Ω μέχρι θανάτου

& qui dit que ces orbes scintillants d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des sphères d’acier qui réfléchissent l’âme qui halète, plongeant leur furie sidérale si loin au fond du puits que même l’abysse aveugle ne peut en aucune manière nous dérober le grand éclat d’arrogance immortelle que mon souhait secret si humble y trouve un prétexte pour le régal de l’hiératique ? Du retour sur le chemin de la Borée. Vers l’illustre sang arboréel du rubis inimitable !

L’édifice aérien sans contours de promulguer mon souffle entre l’Ourse et sa petite, le dragon le siège de Koré. Vierge pure, hautaine. Emanation rayonnante. Pluie étincelante d’astres qui navre. Raptée par l’inéluctable prédestinée. Automate. Et belle. Enivrante, qui déborde sur l’oeil en rapture devant un tel perpétuel mouvement esclave!

Tout le tissu bariolé de mensonges s’effiloche, répandu sur le parvis des platitudes. Le jacuzzi prêt pour le bain des dépouillés ! L’entorse faite bovins. Quel homme crétin ne voit pourtant jusqu’où se déverse l’embarras ? Accroché aux lambeaux des cadences perplexes. Le cadavre de Kali sur les genoux d’Hésiode qui larmoie frustre.

Je devine la grandiose entreprise. L’absence de sortie, en bas vers l’exit ! L’obscurité épaisse étouffante. Le souffle qui manque. L’attente de la rupture d’anévrisme libératrice. Le point sur le plexus qui navigue comme un forcené asymptomatique. Le corps sans substance tel un vague bruissement. Las. Vers l’illustre sang rubis diaphane.

Veilleuse au Temple de mon catafalque. Chevalier non perfide. Un pied dans l’astral imperscrutable, l’autre dans la dure glèbe des charniers nostalgiques. L’esprit comme un silence indéfini. Illimité. Noir enivré de pourpre. L’Astrum.

& qui dit que ces orbes blancs d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des éclats d’un nombre triangulaire, qui dans leur fragmentation renvoient l’ombre de l’âme invisible ? Dans l’attente libératrice d’une rupture ? Raptée. Automate. Suprême.

The Glory of this Man
…is in his heart, no where to be found, save elsewhere. Like a wet drop of supernal condensation. Felled to the dry ground. An arborescence, congealed thru a soft hard enduring and insistent thought. A plasma from the outer pain. Conceived by Love beyond the Northern Crown. A descendant from his own making. Fabricated from the dirt of old kingdoms. 

Pur, selfless, filled to the brim with a titanic Will to be. A child dripped from the sweet odorous kiss of a bodiless maiden. Aethereal. Magic, patiently seeking to implant the grain of celestial equity within the mammal realm.

A Man made of mortal bounds, though incandescent. A brazen thing. Superb infant, daring the clouds of misbelief. A single angelic choir unto himself, winged open hearted, the eye of a Thor burgeons in his chest. He is a golden coffer breathing into dark winds.

He scares devils and spectres & the little udummu kids. The pagatu stay away ! His hair is as a brazen furnace, his awful regard summons doom to all brittle inhuman layers, that supreme being would precipitate to uselessness.

He strides the inflammable arena, where dubious creatures dissipate grudgingly into their inveterate & well earned ugliness. A royal witness to the breaking down. What un-becomes featureless. Consumed by the great illimitable nothing.

Unveiling the 5 mysterious volumes as he journeys on a strange land, he secretly bridles not without peril to his own children, the hirsute, the mean the forbidden begotten lame. Those whose polluted blood has poisoned his vital gods.

« My eyes are like whirling hurricanes in the stellar wealth of the deep. » 


He takes root under the wonderful high man who plagues the riddled unnatural onslaught of miscegenation which only selfishness can inherit.

Some who are educated have called him a Mandragora.

To burst to be. To flower and fruit.

His terror will destroy the uncomely. He is at the doorway. His bright countenance carries upheaval.

We are the hanged men of the eternal Germanic god. The pivotal crux upon which the universal axis turns, now wobbling, shall extinguish, darkness.


Sourced From l’aryensoufi | Substack



  1. You write in your posts that you like the Aryan race best. I guess most people, whether black African, Asian or native Indians like their own race best much because of how people of other races have treated them. I know that the word "race" is something that has become almost forbidden to use in connection with people, only with animals, though they are marking people with "the mark of the beast", just in order to keep track of our whereabouts. Anyway, is it not sad to think about that even the Aryan race is becoming more or less nothing more than an Avatar who is divided into social sones, just like we are reading about from Chinese cities? Human beings being hacked as if we have become nothing more than the body surrounding a bank account, and treated accordingly. Poor people go there, rich people over there, and if you have money we will hack your cryptos.



  2. My Hitler pal says he died in that bunker she with him

    Always polite said you first my dear

    Then he followed

    Woke up in their world

    My world to


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