& qui dit que ces orbes scintillants d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des sphĂšres d’acier qui rĂ©flĂ©chissent l’Ăąme qui halĂšte, plongeant leur furie sidĂ©rale si loin au fond du puits que mĂȘme l’abysse aveugle ne peut en aucune maniĂšre nous dĂ©rober le grand Ă©clat d’arrogance immortelle que mon souhait secret si humble y trouve un prĂ©texte pour le rĂ©gal de l’hiĂ©ratique ? Du retour sur le chemin de la BorĂ©e. Vers l’illustre sang arborĂ©el du rubis inimitable !
L’Ă©difice aĂ©rien sans contours de promulguer mon souffle entre l’Ourse et sa petite, le dragon le siĂšge de KorĂ©. Vierge pure, hautaine. Emanation rayonnante. Pluie Ă©tincelante d’astres qui navre. RaptĂ©e par l’inĂ©luctable prĂ©destinĂ©e. Automate. Et belle. Enivrante, qui dĂ©borde sur l’oeil en rapture devant un tel perpĂ©tuel mouvement esclave!
Tout le tissu bariolĂ© de mensonges s’effiloche, rĂ©pandu sur le parvis des platitudes. Le jacuzzi prĂȘt pour le bain des dĂ©pouillĂ©s ! L’entorse faite bovins. Quel homme crĂ©tin ne voit pourtant jusqu’oĂč se dĂ©verse l’embarras ? AccrochĂ© aux lambeaux des cadences perplexes. Le cadavre de Kali sur les genoux d’HĂ©siode qui larmoie frustre.
Je devine la grandiose entreprise. L’absence de sortie, en bas vers l’exit ! L’obscuritĂ© Ă©paisse Ă©touffante. Le souffle qui manque. L’attente de la rupture d’anĂ©vrisme libĂ©ratrice. Le point sur le plexus qui navigue comme un forcenĂ© 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 glĂšbe des charniers nostalgiques. L’esprit comme un silence indĂ©fini. IllimitĂ©. Noir enivrĂ© de pourpre. L’Astrum.
& qui dit que ces orbes blancs d’Elon dans le ciel ne soient que des Ă©clats d’un nombre triangulaire, qui dans leur fragmentation renvoient l’ombre de l’Ăąme invisible ? Dans l’attente libĂ©ratrice d’une rupture ? RaptĂ©e. Automate. SuprĂȘme.
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.
Excellent piece L'aryensoufi.....curious of where the picture came from and who is in it?
ReplyDeleteMy Hitler pal says he died in that bunker she with him
ReplyDeleteAlways polite said you first my dear
Then he followed
Woke up in their world
My world to
Nine
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.
ReplyDeletehttps://www.theinteldrop.org/2023/01/15/igor-shnurenko-there-is-a-social-demand-for-the-construction-of-a-vile-totalitarian-regime-on-the-whole-planet/
https://www.kode24.no/artikkel/se-hvordan-cyber-kriminelle-na-bruker-chatgpt-det-er-skremmende-enkelt/78253643