Black Brother

Armanen_Runes copie 2

I have become a dense & black thing seeping & absorbing inside itself, the whole Night and all its un-detached Creation. A black thing drinking in all absence of refraction.

All life telling, in this world, is lies. All staying in this place of absolutely no salvation is a stupid thing to do.  Your heart without hope has no place for it!

« I am dead, but prevail like something that can never be construed despite the primal barriers that lock men’s fears, leveling them to colored octaves within a spectral dust. 

It’s an animated plaything Sun does the rest, baking corpses for noontide meals.

I am a dark ghost, darker and more brilliantly blackened than the shades gathering in the underworld corridors which yore unmistakably frightened me!

I am an Abyss with a bodiless formlessness, ingurgitating the great & grand oh very dear Nothingness, which surrounds all the living to die put astray! 

Day and night are but pale reveries of a deceased me in the boot of a car that I’m driving to and fro, eternally. A silent star issuing into a sea of carelessness.

** * ** **

Dont forget who you are! Never ever lose your memory. Whatever it was that tackled you, beset your weary self; all the good & bad never forget!

This is the outer core of your Eternal Diamond Abode. What ranks stinks & sucks…what was hated & loved: be infinite and take all that in. A faithful warrior is no better than his Master.

Across Aeons & Aeons thru the most profound gapping gaps between the stitches holding all the indefinite worlds together: strive hopelessly & be glad! until you reach the deep des-incarnation of yourself. Hail. Hail. Middle and extended a key to all enigmas: a Child of the Black Sun.  An Angel of Death. Another brother to Lucifer’s Horde of Black Pilgrims.

Armanen_Runes

 

 

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Gottinnelichkeit

« If you say that in this perverted age,

The luminous body has never been seen,

That would mean, a rejection of the Aryan Dharmakaya…..

 

Is that what you wish to say, that today,

In this land where we live…

That the teaching of the Vajrayâna of our Ancestors, is no longer valid?  »

from the text —- « Death’s Pellucid Light »

 

img l'ermite 137332

 

Peut-il être autrement, que celui que tu assènes d’insultes et de profanations
ne ressentisse plus rien d’autre que l’absence de son âme dans la folie de ses semblables?

Un tel, qui ne doit envers quiconque, eût-il faim, désirerait-il des facsimiles de sa Mort réparatrice, et alors impertinent il persisterais dans les ténèbres à guetter des os creux des restes de son passé maudit:  une opposition à l’ombre comme une flame qui défie l’épaisse déception obscure?

Tout comme un lambeau de tissu qui flotte, imprégné d’eau sans poids pour autant discernable, ne coulerait,… ni toi, sans affecte ne désireras plus rendre vulgairement tangible le pourtour décousus de ces choses encores vivantes sur une terre sans pourquoi ni comment? Hélas quelle énorme funeste supercherie t’eût séduit?

Tout ça dans le vacarme d’une dépouille allongée, hélas sans concession! …honte qui accable sans ardeur jamais qui pousse pour le vrai envers l’innocent enragé. Toute la fantasie cultivée qui dénonce la face rude de qui serait absent sur l’autre rive d’Urda et de ses soeurs quand sera mon tour de mépriser aussi dans sa totalité l’ensemble du Monde Perdu dans un abrupte sursaut d’insanité!

Et le Krist à mon côté buvant.  Avec moi la parole perdue remise dans le sang des miens, dans la coupe de notre amertume! Le Hakenkreuz tournant comme un immense Néant du vide sur les rouages des ossements broyés de ma Mère et de mon Père. Délire en ma poitrine qui suffoque et qui ne laisse de fendre la chair fine d’un coeur agri alors immobile dans le calme cadavre dissout de son espoir déchu!

Salut à toi ô âme apaisée ici en Enfer.

Fils d’Odin qui marche sur l’eau qui fume d’humeurs inassouvies.

Que la Terre dévore et digère dans la mesure de l’improbable, le calcaire de mes doigts et l’oxide au fer sulfirique de Niflheim, l’acre bile de celles qui implorent une masquerade de pitié…

… & maintenant qu’elles accouchent de leur regret sur le trône de Dieu indifferent dans la salle de ses compères, les cornes au casque!

Der Christus wird in Helheim hinuntergestiegen! Ich heiz im Hagaldom, das Gottinnerlichkeit!

Das Auge der mein Auge.

Eine unauslöschliche Lampe, die ohne Nachsicht verfolgt, diese widerwilligen höllischen Schatten!

 

 

To Himself

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

« Now you’ll rest forever

My weary heart. The last illusion died

I thought eternal. Died. I feel, in truth,

Not only hope, but desire

For dear illusion has vanished.

Rest forever. You’ve laboured

Enough. Not a single thing is worth

Your beating. The earth’s not worthy

Of your sighs. Bitter and tedious,

Life is, nothing more: and the world is mud.

Be silent now. Despair

For the last time. To our race Fate

Gave only death. Now scorn Nature,

That brute force

That secretly governs the common hurt,

And the infinite emptiness of all. »

–  Giacomo Leopardi, The Canti, To Himself (XXVIII)

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the Barren Idea of You.

Against shame & unfair odds, I fought you
while the same time you despised me, smirking.

I shuddered, shivering, would or did you care for us ?
yet I knew you hated outright, with all your calculated attention,
the clean quite tidy corners

Of a sacred space. With incense and lit wicks, trembling.

And I fell, like a star crashing on the pavement !
…wishing Eternity to be placed, inside an impossible vessel !

« My dear darling, up and dancing awkwardly in a vain man’s story, where all is fake & fakery from one level to the next spiraling endlessly just underneath the scrutiny of God.

It has no mystic use for you, nor does it ever consult me
it vibrates longitudinally in complete and resonant discompassion
across the temporal fibres, Death does thrive on.

There is nothing bold & wonderful about it. Nothing worth taking to the grave.»

 

Pleading with all this in unkempt mind, we fight unjust battles for romantic reasons, without any favor from any gods or demons or men or ghosts or awful giants hiding in the air, covered in fur. We combat rebellious bodies, the souls twitching the wide & fickle range of sickly horreurs , which embedded in vernacular from the start of younger years deface in time, the pure natural innocence we saw immediately at once thru our eyes.

But now I know how forlorn it was desiring to reduce you and your intangible beauty into a soothing stale phrase. To want to place you into a frame. To make a gruesome image of you in accordance with the disfigured light of my own trusting ignorance. To make of you, a static sterile thing ! An Idol revery. Into a barren idea where the internal soil of our mutual inaccessibility just wont bother.

« Love is an ungrateful & abominous joy which can be unearthed from beyond the Aether. An inspired lovely brave and sometime solemn substance, wakeful in the heart, longing to quit the idle sound of murderous spleen. »

 

It’s certainly not some barren idea of you which you despise ! Nor is it some refrain randomly plucked on the cat gut, elaborated from 3 to 4 to 5. On a tortoise shell under your pillow. The wind in the room lost in the darkness. Not dead.

The Next World’s Realm

I confide my soul to the wilderness
to my darling in the cold water

Streaming round the rocks, rushing
down between the banks of greasy grass

With lichen and golden moss, a fox looking by.

Seeking Hamlet’s daughter, under the big wheel
in the cold water running through the crannies :

The miller’s child, on the dewy hillside.

I confide my life and soul to the wilderness,
to these stones from heaven fallen down.

To the snake and the black beetle the wild pig.
A wanderer like the ancient King, offering

  My strength to the ancient & antique spirit in the Heart.

Overhead, the polar vortex churns the huge abyss
spinning like an empty top, covered with bright specks

  Scintillating through the dark azure of my darling’s hair.

 

There is certainly a place in the celestial sphere. Where even though, father and mother, had lost there way among the brown brambles and ruddy thorns, they could be salvaged or spared by our secret special activity. In the sanguine memory circulating in the brain.

Yet if weary of it continually, your spontaneous perception would be theirs as well, even if they trespassed unawakened. These ghosts who lost their way among the brown brambles & red thorns. Unawares of their plight.

Renewed surely on your pilgrim journey to the Northern Pit having found all three roots of Igdrasil.

 

I confide all my soul and life and pounding heart
to the wilderness.

To the rushing water running round the rocks
seeking Hamlet’s daughter.

With lichen and moss on either side
a fox looking by.

desiderata unbound

tarot-populaire-suisse

 

“Malgré la saine discipline qui s’impose, sois bon envers toi-même.” Max Ehrmann

 

“On nous a appris à ne pas nous aimer nous-même. A nous mépriser. A haïr le dieu blanc hyper-polaire qui est en nous. Que ne dis-je, qui est nous-même. Car comme il est évident, nous ne faisons pas partis du Plan de Yod Hé Vav Hé. (Et nous ne le voulons pas, et n’y pouvons non plus) Ce verbe primitivement conjugué et qui avec tant de peine chevauche le souffle primordial du respire aryen, esquisse les débuts de l’attention hyper-sidérale, portant un masque de gorgonne barbue sans y atteindre l’ombre de ceux qui le défient. Sans la terreur existentielle d’en assumer le poids métaphysique du Grand Vide Eternel et Noble. De même que d’évaluer sincèrement le poids de sa déchéance éventuelle et certainement illusoirement matérielle.”

Ce dieu maître d’ici aux cornes d’hybride-cocu, sans Race Préternaturelle s’adonne aux opiates sécrétées d’une congestion cérébrale et également pérenne; Il dénigre et méprise ce qui est au-dessus du plafond parce-qu’Il ne le conçoit pas. Il ne perçoit pas plus loin, par-delà les limites élastiques des neurones rose-gris; ne peut en aucune manière évaluer une Chose Idéale conçue sans Lui ou sa participation qui se mêle de tout, qui Le dépasse d’envergure en perfection et qui serait contre son unicité mécanique & du bureaucratique, totalitaire. Et si Il ne nous supprime pas pourtant c’est quand même avec la secrète intention néanmoins de nous priver de notre pouvoir réel et inhérent à notre radicale conscience du pouvoir de décision, puis d’assurer l’éradication permanente si tant est que cela se peut, de tout contacte avec la Radicale Immortelle Essence de nous-même. Parce que si sommes divisés dans notre Âme Radicale et très personnelle il s’ensuit que par là notre attention ne se donne que seulement à vaquer de nourrir les 5 appétits biologiques que ce Suprême Dieu a voulu nous assembler : attributs du domaine mortel concrétisé qui commandent à l’ensemble asymétrique des organismes inter-dimensionnels, mortifères, et avec au rictus un préjudice assimilés par un centre de direction défigurée toute fois, a-structurée à l’avance, qui n’est pas en lui-même le dirigeant, mais seulement un lieu organique confiné, et qui rend aveugle,… un moyen vers un « discernement » acquis mais atténué et élucidé que par Lui et ses acolytes-serviteurs.

Un discernement qui serait biaisé, donc ! Une anomalie construite, inséminée dans les espaces intimes du Coeur Pensant. Un mauvais côté de nous-mêmes, d’après et selon l’image d’un Jaloux Dieu imparfait. Le Satan qui accable, et dont le Nom ne se dit que parmi les esclaves-archontes du Démiurge-Architecte des Mondes Virtuels à travers les chambres mitochondriales qu’Il a façonnées dans la boue de l’excrément de ses antécédents déboires en Edom !

Donnant des avis édulcorés. Permettant de rendre étriqué, une Vision innocente du Monde où nous sommes ses mules immodestes et mulets vains et où esclaves porteurs de vanité, nous sommes dépourvus comme des imbéciles impardonnables de la conscience polaire. Ensorcelés tels des ivrognes épaves, déchus de l’Esprit qui veille en nos Coeurs, de Païens Profonds et issus du Germain !

Et Adam à l’origine chez lui se nommait ODIN. Mais avec le temps écoulé par et à travers des processus de miscegenation politique, il a oublié !

And now he hangs again on that axial Tree. But with his blood memory finally restored, brings back Home again the blood sacrifice of himself. Will start again. The sacred Runa alive & breathing the Holy Breath draped with Ice and Fire circulating in the Soul of himself and his Very Holy Progeny.”

 

In Unterberg’s Belly Reclined

 

 

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die Tür von guten Männern

 

« Ils assassinent toute la Création afin de bouffer baiser et déféquer ! »

 

Within your chaste crowded bosom, and all my tortured pleading heart, those now burnt sundry unnamed shiver at the mere touch of you, down there at their new hostel in Nebelheim.

A heavy chest, a terrible pressure between the two ears, I had. Drivel at lips’ corner. The old the ill the young new the new born, our Mothers. Our Fathers too. Ghosts torn from their hearths to tear.

Now. Strips and disheartening shreds of a Dark Face haunt us. The black adversary. Our shadow selves, the Judas in the bottom drawer.

** * ** **

 

Reclined upon the couch of Inner Earth. Sustained secretly by the Vril of now, our long gone parents, lost to us unabashedly in the palm of a deluded & terrifying stupidity. Will come transmigrated into new vessels of elated value. Their worth an amber sap bubbling impatiently till a New Sky and New Earth in the Aïther renew…

Like a Mad Jester, practicing the Ancient Magic Charms of Bon : on oneself & on the others with us without knowing. The corpses laugh, draining the sky into the Mind’s torch.

A middle stellar-sun. Clutched in agony , with roots and worms, betrayed beyond comparison, stifling hatred. Inebriated with bitters and aloes. Absorbing the organic tissues, digesting the black bile in a rotten vesicle. Crushing with the akashic muscles the crisping thwarting shame.

Yet all honor has returned. The Great Spirit resurrecting the Polar stature from a pile of bones and melted flesh.

dresden_pyre

 

From this Time in Eternity on a better stage with odds on this forsaken God’s side, we shall permeate with yellow acid bowels the lavish mountainsides while the souls of Dresden seethe thru the calcaire cracks and iron oxide, budding green and marigold.

Untersberg1

RENEWAL

The Aryan Dharma Wheel

 

The body.

   In the cellar underneath, where rats & vermin hide, scattered among the bones of your royal blood, flooding into the rushing chasms that fill your vanquished heart with ill fate & rending distress.

Bleak sadness in a dark solitude. Inside an invisible cave, dissolving the reticent corpse. No spot on the surface of this world globe to go to for comfort. Black walls of desolation covering the extreme antipodes of earthen eyes weeping egotistically and limited constraining visions on the horizon of a forgotten dusk spirit.

The soil of the soul is wet with untold tears of distraught despair ! Where can Hope deserve a dwelling but in your own sweet grave. All true friends and true brothers shall enter with you there. Within theirs.

It’s in a crypt one buries the cadavre. The Holy Cross above tunneling a passage way to the shiny stars. An Echo all around you replying to your solemn song. In a sound like a great vaporous ghost, the Dark One, your hidden self shall find. United in Un-Death, one single primal and supernal Certitude.

 

The Soul.

   Now it’s time to climb outside. Thru the Tempest at the Crown. The Al Father is the glaive you hold in your hand. You are its Active Awareness. The Great Spirit, its Aryan Soul. The body you had, transformed into a rainbow.

The Black Sun is the Mark of Real Conversion. The Sacred very Personal Place of a Second Birth.

12 steps from one state to the next. Spiraling from space-time floor to floor. These are the Reich Eagles that go beyond & come back, striking dread. Imploding.

The 13 in the Middle is beyond the stellar ceiling. Squeezed into a non-existing physical locality.

Now you can hold Death upon your head as a Bridegroom of Darkness.

 

A lantern anatomy of ethereal matter wearing linen, a golden cord at your waist. The Morning Star at the brow. A Prince of Lucifer. Dharma-dhatu.

 
« It’s when my Soul in all its emerald green returned to the ruined house down below ! In the gutted clay. Among the bickering. In a realm where innocence fled.

I wondered. Did the snail that I stepped on pardon me ? Did Odin finally lose his raving Mind after so much fitting & tiring damnation ?

There were dead crows on the pavement.

My spirit was mixed with sulfate, & the nitre made me drink more than I needed.

Flame surrounded me. I sunk into the residual bitume of all I had wished for, & did not attain ! I became the darkness that frightened the gods ! »

Who was harassing him ? Was it the brain ? The morphic resonance ? The devils in the waves, thrilling in the air above, all the naughty kids below ? Was it the J__ ? !! Or was it just the backside of his skin ?

Or was it what the worms eat, just like what happens in our gardens when the soil’s ready for planting vegetables ?

 

Interesting nodes

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

Joachim von Ribbenthrop:

Edward VIII was compelled to abdicate because one was not sure whether he would lend a hand to a policy of hostility towards Germany. Chamberlain has now appointed Vansittart, our most important and toughest opponent, to such a position as enables him to take a leading part in the diplomatic play against Germany. However much one might, in the meantime, for tactical reasons, try to come to an understanding with us, every single day in the future in which our political considerations should fail to be fundamentally, determined by the thought of England as our most dangerous opponent, would be a gain for our enemies.”

I found this is in « Lightning And The Sun » as I was just reformatting Savitri Devi’s book, (and it is taking a long time…) But this struck me as interesting, an interesting connective node but without an explanatory resolution.

It…

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Circumpolar Phantasies

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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.