in all and eventually through all that’s in your waking and unawakened field of perception. Becoming a concrete thing. To die in some Wasteland. Because the soul needs a better place in which to thrive attaining its abstract beauty. Here where nothing would be decent enough to stand it!

   What is it you call the Earth? Is it all the pretty and ugly little things you see and experience? Crowding the outward surface of the World Place around you? From inside the brain’s tentacles?

   And is it with these mortal senses providing you a 3 dimensional habitat, that you are able to deem you understand, comprehending what? While truly, Life is but a trifle something nonetheless? A situation in which and by which purported physical orifices assay thanks to your gullible mesmerized state, excitement. Pleasure. Love. & sadness?

   Everything all around is but a situation. A place in the brain taunting you, your naivety.

   Are those rocks we fathom down deep underneath in some occult region? In the pulp and the pith? Is that it? For those gems we find, unearth and kill for? Making from a whore for one minute a make believe Lady of Honor, of worthy kind? But just all the same a slut.

   ** * ** **

   But it’s all in the Race, all that’s best in it, a kind of Mankind that’s gone, got up, fed up, and fled? Or just indeed got board and died off with this 3 d locality? The confines of which, withheld the Sweet and Noble Aryan Soul in rank and stench captivity?

    In a place of broken mirrors and fickle glances. Nano-particulates pervading stubbornly through out the outward organic vessel? Here in these outside places you would call your Home?   

   What unites the brilliant and enduring inward awareness, feeding on eternally on the ethereal Soma, is, that which is good has no badness in it and can have no opposite that would thwart its being. 

   Gerda, is the crucible where our God awakens the True Conscious Earth of our Souls. 

A monad from which a real life issues.

 

Lucifer’s Lantern

Joseph of Arimathea - window in St  John's Glastonbury

 

   …and what would be left but the hallow wind, and my curt understanding, for how little it would serve me?

   Yet there is no sound in the brush, the children sleep, the wolf amidst the dead stillness where trees no longer abide on the summits. The hills ripped naked by a UFO fire. The Sun gleaming somewhere else : the stars aligned, no allowance for hidden mischief.

   Surely I must indeed advance?

   Loitering. The mind dispels the awkward tendentious brain.

   The Sun, the Star, the Thunderbolt. Is this how you see me? From within a secret Cloud? Yet, is it with this in mind, you filled my Soul with your loving eyes, together? In friendship for one of yours, here on Earth, where battered souls incline intrepid, where we won’t stay? But like you with a deep breath, leaving me alone again in solitude?

    A warrior unkind among the sheep?

   Certainly the giants of yore have gone and disappeared. There enormous stride crushing the broken toppled branches that lay waste; those I myself have climbed on in those upper regions they abandoned.

    A dreamer. A poet. A knight defeated.

   The sword of my Self, a lit wicker illuminating the tenebrous carnal abode.

 

Truly right from the start

I fought, in spite of me

Clamoured such as Sorcerer.

 

A son of Satan.

A misplaced man.

 

A magic crown from which to leap

Toward the very narrow door in Heaven

That watches me.

O.P.O.R.O.F.

   …on another plane, in another residence. Throughout a ghostly scenery on the inner back stage of the golden shining Sun. A wild blackness awaits me.

   In the solar regal depths, a portal of darkness beyond, across the platonic bodies and inside their mysterious intermingling, a certain Spirit describes with its perpetual movement a sacred intermediary procession of multiple pythagorian combinations, …and my spiritual ancestors speak to me from there, in Plato’s True and unadulterated Republic, saying : 

Awake & dance, Child of God.

The hot blisters from the mortal skin, hot as hell

Falling on the Earth’s retreating lap!

 

Awake & dance, ô Lovely Kindred!

Let the mongrel beasts keep their kind.

They’ll inherit all that’s destitute,

 

Because no innate beauty can withstand 

 

For more than what’s necessary to the sweet & honorable

 

The pitiful vulgarity they bring

Here where the World 

Is only the Devil’s seat & latrine!

 

   Like a Green Ray, a lightning bolt breaking, yours & only yours, ride on Venus’ loins. A Great Star made of the stuff of Pleromic Hearts.

   Leave the bastards eat the crumbs that fall from Evil’s dearth. 

   Your place is in a Viking’s Palace, made of oak & ash & pines from the North. But in another sphere, where astral bodies cohabitate, congealing their Kristic sheaves, glorious like the Face of your Aryan God!

   Each one a Black Sun, within which a Green Dragon has conquered moral & physical stupidity, and forgotten memories from the Sky invigorate the once lost Soul.

H.S.H.

(…for the Kamaraden, if they’ll have it.)

Quest for the True Aryan Church

Oregoncoug's Blog

Overview of the Mystical Death of the Church

(not a Divine Revelation, just my take on it)

 

By:

Brother Francis of the Immaculate

(aka oregoncoug)

April 28, 2009

 

 

Forget the Da Vinci Code. That’s much too tame.  History is larger and wilder than that.  The true history of human civilization is the history of the struggle of the rival Royal Houses of ancient Israel, those of Kings David and Herod.  Everything is from the Old Testament “Jews,” whether their good Aryan wing of the Davidids or their evil Edomite/Jew wing of the Herodians.

 

         Down the years the partisans of these two Royal Houses of Israel have fought through each generation something like two scorpions in a bottle.  The very strange fact is that the Davidids, the followers of the legitimist Aryan King of Israel, Jesus of Nazareth, always win.  The

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Lapis ex Coelis

…et ta couronne est tombée du haut de ton ciel de vers le pôle de ton être intime, ami âme et bien aimé qui au regard dérobe ta sur-célestielle racine. Déchanté, le charme enlace le cordial, et avec précaution tâte l’invisible, ici aux yeux pleins de rage et de fureur! 

Pleure, s’il en est de ta plainte! Que tes larmes abreuvent la dureté des pasus qui ignares se vantent et claironnent leur inapte vanité de geindre, ou gémir la colossale bêtise. 

On combat mais on se plaint et heureusement jusqu’à ce que la terre dévoile et déterre le coeur meurtri. Telle notre preuve de bagarreur! 

Peste! Puis plains-toi encore, puis frappe le mur qui bastionne l’innocent dans un clos de préjugés ou quelques préalables stéréotypes ou modèles pour des moulages futurs de clones de copie-collé indéfinis. 

Une armée sans personnalité, sans être, aucun sens de soi dans aucun de ses éléments individuels!

Le Dernier Bataillon possède un corps de Siddhas-Guerriers dont aucun de ses membres ne peuvent ni ne se ressembler ni lécher le cul d’aucun autre camarade d’armes! 

Si tel est ton souhait, plains-toi puis lutte in kampf d’ici que les idées en ce Monde fugaces ne disparaissent dans le Vide dans le Rien dans le Grand Néant où nos frères nous attendent blessés, couverts de plaies, porteurs de séquelles innombrables, réconfortés cependant par leurs Dames de leurs Amours, leur Valkyrias. 

Leur sang noble et 2 fois né colore la terre en fer. Là où la semence de notre or nous attend. Le souvenir du Paradis libéré de ces entrailles qu’on appelle la Terre Creuse. 

Et comme Plotin sera un oeil au Ciel du nouveau, à faire connaître l’obscurité des nuits éternelles avec comme lanterne l’âme qui purgea la Plainte.