A Prince of Darkness أنا ملك الموت

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E col suo lume sé medesimo cela.

Purgatorio xvii

 

What a sweet moment and yet the sweetness has gone away in a baffled moment, strident in song. 

I have become a Prince of Darkness, standing in the air!

With this in turn, far off in a strange wilderness on wet narrow streets, is it as judges that now we wait in this unheard of place, estranged.

Archons in a scattered unsacred age?

Blond Boys descending on Mount Hermon once again?

My brothers, are we these angels of Death, awaiting in Exil, the singular command? Is the Wind in the rain between halls, the vital crack in a crumbling edifice, a bewildered raging madness pulsing in the internal fibres?

Muddled yet undying, fore with awaiting patiently. An awareness. Dense and black. Dark as night, a light so fierce it floats on a throttling sea of renewed and well founded rebellion? Blinding deafness till ears swell into horns of glory.

Incorporating our injured shadows. The aristocratic self, denied its Natural Right. Murmuring to the Self: ô God is it true, we have become your Battalion and Karmic Tribunal?

«  There is no other Judge but you.

Who is it condemns? Who the one who lets go bye? Wink and the World turns to naught. Goes astray. Or becomes a joy.

Close your eyes, and it’s you who merges into the Great Dark Earth of Heaven. It’s what shines in the face beneath society’s rags. What outlasts all mortal riddles.

A Prince of Darkness, an Angel of Death. An Eternal Warrior. You my Son. »

But we do not fight with our fists. It’s our Souls that condemn them. Our hearts breathing  with a big gasp, the individual aryan spirit into the Aether of Neverland. To burst the evil clamor all around! Shredding to bits the carcasses of what were men.

No wall shall hold us here. Neither the barrier belonging to Nothingness. Nor those children who have been corrupt in their old age. A shame to the Polar Star.

My will will not beckon any unsought advice. On this the great Abyss all ideals shall fail. Save the thoughts of those who quibble never, when they perceive behind them that there’s not one soul to save!

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NAZI DIS-ILLUSION

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

https://www.amazon.com/Nazi-Dis-Illusion-Poems-Man-Come/dp/1984199226/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1525565218&sr=1-1

New book from Kristof von Kanwetzburg – NAZI DIS-ILLUSION

The title is apt, I mean, it is Total Disillusionment – the beginning of wisdom is Disillusionment… I would say that if one wants to come to a State of Dis-Illusionment then one should become a Nazi, no quicker way to become disillusioned with Life and the World…. No quicker way to become disillusioned with National and Socialism than to become a Nazi….The World of Illusions does not fear National Socialists, the World of Illusions fears « Nazis ».. An even more potent acid-bath of a word is the neologism – « Neo-Nazi ». But that has now transformed into a, kind of, « Neo-Gnostic Nazi », a new Gnostic Fascism where possession is meaningless and only dispossession has any meaning. We are completely and utterly dispossessed and proud of it! In this new Light, the Old Reich Testament of the Holy Land of Germania appears…

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The Grail Cup & its Illusive Jokes

The sweet and sour thought processes which squeeze the soft dove tailed brain with eloquence, besiege the dormant mind. A minstrel pacing in the woods. A plaything himself his opportun joke! Querying from crack to crack until sleepiness drowse him to dizziness. 

iipeo 2

For sure, he was tempted to lie by. To wait again. To be patient with al and with his. Struck to stupefaction. Gleaning on the maze. Following Ariadne’s severed cord! With which way out. Again when?

** * ** **

   There is no surprise for a man on the wake. Nothing to shudder, to elude, to caress then conquer. For whom? Some broken toy house of a world. 

   For the sake of summits once climbed. Ideas that flourished then abandon us while we bystander, look hither, over our sorry hearts, wondering why?

   Incivility. Discourteousness! Ignoble fetiches clamoring their do. Ideals issuing from pigeon holes in the attic, unassuaged! Hopes dashed on a heap of moral dross and mis-tuned musical usages?

My friends, all this and more slumbers in our yet again uncultivated taste for boisterousness. I pray we wade the tide that gushes on the Great Dream whose roots are elsewhere, erupting in the Grail. 

A Foreigner in Hell

metelo

Now, to invoke the presence of intruders is mad, and to whisper nonsense into the ears of those who listen, will surely undo the foundation of pure hearts. Yet simply and lacking hesitation the lies pile up one atop the other.  

   These things fondle the brevity which life is worthy of. What you saw, wasn’t. What we heard, lasted ephemerally. These things you attributed to all life essences turned round and round til in their crazy dissipation, birds fell dead from over our un-inquiring heads. This is how the gods should die if we dont wake them ever: Submitting them to our wishes.

   Binding oaths to olive trees, felling ash and oak till dawn, loosing our very unique and personal perception! Invoking invasion. Elaborate intrusions that instill in our bodies coming from the outside manifestations which stroll in the Sun’s heavy unleaded rays, a parasitical miasma. An organic algorithm created and invested with the cortex cells in a mindless lazy brain.

   But as it is, all this, here, is just a playground for the gods. The very bad and the sometimes Good. In the internal organs thus reflected, the World Illusion makes playthings of what you cherish. Of what you might have loved and cultivated. Yes, oh friend it’s all a supernal Sham. 

* *  * ** **

   Cloistered in filth yet abiding each day. Afraid of one’s unassailable stupidity. Awkward and tired. Upright like a royal lion, leaning on the the cage’s bars! Stuck within one’s own intimacy. Never wishing it otherwise! But to melt the mirages, that make one sleepwalk day to day, embalmed in a dark night’s embrace. A foreigner in Hell. 

 tibetab astrology thangka1kalachakran.org

Odin’s Lamentation

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity…

The 94th Sonnet of  Shakespeare

 

I went on that road to eternal mud un-awakened, 

   My mouth filled with earth & dirt in the eyes:

 

In a land where two gods laid dead. Nailed 

   To the soles where my feet stepped, alas 

Like a Prime Rose that’s now buried in a dry stomach!

 

To each horizon to either antipode, the screech owl

   now laments my tears when I had them, now stale!

 

Certainly, I thought if I die, then God would too, with me

   Lavish in the sumptuous liberty to let drop the horrid mess

   He made as us.

 

Yet He did not dare, would not concede, and let out

   Without squeamishness: I live yes with dirt in the eyes

   And a wet mouth full of earth, a broken heart!

 

Fallen from unheard skies, like a Monster from Heaven.

   Banished and flayed of my golden gown! 

 

There’s lightning in my fierce look with rage teaming

   Froth in the soul flooding what was simply hoped for?

 

  And yes up there where no Evil can abide, I tore all the palaces down to earth, wreaked havoc, spored some terror in my own solemn self then yawned. 

  Yes I would start all over again! And damn the Eternal Self to perennial traveling, just to beat down all that ugly vanity smiling on the Death of all that’s innocent  & who bled just to feed frivolous USURY!

  My immortal being would perpetuate the outrage unashamedly, bashing the narrow and selfish little upstart divinities, and scorn with unceasing laughter the contemptible unnatural immorality of their elected peoples until everlasting, even unto the crumbling brink of all their Cosmogonic World views, that they would invent to hide my Proud Spirit. I would keep on, just to bury in the dung heap, 2 dead Gods amidst their rusted offspring of bitter brats.

 

Pour les δδοφόρος  qui éclairent dans les Ténèbres. 

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

 

 

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.