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"If I contradict myself, very well
then, I contradict myself."
-- Walt Whitman
"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."
-- Hassan i Sabbah (William S. Burroughs)
Today nothing is sacred. Ahura Mazda is Truth. Ahriman is the Lie. Both
are engaged in a titanic struggle for Absolute Dominion. Neither one
will emerge victorious until the End of Times. Finis Mundi - not quite
yet. Until Ahura Mazda will usher in the Age of Absolute Certainty,
nothing is real, clear-cut and as sure as a diamond is hard. Until then,
different interpretations of events, ideologies and individuals have the
duty to co-habit the same dimensional plane of existence. This is due to
the inherently dualist nature of our own time, a time when the titanic
struggle is still raging in full swing. The Abraxi analyze Aryan
advances.
Savitri Devi was Hitler's bitch. Savitri Devi was an Indo-European
master-femme. She was both. How could she have been both? The view that
she was is not schizophrenic. It merely illustrates that different
interpretations are possible and valid, simultaneously bowing to Truth
from a variety of equally justifiable angles.
the birth of the West
through popular culture:
coded cartoons
of Captain White Race
(wrestling
with junkie she-nigger witches
in the slimily
decaying battleground
of King Disney's mines)
entertaining blonde children
and stealthily
strengthening their character
In a smoky cafe in fien-de-siecle Paris, where Absinthe was flowing
freely and a young poet was pissing on an older poet from a great
height, a group of Abraxi which had assumed human form, were debating
the future course of Aryan evolution, all the while smoking their
expensive pipes, made from ivory and imported from one of the European
colonies in Africa. "They will know the truth when they see
it," one of them said. "Truth is relative and to experience
different facets of it will lead them to greater understanding,"
another said. "Imperium Europa will be the crowning triumph,
founded by a race that will have digested all schools of philosophy and
will have gone through all kinds of different political systems - only
to reach the perfect synthesis, the apex of development, whose forming
theses and antitheses will have been forged on the anvil of the race's
blood alone."
the genetic make-up
of the libertarian empire:
homogenous
in the genes present:
propensity for free speech
free love
free booze
free drugs
(approved by the Abraxi)
The apple finally fell from the tree. As far as legends go, the legend
that a benign shepherd once led his sheep through a parted rock in the
Garden of Delight is one that should be taken with a grain of salt. The
shepherd also happened to be a wizard of the 9th degree. His magic
consisted of conjuring up violent images of the recently deceased and
the soon to be diseased. The living and the healthy do not want to be
reminded of their own mortality and their weak physical constitution.
Their bodily frames always shatter on the rocks in the Garden of Delight
while their minds continue hovering in the ether of madness.
SUN OF SATAN, or the map of the world as it was:
when the barbarians checked in, their sinewed arms glistening in the
afternoon sun
soon wiped out by bombs dropped from a great height
the blood of the barbarians spilled on sacred ground
(the lines of the New York City subway system converge)
"We should see to it that THEY (you know who THEY are!) do not gain
the upper hand again," said one of the disciples of the Abraxi.
"They once had the power to mutilate with a 'razor blade' THE erect
Penis."
BEHOLD!: THE Penis has regained its former glory, ready to thrust again,
thus fortifying demographic might. THEY have been relegated to a
secondary status quo position. The first status quo position contains
the affirmation of the ETERNAL status quo: Those who rule are those at
the top!
Hell, where can one get a beer around here? This dusty desert town
offers no respite from the glaring heat of the midday sun. Throats feel
rusty. Revolvers hang loose in their holsters. The saloon is closed. On
the horizon, redskin savages gather for the attack, mounted with bows
aimed at the heart of the community: the church and the people leaving
the service! Their little songbooks and bibles are tattered, reminders
that their world is used, worn and tired. Their world was once new,
resembling a book fresh from the printer's. What has happened? Has the
creator abandoned his flock? Has he moved on to more lustrous pastures?
Or has he merely fallen asleep, dreaming the dream of the destiny
puppeteer? The redskin savages attack.
left the room
left a table full of trash
a confused audience
scratching their noses
smelling nothing
- Constantin von Hoffmeister
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