Fasces Lictoriae

   A Race that from beyond the measured sidereal sky, condensed into those with fair white faces thus star crowns in sub-lunar bodies crystalized, Tuatha da Danaan.

   Surely the Night rode mounted on the shoulders of these Hermes. Splitting the material world core where Middle Earth would manifest, the Dark Matter hidden in our souls, a solar substance like honey, coloring their hair. Dripping from the stellar canyon. A mild bright dew becoming a Heathen Barbaric Blood, its fountain head the peluscent Pearl directing the blue-eyed thrush in the mineral veins as they throb & pounce & push continuously within muscle to suffer here, captured in Hagal’s primordial Web.

   Then they were despised because of their personally well earned immortality!

   Dispersed idly like a bundle of meaningless sticks, a thing now moving uselessly on the tile, in the silly arena of Empty Temples, wandering away from what is tangible to the Soul, dedicated in a place to gods no longer there, if not, except as some distorted reflection of this world’s worshiped ugliness.  Unintentionally diminishing a Once at one Time Sacred Blood, vessel of the body of God!

   And now the Oriental Scholars chirp, disdainfully discard the Aristocratic Babe with the Holy Bath Waters, into a brazen & filthy bassin. Contriving genetically a barren breed from all 4 corners of the once Sacred World! Mixing blood types to engender : a Monster in Jah’s Image!

   All the waters dispersing. In a some how great, and without a supernatural sense, vortex provided underneath the earth, in a circular cylinder, made of magnets and nails, chromium & modern jade. Electrically empowered thanks to a golden box presided by two Cherub prisoners. 

    My God you have gone from this place to the next. As proud as if you had been a Palestinian child now crushed by tanks, but had hurled little stones nonetheless at the demon-people who hated him! But of course there but here you cannot die. Crowned like a glistening jewel, sitting on the lap of the Holiest of Mothers. An infant who bore the World to smash it’s human shame against the Wall of the most stupid & unkind people, that Man has certainly ever come to encounter.

** * ** **

   

   Ah, for what was sweet in my dreams now dirtied here. How thin & brittle, dry the cord that held us together! How much the metal edge, since so many centuries, in the air was battered by the wetness exhaling though our mortal pores.

   You can’t make an eagle from out of a swine! Without the Seed no ROSE shall flower on this dung heap! How could you serve the wicked empire that destroys the Internal Foundation of all Mankind?

   Ultimately, the silly European prattle converts into a void, its most vital & precious parts undissolved, coalescing into an invisible army, stretches through out all directions, toward every horizon of this spinning globe, according to a Unique Imperial Plan revealed to the Awakened, never mainstream & arrogantly undercurrent always underground, that no one person can ever really know unless of course you awaken.

 

Chakravartin & his Body Guards.

AÜM.

Arisch ÜberMensch.

 

But my dear friend 

who’s astute

& then, who’s not?

 

A trinkling here

another one over there!

 

Besmeared betwixt various imaginings.

 

This world & all the others

have goose pimples on the inside

& as it is the bladder is way too small.

 

Where can you put infinity?

Can a soul have a dignified place

when this and all else who lived

have fled?

   

   The Aryan is the unique viable boat we have for this sea on whose vast ocean nonsense deludes the majority of those who’ll no longer be even in a wink, some occasional or possibly improbable memory!

   One step 2 steps three steps, 4. To the Polar Star in airships, Pleroma waits. A pleading to the down trodden to get up, and ignite inside! A storehouse of imploding magnificence. A roar.

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