The Wind told me

The Wind told me, «  move on . You are a vanishing kind, with no place left upon the Face of this forsaken Earth. » And I responded, « which earth? Where? Upon which face of it, no place? When, forsaken?!!!».

The immovable mover in the air with marvelous golden wings went to & fro, dauntless between the trees’ little branches on the terrace. Indifferent, like a psycho-pompe guiding the free mind, equipped with a body and a certain kind of un-knowable soul. « Never to be a human any more, filled with fear and an affection belonging to implanted cultivated brains (though surely in the spermatic substance of all 4 races can be found an efficacious vehicle, resilient to & withstanding fractional despair). There will never be any hope, when life has been rid of Truth and those who sincerely served Her have all gone on. »

The best is yours. Gleaming white. As if the stellar carnation idled, wandering aimlessly within a domed surface. Thriving endlessly, gratuitously. A coagulated breath, numinous & luminescent, inextinguishable. Conscious of its uselessness!

One Folk Soul is mine,
guardian of the enclosed ubiquitous altar,

Extracted from the deep & thick flesh pulpe
the skies would forbid to schematic mankind.

The North Wind swept the Summer Time transporting it into oblivion, the skeletons which often got in the way, making me fuss. How sad alas. With all this wishful thinking to have struggled against the Empyrean Cycles, a son of Man, for a lost Imperium. The last of those mythic Aryans in heart, & in soul to gain entrance into the supernatural plane of Overman!

But it’s time to prepare with all your strength, to kill the carcasses, then fill the World with molten gold of Ice and dread all loss of humour!

« Because the Avatar is come. » We are its primordial essence, « Da sein ». From underneath the veil behind the mind’s eye, we are a smelting in the earth-body, burning the rust. Forging the Sword. A thunder clap far away in the Boreal bosom melting the blood of angels in the mineral order. Moving on.



Trickster Ravings


This infuriating principal decline of all things living, converting the outward center of sundry colored organisms that were in emanation from above directing their impulse perennially, exteriorly through an invisible middle door, unseen & unheard of, a devastation to the barred cerebral behavior of any well dressed rational idea! That would pertain ostensibly to a well ordered syllogism. Having Greek or Hebrew meanings in our words’ beginnings?! Giving us intellectual redemption?!



The Spirit plays the game,
in truth,
Without its asking any kind of permission;

A Wild Wind easing
the horrendous pressure between the tired eyes.

You must give & give again, again yes & once more :

Hugin shall with all the Aryan Peoples, excite Munin in his righteous
Racial Clime!


A Time celestial in a Sacred Place escaping the infernal clutching of jealous contempt.

Res cogitans, res extensa! Res cogitans esse Omnium, ego video, coruscent!

The 1st one said to me, « Brother ». The 2nd indeed repeated across the 9 encircled expanses : « Me too but I’m a woman! ». And Othin like a trickster understood.

« To win the battle, fight your foe on his own filthy turf, with weapons he has no idea of. If he cheats on your kindred, invading the Middle of the Earth, then learn the tune, just like they did at Olympus.

Your heart is with me in Asgard.

It’s from on high, I’ve come like you, my Kin.

In the skies & heavens of this World, Valhalla with its ale & mayhem will precipitate again the Gods! A great thunderbolt grappling at the sides of the glacial air, ripping open the Inner Earth where demons mixed with angels!

Afterwards, the fires will have receded. Purifying the Castes. The Varna here and there. And Baldur kiss his Bride again, but better than before! »

It’s the Spirit, plays the Game,
a Wild Wind erasing
that horrible pressure that was between the eyes!

You must give no more than taken
taking back what was yours.

   Hugin said to me, « I’m your spirit, the aether in the heart. » His sister then said, « I’m in the blood stream, a drop of golden green, your memory. »
Wotan said, « I’m the single eye like a lantern beaming, laughing interminably, the Father of Tîwaz and of Thor. »




Through these sleeping bodies

tireless souls awaken

Corporeal ideas into extended flesh


While the stammering extension

of what would be a most excellent and as it must,

abiding perfect theme


from a transcendent eternal picture in the Mind

incarnates its beauty

within a finite darkness!


   Strange, yet like a heavy sap filling the mortal nostrils with a thick and balmy smell. The Earth with all its successive sediments, cradled inside diverse & unending caverns, steeps the pretty spirit in a colorless invincible tincture.


   The Sun and the Moon in mouvement

vorticing, their perpetual motions orbiting

thence mechanically combining


Issuing from the deep drafts

that our secret cerebral marrow might engender!



   What is it of Nobility? Wandering away clothed in a fine leather sheath, far from its Homeland? 

   Like an invisible sea but seeable, frothing, conscious of its own Grand Illusion, when organic fibres retreat, bursting their entrenched briny arms back aloft, into their original Eternal environment?

   Only great and simple souls have known this Metaphysical ordeal :


« to be born within an animal & corporeal confining barrier

released at initiatic Death like some

formerly encapsulated and encompassed gaseous furnace

filled with a mobile & perfect perception


To return to the Eye-lit Stars

against which the black unfathomable firmament

Can never have any Final Victory! »


   …for Karl.



   Et dans ce corps, sa luxurieuse exuberance, la clameur distincte mais oisive des pas d’amont qui précédèrent l’ultime exégèse des forces subtiles qui résident avec discrétion dans l’antre des promesses de l’éternité inachevée.

   …fulminante d’outrage insatisfaite et inassouvie.

   …ils ont été façonnés par ceux-ci même qu’ils façonnèrent. En cercle. Du cercle en cercle. Par delà le firmament qui contraint. Dôme qui extrait et qui retourne en vapeur leur sang qui exude au toit, où ni oiseaux ni sylphes n’osent s’attarder.

   Et l’expression incongrue sur leur demeure faciale pleine de leurs ineptes ambiguïtés les ponctionnent sans remords ni cessent jamais,  le mensonge de s’écouler en effluves à travers les gestes chevaleresques de jadis oubliés.

   Ô heureux Malheur à l’être qui avec une âme dût éprouver l’unique unicité de sa propre et inéluctable existence, intégrale au milieu du dissolvant! Indemne et qui perdure. Puis…

Pourtant, cela est la même; la Vision inhérente à mon oeil. Depuis l’immortel, dans l’évanescente farce que peuple certes l’humain fait de chair et du sang retirés du mélange depuis un bourbier, …et du fruste l’issu, le fruit maclé. 

Sans goût et malsain du coeur.

Les 4 participants au corps de l’Âme.

Adolf Hitler: The Ultimate Avatar. limited edition


New release of the deluxe limited edition of Adolf Hitler: The Ultimate Avatar by Miguel Serrano (English Translation). Limited to 25 copies. Green Linen cover with quarter bound black leather with gold intaglio titles. The printed pages are of the finest black ink printing. Archival quality books. Please email:  for purchase inquires. Please no Germanophobes, Third Reich haters, anti-Hyperboreans or anti-Aryans, only genuine individualized Hyperborean Fallen Angels…

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The Kinsmen Die

   …and our kinsmen die. We die if not, unless we pull ourselves within from without, but for a stammer they die. 

   What you planted has withered. What we did while dreaming has withered. What we hailed while offering our homestead has flourished into oblivion! The fruit of our kinsmen has waisted in the midst of awful negligence!

   But for a stammering in the wake. Upon a land in the mighty mind.

** * ** **

   Make your Soul a fortress. What ever batters against the sacred inner doors. Close the kind heart. And drink to the defeat of all spiritual ignominy! 

   Let us dance the heart felt gig on their filthy corpses and hail while blessing with complete condamnation of the heap, the Golden Flower in our ancestral memory. There is no hope here, and yet neither does despair find a haven in our home.

   For alas, hope has gone. Has left the home without ado. 

   Make soldiers of our boys, to win and not ever to lose! We will not lose! 

   I’ll make of Death a foundation for my Ideal. 

** * ** **

   Remember mankind is an ape when it’s not you or your kin.

   You are a Lucifer (Torch Bearer) fallen from the upper firmament. A Burning Star on the ground! All that just to redeem some synthetic genetic program, senseless, without a heart, without a divine Soul. Made of biological zeros & ones. Created and fashioned by the False One laughing in the gutter. Inside his nothingness.

   They are jealous selfish & mean. Rust on the moss between the cracks in a degraded place. Uninspired. Without a King’s Heaven to be spirit born.

   Remember, mankind is not even like the ape! But you have been distilled on high before the High One: you are his son. And so are all your Kin. 

A beautiful boy engendered in the sphere
of the Demiurge.

Remember. Use what you need. Transform all the dirt even its culture, even its religion. Whatever the words whatever their symbolic nature. Push the dead man off the cliff!

Tell the hangman to come down, & become the Runes. Whatever is good in my eyes, I keep. Whatever is bad I leave to those who frolic in fanatical fantasies invented by others!

I am above the Triangle. And without ritual displease the plastic made-up gods.



   What is the Earth, but a kind of situation within the perceiving Mind, invaded by parasites of all sorts, infiltrating the harmonious calamity that the Eternal Spirit forces on the souls of all those who enter its englobing and pervasive perpetual discourse. Because the Spirit is free and transcendental, it entraps taking the soul to its appointed ending making one think its something other than oneself. But in the end its your God in you abiding by you in all and eventually through all that’s in your waking and unawakened field of perception. Becoming a concrete thing. To die in some Wasteland. Because the soul needs a better place in which to thrive attaining its abstract beauty. Here where nothing would be decent enough to stand it!

   What is it you call the Earth? Is it all the pretty and ugly little things you see and experience? Crowding the outward surface of the World Place around you? From inside the brain’s tentacles?

   And is it with these mortal senses providing you a 3 dimensional habitat, that you are able to deem you understand, comprehending what? While truly, Life is but a trifle something nonetheless? A situation in which and by which purported physical orifices assay thanks to your gullible mesmerized state, excitement. Pleasure. Love. & sadness?

   Everything all around is but a situation. A place in the brain taunting you, your naivety.

   Are those rocks we fathom down deep underneath in some occult region? In the pulp and the pith? Is that it? For those gems we find, unearth and kill for? Making from a whore for one minute a make believe Lady of Honor, of worthy kind? But just all the same a slut.

   ** * ** **

   But it’s all in the Race, all that’s best in it, a kind of Mankind that’s gone, got up, fed up, and fled? Or just indeed got board and died off with this 3 d locality? The confines of which, withheld the Sweet and Noble Aryan Soul in rank and stench captivity?

    In a place of broken mirrors and fickle glances. Nano-particulates pervading stubbornly through out the outward organic vessel? Here in these outside places you would call your Home?   

   What unites the brilliant and enduring inward awareness, feeding on eternally on the ethereal Soma, is, that which is good has no badness in it and can have no opposite that would thwart its being. 

   Gerda, is the crucible where our God awakens the True Conscious Earth of our Souls. 

A monad from which a real life issues.


Lucifer’s Lantern

Joseph of Arimathea - window in St  John's Glastonbury


   …and what would be left but the hallow wind, and my curt understanding, for how little it would serve me?

   Yet there is no sound in the brush, the children sleep, the wolf amidst the dead stillness where trees no longer abide on the summits. The hills ripped naked by a UFO fire. The Sun gleaming somewhere else : the stars aligned, no allowance for hidden mischief.

   Surely I must indeed advance?

   Loitering. The mind dispels the awkward tendentious brain.

   The Sun, the Star, the Thunderbolt. Is this how you see me? From within a secret Cloud? Yet, is it with this in mind, you filled my Soul with your loving eyes, together? In friendship for one of yours, here on Earth, where battered souls incline intrepid, where we won’t stay? But like you with a deep breath, leaving me alone again in solitude?

    A warrior unkind among the sheep?

   Certainly the giants of yore have gone and disappeared. There enormous stride crushing the broken toppled branches that lay waste; those I myself have climbed on in those upper regions they abandoned.

    A dreamer. A poet. A knight defeated.

   The sword of my Self, a lit wicker illuminating the tenebrous carnal abode.


Truly right from the start

I fought, in spite of me

Clamoured such as Sorcerer.


A son of Satan.

A misplaced man.


A magic crown from which to leap

Toward the very narrow door in Heaven

That watches me.


   …on another plane, in another residence. Throughout a ghostly scenery on the inner back stage of the golden shining Sun. A wild blackness awaits me.

   In the solar regal depths, a portal of darkness beyond, across the platonic bodies and inside their mysterious intermingling, a certain Spirit describes with its perpetual movement a sacred intermediary procession of multiple pythagorian combinations, …and my spiritual ancestors speak to me from there, in Plato’s True and unadulterated Republic, saying : 

Awake & dance, Child of God.

The hot blisters from the mortal skin, hot as hell

Falling on the Earth’s retreating lap!


Awake & dance, ô Lovely Kindred!

Let the mongrel beasts keep their kind.

They’ll inherit all that’s destitute,


Because no innate beauty can withstand 


For more than what’s necessary to the sweet & honorable


The pitiful vulgarity they bring

Here where the World 

Is only the Devil’s seat & latrine!


   Like a Green Ray, a lightning bolt breaking, yours & only yours, ride on Venus’ loins. A Great Star made of the stuff of Pleromic Hearts.

   Leave the bastards eat the crumbs that fall from Evil’s dearth. 

   Your place is in a Viking’s Palace, made of oak & ash & pines from the North. But in another sphere, where astral bodies cohabitate, congealing their Kristic sheaves, glorious like the Face of your Aryan God!

   Each one a Black Sun, within which a Green Dragon has conquered moral & physical stupidity, and forgotten memories from the Sky invigorate the once lost Soul.


(…for the Kamaraden, if they’ll have it.)