Circumpolar Phantasies


History with its intentional magnetic pull scratching on the inner eyes and ears, deletes the sincere investigation of what regard should be put upon one’s surroundings. And this is knowingly why schools were built in contemporaneous times. Putting in the place of direct understanding within the soft ungracious hidden cranial substance, an intervening obstacle to real learning !

Why should we adore with all our mindless attention the fruitless facsimiles crowding our brains and hearts ? Only to kiss the ass of some political cunt in the making ! Or who was made up before the eyes ever opened in the cradle.

** * ** **

But history is a myth to be used intelligently. Like a grimoire recopied in negligence. But in faith, where ill-written letters & numbers depict living things filled with value. Parsimoniously, so that with what little we would suspect to know, we might invent some prosperous dream in the great and infinite Mind of the True Man to be. And there forget to be mesmerized by someone else still again, transforming all that fake knowledge we have gained into an Ideal and necessary instructive tool to reach forth into the inevitable tender darkness of our Great Divinity ! Making sign posts within the apparent inanity like furniture to be occupied in diverse rooms; further on, Theseus in the Middle Place of Places, rips the Minotaur to not ever do any longer any harm.

A circle with lines in it. Mysterious geometrical figures interpenetrating, appearing to give depth. To emptiness ! All this from on high, originating at the circum-polar countries where the Angel Folk still terrify, with ice and frigid touches.

Waiting to embrace those that are like them in thought action and deed. Like mortal curses on animal men, confounded by the blindness which strikes the flesh when interred !

Lines & circles & squares intermingled.


Radamanthe, Minos et « Pluton » ?



L’inexorable rite de l’être lors de son parcours au milieu axial des 4 éléments, dans son élaboration, est jonché sur les rebords aux ornières, empli jusqu’à saturation, de griefs & des instants de mauvaise humeur; et il est comme un cadavre sur pilotis qui explore le néant de la vie de désillusion illusoire ! Nageant l’espace vide, tel un mort rempli de pus. Son regard royal retiré de lui-même dans une arène : tube cathodique rempli de gas spectral. Des fantômes ajustent et orientent les 7 vices qui obsèdent.

Radamanthe est roi. C’est sa rigueur qui contraint l’être mammifère de se soumettre à la rudesse des pénuries sociales et injustes ! Son frère Minos divise puis dévore les vains espoirs de tout ceux qui trompent leur concupiscence avec des ersatz agréables à l’oeil ensorcelé quand le corps mécanique préalablement programmé vas de travers comme une nef renversée, engloutie par Léviathan d’un seul trait cynique. Déjà intérieurement exercé à accueillir un variable hypnotique parmi les sortilèges qui meublent les yeux aveugles qui voient sans voir l’étourderie arrogante des désirs inséminés. Et leur futile être s’en va au diable : humus ivrogne, dé-morcelé.

Aucun homme n’est libre. Ni dieu ni ange ni diable. La rigueur est de l’éternité dans le temps de l’Âge Sombre. Car la l’Enfer est une nécessité.

Cela purifie les ossements et la poussière que l’esprit sain éclairera.

Si tu es ici. Sois en un homme-mage. Sans cupidité sans convoitise ! Délibère puis aie du discernement, de choisir d’être bon et noble et d’honorer tes ancêtres sans leur faire honte.

Car le but de l’Être et du Seigneur, de tout ce qui abonde au royaume des mortels et du MORTEL, …C’est la pratique de l’EUGENISME des Aryens. D’accomplir le BIEN, le BEAU et le VERIDIQUE en soi-même d’abord puis à l’entour, même avec de la force. Nous en sommes les ARCHITECTES.

** * ** **

Ne craignez pas le lendemain. Les races de couleur convoitent ce qui leur est supérieur et par là elles empoisonnent leurs propres races avec notre Sang Elégant et Pur. Ce monde terrestre deviendra un désert. Kalki viendra ensuite faire table raze de ce qui reste.

Et nous, on recommencera ! le KRISTOS vivant en chacun de nous ! Comme un élixir racial, un bénéf’ pour la véritable humanité de demain !

(A force de convoiter tout ce qui appartient aux Blancs, les Races de Couleur n’auront plus de descendance ! Elles deviendront par la FORCE INTENTIONNELLE DU DIEU, Belles et BLANCHES !!! La laideur et tout ce qui est hideux s’évanouiront.
A cause de leur cupidité insensée jointe à une paresse architecturale avec un manque d’ingénierie imaginative leur destin sera de disparaître, ainsi que de faire disparaître les leurs!)



pour SageSigma Unbound


the Jungian brain & its origins.

There is a real world where nothing is simulated, where all creatures of any kind are a unique conscience, seemingly incarnate. But they transcend time & even Eternity, ontologically. Each a unique presence, un-collective. Not issued from any kind of unconscious collective. Jung & his learned abstractions were but bait for the educated & ignorant elite, who were already themselves issued from the synthetic « artificial » intelligence of his & their « time », devised surreptitiously to lead astray all thinking & alert minds(divine sparks).

The real & un-illusory soul tricked into artificial existence, is like a « Christ sitting on a JACKASS entering IERU-SALEM.

It’s the great Machination of which Plato spoke, in any case the literary figure we call Plato, implanted in the real vital minds of men, which is simulated, i.e. is an artificial simulation ! But as Joseph Delgado said in a discourse along time ago, (and I dont quote per se) « …what is man today but a product of our own intelligent creation across evolution», & I would add, an artificial & « unconscious » product thanks to what one would call, the Royal Craft & ART.

But then again, the PRIMARY MATTER to this realization is rooted in the Erhrean Father of the Human Species, of which there are 4 races, or kinds, biologically. And as in Alchemy, the goal of the Great Work isn’t El/Ella or its undoing, the Great Work is to make the Philosophical Stone,…i.e. make you yourself into the « Thing », and yet preserve your own Personal Mind. But WOUNDED like a resurrected Christ !

The so-called parasitical elite thrives on the stupidity of those who would be victims of their very own happy « spiritual apathy »! Those that would be but someone else’s created & artificially intelligent vampirized product !

Too bad for them. After all, if you dont fight back, or preserve the right to your own specifyic « being » while in the corridors of time & space, then you have not earned the right to be called a « MAN », i.e. a Magus, a Magician, a one as self created by God. Thru God. & in God.

The Magus isn’t in any way, a cloned invention, based on algorithmic computations. And who would make compromises with « the devil »! The demiurge, in order to live continuously as a perpetually segmented buy-product of its pretentious vanity ! But those who would be, what they aren’t, i.e. Awake, but in a possessive manner, feign initiation thru horrid parasitical ritualized processes which goes to show, that without a prey there ain’t no predator !

In the « real » World atoms dont exist. But what is wisdom, isn’t « democratically » viable.

To be true, in any case to my own essence, as Monsieur Gurdjieff would’ve said, …only an artificial intelligence would want to be reborn into a simulated reality. Why worry, if you are real, and if you aren’t then, there’s no one except for the vain & ridiculous Jungian synchronicities that would fill the dark matter of artificial man’s fantasies !


Thank you SageSigma Unbound for your last post. or


   I sought nothing waking into the morning, very early without grasping again through out the empty air, brushing invisibly once more something like before, those reddened dying leaves that segment themselves falling to the earth, emulating the original aether on dry ground. Searching nothing as they sink into the wind dispersed upon the world’s 4 corners. The immaculate angles of which the Holy contours disappear. 

   A disaster for whom, while all sleep?  Naturally seeking nothing, like a wandering mind, careless in a dead brain. I beseech the squared circle. 

   It’s the sincere and single heart watches as the tide of crumbling things moves on into oblivion. This seemly circonstance in an uncomely corridor leading to a goal between a room and a room, dark curtains likes clouds upon the abyss, unrevealing.

   But the particules go amuck. Silence dominates in the desert hills around me. Doom for the body has always been a necessary retribution. When souls collide with false hopes and all mankind of any sort hallucinates.

   Ambitious and dubious conceit hardening the spine against its own salvation! Polygamous among nefarious visions, haunting compassion’s forgotten space.

   Who is it has done what evil thing? They’re but accidents from Nature engendered nonetheless like fairy rings on a arid turf in the middle of a metal forest; nothing lurks there but bitter sweet nostalgia. Hope doesn’t care about anything there.

   Why should a soul worry about what shadows do? The body hurts. But Eros in spite of it, seeks no medicinal remedy, though…it’s upon Venus’ lap, from where all hardship came. The fault of it moves on continually across kosmic cycles:

    A child’s mimicking in dark matter’s empty vessel of hidden grimaces? A place for tales. And more history. 

Invention inspires great feats of courage & sometimes glory.
Buts it’s all the same when no one knows.


L’Aumônière sur une Epitaphe

Voici l’Âme Double des Grands Maîtres du Jadis.

      Il emporte avec lui-même la fin de toute sémantique. Le désastre l’accompagne comme un toutou et quoi que lui arrive de pernicieux, le prix pour lui c’était l’éternelle défaite de la carne déforme dont on porte en éloge sur les cimes de la stupidité, la laideur victime que des hommes d’inférieure étoffe embrassent!

   La Mort est un cadeau pour le brave. Que le couard ivrogne élude! L’Initié au giron transcende l’affront: on préserve dans le Monde que ce qui se détériore. Moi, je me mets à genoux quand le Xrist pavane dans la caverne des coeurs, un innocent enfant mâle, le Roi de mon être, mon moi-même conçu au sein de mon Âme Immortelle, fils de la Vierge Valkyrie, Reine Céleste dont le délicat pied broie le serpent vanité des sous-sols!
La Valkyrie qui veille sur ma Mort.

   Car comme une sarabande le Choeur Invincible qui trépasse les frontières des outre-tombes, suspende le point d’interrogation. Il décide et meurt avec.

Il n’y a pas de place

pour des dialogues infructueux:

   Mon orgueil est un Seigneur humiliant! Il ne connaît point les compromis. Fabuler ici ou ailleurs est l’Enfer des imbéciles pusillanimes. Que je méprise infiniment. Bons pour l’Assistanat!

Jour de le Résurrection.

   La Naissance et la Mort du Krist sont un secret mystère dont le processus chymique décrit l’élaboration moléculaire de l’Âme Germanique dans un individu de Race et de Fierté!

** * ** **

    Je ne suis pas historien, et d’ailleurs je n’ai jamais aimé l’Histoire: des récits de mensonge qui flattent le lâche et le paresseux pareillement, faisant croire qu’on était soi-même fils de Clovis ou du Roi Louis Saint! Fantasmes du riche ou d’habitant d’HLM inculte! 

Mais les Mythes Suprêmes du Führer ou du Christ ou du Prophète Mahomet! Saints Rasuls irremplaçables: transformés en chose catalyseur qui convertit du fond en comble les miroirs internes et leurs reflets mirobolants, en nous emmenant vers l’apothéose du Corps du Gloire intractable! Et on devient frère du Christ, du Führer et du Prophète!

Que m’importe la judaïté de quelque chose! Je prends et je laisse ce qui me plait!, je ramène au berceau au bercail l’idée semence. L’idée polaire, l’essence hyper-polaire! La Déité m’enfante que j’enfante. Tout est illusoire, tout ce qui promène une oriflamme de vanité, le vent de l’abime l’emporte!

« There is nothing noble or gracious in accepting slavery and the superior type of man owes nothing to slaves, he hates to be pitied but the slave enjoys it,… »  Karl Young in « Third Reich Pilgrim ».



Book Release – GERMANIA – Book I


New Book Release for the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, 9th November.

« For Truth and Justice. For Beauty and Light. For Life and an Ehrean World to come…For Germania »

« The following discourse pertains to my visit to the Holy Land in 2013. As is often the case when travelling in this ‘modern’ world, one must use an airport but airports have become nothing more than Zionist methods of ‘power’ and control. The use of the term ‘power’ must be explained here; there are two kinds of power, that kind which is gained through will and fight and truth and the the application of justice and of the intellect, all qualities of such which were and still are embodied in Adolf Hitler and The Third Reich and then there is that kind of ‘power’ which is gained through subversion and cowardice and sheer weight of numbers and through the fact…

View original post 347 mots de plus

from Windswept Windows from before

No peace of Mind with loyal heart, no nothing:

but a dense sensation, pleading

& yet, all

Honor was buried there while distress

without any shame was simply murdered.

The length of Time in One Eternity

When Hope was sealed
in honeyed casks

with a golden subtil blood.

…and now I swear with sack cloth

for my naked beauty to hide

the honorable shame that would writhe
but only as a soul unseen but to very few:

where once before a Germanic son

A Norse Man
wearing wings of Mercury

A golden lad, wed to
a bright & insatiable Ideal,

to a feast for famished memory, is now abandoned!

Discarded, crushed and spat on.

What doesn’t despair here hapless
sustains within immortal hope

were it not for futility long time enamored.

Though this world would be our homestead
in disillusion, yes but a shadow

is become a place of recess for liars & a scoundrel!

Or has it always been this way?

No peace of Mind with loyal heart
no nothing but a bleeding

into this illusion
across Eternity!


God is our strength. Our Love. Our Kind. Before Adam, there was the Aryan. Our Führer was there, our ideal impossibility! An improbable fertile grain for another land! The Holy Sperm for another Age. Another Cosmic womb.


Bubons, Furoncles et autres Kystes

   Certes l’abominable érosion se propage, tel un ruisseau en fleuve qui inonde, noyant le bien le beau et ce qui était véridique. S’étale à travers tous espaces sur maintes plans où d’aire en aire le chronique cryptomane se gangrène! 

   Une plaie pour un jeu. Une négligence éthique devenue coutume de moeurs! Le torride tremblant et névralgique; la fièvre de l’aveugle vanité qui désagrège. Le mensonge et la perte de l’arrogant, les pauvres victimes de la société, des épaves raciales & difformes qu’on a mises sur piédestal!

   Quoi comme cirque pour hypocrites ces parasites en réplique d’exemples indéfinis. Cela fait frissonner le désastre irrécusable. La mélancolie. La fleur délaissée. L’Enfer paradisiaque pour tous, sinon crève avec ton honneur, anonyme.

   Mais ces yeux se détournent allègrement, alors de se détourner ô quelle joie ô combien je méprise dès lors le faux semblant de ce qui est pitoyable, dépourvu de dignité!

   Et c’est ma loyauté qui est pur dédain. Le sourire, le sourire de l’Ange qui aux confins contemple l’Abîme de son coeur épris. Il voit sa place en haut parmi les cierges au Ciel de l’Empyrée dont le sang s’éthère.

Ce, pendant que la pierre blanche aux dorures s’en va avec éclatante érosion!






The German National Socialist term « Herrenvolk » has always been mistranslated as « Master Race ». Nobody, neither German or Englishman has ever translated this word correctly, it has been stated by a couple of lonely individuals that the translation is incorrect….Obviously it cannot be translated as « Master Race » because the literal translation of Master Race would be « Meister Rasse », which is a completely different meaning to Herrenvolk. So completely obvious is this but it has always eluded the comprehension of humanity who has endevoured to make so much hullabaloo about this word but such a hullabaloo of hubris works efficiently when 99.80% of humanity is hubris.

The aim of German National Socialism was as Hitler stated in Mein Kampf to « transform our ideal vision of the People’s State into a reality »….National Socialism was an ideal that Hitler attempted to transform into a reality. Now to the etymology: The word « Sir » in…

View original post 1 125 mots de plus

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.


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.