Plein de Tendresse & de Pitié

…que de mensonges qui étalent leur puissant ennui, un futile harcèlement à compter sur les vagues doigts diplomates depuis le socle des imprécisions mièvres, et qui lassent et hélas lassent la vigueur de notre amour pour la chose invisible que nous respirons pas comme les autres, et qu’hélas encore une fois de plus tourne en dérision, la brave humanité de Carrefour et de Le Clerc avec insultes et injures, dans l’insolence habituelle tout comme des larves-spectraux qui dirait « Yeshuah »! ; que cela importe peu…que cela importe si peu…Dieu même en a détourné son regard de ce ridicule spectacle abandonné aux déchets;  » quel ennui que la croix en bois que l’Homme abomination & sans un dieu, adule ».

La Colère est une réserve de puissance, une havre un refuge, une impasse qui repose le coeur abattu! C’est la coupe de l’anathème que je jette sur le peuple tricheur; avec toute mon âme quelle paix profonde que de maudire le décrépit le bossu menteur & l’hypocrite bourgeois et des HLMs (dont le souffle infecte microbien qui les habite n’est que pure perte de temps devant mon august et celeste attention). C’est un baume envers et pour assuage. Un élixir de bien-être qui au bout du compte, apaise la sainte rage!

Ô béni soit-il le Dieu le MIEN, qui écorchera avec un dernier coup de pied de biche tranchant, la peau purulente des devantures républicaines,…mettant au raz, l’édifice prétentieux de ce qui a été bâti au nom des peuples plèbes vains inutiles et arrogants!

Au nom de la racaille assistée, mes amis fourbes!

Au nom de l’immense épave éthique des démocrates aux lèvres ricaneuses!

Au Nom de Jésus. Ha! Jamais. Non JAMAIS!

Au Nom de ce Dieu aux Cornes de Wotan Qui Seul, est sans la Malice des conventions consensuelles! : La Sainte Rage qui fulmine, qui siège dans le coeur des braves, et qui abattra le LOUP de la Putain Usure.

Au Jour de la Vérité et qui ne viendra non jamais!

Buvons! A la détresse du Monde Post-post Moderne.




Everything Living

  « Everything living is now powered by dead corpses, nothing can go on living without the matter absorbed from the dead, even the sun and the moon are powered from the energies which invisibly radiate from all that is on earth, and all that is on earth that lives requires the nourishment from the dead, from their dead bodies. Plant life requires, first and foremost, the decaying bodies of animals and organic matter from the humus (life-force) of the earth to grow and develop; all farming of cultivated crops and livestock is reliant on animal based fertilizers and the same blackened organic humus (along with water and light) which are related to spirits and souls. But how to set the Spirit free from the raptures of the fallen Soul of humification that catabolises in corrupting matter? Victor Frankenstein gives birth, in the crucible of pain and suffering, to his own anima. It is a tenuous link as a comparative analogy, but one always struggles to find analogies here – did we not also try to reanimate our own souls against the entropic Force of Time, did we not see in the Germanic Volk a reflection of our own Soul? Did we not try to arrest the decay and to reawaken the soul and revive it – make it conscious of itself – to resurrect it out of the forces of decay and the coma of nothingness and to restore the Eternal Age, to make the world into something other than it is? For the world, for some, cannot be accepted as it is, some men yearn for something more, the vital spark of Will Within Them yearns for something better than the world can give. We struggle against all the elemental forces of disintegration and annihilation, because we are not of this world. This selflessness, was in fact, our own desire to transcend Time. The Volk as the Sleeping Beauty, a conglomerate of Gerda’s maternal instinct which the Divine Individual attempts to awaken as an idealist Nation (natal – a birth of a race), and elevating that form, we envisaged a higher Nationalistic plane of life. An embodied self-sacrifice of love – a gigantic Heart of spiritual force and boundless love that electrified the Germanic Volk to a National Life! »

by Karl Young in Third Reich Pilgrim: Ghostland

Hermitage Helm Corpus


In Praise of Herr Karl Young:

Orpheus no longer wanders then, a plaything for other fools’ phantasies, encaged by the artificial prototypes, that the so-called Pasteurs of Mankind have inordinately created taking to the SLAUGHTER Houses of a terrible & misunderstood machination, our Aryan Volk. 

No longer a puppet at the thralls of a crushing hallucinatory determinism imagined by Playwrights who grovel at the foot of seductive Lies(their own fantastical whims of autistic vain-glory); repeating tragically the eternal rotary platitudes… 

Eurydice doesn’t after all have to stay in Hell. 

The Maenads tear their hair out by the roots & have gone mad & just plain bald. 

…they’ve been found out: are full of shame, just plain temple whores, devouring our precious blood and vital Time. 

…King Odin is himself Asgard where ever he goes. 

There is no turning back. No recycling! No endless vicious circle like some French impasse.

A Pilgrim with a purpose. Theseus coming Home.

Winning instead of praising LOSS. Dans le Monde sans être du Monde. In the sea without getting wet.

Waiting for No One


It goes on & on, but you’re the one gives it Harmony. Once you’ve put out the garbage & burnt with a secret fire inherent to your corpse, the blessed black dregs.

Surely you’ve noticed, that the brain is only a center of command and in itself is like an outgrown gland in a calcium box, biologically preprogrammed to transmit and/or receive a perceived world place thru its senses, filled with artefacts and things, or just not filled at all! With all the trappings. Out there in the emptiness where people pretend in utter ignorance, that things are REAL. Surely this came to mind. God’s kingdom is not in the mud forever, debating chains of DNA! Enamored with silicon and carbon. 

The brain and all the other organs were pre-conceived in some outer structure afterwards the seed of existing was put there by the god. Like a shoe yes like nothing but a simple shoe, organically related intimately to the rest of all subtle & biological(whether visible to the eye and/or ear & sex) existing! The brain is a part of the natural structure. It belongs to all the rest. Was put there from the start like all the rest!

Only the Mind(the seed-thing put there by the god) when it wakes to itself, sees that it doesn’t belong. Is something other. A non-thing from a no where, not beyond nor below. Initiation is the bringing into account of the Eternal Tragedy of all incarnate souls striding the so-called strings of matter. Tendrils & dendrites interconnected, throbbing with pulses, inside the sacred number. 

Your eye has been mutilated by the darkness. But a lamp endeavors to endure, shining on this nothing of a Void.

And only the Mind-Soul can see, reflect and conceive. Thru the biologically pre-arranged gland. Out there in the midst, real souls of Mind are imprisoned. Dont disdain them! Honor the invisible divinity. Reality pervades because the Loving-Mind believes in nothingness’ existence. The fermenting Holy Spirit inebriates the fettered Soul. 

Whereas the god does exist, unconscious because forgotten, by the god himself! 

The soul is what is real.  It empties itself here. Then when death comes, inhabiting perpetually the earth & all creatures, the Soul takes itself back. Living and being eternally, no where. A fountainhead of life and love. A place from which hatred stems occasionally, when the Soul contemplating a terrible deception is taken aback while in a strange place, it has forgotten, it belongs nowhere, when here.

Seeing the illusion of the believing mind is only the beginning of becoming an Initiate. This is the Path of the Noble Soul-Mind. 

Where we are now, is unfortunately a desecrated Temple, which in principle was meant to be a sacred abode for the Soul!

And that is the beginning of the Root-Races. Which inhabit the Void thru Harmonics. In the Guise of a moving Swastika, the 4 in equilibrium. Through out Eternity in a Transparent Sphere.

It has no walls and no center.

BEWARE of Megalomaniacs, the illusory self & gurus de tout accabit

In crossing the GREAT VOID, your Elders have gone before you. This is the Hermitical Golden Chain. Nobody owns it! It cannot be bought nor sold. She belongs to no one!!!!!!!


Its Egregore is of divine right, its power passed from innocent to innocent. History doesn’t mean anything to it.  This is of the illusory self. 

Be happy. It’s not for everyone. Be a MAN: because you now belong to GOT.







Third Reich Pilgrim Part II: Ghostland. Book Release.


THIRD REICH PILGRIM Part II: Ghostland – Book Release

Book is now available for purchase – AUD$29.95 – please email for payment and shipping details.

I will write a little synopsis later on.

Here are the Chapters:

I – The Kingdom of Blood And Iron

II – The Mythos of Germania and the Reich

III – The End of Berlin

IV – Goslar and the Heart of Germany

V – Operation Kyffhauser

VI – Green Knights of Tornwald

VII – Walhalla on the Danube

VIII – The Treason Within

Voir l’article original

The Higher Man


Je veille sur la Machine du Corps Mortel.


Ce n’est certainement pas l’homme enseveli dans les fibres charnues du corps ni l’opinion que l’on a du soi à travers tendons et muscles.  La cervelle défaite de mille combinaisons articulées; rabattu sur le sol de nos amour-propres! Le produit ignoble d’une mauvaise et inepte culture de l’esprit hominid. 

Le rire cynique de telle manière ordonnée d’où a germée l’incomplete abomination de Vitruve et de Léonard. L’automate à tissue organique, golem pour les plages et le Métro de mes souvenirs. La fantaisie cybernétique de l’imposition tyrannique du nombre d’Or. Un illusoire ramassis d’illusoire confection qui se vante.

Les Idoles de son Idéale le prendraient en dérision: ils diront que voyez-vous là? Ce n’est que du vent de la sueur et une densité du peu poids. Un agrégat d’éléments. Une illusion quantique? Le respire des aïeux qui dévie. Le clapotis d’une vague comme le facies de ses parents d’avant et ses enfants après, un évanouissement des heures pendant lesquelles on s’est donné tant de peine pour y évacuer notre sang:


   « le résultat de tant d’hypnoses consensuelles! Ô pour le bref instant d’une  Vanité      

    que l’on réalise!


L’homme est une tombe. Ses enfants le sont. 


    Et lui-même fait hommage devant des hypogées 

    à base de calcaire & de gypse tandis que

    des larves-mânes et lémures lui habitent sous la peau: 

    c’est un regard narquois qui le guette

    depuis la géhenne de Hell-Nifelheim. 


Âmes perdues englouties alors que le Vide les toise dans la plus grande indifference! »


** * ** **




Ergo sum angelos. Quia exulto Hominis desuper! Lux aeterna vita coelorum. Crux in cordem canticum clamoris. Canto verbum arbor vitae.

…je suis celui qui terrible brise les sobriquets de tous genres. J’annule la signification d’antan. Jadis est un mot que je ne connais pas.

Je surplombe la maladresse inhérente aux idées que l’homme-fourmis d’en-bas apprécient avec tant d’excès malicieux!  Je suis le regard de l’Homme Céleste, l’Oeil qui voit dedans. Je déchire! 

seraph-feathers copie

Aucune métaphore humanitaire n’a de prise sur moi. Dieu est l’abîme perpétuel qui réside dans ma poitrine. 

The tempestuous wind at high tide! The eagle in the black dust of gloom scrying the portals that connect the stars to our only God.



Hélas pour l’homme au-dessous de moi. Il est comme l’holocauste d’un lion sur l’autel des joutes littéraires, prétentieuses et savantes: une carcasse maintenant exsangue évidée.  Un jeu d’esprit futile ou frivole, purulent.  Un tas de tripes en l’air pour des bestioles parasites éprises de l’avide cupide mondanité.

Pour le seul profit du Démiurge et son royaume vampire.

Travels in Oz Part III


The bus past Pine Gap on the way out of Alice Springs, the station is run by the C.I.A the NSA and the NRO. About one thousand people work here within the confines on a full-time and part-time basis. Pine Gap station is part of the Echelon program, which is a surveillance operation, one of the « Five Eyes ». The Echelon program was formed in the 1960’s to monitor military and diplomatic communications of the Soviet Union during the farcical « Cold War ». The facility then upgraded to a broader range « global surveillance ». From my window I could see the white « radomes », which are radars hidden within a domes. The domes are meant to protect the radar antennas. The fiberglass radomes looked like large white mushrooms sprouting up in the flat red desert landscape, they looked like an abstract art installation, they looked farcical, like a landscape folly – and that is…

Voir l’article original 1 784 mots de plus

Resurrection Body

descente aux enfers

Ego sum Via Vita et Veritas.

These are … the antique processes known from immemorial times practiced by a certain elite here in Europe and by the Oriental men of before, as well it seems. They only befit our friends who walk on a narrow roadway, sacred liars, holy fighters for the Good Fight. So as they too might become immortals in their own right. Preserving the Grail Doctrine. 

Only God will guide. Only God can hear you.

All men as they are, are as Nothing.   

How not to become some mere lost ghost at death, caught in the existential threads that keep mankind prisoner?

Gliding in some « in between land », astral make-believe world. Stuck in a perpetual flight from here to there! Saddened to the marrow’s soul, by the tum-tum of Talia’s drum. To wander toward another windmill, once again. 

Fallen to the depths that inertia dictates. Getting board. A pilgrim wasting away on the path to a star on the north-western horizon. 

While gleaming eyes seek a miller’s daughter!

** * ** **

archeveque leo arkfeld

Served my first Mass under this great man.

Glad this won’t fool an averted man that’s dead & free. He’s warned, I hope for him. 

A spirit stepping on vast waters. The great spheres above move incessantly, grinding away the bones of contention. Or is it merely just contempt? 

You can hear the iron milling away. The walls between worlds extending into infinity, rubbing endlessly, expelling melancholic gravel from the cosmic bladder. Making musical notes, each of which are made into a vowel peculiar sound withdrawing within each round inhaling. 

Bidding, « stay and wait for Christ’ sake ».

In each pole heart, the physical enveloppe is transformed. Then God & His Angels will precipitate you back down into a clamoring density. Back again into a phenix plaint.


Borne on the gust rising from the winds inside you. Throbbing head and heart, …now alive again! 

A luminous intelligent weighty human thing in the middle of Valhalla. A Chief among thieves! A Trickster.

…a Resurrected Warrior like Jesus in the Mob! 

(…afterwards you’ll inhabit a revitalized purified body that’s been extracted, taken from the quintessential « ugly » dregs of you, and then you’ll climb up on top of the Yggdrasil Tree, to embrace your God, the High One, with just as High, and the Third, all inside you.) 


A Brother in the Highlands of Montserrat.


Plain Personal Pride


All this terrible stuff is a living circle of strife as a Man evolves back into his Eternal Innocence.

Up from within our personal underworld disasters, seeps a badly cooked mess. Embroidered in the fecal tissues. Which in upheaval, blacken the mind’s clear sight, & the autonomous self.

WHAT?! …would you without a god, dare sing some tune to your own outright bitter triomphe amongst fat fools, the intellectually inferior, then kiss Goodbye a fallen daydream world? 

Oh Dear me and you, who would seek a root in something else but the Aether around you breathing; …

close these glimpses on your lost childhood and be a MAN.

For Antarctica is your secret stone. Your foundation. Inside, the turning capillary tubes suck the earthen grease. & thru your carnal pores ejects a brightness like the dew. A place of Honey and affectionate warmth. A refuge from those olden days where we so much loved only our useless mortal selves! 

Those solemn days when women so much affectioned baking their tits under a scorching polluted sun. 

How infinite we were! Eternal righteous beings. Better than the literary scum promenading the boardwalk in the grand cities of Babylon.

Yet Antarctica is built on a multitude of tombs. Hives’ nests in the ICE. Sucking in the leavened lard! Inside the earth it’s all an imbroglio! A Cosmic Joke. 

But yeah! I’ll damn the bitterness through my blood and at Earth’s End my children will strike the lightning today into the feeble broken and shattered clay of Men. Cause God is One when the Man in our Blood awakens the true and only SELF.

Mine eyes are God’s when He sees in me His own kind!

Then afterwards, what was a furor in the North was and will be, only me; as God saw thru mine eyes. So He’ll see today, « now », & tomorrow. 

If not. Then…I’ll just have to do a better job the next time, and make him see like I do!


…ha, pour le vent des astres qui s’engouffrent dans les cheveux ébouriffés,  

Cela laisse songeur, comme j’enjambe des bris épargnés par des regards indiscrets! Les rues disparaissent sous les pas lourds, où le réverbère cligne d’incompétence: Ce qui était n’est plus. On se torche le cul d’Orwell. On rit d’ici noyé par l’ennui moteur des plèbes!

Je suis le vautour qui dévore les cadavres des braves hommes et femmes qui jonchent les halles de mon Eternité.   

L’Homme est une fosse à os, un couac de non sens, ses pieds dans la mélasse des pseudo-souvenirs de bienveillance de peine & du malheur. La pretension de l’Instant, évanouie dans le sol. 

Un rêve dans un rêve dans un rêve qu’une folle sans animus engendre, sur le trottoir du Marché, le Dimanche. Un Ricard sans glace sans eau sans verre. Un prétexte qui se doit de remplir comme devoir de l’Eté envers la famille de nos macro-molecules charnues, pour le bien-être de nos insalubres bides entartrés, qui ne défèquent plus comme jadis à travers la grêle des tuyaux souterrains!


…je ne te manquais pas hélas quel bonheur pour moi ce trépas de Gloire. Inondé de la Shekinah, un délice du répit le Sabbath le jour du Vendredi! Séclu. Inerte telle une transe d’entre les Estoilles du bonheur.  .נזיר

Une greffe d’Arya, dont l’arôme parfume les poils au beurre de karité. Oui, comme un cerf le Dimanche le Jour de Notre Fureur! Ave et persistant astre insoumis. 


hercule cerbère

Le 12ème Labeur des Fols sans Espoir.

A Place for Truth



She’s naked, and pretty, … yet no one issued from the great pit can perceive her. Even those shadows roaming in front of their opened eyes, leaves them speechless, …they were born to endeavor as blind ones from here to the end of Eternity’s wages. Dazzled by nothing. Enamored of nothing. Dead to the spirits which surround our solitary tracks in the Ether. 

No historical man is real. Let alone his concubines. Only the Ghost in the heart knows her. Beseeches the Royal Activity, which an innocent youth, boy or girl, would cling to, in all distress. In a City bewailing cavernous meaninglessness.

Naked and pretty. Silent between the behooved leaves. The trees of all colors, glistening. 

Who would honor her? Which man can hold her in his bosom and yet without burning to a crisp, can gasp, maintaining his sanity, then embrace the red lips of Truth and continue existing to continually cherish living in a LIE? 

In a body made by death from the start. Fallen from between two thighs! 

Into the wet dust of numerical whimsies! Directed ‘neath the dark avenues constructed by Minos.

She’s naked and is the sole thing alive. This ontological essence who is weary from carrying crosses among human shells.