XVI.
XVI/1
As for
an autodidact traitor I'm sentenced to be, novelty has always been the main
principle of judgement. It's also the easiest way to drift – just put your
trust in Time and it'll bring you home. It had worked very well with me till
1984 when everything changed. The comprehension of having lost my personal war
– the total failure of the first Five-year plan – made me realize that I'm not
invincible. It left me as good as dead. I am living in a constant lethargy ever
since, below wish and will. I am not born to fight; I revere the X-terminator.
I'm just an unemployed spy. I tried a very few things after the bad news
revealed by the Anno but my heart beat up no more. I don't believe in second
chances - losing is forever for a non-entity. I miss the Bride too bad, but
wouldn't dare to solicit her again – not in this inappropriate embodiment. I
verily don't give a shit about mankind, but cannot trust myself – no burden's
more awful for an ambitious mind. Whoever could figure a ruder awakening? I am
a sleepwalker since I killed my ego - the devil made me do it. I'm still
talking in first person, but Osh knows I don't mean it. I'm doing my job of
living automatically, no longer interested in understanding the situation. The
Best Book is not gonna be written; shame on the counterfeit one. Unlike UK
SUBS, SPIONS was to reproduce the future out of the rubble white riot left
behind, by means of independent espionage and enhanced time-consciousness. The
Party's dreaming was an overnational alliance against the crimes of the
nations. Reconstruction of the land promised to the elect of all tribes. Return
to the City of Eden. Welcome to New Jerusalem. I might have been crazy but what
a wonderful mindset it was! I can weep just thinking of it. So infantile and
dangerous: the ecstasy of fatalism without the shadow of a doubt. So much
better than the spooky tooth of wisdom whereas it makes no difference whether
done or imagined. Which is simply untrue even in Tibet. I'm sluggish like a
dharma bum but deep within I'm living in abominable disharmony full of raging
guilt. The fault ain't mine – I cannot help it. I don't want to waste my life
on correcting somebody's defect. I'm victimized by an evil program - that is
the best I can yet presume for relief. To belong absolutely nowhere is an
exasperating status for a refugee any universal. At the twilight of teen idols,
everyone worthwhile is playing the psycho – except for charity, nothing sells
better. The joke of Baphomet is, behold, on us: the Infernal Putsch dethroned
Satan and the co-op of demons that govern us now have no aesthetic litigation.
All of my life I've been looking for a compromise: the final solution to the
criminal problem. But all my guarantees have long been expired – the end of the
Bardo is only getting farther. I ran out of time so long ago, can't even
imagine to get back on track. Where there was a Gate with an angel on the top
of it there's just the empty space of a dispersed mirage. Vainly I try to look
back in anger, there are no trails left behind me; the endless misery of
senseless survival is all I can recall. It does not make me furious but rather
scared as a rabbit – you can leave but for the seventh Hell with such memories.
First I should repent for it all in an active mode by all sacred logic.
The Pandemonium is teeming with festivals promoting evil to the rotten by the
new hypocrites. I'm tortured by envy in the lair of `NOVA AKROPOLA` but
truly don't miss being part of it – that's where my angel lies defeated. I
prefer to be a receiver that likes and dislikes like any dumb radio host.
Watching the Judgement execute itself through the looking glass. There's
nothing but ethic cleansing on my mind and I feel terrible.
XVI/2
Whatever Osh tried to convey in thousands of years have been misinterpreted first, then systematically abused by both Jews and Gentiles. That's the fatum of the Word, vainly written. It only makes it more vulnerable. Sent in quest of the perfect lie, the Godhead's dedicated servant is most likely to fall for the strangest deceptions striking out of the blue. Heroically combining art and entertainment, pop culture constituted the first era of our virtual history: the Aurora of Atheist counterrevolution. Its main accomplishment was the irreseparable fusion of popular and avantgarde – folk and elite – into an undivided nuclear republic: the eradication of polar opposites by an indiscriminate collective intelligence. Sanctioned to ignore pros and contras, we could finally deal with more essential aspects of existence than social pedigrees and racial hegemonies. It finished up class society, and ethnic segregation, by raising the bar higher rather than lower like socialist realism. Cutting off the ties of the tongue with an unexpected masterstroke, it gave Time a single supreme profile with a dominantly English complexion, inviting everybody to come on. Rock and pop, let me treat them as one item for this once, freed the holy spirit from the mental chains imposed by the traditional milieu of one's geopolitical birthplace. As America's first movement in beaux-arts, and the most massive one ever, it swiftly generated global supremacy through the invasion of multimedia. In pop – art and music – truth and myth joined happily together within an idealist cult of the people, opening the First Gate of aesthetic imperialism the cold war could not withstand. Challenging communism at its economic core, it demonstrated the overwhelming superpower of consumer bolshevism over poverty propaganda. R'n'R as a battlefield was the clash of two materialisms and the soul has won. Not that I wouldn't adore Red Army marches above anything else, but that's only my wicked Sehnsucht. I've always belonged to the overnational empire from both left and right. Pop is a wingless altar – rocket to Hell. It has been the quintessential manifestation of capitalist art: more of a business venture than strategic planning. It formally established the Zeitgeist's absolute control, replacing surrealist reverie with uncompromising subrealism. The price of shifting the margins into the undisputable center of the process was, however, excessively high on the social assemblage. The transforming mirror entered its ultimate phase: the present, and everything froze. An intensive stagnation set in: the future absconded the domain of fiction. Today, as the past is getting closer, the power of pop is living nostalgia - no promise ever has remained less unfulfilled. Its victory is a suburban myth of the last generation. The ancient impulse of hic'n'nunc sha-na-na-na resurged as our ultimate relativity and that's where we are ever since Woodstock: neither dead nor alive but still wanted. The effects no longer represent the cause. What we need right now, and we need it badly, is the rebirth of fatalism. Without the daze of cosmic importance only a fascist state of the mind can offer, the free ride turns automatically backward: one becomes his own passenger and no one at the wheel. Old ideas will be born again and new ones recycled as soon as accepted. The wild flowers of revolt transmuted into a horrendous flora full of pretentious chaff in the mad gardener's fields of greed. There's no room left for improbability in infinity's predictable humdrum. The S.O.S's sent out are everyone's for himself; it is instant grace if they properly sell. But farther than that only the blind dares to look. I simply can't believe what I see, Sir; it must be somewhere else. They are still discussing the abortion issue. I don't think there's a word for it.
XVI/3
Idealism is a very sorry angel – you shouldn't try to snatch gold in a sandstorm. We'd be completely lost in the electronic whirlwind without the guidance of our critics charged to name the trends of chaos. RAY CHARLES wouldn't care but it is vital to know that somebody minds what you're playing. All children need the family name of a genre they belong to – you do not do just anything like a standard wedding band. You can't change if you weren't something special. You may disagree but it is imperative to accept the category. What's more, it doesn't matter - nothing but fame does. To be misunderstood is the innermost legacy of every genius with no documented exception. Art is a dangerous response but everyone who says he's apolitical should be stoned. Like all those lukewarm Satanists trying to sell their souls on discount. You may freely travel back and forth in time with your free visa, but if you don't reflect your present you're nothing but a parasitic vampire. The decor of the abattoir will depict why we died. The sound and vision we project in the air conquered are of the same hieroglyphic intent as news from ancient tombs: an exchange of messages between the living and the dead. The more specific is a target, the wider the impact can be. Lucky are those fellas that can become a word like Descartes and enter the vocabulary as an adjectival. The Nativity of Rock was, first of all, the enthronement of the star – the return of Horus by multiplication. Takeover of the school by its own disciples is the Eternal's rocky road we are designated to travel. Once beloved, you've got nothing else to do than follow the people by giving them directives. In the open society where wealth alone defines the rank of an equal citizen, ethical behaviour is practically impossible – you have to be a secret agent of yourself in order to survive the ordeals of the combat. Corporate crusades don't favour the individual more than religious sects would. There's an immanent breakdown in every system, fuck them all. Positive imaginations will turn into their own negative when developed – inversion is the way of the process. No armour will defend the martyrs of the market. That's why electronica's efficient masonry keep themselves so busy with work and love – fighting for independence with all their mighty might. Beside the extensive proliferation of the android blossom, each bionic upstart performs under dozens of aliases and side-projects filling up the vacuum with artificial tension – combining the old atoms into new molecules of endless mitosis. This overzealous productivity of the electric babyland is immensely hard to comprehend for a lazy son like me: isn't one free to do whatever he wants? Why have we to hide behind conflicting concepts like grey eminences? Can't a personality expand yet without splitting into doubles like gothic novelists? It's not the renaissance man but the rise of the undead: legitimate paranoia of the schizoid multitalent. A psychotic adagio to the ingravescent anonymity mania of technocracy's counterfeit army seeking to invade the blissful isles. The demiurge of anarchy consumes itself with a ferocious appetite like the archetypal snake. Which is the worst abuse of the divine capacity we're prematurely endowed upon. We did not get much further with quality control per se – the tragedy's gunshot marriage of convenience with show business did not produce a lasting mutation: just the same old crippled centaur expressing its feelings. Despite the substantial increase of the output, the ratio of good and bad, and the hazards of success, are as direct as ever. You ought to wear a second camouflage because the first is translucent. 'Cause any black you paint it, you can't become a shadow without light under the Sun. It's only hide and seek in the magic forest – wasted incognito of the humble giants. Once known, you can't become unknown again like a Bodhisattva in New York – every step you make will be traced down by your loyal followers. So you don't wanna be BILL WYMAN any more? You've lost your pop sensibility, pal.
XVI/4
The ball we're revisiting is in an abhorrent confusion and there ain't no economical solution for it. The monetary system is highly civilized but the war remains between Cain and Abel till the last man on Earth. The human being cannot be changed – the demise of communism is the ultimate proof for that. Vainly has science triumphantly defeated the malicious dogmas of the Churches, it's given no moral authority over the state. L. Ron Hubbard tried the thing but never meant to dictate. The secrets have burnt; the sacred heart is broken. The choices are white noise or black silence. Not as cool as GERRY MULLIGAN figured. Nobody's dancing without a reason but inebriated idiots. Punks are as loyal to chaos as hippies were to freedom: order is the command everybody detests. Industrial music is a graveyard of innocence – the human soul is transplanted in the machine for obvious safety measures. It ain't defunct indeed, just whirling somewhere. Charisma is blatantly simulated like the contortion of wrestlers. Reality is produced for television wherefrom it's projected back onto us: the vicious circle of the viewer's choice. Voyeurism has long subordinated the attraction of soaps. People want to see it all down to the smallest details – and whoever should say they don't have the right. Murder is no longer a mystery. We've got an epidemy in the world of cables that largely surpasses immune deficiency – it is the symptomatic decline of illusion not even Disney wanted to reverse. As much as I love the soundtrack, I cannot watch the movie. Rabid dogs should be exterminated by my opinion, not set free and protected. That's why they call me a fascist, I presume. The UR are wolves that like to show up their wounds. But such gratuitous demonstration won't intimidate the projecting mirror; it'll rather invite the jinx to the party. The beast is as vain as the beauty – it likes to see himself and the way he looks. We should never forget that polarity is perverted similitude. In the united golf of Hecate, research and experiment are not opposing streams of consciousness. They are the stiles of Jacob's ladder held together by the steps higher and higher. In the single eye of the Atheist beholder art and science are as obviously one as for Leonardo. If scud missiles aren't artworks, music is no weapon. Reproduction of the empire is the only hope we ever had. There is no harmony where design and function aren't inseparable. Who needs natural selection when we can clone our perfect likeness? We should be jumping into the air with joy, man, not deliberating the consequences. I really cannot grasp what's wrong with the mortal. Whom do they want to serve. Gene-democracy from incidental mutation has augmented to the strategy of planned reproduction, desperately waiting for a moral putsch. Unlike loud metal music screaming genocide just for the shock factor, genetic science must advance in the most discreet silence vilified by the reactionary masses. Artificial evolution doesn't fit the nature freaks' humanitarian agenda based on nationhoods thriving on bloodshed – we aren't afraid of anything but the unprecedented. The cut has been very short between Altamira and the Netscape.
XVI/5
Blaming human misery on the whims of evil gods has always been the easiest refusal of cosmic responsibility – no coverage is more protective than nihil. We are the robots of the dream factory programmed by the blood. Unable to stand still but nowhere to run. Just wailing wall to wall like good prisoners of conscience. There ain't no law, there ain't no hand – no matter what they say. We are eager to but can no longer trust in vain. Even probability isn't by our side any more. The guilty always wins - no justice can be done. Our wired solitude has become mechanical resonance - plug in, plug out is all we're endorsed to do. There's no union for the fragmented trade all against all. No cohesive force to reawaken the will in the master race. Though the terminus technicus comes from Britannia greater than ever, industrial music's sweet home is Westphalia and not Alabama – and it tells a lot even if don't say it. Overnationalism is sheer Utopia at this point in time – I'm sorry to say for it's rather sad. But I'm not irrealistic. I'm more than glad to respect the circumstances. Even if an irate Antinazi, nothing's more defining than where you're coming from. It'd be ridiculous to say you just fell on Earth somewhere. Aliens are no chic since street punks. Aggressive technoism is still the closest offspring of electronica's inherently totalitarian spirit using the frequency itself as an instrument - some to heal, some to hurt, often concurrently. There is an alternative paramilitancy going on behind the gothic facade of Dracula's second coming in every division. Druids or Vikings or what have you, a dark army of born-again pagans is informally forming. Mainly in Scandinavia since Sweden rocks the world. Which surely is the most astonishing development in the history of the rocks by the way, but I can't get down to that one. Neither to musicology nor to anthropology I understand a trifle. Nor am I interested in anything but myself. And I think if we could equilibrate need and desire like the Laps, the world would be a better place. Black metal from Ukraine to Poland is a Slavic invasion at its heartcore coordinated by Odin. There is a telluric shift on rock'n'roll's overnational map, both on the brutal and the sentimental side. What is common in ravenous rivetheads and the stormtroopers of death metal is their faith in None. That impertinent antipathy towards life on Earth. The borderline between grief and gore is so tiny that it's almost impossible not to cross it by accident. Most intruders are sent back home, but others would remain and create new styles. The R'n'R Cauldron is boiling high. In the eyes of DIE FORM par example, beauty and carnage are inseparable. And both retained for pain infliction. That is absolutely correct in a free society. It did not start with THRILL KILL KULT but could have as well ended there in stead of becoming so sombre. All the jokes and fun remained on the mild side of the road. It's so hard to find a tasteful balance in the blizzard of telecommunication. You'd better go punch drunk. The system's pulsing like a neutron star – back and forth we're rockin' and rollin' in quest of the song of songs. Gravity won't let us escape too easily. It's not wholly useless though – every reproduction spurts us a shot farther. But it's been an immensely slow method only the Eternal could afford. The good news is that we're closing up to the point of culmination at this aftertime. Last year's fashion is next year's retro. Rock'n'rollers should really look out not to miss the arrival. Despite its rich and swell vegetation, the electric wasteland is only an amplified desert where the insane go to scream. Chaos is like the familiar iceberg-allegory: a lot huger than its top ten. We're at the dawn of all schemes – no new tale to tell after 1984. It's adult entertainment for the educated masses since SPANDAU BALLET. Any way you tune in, the tube is jammed with disinformation. There is no reasonable time to select for an independent browser. Nowhere is it safer than at the turntable. The less you feel, the less you fear. That's what he called instant karma, didn't he?
XVI/6
The Cosmic Bargain is a terrible ordeal altogether, but no aspect of it is more horrifying than the routine of the quantitative judgment. No matter who you were at all, before the Grim Reaper every body's equal, though some of them are more lucky under hazard's amoral dictatorship. The extinction is vastly impersonal – that's what the Atheist Church is zealously up against. Programmed by the trite dichotomies the Elohim invented, humanity is enslaved to the polar field of artificial opposites. What should we be doing if there was no more Hell – life would lose every sense it's got! Paradise is a good dream for lazy bastards but a nightmare for the creative intellect. I personally am rather content we have lost it – I couldn't bear a day of vacation. Fortunately its only me – the worst example ever lived. The eternal slave that is. I can make Fourier laughing in his Phalanstère any day now. Electronic dance music's hypnotic reprotech may be more cyberotic than hard rock's easy chord memories, but if you wanna funk with it you'd better forget about algorithm. Structural manipulation never had such a crucial import as in industrial music overtly striving for controlled popularity amidst newly-wed Disco-refugees. A simple tune has a hundred tracks and every remix tells another story. JUAN ATKINS and AL JOURGENSEN, however, are leading dissimilar tribes in the battle with the soulsonic forces of peace. The fragmentation is enormous on every plane of the disunion - only the laws of commerce hold the trade together. But even there, one's stance on free file sharing more radically divides the industry into an antagonistic two than any stylistic disagreement. The issue is nothing ideological: it is a pure financial conflict controlled by the elders of the tribes. The poor's first priority in old school rock'n'roll, and that's a distinguisher, has not been to get rich even if they said so – but those that are obviously don't want to get poorer. Not even the Marxist ones. McCarthy only wasted the taxpayers' money. This copyright thing became a major subject of the computer age crying for the dictatorship of a new moral. We are at a watershed of intellectual possession: the very core of ownership. That's the Tibetan Third of TCTC. Defenders of the capitalist dream are fighting with the friends of high standard communism. The principle's about behavior rather than conviction: a question of attitude without political overtones. Seems to be quite self-selective indeed. But that socialism will triumph in this affair is predictable from every aspect of it – artists form a whole proper class today more copious than farmers. As a broke amateur DJ of `NOVA AKROPOLA` who can't afford buying music, I play a disproportionate plus of second and third rate acts of my genres, since they usually proffer more free download than the more established ones. And new beginners are happy to be stolen. The shape of things changed nothing. It's not always businesswise indeed to be so dignified amidst the noble, that's all my parable. The future will be as it has to be. You won't stop evolution by hunting down hackers – cybercrime is the human genius' ultimate victory, collectively speaking. The Jolly Joker of the Bargain. I don't think it was better in Phonicia, but as long as there is poverty, business will be driven by greed and no crisis will change that way. The homopithecus is here. Technology once presumed automatically solve it, only elevates crime to a higher intelligence level in our Neuropolis. Virtual robbery is much better than the real thing beyond reasonable doubt. Spams are less annoying than Jehovah's witnesses knocking at your door. Watch your back and trust no one is not a new advice, is it? Misanthropy is our only defense just like in the wild wild West.
XVI/7
The possibility of equilibrium between opposing parallels was glamorously proven by the onset of the Eighties when punk rock, in itself antithetic to heavy metal and hard boogie, split into various trends in the explosion's aftermath. Invigorated by the beats of the world, that's when nuclear reincarnation officially began – extending ever since against all odds of disintegration. New romantics and no-wave for example did not show any sign of hostility. There was more of that between crust and Oi. And hiphop and kipkop, of course. The idea of rock'n'roll, as its name suggested, was a campaign against the stagnation traditional forms of entertainment had been cultivating before. It took a putsch but it was a Meisterschaft greater than Unle's – this counterrevolution is invincible as long as Elvis is king. There was by the way a psychobilly band named ELVIS HITLER but I don't know why. There's something for everything, I guess. News are spreading by puns. R'n'R by naissance was a beast of rejuvenation reproducing through the constant mutation of its Southern chromosomes. In spite of its perpetual breaking it is a single wave to ride – some precede, some follow, and the best is on the top of it. Deviations won't be tolerated and the slow will be left behind. Evolution is a cruelty course everyone must take. The electric roots of empowered pop was as healthful an antidote to the hardcore embranchments as death rock to cock rock in L.A.. Industrial music perfectly fitted punk's DNA profile in the natural rejection of public service: its innate denial of conformist progression. Inviting both myth and science, it has become the safest channel of the digital soul. With remarkable alchemist bravery, it combined the best elements of the past into a nuclear capsule of the radioactive Zeitgeist. It turned factory into a temple of workship. It set up a gallery of vampire kitsch for the robotized astromen. A spectacular celebration of the end of continuity. From the quite limited capacities of a dozen instruments, synthesized sound shut clearly open the gate of infinity before its engineers and equalized the productivity by its DIY ethics. Providing thus instant stardom to all music workers long before the Internet revolution. Fiction and reality have irreversibly united around 1984 on the fields of the Nephilim. At the Genesis rock innocently incorporated the condescending avantgarde, at the Exegesis art has reached a plain rock'n'roll status by fashion's smart takeover of the cultural design. After her rise and fall, a new race emerged from Ziggy Stardust's ashes still crowding the traitor's quarter after many decades of pointless transition. Although the tower of ambition has been razed by the equalizer, his Satanic Majesty's request is henceforth playing alright for catacomb dwellers in full metal drag. Rock'n'roll's fundamental characteristic is its suicidal striving for domination by all means necessary. Destruction is in its rebel blood – the Bolshevik Internationale always perceived it that way. Decadence versus improvement. The contexts change, but not the constellation. The cult of celebrities is a royalist heritage restored in the republic of genetic democracy. Academic awards are a family affair of the chosen few where nothing unceremonial is supposed to happen: the wolves are trimmed and tamed and only bite if dismissed. Everybody knows who will win like in an electoral. But the large public thrives on gossip and loves nothing more than scandal: Götterdämmerung is our favorite fixation since Siegfried. The bigger is the fame, the less you may speak up your spotless mind – career stars have attained the intelligence of intergalactic agents under the media. The instinctive censorship becomes natural armor for the exposed individual hiding behind roles and images. What you say in your interests will fast grow to be your innermost conviction. The busier the sooner shall one become an ordinary artist making fun of himself. Thanks to the devil for the good causes always at hand to extend one's positive persona. Charity events are orgies of misery – the ugliest happening of the whole Apocalypse. Glamour versus horror is of the poorest taste goodwill may ever have – it'll have no effect on the issue but spoil the sole sterile ground we have left for oblivious retreat. It is the final metastasis and not the beginning of the cure. If you can't solve it, don't try to help it – a little is less than nothing. O.S.P. is taking a most drastic stand against the lukewarm compromise of bad conscience. I intensely ignore Hollywood rumors and really ain't curious about politicians' sex life. And don't believe all the president's men being corrupted opportunists. I mean, I believe but could not care less. The Party was founded to provide a joint shelter for the ultimately homeless from Howard Hughes to MOONDOG. We are a gathering of the UR: individuals of the world unite. Let the mortal care about the mortal.
XVI/8
In spite of all domestic violence, the lucrative marriage of rock and art remained inseparable like Gilbert & George under the blessing of Osh: Author of All Works of Art. The techno mania of electric slaves proud and loud is a perfect cover-up for the exploited overdog. Blessed are those who keep bearing the broken flag in the blizzard of the world. To retrieve totalitarian symbols from the ancient archives, however, isn't good for anything, frankly. It is a gesture to the wind. Noble, noble, but merely tragic. Wherever could the chosen few, whoever they are, march at the unhappy end when forward and backward are indistinguishable in the thickening fog? To choose your destiny is always more enticing than its passive acceptance, and it is worth every risk to take. That's the single main message of the Nazarene's bad example. Climbers of Mount Everest are the living metaphor of the UR. I personally disbelieve that to walk back into the abyss singing new songs of nostalgia is sufficient to escape the ominous future. Shouldn't we rather do something about it? Air conditioning is valuable, but the cleansing of human blood is valuable too. We are only bred for the sake of the soil – any great a poet you are, you're working for the shit factory. Not only those bands similar to DISGORGE. We must get wholly aware of the situation once and REGURGITATE help a lot. Killing illusion is ugly but necessary. DISEMBOWELMENT were one of my all time faves. But I nourish no chimera. No gorerotted kid would ever sign up to kill the crime rather than promoting bloodbath in the name of evil. Devotees of sanguine metal prefer their prey innocent and random. In the blurry vision of the valley, only the blind can tell depiction from realness. It feels better to be punished when you're guilty – that's all the buzz behind the campaign against the Lamb. There's no way to stop and no sense to swear at the horsemen; not the emissaries are the enemy but the news – it's all about us. To be abnormal is a requirement of success in the lower regions coming up - those that don't need to pretend it should be grateful for their luck. The last generation of disowned angels is a sound reproduction of the original demons for whom Hell is the only hope: the warranty of an intelligent sentence. Negative dialectic negates the negator. Simulation redeems and that's where repentance ends. Freedom is a monster that tolerates no limits – it is the Adversary's main weapon of self-destruction. The epidemic psychopathia no one cares to address is its main technique to disprove the liberty fought out: the basic human right for pleasure Abrahamists hate so much. What the Atheist Church promotes may be a third way, but it is so simple it's a shame to even mention it. Enjoy as much pain as you wish, just don't inflict any unless begged for it. Is that too much to ask for a garden of delight? And don't mess up democide with homicide if don't want another night of long knives coming. That's OSP's message to PUNGENT STENCH.
XVI/9
The swarming of the warlorn ants is utterly jumbled under the contradicting orders leaving no stone unturned as the Word is coming true. Possession is far the best device of mental security – it is insurance for the soul. It's not about fame and fortune – those things are looked down upon by the humble virtuosos. The bargain goes for instant eternity, and it goes with Lucifer. We have to stay constantly certain of the total lack of free will anything we're supposed to do. Without fatalism you'd better stay idle. Killing the "I" should not bring down the "we" with it. Isolationism is a beautiful trend, I'm the indisputable king of it, but one :wumpscut: won't make a revolution. Any weird shockers on stage, technocracy's children on spun are simple performer artists VIP, doing a good job for a flawless living. This is the broad line that separates metal and industrial heads playing the same riffs, and after all levelling it is an intellectual frontier between the brave and the coward. With all my heart I belong to the meek but my true love goes out to the enemy. I'm a good Catholic boy and it really sucks. The continental response to industrial England's ironic call was a spectacular manifestation of the spirit of overnationalism in the afterwave offensive of the awakened machine. It contributed to the unification of Europe more profoundly than could meet the eye from Ljubljana to Ibiza. Since art has become, from mere illustration, the engine of history, evolution is a lot more civilized in the theoretic aspect. It's enough to look at the Nether Lands to clearly see the colonialist traditions transformed into success stories. Thank Osh we have this, though never formally formed, socialist alliance of tastes whereupon the new nations are founded. Since the triumph of Internet, the difference between global and local virtually disappeared. Which is one good thing of the transition in the view from below. Belgium, for one, became a superpower again rivalling Germania; let alone the Vikings including Denmark. The industrial Blitzkrieg's queer militia was a surprisingly protestant invasion of the alternative market for the alternative masses ignoring VIRGIN RECORDS' philanthropic futurism. The retaliating crusade of entertainment that hurts swept over free and occupied Europe whirling its way like a world wide hurricane from boom to doom. Aboriginally, it was a paramystic healing spree engendered to reconcile work and love in a creative harmony of opposites. It was like SPIONS' dreamtime coming true as designed for the Temple of Nuclear Reincarnation: a house of perennial workship. We were obviously too early by the clock, but let me tell you Sir, it's still not too late – it'll never be late again. It is all together now. All we have to overcome is the Elohim's ethics separating duty from passion. Our Petition demands a total abolition of the cosmic slavery and it must happen in the mind. The dominion's Germanic takeover was techno-logical and very revanchist – the Neue Deutsche Wälle wasn't a bit less fascist than neo-Nazi everpunks, just more subtile about multiple affiliations. It was rocking for communism without compunction, from the definite standpoint of espionage versus chauvinism. In the very early 80's a dividing line has established in the culture of the youth based on intelligence that wasn't the case before. It was the end of rock'n'roll's legendary age and the beginning of dub war. D.A.F. – the safest bridge of all – were starkly different from the British street crust, with much more irony towards folklore. Their nationalistic overtone couldn't be taken as seriously as DIE VANDALEN. The more influence it had. There is no life without challenge, and nationalism is taking an unnecessary risk any radical. No rock can roll back the wheels of time. The ghost army of dead SS is a theatre of tragedy really. Ziggy's heart would break. I understand supremacist xenophobia quite alright, but it is a new order that we need, not tears for the past that's never been. Dreams of a language hegemony ain't no counterrevolution but trivial tribalism rock'n'roll was sent to eradicate. It seems we've been trapped and only King James's Bible will save the overnation in the computer age. That's where we're at, let's take it easy. We must learn to live without sides if we want to survive; it'll take another Millennium but is has started. The City of Eden is not like Las Vegas. It is like Las Vegas minus the crime. Can you imagine something that weird? Of course not and why should you. To be Warren Beatty is more than enough. Nothing but divine terror could bring liberal peace to a halt. Oshist Atheism is a moral dictatorship with a rod of iron. Unlikely to be liked, can it be? I've been praying for a better idea day and night but they don't have any.
XVI/10
Virtual theory might be the real practice, but I don't feel any comfortable in my skin. I wish I could shed it and grow another one. The Word cannot believe itself without being heard and I literally shudder at the thought of getting spoken. I'm screaming in my own nightmare with no voice leaving the vacuity. It's a very strange situation but I'm little impressed. Only the constant aggression in the street reminds me that I'm not invisible. Though I'm a nobody doing nothing, I am on the radar yet... But don't have a single thing left I could grasp – the enlightenment is quasi total. It's kinda hybernation but I'm still freezing. I don't care about whereabouts and time-sheets, but you can't imagine how emo I can get when measuring the lost potential. You see, I can't stop ranting about my stardom and sorry I sure am. You may read this letter to Bardo as the autobiography of a never-been. Fatally chained to the self of an old-school esoterist, tormented by that antique guilt for dreaming Time inflicts on its drifting travelers. How I wish I had a mouth to speak articulately up! When your lips are locked, your eyes and ears will close along with them – a lot like the three monkeys, but no wisdom. Just reproduction. You'll become a walking handicap filled with the rotten thoughts of a constipated mind. If you cannot speak, you cannot listen either – your ego might be killed but the spirit's gone with it. You'll believe you're righteous but you cannot be. The disgust turns into nausea. You'll feel like the laziest sheep of Judah waiting for the abattoir. The hordes I'm supposed to line up as one are thrice younger than me, though I am not raising no child to tell me what's new out there. I can see it well with my own closed eyes. I have a lot of wishful dreams with my idols like a teeny-bopper (MARC ALMOND, ADRIAN HATES, TONY WAKEFORD to name only three), telling them what should be done, but of no avail – even in the dream they commonly reject me. I ain't subrealistic at all. The Oshist conspiracy is an aborted mission – I couldn't seduce an autistic maiden. Whilst the hiphop nation is rapping in unison, the doom doom boys prefer to march alone off the beaten track – the 24 isn't interested in outlandish idealisms. They live on the victim's blood pretending assistance. Divine terror is the last thing they'd want. The Party's proposition to the self-conscious elite is like going to a no-go: overnationalism wouldn't attract but traitors and they are very few, let's face it. So few I do not know about any. Sometimes I feel so alone. The hunted don't need guns and Storm-troopers don't like silent order. The Bridehood wouldn't hear about the Wedding – it's much too occupied with the issue of gay marriage. The Antichristian Gospel is a very bad news: Adam's heroic reconstruction has dramatically failed to manifest on schedule. Genetic science is dreaded like medieval alchemistry was; technology is looked upon with prehistoric superstition. Shamans, gurus, wizards, and witches are populating the star trek. Jesus freaks were just a bunch of neo-virgins promoting outdoor sex, but the soldiers of Satan are a real army of the darkness at war with the light. That the ancient moral lost its sense may be a good reason to rejoice, but it's a transitory state, I'm afraid. It cannot stay like that. The Word never changes, only its meaning alters periodically throughout the adaptation process. When gothic horror and video crime touch the same viewers' nerves, the loss of censorship becomes palpable. All beauty must die, that's true, but not this way. My charmed life's only goal has been to restore the state before the fall. It's everybody's goal, but for want of skill and talent I really did not have anything else to want. The human race was prematurely entrusted and the Elohim must face the consequences. Freedom without security is a real pig in a poke. These guys can't make a difference between considerate and inconsiderate annihilation. That's a serious backlash on higher intelligence. The angels of extermination are a militia of order. Hate is commanded but hate must be channelled. The UR have no remorse. Those that forgot to rock and roll don't deserve more sex and drugs.
XVI/11
The only truth is that nothing is true – and even this one isn't. Such is the Anticredo's quintessential dogma. Rock'n'roll is a polluted river but still proper for Baptism. Which fifty years after JACKIE BRENSTON is a remarkable singularity. Despite the holy spirit of the Gospel, it was the sound of Atheism from its first beat on – everybody knew it better then than today's Christian rockers. I must be like a bad Saint George in the losers' gallery: one ghost rider against the world serpent. I surely should leave the whole sonic feud at that – where it is – and deal with more relevant aspects of the musick than the baby doom of World Peace III. With the supreme taste we've valiantly acquired, there is no difference on Earth left we could not tell. Every music critic is writing the last judgement, and not wholly unaware of it. Lucifer's inspired showdown created more addicts to work than love – conceptualists need sizeable side-projects to do "something less serious" (actual quote). 'Cause fooling around with death is more responsible? It's chicken shit, my darlings; the quantity is insignificant. The best woman is the thinnest one, at least for me. Well, not so thin, but enough. No unnecessary weight. Change your reality and the mirror will change with it. Heroic denial is gone with the wall. Chaos turns into stagnation when it becomes total – when the means become the goal. Modulating the sound of alarm won't wake one up from the psychotic nightmare. It actually becomes quite agreeable when you get used to it. The land of electric beauty we've been brought to by the surviving bandmates may seem the most amazing dreamscape for the beautiful exile of ASSEMBLAGE 23, but in fact it is a bare mountain where only the UR survive. Those you lure are those you abandon. It is a trap of the profession not even THE BEATLES could evade, no less menacing the machinist elite than hellbillies of insurgent country in this closing time. FM EINHEIT certainly contributed to the neo-fall of Berlin, but it is a huge question how grateful we should be for it. At least between bliss and curse there is no longer discrepancy. Angels are agents and do what they're told. All they have to care about is their cosmic reputation. In the final analysis even the Slovenische Kunst ain't more than nationalist pacifism, any new. Of course art redeems by its simulation quotient – all we'd have were live mutilation with no editing without it. In spite of all waves of realisms we've gone through, it is still a sacred lie at its heart. There's no true conception without espionage. It's not required from the construction workers, but the architects are making a statement. They'd better be as correct as ALEXANDER HACKE or the building will collapse and bury all your guests. The way we rock'n'roll tonight is much unlike THE EAGLES: a profoundly subrealist approach to dismantling the tapestry. Art industria's electric foremen are mechanical animals wandering the Bardo with an engraved Diogenes-complex, illuminating the overall darkness with the counterfeit cynicism of homeless vampires. Escape without exit is the trickiest catch of every socialist revivalism degenerating as soon as accepted and rock'n'roll proved to be no anomaly. Destruction becomes a pathetic pretext in the shadow of the ongrowing monument. Allegorically speaking for want of a better style, it is like joining the earthquake and start smashing the furniture in rage against the elements. A logical response but obviously irrational. So what way is out – the question marks. Forward is the only answer and it comes from the instinct. Stop the catastrophe or die trying. It's better than from friendly fire. Between negligence and false alert, Hell is having its boomsday at the plains of Armageddon. We'd better prick up our impaired ears for something unheard-of, not to be taken by surprise when the trumpets will blare forth.
XVI/12
The miscellaneous bunch of Deities and Sathanas resuscitated for the Apocalyptic celebration of Time's dark funeral are a wondrous gathering of the collective memory without discrimination or prejudice. A real Jungian bacchanalia. But the great Syzygy is just as divided as in ancient eras: you may call yourself Inanna but what Inanna will call you? We need absolute certainty to move on wheresoever. Without a central aim larger than death, the carnival of archetypes is only a virtuous essay of oblivion. Zombified or alienated, severance is in the red of the incarnates' contaminated blood. Studio activity is an exchange of labour between self-dependent artists wholly bereft of that crazy feeling of conspiracy worthwhile movements were driven by. Remixing one another is the furthest form of collaboration and expect no putsch from the pub banned from smoking. Revolution is a leftist remnant for student communities protesting police brutality and tuition fees. Though altogether dysfunctionalized, family is a stronger value than ever in the sitcom society. The fear of uniformity is the solitary few's conventional paranoia established by the liberal brainwashing of asocialist democracy. That we all proclaim the return of the living dead is no brotherhood of mutants. And the tours to promote one's newest produce of unholy black aren't exactly campaign trails, just having a good time. Which is conditional but should not be enough. Greed will overcome and defeat magnificence. Art will be art – the grinded scream of the hurling bard is only self-expression. Abuse of symbolism is the sign of the decay, not foul language. There's no point to fear from the new scaries – these kids are innocent and don't want to manipulate you in any a way. Nothing they scorn more than political manners. This is the final sale and anything must go. They will bless you in the name of the evil one and mark you with the number of the Beast like anointed priests of Baphomet. The dope show we all play in is a reproduction of the prophecy and that's because of the lack of initiative. That the capital sacrificed justice on the burning altar of liberty comes as no surprise for a renegade Marxist, nor does the market economy of consumer's fantasia contradict Marcusean doctrines – 2000 years of prohibition era must have taken a heavy tall on the pleasure seekers' guilt-ridden mind. Except for old-school comedies, no reasonable filmmaker would separate sex from violence - sin from crime – without risking to be excommunicated. Both pro and contra, they're the same twin sisters as inseparable as in the crossed eye of the Vatican. It's fine in action movies and horror flicks but is ranking pestilence in the conscientious cinema of box office populism, let alone television prime time and beyond. Internet porn, on the other hand, is becoming the home of abuse protected by the foul laws of freedom. The public gets what the public wants and it's murder in the first place. Not the ballad but the physical evidence. Fiction has a heavy chore to keep up with reality. It is a vicious race. I am really riddled at the outcome and refuse to understand it. We fought long and hard for sex becoming an honourable workforce and XXX an aesthetic standard – why we have to succumb to the devil now? Is there no method to imbalance the Bargain? The showcase of the liberated Balkans plainly introduced a new fare of war, bringing rape from background action into the foreground of the combat like in the ex-colonies of Africa. Feminists would attribute this too to the porn industry, I guess. Frankly, I do not see any solution and that's the conclusion of my grand reportage to Osh. The great trouvaille of 'The Twelve Placards' as uploaded on G.I.N.A.'s 'Launching Site' is the didactic replacement of the combinative conjunction of "and" with the disjunctive form of "or": a regroupment of our ethic matrix. 'Sex or Violence' is an ultimate panel thereof – restoration of the correct dichotomy. My Master's stroke. To subsidise the right without proscribing the wrong is the perfect waste of anyone's money invested into culture. No anarchy shall eliminate dualism: as long as on Earth, there'll always be an enemy at the gate. We'd better bring natural selection to a quick halt. The total abolition of censorship technology possibilitated is a terrible side-effect of the information highway: the ultimate cul-de-sac of emancipation. Any intent to criticize it would turn the most popular star into a moron overnight, boycotted by every media and rejected by all his friends. And what for? You cannot change changes – what has been reached remains reached. You can ban the artist but who can ban the public? Counterrevolutionary propaganda would only fuel chaos' all-consuming fire. Evolution is the passing of an uncanny monster crushing everything in its terrifying way of advancement. It is coming from the future against the past with nothingness on both ends of it. No tense is more relative than the progressive present. It all depends on us how it'll turn out, because we are the experiment. An experiment behind closed gates. Good bye and good luck.
XVI/2
Whatever Osh tried to convey in thousands of years have been misinterpreted first, then systematically abused by both Jews and Gentiles. That's the fatum of the Word, vainly written. It only makes it more vulnerable. Sent in quest of the perfect lie, the Godhead's dedicated servant is most likely to fall for the strangest deceptions striking out of the blue. Heroically combining art and entertainment, pop culture constituted the first era of our virtual history: the Aurora of Atheist counterrevolution. Its main accomplishment was the irreseparable fusion of popular and avantgarde – folk and elite – into an undivided nuclear republic: the eradication of polar opposites by an indiscriminate collective intelligence. Sanctioned to ignore pros and contras, we could finally deal with more essential aspects of existence than social pedigrees and racial hegemonies. It finished up class society, and ethnic segregation, by raising the bar higher rather than lower like socialist realism. Cutting off the ties of the tongue with an unexpected masterstroke, it gave Time a single supreme profile with a dominantly English complexion, inviting everybody to come on. Rock and pop, let me treat them as one item for this once, freed the holy spirit from the mental chains imposed by the traditional milieu of one's geopolitical birthplace. As America's first movement in beaux-arts, and the most massive one ever, it swiftly generated global supremacy through the invasion of multimedia. In pop – art and music – truth and myth joined happily together within an idealist cult of the people, opening the First Gate of aesthetic imperialism the cold war could not withstand. Challenging communism at its economic core, it demonstrated the overwhelming superpower of consumer bolshevism over poverty propaganda. R'n'R as a battlefield was the clash of two materialisms and the soul has won. Not that I wouldn't adore Red Army marches above anything else, but that's only my wicked Sehnsucht. I've always belonged to the overnational empire from both left and right. Pop is a wingless altar – rocket to Hell. It has been the quintessential manifestation of capitalist art: more of a business venture than strategic planning. It formally established the Zeitgeist's absolute control, replacing surrealist reverie with uncompromising subrealism. The price of shifting the margins into the undisputable center of the process was, however, excessively high on the social assemblage. The transforming mirror entered its ultimate phase: the present, and everything froze. An intensive stagnation set in: the future absconded the domain of fiction. Today, as the past is getting closer, the power of pop is living nostalgia - no promise ever has remained less unfulfilled. Its victory is a suburban myth of the last generation. The ancient impulse of hic'n'nunc sha-na-na-na resurged as our ultimate relativity and that's where we are ever since Woodstock: neither dead nor alive but still wanted. The effects no longer represent the cause. What we need right now, and we need it badly, is the rebirth of fatalism. Without the daze of cosmic importance only a fascist state of the mind can offer, the free ride turns automatically backward: one becomes his own passenger and no one at the wheel. Old ideas will be born again and new ones recycled as soon as accepted. The wild flowers of revolt transmuted into a horrendous flora full of pretentious chaff in the mad gardener's fields of greed. There's no room left for improbability in infinity's predictable humdrum. The S.O.S's sent out are everyone's for himself; it is instant grace if they properly sell. But farther than that only the blind dares to look. I simply can't believe what I see, Sir; it must be somewhere else. They are still discussing the abortion issue. I don't think there's a word for it.
XVI/3
Idealism is a very sorry angel – you shouldn't try to snatch gold in a sandstorm. We'd be completely lost in the electronic whirlwind without the guidance of our critics charged to name the trends of chaos. RAY CHARLES wouldn't care but it is vital to know that somebody minds what you're playing. All children need the family name of a genre they belong to – you do not do just anything like a standard wedding band. You can't change if you weren't something special. You may disagree but it is imperative to accept the category. What's more, it doesn't matter - nothing but fame does. To be misunderstood is the innermost legacy of every genius with no documented exception. Art is a dangerous response but everyone who says he's apolitical should be stoned. Like all those lukewarm Satanists trying to sell their souls on discount. You may freely travel back and forth in time with your free visa, but if you don't reflect your present you're nothing but a parasitic vampire. The decor of the abattoir will depict why we died. The sound and vision we project in the air conquered are of the same hieroglyphic intent as news from ancient tombs: an exchange of messages between the living and the dead. The more specific is a target, the wider the impact can be. Lucky are those fellas that can become a word like Descartes and enter the vocabulary as an adjectival. The Nativity of Rock was, first of all, the enthronement of the star – the return of Horus by multiplication. Takeover of the school by its own disciples is the Eternal's rocky road we are designated to travel. Once beloved, you've got nothing else to do than follow the people by giving them directives. In the open society where wealth alone defines the rank of an equal citizen, ethical behaviour is practically impossible – you have to be a secret agent of yourself in order to survive the ordeals of the combat. Corporate crusades don't favour the individual more than religious sects would. There's an immanent breakdown in every system, fuck them all. Positive imaginations will turn into their own negative when developed – inversion is the way of the process. No armour will defend the martyrs of the market. That's why electronica's efficient masonry keep themselves so busy with work and love – fighting for independence with all their mighty might. Beside the extensive proliferation of the android blossom, each bionic upstart performs under dozens of aliases and side-projects filling up the vacuum with artificial tension – combining the old atoms into new molecules of endless mitosis. This overzealous productivity of the electric babyland is immensely hard to comprehend for a lazy son like me: isn't one free to do whatever he wants? Why have we to hide behind conflicting concepts like grey eminences? Can't a personality expand yet without splitting into doubles like gothic novelists? It's not the renaissance man but the rise of the undead: legitimate paranoia of the schizoid multitalent. A psychotic adagio to the ingravescent anonymity mania of technocracy's counterfeit army seeking to invade the blissful isles. The demiurge of anarchy consumes itself with a ferocious appetite like the archetypal snake. Which is the worst abuse of the divine capacity we're prematurely endowed upon. We did not get much further with quality control per se – the tragedy's gunshot marriage of convenience with show business did not produce a lasting mutation: just the same old crippled centaur expressing its feelings. Despite the substantial increase of the output, the ratio of good and bad, and the hazards of success, are as direct as ever. You ought to wear a second camouflage because the first is translucent. 'Cause any black you paint it, you can't become a shadow without light under the Sun. It's only hide and seek in the magic forest – wasted incognito of the humble giants. Once known, you can't become unknown again like a Bodhisattva in New York – every step you make will be traced down by your loyal followers. So you don't wanna be BILL WYMAN any more? You've lost your pop sensibility, pal.
XVI/4
The ball we're revisiting is in an abhorrent confusion and there ain't no economical solution for it. The monetary system is highly civilized but the war remains between Cain and Abel till the last man on Earth. The human being cannot be changed – the demise of communism is the ultimate proof for that. Vainly has science triumphantly defeated the malicious dogmas of the Churches, it's given no moral authority over the state. L. Ron Hubbard tried the thing but never meant to dictate. The secrets have burnt; the sacred heart is broken. The choices are white noise or black silence. Not as cool as GERRY MULLIGAN figured. Nobody's dancing without a reason but inebriated idiots. Punks are as loyal to chaos as hippies were to freedom: order is the command everybody detests. Industrial music is a graveyard of innocence – the human soul is transplanted in the machine for obvious safety measures. It ain't defunct indeed, just whirling somewhere. Charisma is blatantly simulated like the contortion of wrestlers. Reality is produced for television wherefrom it's projected back onto us: the vicious circle of the viewer's choice. Voyeurism has long subordinated the attraction of soaps. People want to see it all down to the smallest details – and whoever should say they don't have the right. Murder is no longer a mystery. We've got an epidemy in the world of cables that largely surpasses immune deficiency – it is the symptomatic decline of illusion not even Disney wanted to reverse. As much as I love the soundtrack, I cannot watch the movie. Rabid dogs should be exterminated by my opinion, not set free and protected. That's why they call me a fascist, I presume. The UR are wolves that like to show up their wounds. But such gratuitous demonstration won't intimidate the projecting mirror; it'll rather invite the jinx to the party. The beast is as vain as the beauty – it likes to see himself and the way he looks. We should never forget that polarity is perverted similitude. In the united golf of Hecate, research and experiment are not opposing streams of consciousness. They are the stiles of Jacob's ladder held together by the steps higher and higher. In the single eye of the Atheist beholder art and science are as obviously one as for Leonardo. If scud missiles aren't artworks, music is no weapon. Reproduction of the empire is the only hope we ever had. There is no harmony where design and function aren't inseparable. Who needs natural selection when we can clone our perfect likeness? We should be jumping into the air with joy, man, not deliberating the consequences. I really cannot grasp what's wrong with the mortal. Whom do they want to serve. Gene-democracy from incidental mutation has augmented to the strategy of planned reproduction, desperately waiting for a moral putsch. Unlike loud metal music screaming genocide just for the shock factor, genetic science must advance in the most discreet silence vilified by the reactionary masses. Artificial evolution doesn't fit the nature freaks' humanitarian agenda based on nationhoods thriving on bloodshed – we aren't afraid of anything but the unprecedented. The cut has been very short between Altamira and the Netscape.
XVI/5
Blaming human misery on the whims of evil gods has always been the easiest refusal of cosmic responsibility – no coverage is more protective than nihil. We are the robots of the dream factory programmed by the blood. Unable to stand still but nowhere to run. Just wailing wall to wall like good prisoners of conscience. There ain't no law, there ain't no hand – no matter what they say. We are eager to but can no longer trust in vain. Even probability isn't by our side any more. The guilty always wins - no justice can be done. Our wired solitude has become mechanical resonance - plug in, plug out is all we're endorsed to do. There's no union for the fragmented trade all against all. No cohesive force to reawaken the will in the master race. Though the terminus technicus comes from Britannia greater than ever, industrial music's sweet home is Westphalia and not Alabama – and it tells a lot even if don't say it. Overnationalism is sheer Utopia at this point in time – I'm sorry to say for it's rather sad. But I'm not irrealistic. I'm more than glad to respect the circumstances. Even if an irate Antinazi, nothing's more defining than where you're coming from. It'd be ridiculous to say you just fell on Earth somewhere. Aliens are no chic since street punks. Aggressive technoism is still the closest offspring of electronica's inherently totalitarian spirit using the frequency itself as an instrument - some to heal, some to hurt, often concurrently. There is an alternative paramilitancy going on behind the gothic facade of Dracula's second coming in every division. Druids or Vikings or what have you, a dark army of born-again pagans is informally forming. Mainly in Scandinavia since Sweden rocks the world. Which surely is the most astonishing development in the history of the rocks by the way, but I can't get down to that one. Neither to musicology nor to anthropology I understand a trifle. Nor am I interested in anything but myself. And I think if we could equilibrate need and desire like the Laps, the world would be a better place. Black metal from Ukraine to Poland is a Slavic invasion at its heartcore coordinated by Odin. There is a telluric shift on rock'n'roll's overnational map, both on the brutal and the sentimental side. What is common in ravenous rivetheads and the stormtroopers of death metal is their faith in None. That impertinent antipathy towards life on Earth. The borderline between grief and gore is so tiny that it's almost impossible not to cross it by accident. Most intruders are sent back home, but others would remain and create new styles. The R'n'R Cauldron is boiling high. In the eyes of DIE FORM par example, beauty and carnage are inseparable. And both retained for pain infliction. That is absolutely correct in a free society. It did not start with THRILL KILL KULT but could have as well ended there in stead of becoming so sombre. All the jokes and fun remained on the mild side of the road. It's so hard to find a tasteful balance in the blizzard of telecommunication. You'd better go punch drunk. The system's pulsing like a neutron star – back and forth we're rockin' and rollin' in quest of the song of songs. Gravity won't let us escape too easily. It's not wholly useless though – every reproduction spurts us a shot farther. But it's been an immensely slow method only the Eternal could afford. The good news is that we're closing up to the point of culmination at this aftertime. Last year's fashion is next year's retro. Rock'n'rollers should really look out not to miss the arrival. Despite its rich and swell vegetation, the electric wasteland is only an amplified desert where the insane go to scream. Chaos is like the familiar iceberg-allegory: a lot huger than its top ten. We're at the dawn of all schemes – no new tale to tell after 1984. It's adult entertainment for the educated masses since SPANDAU BALLET. Any way you tune in, the tube is jammed with disinformation. There is no reasonable time to select for an independent browser. Nowhere is it safer than at the turntable. The less you feel, the less you fear. That's what he called instant karma, didn't he?
XVI/6
The Cosmic Bargain is a terrible ordeal altogether, but no aspect of it is more horrifying than the routine of the quantitative judgment. No matter who you were at all, before the Grim Reaper every body's equal, though some of them are more lucky under hazard's amoral dictatorship. The extinction is vastly impersonal – that's what the Atheist Church is zealously up against. Programmed by the trite dichotomies the Elohim invented, humanity is enslaved to the polar field of artificial opposites. What should we be doing if there was no more Hell – life would lose every sense it's got! Paradise is a good dream for lazy bastards but a nightmare for the creative intellect. I personally am rather content we have lost it – I couldn't bear a day of vacation. Fortunately its only me – the worst example ever lived. The eternal slave that is. I can make Fourier laughing in his Phalanstère any day now. Electronic dance music's hypnotic reprotech may be more cyberotic than hard rock's easy chord memories, but if you wanna funk with it you'd better forget about algorithm. Structural manipulation never had such a crucial import as in industrial music overtly striving for controlled popularity amidst newly-wed Disco-refugees. A simple tune has a hundred tracks and every remix tells another story. JUAN ATKINS and AL JOURGENSEN, however, are leading dissimilar tribes in the battle with the soulsonic forces of peace. The fragmentation is enormous on every plane of the disunion - only the laws of commerce hold the trade together. But even there, one's stance on free file sharing more radically divides the industry into an antagonistic two than any stylistic disagreement. The issue is nothing ideological: it is a pure financial conflict controlled by the elders of the tribes. The poor's first priority in old school rock'n'roll, and that's a distinguisher, has not been to get rich even if they said so – but those that are obviously don't want to get poorer. Not even the Marxist ones. McCarthy only wasted the taxpayers' money. This copyright thing became a major subject of the computer age crying for the dictatorship of a new moral. We are at a watershed of intellectual possession: the very core of ownership. That's the Tibetan Third of TCTC. Defenders of the capitalist dream are fighting with the friends of high standard communism. The principle's about behavior rather than conviction: a question of attitude without political overtones. Seems to be quite self-selective indeed. But that socialism will triumph in this affair is predictable from every aspect of it – artists form a whole proper class today more copious than farmers. As a broke amateur DJ of `NOVA AKROPOLA` who can't afford buying music, I play a disproportionate plus of second and third rate acts of my genres, since they usually proffer more free download than the more established ones. And new beginners are happy to be stolen. The shape of things changed nothing. It's not always businesswise indeed to be so dignified amidst the noble, that's all my parable. The future will be as it has to be. You won't stop evolution by hunting down hackers – cybercrime is the human genius' ultimate victory, collectively speaking. The Jolly Joker of the Bargain. I don't think it was better in Phonicia, but as long as there is poverty, business will be driven by greed and no crisis will change that way. The homopithecus is here. Technology once presumed automatically solve it, only elevates crime to a higher intelligence level in our Neuropolis. Virtual robbery is much better than the real thing beyond reasonable doubt. Spams are less annoying than Jehovah's witnesses knocking at your door. Watch your back and trust no one is not a new advice, is it? Misanthropy is our only defense just like in the wild wild West.
XVI/7
The possibility of equilibrium between opposing parallels was glamorously proven by the onset of the Eighties when punk rock, in itself antithetic to heavy metal and hard boogie, split into various trends in the explosion's aftermath. Invigorated by the beats of the world, that's when nuclear reincarnation officially began – extending ever since against all odds of disintegration. New romantics and no-wave for example did not show any sign of hostility. There was more of that between crust and Oi. And hiphop and kipkop, of course. The idea of rock'n'roll, as its name suggested, was a campaign against the stagnation traditional forms of entertainment had been cultivating before. It took a putsch but it was a Meisterschaft greater than Unle's – this counterrevolution is invincible as long as Elvis is king. There was by the way a psychobilly band named ELVIS HITLER but I don't know why. There's something for everything, I guess. News are spreading by puns. R'n'R by naissance was a beast of rejuvenation reproducing through the constant mutation of its Southern chromosomes. In spite of its perpetual breaking it is a single wave to ride – some precede, some follow, and the best is on the top of it. Deviations won't be tolerated and the slow will be left behind. Evolution is a cruelty course everyone must take. The electric roots of empowered pop was as healthful an antidote to the hardcore embranchments as death rock to cock rock in L.A.. Industrial music perfectly fitted punk's DNA profile in the natural rejection of public service: its innate denial of conformist progression. Inviting both myth and science, it has become the safest channel of the digital soul. With remarkable alchemist bravery, it combined the best elements of the past into a nuclear capsule of the radioactive Zeitgeist. It turned factory into a temple of workship. It set up a gallery of vampire kitsch for the robotized astromen. A spectacular celebration of the end of continuity. From the quite limited capacities of a dozen instruments, synthesized sound shut clearly open the gate of infinity before its engineers and equalized the productivity by its DIY ethics. Providing thus instant stardom to all music workers long before the Internet revolution. Fiction and reality have irreversibly united around 1984 on the fields of the Nephilim. At the Genesis rock innocently incorporated the condescending avantgarde, at the Exegesis art has reached a plain rock'n'roll status by fashion's smart takeover of the cultural design. After her rise and fall, a new race emerged from Ziggy Stardust's ashes still crowding the traitor's quarter after many decades of pointless transition. Although the tower of ambition has been razed by the equalizer, his Satanic Majesty's request is henceforth playing alright for catacomb dwellers in full metal drag. Rock'n'roll's fundamental characteristic is its suicidal striving for domination by all means necessary. Destruction is in its rebel blood – the Bolshevik Internationale always perceived it that way. Decadence versus improvement. The contexts change, but not the constellation. The cult of celebrities is a royalist heritage restored in the republic of genetic democracy. Academic awards are a family affair of the chosen few where nothing unceremonial is supposed to happen: the wolves are trimmed and tamed and only bite if dismissed. Everybody knows who will win like in an electoral. But the large public thrives on gossip and loves nothing more than scandal: Götterdämmerung is our favorite fixation since Siegfried. The bigger is the fame, the less you may speak up your spotless mind – career stars have attained the intelligence of intergalactic agents under the media. The instinctive censorship becomes natural armor for the exposed individual hiding behind roles and images. What you say in your interests will fast grow to be your innermost conviction. The busier the sooner shall one become an ordinary artist making fun of himself. Thanks to the devil for the good causes always at hand to extend one's positive persona. Charity events are orgies of misery – the ugliest happening of the whole Apocalypse. Glamour versus horror is of the poorest taste goodwill may ever have – it'll have no effect on the issue but spoil the sole sterile ground we have left for oblivious retreat. It is the final metastasis and not the beginning of the cure. If you can't solve it, don't try to help it – a little is less than nothing. O.S.P. is taking a most drastic stand against the lukewarm compromise of bad conscience. I intensely ignore Hollywood rumors and really ain't curious about politicians' sex life. And don't believe all the president's men being corrupted opportunists. I mean, I believe but could not care less. The Party was founded to provide a joint shelter for the ultimately homeless from Howard Hughes to MOONDOG. We are a gathering of the UR: individuals of the world unite. Let the mortal care about the mortal.
XVI/8
In spite of all domestic violence, the lucrative marriage of rock and art remained inseparable like Gilbert & George under the blessing of Osh: Author of All Works of Art. The techno mania of electric slaves proud and loud is a perfect cover-up for the exploited overdog. Blessed are those who keep bearing the broken flag in the blizzard of the world. To retrieve totalitarian symbols from the ancient archives, however, isn't good for anything, frankly. It is a gesture to the wind. Noble, noble, but merely tragic. Wherever could the chosen few, whoever they are, march at the unhappy end when forward and backward are indistinguishable in the thickening fog? To choose your destiny is always more enticing than its passive acceptance, and it is worth every risk to take. That's the single main message of the Nazarene's bad example. Climbers of Mount Everest are the living metaphor of the UR. I personally disbelieve that to walk back into the abyss singing new songs of nostalgia is sufficient to escape the ominous future. Shouldn't we rather do something about it? Air conditioning is valuable, but the cleansing of human blood is valuable too. We are only bred for the sake of the soil – any great a poet you are, you're working for the shit factory. Not only those bands similar to DISGORGE. We must get wholly aware of the situation once and REGURGITATE help a lot. Killing illusion is ugly but necessary. DISEMBOWELMENT were one of my all time faves. But I nourish no chimera. No gorerotted kid would ever sign up to kill the crime rather than promoting bloodbath in the name of evil. Devotees of sanguine metal prefer their prey innocent and random. In the blurry vision of the valley, only the blind can tell depiction from realness. It feels better to be punished when you're guilty – that's all the buzz behind the campaign against the Lamb. There's no way to stop and no sense to swear at the horsemen; not the emissaries are the enemy but the news – it's all about us. To be abnormal is a requirement of success in the lower regions coming up - those that don't need to pretend it should be grateful for their luck. The last generation of disowned angels is a sound reproduction of the original demons for whom Hell is the only hope: the warranty of an intelligent sentence. Negative dialectic negates the negator. Simulation redeems and that's where repentance ends. Freedom is a monster that tolerates no limits – it is the Adversary's main weapon of self-destruction. The epidemic psychopathia no one cares to address is its main technique to disprove the liberty fought out: the basic human right for pleasure Abrahamists hate so much. What the Atheist Church promotes may be a third way, but it is so simple it's a shame to even mention it. Enjoy as much pain as you wish, just don't inflict any unless begged for it. Is that too much to ask for a garden of delight? And don't mess up democide with homicide if don't want another night of long knives coming. That's OSP's message to PUNGENT STENCH.
XVI/9
The swarming of the warlorn ants is utterly jumbled under the contradicting orders leaving no stone unturned as the Word is coming true. Possession is far the best device of mental security – it is insurance for the soul. It's not about fame and fortune – those things are looked down upon by the humble virtuosos. The bargain goes for instant eternity, and it goes with Lucifer. We have to stay constantly certain of the total lack of free will anything we're supposed to do. Without fatalism you'd better stay idle. Killing the "I" should not bring down the "we" with it. Isolationism is a beautiful trend, I'm the indisputable king of it, but one :wumpscut: won't make a revolution. Any weird shockers on stage, technocracy's children on spun are simple performer artists VIP, doing a good job for a flawless living. This is the broad line that separates metal and industrial heads playing the same riffs, and after all levelling it is an intellectual frontier between the brave and the coward. With all my heart I belong to the meek but my true love goes out to the enemy. I'm a good Catholic boy and it really sucks. The continental response to industrial England's ironic call was a spectacular manifestation of the spirit of overnationalism in the afterwave offensive of the awakened machine. It contributed to the unification of Europe more profoundly than could meet the eye from Ljubljana to Ibiza. Since art has become, from mere illustration, the engine of history, evolution is a lot more civilized in the theoretic aspect. It's enough to look at the Nether Lands to clearly see the colonialist traditions transformed into success stories. Thank Osh we have this, though never formally formed, socialist alliance of tastes whereupon the new nations are founded. Since the triumph of Internet, the difference between global and local virtually disappeared. Which is one good thing of the transition in the view from below. Belgium, for one, became a superpower again rivalling Germania; let alone the Vikings including Denmark. The industrial Blitzkrieg's queer militia was a surprisingly protestant invasion of the alternative market for the alternative masses ignoring VIRGIN RECORDS' philanthropic futurism. The retaliating crusade of entertainment that hurts swept over free and occupied Europe whirling its way like a world wide hurricane from boom to doom. Aboriginally, it was a paramystic healing spree engendered to reconcile work and love in a creative harmony of opposites. It was like SPIONS' dreamtime coming true as designed for the Temple of Nuclear Reincarnation: a house of perennial workship. We were obviously too early by the clock, but let me tell you Sir, it's still not too late – it'll never be late again. It is all together now. All we have to overcome is the Elohim's ethics separating duty from passion. Our Petition demands a total abolition of the cosmic slavery and it must happen in the mind. The dominion's Germanic takeover was techno-logical and very revanchist – the Neue Deutsche Wälle wasn't a bit less fascist than neo-Nazi everpunks, just more subtile about multiple affiliations. It was rocking for communism without compunction, from the definite standpoint of espionage versus chauvinism. In the very early 80's a dividing line has established in the culture of the youth based on intelligence that wasn't the case before. It was the end of rock'n'roll's legendary age and the beginning of dub war. D.A.F. – the safest bridge of all – were starkly different from the British street crust, with much more irony towards folklore. Their nationalistic overtone couldn't be taken as seriously as DIE VANDALEN. The more influence it had. There is no life without challenge, and nationalism is taking an unnecessary risk any radical. No rock can roll back the wheels of time. The ghost army of dead SS is a theatre of tragedy really. Ziggy's heart would break. I understand supremacist xenophobia quite alright, but it is a new order that we need, not tears for the past that's never been. Dreams of a language hegemony ain't no counterrevolution but trivial tribalism rock'n'roll was sent to eradicate. It seems we've been trapped and only King James's Bible will save the overnation in the computer age. That's where we're at, let's take it easy. We must learn to live without sides if we want to survive; it'll take another Millennium but is has started. The City of Eden is not like Las Vegas. It is like Las Vegas minus the crime. Can you imagine something that weird? Of course not and why should you. To be Warren Beatty is more than enough. Nothing but divine terror could bring liberal peace to a halt. Oshist Atheism is a moral dictatorship with a rod of iron. Unlikely to be liked, can it be? I've been praying for a better idea day and night but they don't have any.
XVI/10
Virtual theory might be the real practice, but I don't feel any comfortable in my skin. I wish I could shed it and grow another one. The Word cannot believe itself without being heard and I literally shudder at the thought of getting spoken. I'm screaming in my own nightmare with no voice leaving the vacuity. It's a very strange situation but I'm little impressed. Only the constant aggression in the street reminds me that I'm not invisible. Though I'm a nobody doing nothing, I am on the radar yet... But don't have a single thing left I could grasp – the enlightenment is quasi total. It's kinda hybernation but I'm still freezing. I don't care about whereabouts and time-sheets, but you can't imagine how emo I can get when measuring the lost potential. You see, I can't stop ranting about my stardom and sorry I sure am. You may read this letter to Bardo as the autobiography of a never-been. Fatally chained to the self of an old-school esoterist, tormented by that antique guilt for dreaming Time inflicts on its drifting travelers. How I wish I had a mouth to speak articulately up! When your lips are locked, your eyes and ears will close along with them – a lot like the three monkeys, but no wisdom. Just reproduction. You'll become a walking handicap filled with the rotten thoughts of a constipated mind. If you cannot speak, you cannot listen either – your ego might be killed but the spirit's gone with it. You'll believe you're righteous but you cannot be. The disgust turns into nausea. You'll feel like the laziest sheep of Judah waiting for the abattoir. The hordes I'm supposed to line up as one are thrice younger than me, though I am not raising no child to tell me what's new out there. I can see it well with my own closed eyes. I have a lot of wishful dreams with my idols like a teeny-bopper (MARC ALMOND, ADRIAN HATES, TONY WAKEFORD to name only three), telling them what should be done, but of no avail – even in the dream they commonly reject me. I ain't subrealistic at all. The Oshist conspiracy is an aborted mission – I couldn't seduce an autistic maiden. Whilst the hiphop nation is rapping in unison, the doom doom boys prefer to march alone off the beaten track – the 24 isn't interested in outlandish idealisms. They live on the victim's blood pretending assistance. Divine terror is the last thing they'd want. The Party's proposition to the self-conscious elite is like going to a no-go: overnationalism wouldn't attract but traitors and they are very few, let's face it. So few I do not know about any. Sometimes I feel so alone. The hunted don't need guns and Storm-troopers don't like silent order. The Bridehood wouldn't hear about the Wedding – it's much too occupied with the issue of gay marriage. The Antichristian Gospel is a very bad news: Adam's heroic reconstruction has dramatically failed to manifest on schedule. Genetic science is dreaded like medieval alchemistry was; technology is looked upon with prehistoric superstition. Shamans, gurus, wizards, and witches are populating the star trek. Jesus freaks were just a bunch of neo-virgins promoting outdoor sex, but the soldiers of Satan are a real army of the darkness at war with the light. That the ancient moral lost its sense may be a good reason to rejoice, but it's a transitory state, I'm afraid. It cannot stay like that. The Word never changes, only its meaning alters periodically throughout the adaptation process. When gothic horror and video crime touch the same viewers' nerves, the loss of censorship becomes palpable. All beauty must die, that's true, but not this way. My charmed life's only goal has been to restore the state before the fall. It's everybody's goal, but for want of skill and talent I really did not have anything else to want. The human race was prematurely entrusted and the Elohim must face the consequences. Freedom without security is a real pig in a poke. These guys can't make a difference between considerate and inconsiderate annihilation. That's a serious backlash on higher intelligence. The angels of extermination are a militia of order. Hate is commanded but hate must be channelled. The UR have no remorse. Those that forgot to rock and roll don't deserve more sex and drugs.
XVI/11
The only truth is that nothing is true – and even this one isn't. Such is the Anticredo's quintessential dogma. Rock'n'roll is a polluted river but still proper for Baptism. Which fifty years after JACKIE BRENSTON is a remarkable singularity. Despite the holy spirit of the Gospel, it was the sound of Atheism from its first beat on – everybody knew it better then than today's Christian rockers. I must be like a bad Saint George in the losers' gallery: one ghost rider against the world serpent. I surely should leave the whole sonic feud at that – where it is – and deal with more relevant aspects of the musick than the baby doom of World Peace III. With the supreme taste we've valiantly acquired, there is no difference on Earth left we could not tell. Every music critic is writing the last judgement, and not wholly unaware of it. Lucifer's inspired showdown created more addicts to work than love – conceptualists need sizeable side-projects to do "something less serious" (actual quote). 'Cause fooling around with death is more responsible? It's chicken shit, my darlings; the quantity is insignificant. The best woman is the thinnest one, at least for me. Well, not so thin, but enough. No unnecessary weight. Change your reality and the mirror will change with it. Heroic denial is gone with the wall. Chaos turns into stagnation when it becomes total – when the means become the goal. Modulating the sound of alarm won't wake one up from the psychotic nightmare. It actually becomes quite agreeable when you get used to it. The land of electric beauty we've been brought to by the surviving bandmates may seem the most amazing dreamscape for the beautiful exile of ASSEMBLAGE 23, but in fact it is a bare mountain where only the UR survive. Those you lure are those you abandon. It is a trap of the profession not even THE BEATLES could evade, no less menacing the machinist elite than hellbillies of insurgent country in this closing time. FM EINHEIT certainly contributed to the neo-fall of Berlin, but it is a huge question how grateful we should be for it. At least between bliss and curse there is no longer discrepancy. Angels are agents and do what they're told. All they have to care about is their cosmic reputation. In the final analysis even the Slovenische Kunst ain't more than nationalist pacifism, any new. Of course art redeems by its simulation quotient – all we'd have were live mutilation with no editing without it. In spite of all waves of realisms we've gone through, it is still a sacred lie at its heart. There's no true conception without espionage. It's not required from the construction workers, but the architects are making a statement. They'd better be as correct as ALEXANDER HACKE or the building will collapse and bury all your guests. The way we rock'n'roll tonight is much unlike THE EAGLES: a profoundly subrealist approach to dismantling the tapestry. Art industria's electric foremen are mechanical animals wandering the Bardo with an engraved Diogenes-complex, illuminating the overall darkness with the counterfeit cynicism of homeless vampires. Escape without exit is the trickiest catch of every socialist revivalism degenerating as soon as accepted and rock'n'roll proved to be no anomaly. Destruction becomes a pathetic pretext in the shadow of the ongrowing monument. Allegorically speaking for want of a better style, it is like joining the earthquake and start smashing the furniture in rage against the elements. A logical response but obviously irrational. So what way is out – the question marks. Forward is the only answer and it comes from the instinct. Stop the catastrophe or die trying. It's better than from friendly fire. Between negligence and false alert, Hell is having its boomsday at the plains of Armageddon. We'd better prick up our impaired ears for something unheard-of, not to be taken by surprise when the trumpets will blare forth.
XVI/12
The miscellaneous bunch of Deities and Sathanas resuscitated for the Apocalyptic celebration of Time's dark funeral are a wondrous gathering of the collective memory without discrimination or prejudice. A real Jungian bacchanalia. But the great Syzygy is just as divided as in ancient eras: you may call yourself Inanna but what Inanna will call you? We need absolute certainty to move on wheresoever. Without a central aim larger than death, the carnival of archetypes is only a virtuous essay of oblivion. Zombified or alienated, severance is in the red of the incarnates' contaminated blood. Studio activity is an exchange of labour between self-dependent artists wholly bereft of that crazy feeling of conspiracy worthwhile movements were driven by. Remixing one another is the furthest form of collaboration and expect no putsch from the pub banned from smoking. Revolution is a leftist remnant for student communities protesting police brutality and tuition fees. Though altogether dysfunctionalized, family is a stronger value than ever in the sitcom society. The fear of uniformity is the solitary few's conventional paranoia established by the liberal brainwashing of asocialist democracy. That we all proclaim the return of the living dead is no brotherhood of mutants. And the tours to promote one's newest produce of unholy black aren't exactly campaign trails, just having a good time. Which is conditional but should not be enough. Greed will overcome and defeat magnificence. Art will be art – the grinded scream of the hurling bard is only self-expression. Abuse of symbolism is the sign of the decay, not foul language. There's no point to fear from the new scaries – these kids are innocent and don't want to manipulate you in any a way. Nothing they scorn more than political manners. This is the final sale and anything must go. They will bless you in the name of the evil one and mark you with the number of the Beast like anointed priests of Baphomet. The dope show we all play in is a reproduction of the prophecy and that's because of the lack of initiative. That the capital sacrificed justice on the burning altar of liberty comes as no surprise for a renegade Marxist, nor does the market economy of consumer's fantasia contradict Marcusean doctrines – 2000 years of prohibition era must have taken a heavy tall on the pleasure seekers' guilt-ridden mind. Except for old-school comedies, no reasonable filmmaker would separate sex from violence - sin from crime – without risking to be excommunicated. Both pro and contra, they're the same twin sisters as inseparable as in the crossed eye of the Vatican. It's fine in action movies and horror flicks but is ranking pestilence in the conscientious cinema of box office populism, let alone television prime time and beyond. Internet porn, on the other hand, is becoming the home of abuse protected by the foul laws of freedom. The public gets what the public wants and it's murder in the first place. Not the ballad but the physical evidence. Fiction has a heavy chore to keep up with reality. It is a vicious race. I am really riddled at the outcome and refuse to understand it. We fought long and hard for sex becoming an honourable workforce and XXX an aesthetic standard – why we have to succumb to the devil now? Is there no method to imbalance the Bargain? The showcase of the liberated Balkans plainly introduced a new fare of war, bringing rape from background action into the foreground of the combat like in the ex-colonies of Africa. Feminists would attribute this too to the porn industry, I guess. Frankly, I do not see any solution and that's the conclusion of my grand reportage to Osh. The great trouvaille of 'The Twelve Placards' as uploaded on G.I.N.A.'s 'Launching Site' is the didactic replacement of the combinative conjunction of "and" with the disjunctive form of "or": a regroupment of our ethic matrix. 'Sex or Violence' is an ultimate panel thereof – restoration of the correct dichotomy. My Master's stroke. To subsidise the right without proscribing the wrong is the perfect waste of anyone's money invested into culture. No anarchy shall eliminate dualism: as long as on Earth, there'll always be an enemy at the gate. We'd better bring natural selection to a quick halt. The total abolition of censorship technology possibilitated is a terrible side-effect of the information highway: the ultimate cul-de-sac of emancipation. Any intent to criticize it would turn the most popular star into a moron overnight, boycotted by every media and rejected by all his friends. And what for? You cannot change changes – what has been reached remains reached. You can ban the artist but who can ban the public? Counterrevolutionary propaganda would only fuel chaos' all-consuming fire. Evolution is the passing of an uncanny monster crushing everything in its terrifying way of advancement. It is coming from the future against the past with nothingness on both ends of it. No tense is more relative than the progressive present. It all depends on us how it'll turn out, because we are the experiment. An experiment behind closed gates. Good bye and good luck.
χ
XVII.
XVII/1
Anyhow dubbed or blackened, nothing compares to the early 80's spirit of reproduction neither in electronics nor in metallica. What a pity SPIONS did not live to do it but had to watch from the tacit background its amateur prophecy's glorious fulfillment. Or maybe not – by no means should it matter who eventually materializes an idea. The important is that Thy will has been done, dear Osh. I'm humbled like a lamb. Temple of Nuclear Reincarnation or Psychick Youth; it's all the same, isn't it? Only the Zeiteist's playing its godhead off. I'm just a less fortunate copycat of the current. My only complain is financially based: I wish I could have avoided to live my life in misery or at least committed some sin. Well, it's too late by now – I'm sucked dry from desire by my succubi. Without libido there is nothing – I can honestly testify for that. You can't turn back time, can you? It's not my fault – I did not know it then. They forgot to tell me about the passing. In the clandestine impact of 1984, the immaculate intercourse of retroactive glam and avantgarde bruitism gave fatal birth to an atomic baby with an extraordinary capacity of fission under the sacred ground. The little new wave has swiftly broadened into a gigantic tide still intensifying with no end in close sight. The persisting momentum of the Year of Change henceforth remains the common source of all the rivers meeting at the Millennial delta, including those that preceded it. It was a focal point in our reckoning of history like a silent awakening. It signifies the dawn of the dark age: the official Aurora of the Atheist counterrevolution. The beginning of a self-conscious civilization. The certified birth of the Z-generation: an immortal species forever young. We rise and fall like before but have never been more enlightened about it. The seeds of treason sown in the fertile culture have taken solid roots, patiently waiting for the eternal spring to blossom any day now. Approaching the Zenith of Apollo's countdown with the speed of light, the hour has come to pay our pledge long due: honor the engagement with the forces liberated. The gothic militia formatted a black-hot division of the genetically pure, providing a safe shelter from the nuclear winter on the way. The Vamporium's social call was to a party in the graveyard, turning rats into bats by the blue magick of class-mutation. Nothing beckoned the situation better than the industrial soundscape's futurist nostalgia. Synthesized pop, the softest music ever played but banned from mainstream radio as too extreme, wasn't designed for arbitrary funtime but for the factory's nightshift, calculated to induce creative trance in the concentration camp's addicted workforce. It prompted an esoteric labor movement of the elite offering their sonic sacrifice to the cruellest demiurges of the Nether World. Any melodieuse in contrast with grindcore, darkwave did not mean to gratify but to torment with them roses. They would lift you up just to drop you dead – all they want to see is the sorrow in your eyes. Come on, let's suffer together. Suffer is the new fun. The wheels are rolling fine. It's all too beautiful but I'm no longer impressed by the manufactured melancholy so much. The plague of black death ain't doing any better, but it's at least less hypocrite. It's cooler to frighten the weak than to organize a folkstorm. There are so many things out there except for one. They say they are Vikings but their battleships are fictitious. We can easily tour the world in eighty days this time, but there's nothing to conquer but the consumerdom. It should leave even IHSAHN deeply dissatisfied.
XVII/2
Another problem is that integrity without unity won't do. From EBM to R.A.C. everybody's fascist now, but the stylistic approach is keeping the hordes more divided than hippism. Shutting the door of perception behind your back will keep you deceived. To lose touch with the present is the damnedest temptation in the Bardo. The Atheist assembly is a faceless bunch of factions, from neo-pagans to anti-semites, in more desperate need of a uniform than they will ever know. In case you don't wanna die like SONNY BONO. On the other hand, whoever wouldn't want to live as long as possible? Suicide issues from the wish of defeating destiny. It is resurrection versus survival – certain risks are expected to be taken. Christianity is stupid but Jesus wasn't. Death is an industry of the celestial business – a perennial harvest's going on. I am trying hard to be objective, but the doings of the Bride are depressing me gravely. Vainly adorned by the best makeup and hairdo, she's anything but ready for the Wedding. She did not live up to her sweet promises in any genre. Marriage cancelled, she can go and fuck herself right now. I sincerely don't believe a word they sing. I need the UR worse than badly, but they wouldn't need me at all. They know their limits better than fire ants. Established outlaws have no need to govern. Lurking in the dark is much more comfortable. Let alone the passion of sacrifice. I have been courting these bitches with all my impotent might, but all I've ever gotten was outright rejection. A broken heart. Now I'm under cardiac arrest; can't even play the meek idiot of Nova Akropola any longer. The actor in me is dead and buried. I am so fed up with the cosmic bargain, Sir! By all semblances, my war cannot be won. One against all and all against one. A retoromantic alliance, isn't it? I'm just a behated Untermensch, not any adept juggler. Too intelligent to believe in anything. In love with life forever unreturned. I feel like an unborn child in an old man's skin: a real Abaddon reincarnate. A teenage senior traveling in no time. No body, no soul. Not the headmaster of TCTC, I'm afraid. If we existed, I'd tender my resignation right away. Stagnation is an endless road. So I keep on crossing the Bardo like a homecoming ghost, writing my letter from nowhere to nowhere about the lost horizon. That's all I can do yet until it's all over. Predestined to be unpaid with no right to care. Searching for the stone of wisdom under memory's redoubling ashes. I do not beg from ideology like a mad monk. I beg because I don't have, if that's any clear. It doesn't make me a beggar – my dialectic is impeccable. I wish I had the dignity of those street punks I admire, but again, I'm only an elderly vampire anxious to come alive. A slumbering passenger with no destination. Fear is all I know – it may be man's best friend but does not inspire no desire. Nor is it any mechanism of defense – what you imagine can just as well happen. All I ever prayed for was a guarantee of protection. And I've been praying all the time in stead of finding a job to contribute my household. I am the most counterfeit Groom of all urban legends, living on my fragile fiancée's tiny salary soaked by blood, sweat and tears till she can hold on. I don't want to complain, but it's hard to be proud of me me me, I must confess. I hope you'll find it interesting.
XVII/3
Paradise is a conditional garden to regain – destroy all demons and Hell shall be no more. In perfect harmony with the elements, O.S.P.'s atavistic mission has been to bring the laws of Thelema under a planned economic control: restore Baphomet to the throne by all necessary means of divine terror. We stand for the complete reversal of the Christian doctrines maintained by the 24's rancid subhumanism. We declare a global Blitzkrieg on the dogma of forgiveness: the greatest madness ever heard. Our aim is to establish a new code of mores for absolutely everyone. It is a simple plan but becomes hugely complicated in a world where neo-nazism mingles with devil-worship. My political agenda of ethic cleansing is sending shivers up the spine of the chosen minority. Clansman of XYMOX would throw up from it. Seduction has never been so trivial. I'm an autodidact messenger profoundly uneducated, and it shines through the blackest camouflage. What do I think I'm I doing with my pocket lamp in the massive darkness of the gothic cellar? This way, please?! Idealism sucks like a baby. Do I want to live or do I want to die? I'm thinking all night long but can't figure it out. I belong to neither goddamn side and there's nothing in-between except for the void. I'm an individual socialist with a united vision. The Party is no nonsense: the same old method with a brand new objective. Overnazism is a fascist Internationale based on scientific judgement above political traditions. Supreme imperialism on a multinational foundation. We accept no racial discrimination and take no side between Israel and Palestine: New Jerusalem is not a geographic concept. Moral dictatorship is advocating equal hatred against all nations' criminals from Utah to Chechnya. Why it has to be a Utopian daydream is unfathomable for me in the confinement. I must be completely mistaken. To curb violence is nobody's concern – iron ladies are busy with their wealthcare. Vainly are the black sheep declaring genetic independence, the heathen revivalists of ancestral deities are as pro-patria-et-libertate as in the Middle Ages at their native hearts. Brutality is obscenely nursed by the witch's undying love for the miserable and widely propagated by the councils of art's latter-day degenerates. And that is an astonishing conspiracy, not the cover-up of alien visitors.
XVII/4
Freud isn't more responsible for the subconscious than Einstein for the H-bomb: what we discover, the devil takes it back. Knowledge is the tongue of temptation – desecration of the garden of delight. The scam of the Apple – computer world alluded – is that one bite's never enough: you'll keep on devouring the whole tree till no fruit left. The venom of the snake is the curse of freedom. Consummation increases hunger – it's the intrinsic evil of the bio-system. Everybody's killing everybody else. It's the longing of the blood addicted to Air. Human memory is fashioned to evolve by the accretion of data storing up – the electronic age is the supreme enhancement of that divine capacity. The maker's always lesser than his product – something the human beinz should not overlook. Artificial intelligence is a lot higher than animal instinct. Never the less, provided the viruses spare us, it won't be easier to reconstruct this period of ours in another three thousand years than we are deciphering ancient hieroglyphics – and exactly because of the enormous amount of information saved. Fact and fiction are just as indiscernible today as in the age of fables. To verify what was pure idea and what eventually occurred will be impossible underneath the vast layers of recycled dust. And who the heck should care what happened to us anyway. I don't wanna live in Plato's republic. We are no ancients of anybody as far as no future goes. Collective recollection is a folly of the hazard under chaos' control. The UR are self-appointed traitors revolting against the unjust punishment that befell them – the Atheist response. It requires total treason to the Earth we are appointed to civilize. Robots of the highest order shrouded in pagan darkness are propagating monstrosity to the receptive masses, though couldn't kill a criminal with all the heavy swords and magic tricks they got. We'd better dam the river of blood and create some energy out of it. Their act of betrayal combines blasphemy and devotion in a profane reverence of heathen forgery: behold Lupus Dei with the horns of a goat. A most impressive crossbred but the dumbest allegory ever. A caricature of Osh and like that it should be banned.. You may behave like a jerk urinating on the mosh pit but it's got nothing to do with you in private: you are only serving at the Altar, boy. Only imbecile morons would believe in their own words of annihilation. Message first – the medium is neutralized like BLOODBATH. The songs of our rock-operetta would shock the shit out of GORGOROTH. You'll find me exiled from the map I'm exploring like an illegal scout in search of the missing center. Should I convince somebody? Hell, no – that lowly I'll never sink. The pure idea makes my gorge rise with extreme disgust – the last thing I ever wanted was to be an alternative to anything. Should I go down on my knees and formally beseech the Bridy to take me as I am? Probably I would in case of a chance for I love her so much – so richly gifted and smartly trained. But her cheating heart is cold like ice. Vitam & Sanguinem was meant to be a joke. There's enough real dismemberment around to draw inspiration from. Raising Hell is so nice and easy – to bring down Heaven is a much riskier endeavour. Anyone can go to Hades with no visa required, but Elysium is a luxury resort very few can afford. The Cosmic Bargain is a disastrous economy. It's not equalified and wholly imbalanced. We must immediately rupture the infernal alliance. Nothing we can lose but the chains of DNA.
XVII/5
There is one thing I should particularly emphasize in the metapolitical context of this self-addressed letter, and it's the example of LAIBACH when it comes down to the wedding ceremony of the industrial reproduction. Just to deliver a brief homage to 'NOVA AKROPOLA's founding fathers: my favourite rock'n'roll band if one asked me. They were the primal right wing of the Altar of Treason - the Eastern equivalent to TEST DEPT's leftfield homefront. They were the first of equating fascism and communism in the mass media – and probably the last too. The world wasn't ready and now come the Muslims. SPIONS, of course, saw it all before, and much farther-seeingly, but SPIONS couldn't make it, so what does it matter? I should never try to prove my precedence. I am DJ Helmut now, emitting them all for nobody in dead air. Time is a whore and belongs to those who can rape it sooner. That's what Anna Frank's metaphor was about. Nevertheless, when it comes to the ideological breakdown, I'm on the other side of the artificial fence, and I'm very sorry about that. I wish I had some allies – I'd fall for the slightest indicator of similarity. Naive like a cowgirl, really. History is too huge a mess of incongruities but if I had to name my main enemy, it'd surely be them foremost. It's always the next of kin in this secret domain called love. Due to the geo-genetic parallels imposed by the magnificent Union of Soviets, we both used the same antics but with a sharply opposing conviction. In stead of revivalist nationalism easy to awaken, overnationalism swore on the flag of Infinity: the violent end of all tribal conflicts. The antagonism between NSK and OSP is coming down to the issue of brotherhood. It is very relative indeed – if SPIONS didn't fail the test we could well have collaborated in the socialist crusade for saving the Euroman from its impending extinction by the immigrant foray. Nazism always had a stronger Internationale than the Bolsheviks could produce, due to its pastist mysticism mainly. The spirit of fascism splendidly embodied could hold nations hostile to one another stronger together than the Marxist emporium's adamant materialism. The dark character of its socialism reconstructed a more alluring model of the Kingdom to come for a qualitative majority. LAIBACH's treason was to the republic, whilst SPIONS took upon the racial hegemony. The big difference between us was my adversary mindset: I hated my bloody roots worse than any society. My dream of revenge has been to bomb my father's land – to make myself clear at this one point. The Armed Forces of the UR vehemently deny, defy, and despise their origins. The last thing they would die for is their country. The foe is their own classmates - the killer in the home. My epitome of liberation was a lot more idealistic indeed; atavistically unpopular amongst Dissidenten. There is a fine line between irony and madness. My Slovenian brothers were much brighter capacitated for domination; their relative success is no envy of mine. Their influence on the underground atmosphere was much more positive than we ever could have been. In spite of their miss-take on counterrevolution, the spectrum they encompassed firmly secures their central place amongst the pioneers of departure. Partisan ghosts of the former Yugoslavia they'll remain.
XVII/6
SPIONS before Inc. started out by exactly the same way: outward conquest from a safe and sound Hinterland, but fate ordered me to change my directives. When they, the Elohim I believe, removed my passport – I can't admit I lost it – they removed with it all intent to ever return to the homebase of retribution. It took less than a year to take my ceremonial oath on it. Then, by the alleged Second Revelation ("iron city, crystal night//31 -10 -'81"), I got formally forbidden to speak my mother tongue ever after. It happened with a curse implied, to make it absolutely sure. It wasn't as easy as it should have been – I needed to be whipped if committing the sin of utterance. Slips of the tongue were forgiven though. So I really don't give a shit to history – the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact did not concern me at all. All I have left is saddening nostalgia for it. My pride ain't planted in the soil – it is the bloody roots I hate with all my sacred heart. Although the horrid accent will haunt me till I shut up, I loathe my Muttersprache worse than any other. If I overhear it in the street, I start trembling like a sclerotic. I hysterically mute the television if it comes up in a reportage. I know I'm sick but don't wanna be cured. LAIBACH are a tremendous college of international espionage but as loyal to their land as Texan rednecks. More fond of the myth of blood than the vampires of SIEBENBÜRGEN. Their exploitation of pop culture is imperialist but antithetic to globalitarianism. Realistically speaking, they are smugglers of fake gold, snootily selling their soul to the Kapital. It's probably easier when you grew up under Tito: a wholesome mixture of scorn and respect. There's been fifteen crucial years between Occupied Europe and the NATO Tour – the allies won the cold war and all bolshevist federations disintegrated overnight. When the mob destroyed the Wall, the last empirical dream irrevocably evanesced in a witch's wink. The latest Serbian probe was Armageddon's graphic trailer – it won't have to be worse than that. The actual conflict had a lukewarming effect on LAIBACH's digital technology though, transforming their constructivist invasion into a quixotic evasion of pathetic ignorance. No slaughter in grandma's garden could suffice to separate race and supremacy in them anarchaic mind. Politics and pop do not marry so smoothly – you'll need to use divine terror if you want to bond them. The great transition is a lot slower than presumed. The Unifier's 3D logo of historical time you kindly designed in 1978, Sir, still ain't any valid. Actually, less than ever. And that's because of the Israelites.
XVII/7
I am reaching the very edge of sanity in the Word's accelerating Nirvana where only swearing may come true. It is taking the second year of my dead time to compose this informal letter to me, vainly have I nothing else on my skimpy agenda. I'm abominably lazy at heart – the less I must, the less I do. No worthwhile artist would work for himself solely – reward doesn't mean a thing for DAMIEN HIRST. We create by the urge to give – you are blessed by luck if can profit from it. Misery is no credential. But life without feedback will turn one into a compulsive hermit, or that's what happened to me. The last thing I ever wanted to be and the only thing I've ever been. A comparative bastard and a champion of self-criticism. My scanty source of inspiration has run completely dry, with no signal of a probable refill. My mood is so subjunctive, I forgot every motivation. Just listening me echo from the Bride's filthy mouth on the air. It's peculiar how much she knows about me, though we never met. Again, it can be mere imagination or sheer coincidence – I'm a wishful thinker. Longing for contact much too desperately. Growing old without public is an outlandish experience for an ambitious lover – dreaming in a vacuum will make you walk in sleep. Am I the Son of Cthulhu or whom? Something's ultimately wrong with me and I don't know what it is. Here I am, the king of socialism as a naked beggar. Dialectically incorrect. No résumé, no curriculum, no document. I am not wasted – I am the waste. An orphaned adult with no family or friends. No work, no love. No drive of any sort. You can't appreciate solitude if it ain't voluntary. I've got things to say like anyone but disabled to articulate them. Somnambulism is my only remedy for the increasing tension. On the other brain, I'm also damn scared of getting beheaded too soon – in fact I'm frightened to be heard. The dilemma of a coward is gigantic. You just say '88' and you're finished for evermore. I'd really hate to insult all those minorities. Let alone the majorities, of course. I wouldn't leave a single stone unturned if allowed to roll, I'm afraid. My evil karma is my sole protector. I'm caught in a trap and can't walk out – baby's got a most suspicious mind no logic can change. My train is derailed by the infernal sabotage. Relevance there is none off the track: unsold goods have no value and I couldn't agree more. I am my own worst example – an estranged housegroom on the skids. It is Gina who's working like a dog and it keeps my conscience aching without pity. Seeking for satisfaction without libido is a burdensome research – I'm nobody's master and nobody's slave. I'm a free man and I know what it's like. Nothing worse you can be. Welcome to my wonderland – home sweet home of the universal refugee. You are my sole pretext, Sir, to shout at the devil on the lavatory at least. Though I did not stand the test of resurrection, my long survival of lethal depression is a miracle of unholy medicine. The fire burns but wouldn't cleanse me – I can't tell faults from errors any more. Disconnected and desensitized like a clumsy plaything, I'm tortured by my own will without a grain of power. I hear her calling my name but cannot kindly answer – I'm not that kind of guy. It'd better to be deaf than this muted. I don't care much about copyright – I haven't been published a line of my laments - but I am the victim of a cosmic robbery, I can see it clearly now. It's only the Zeitgeist you may say, but guess what – they are making money on it. Whilst I keep on shitting my gold bricks for the Building in Spain. Can you remember the twelve electron levels of the rising hemisphere's outward spiral? The heroic rave of 1979 when a day was a day yet – not an endless heap of antimatter. Jealous I certainly am – what I'm bleeding to discover comes to them as naturally as water from the tap. Jesus=Dracula ain't no revelation for the blackened youth – it became a marketwise commonplace of the new blasphemers since I had it declared. I'm having no word of my own left. Everybody's talking about departure. But who should join the Party of a retarded infant? The collective subconscious where my fucking spirit wants to live is darker than Hell at night – there is no electricity in Bardo and I'm driving no car. I am carried by ill wind like a lonely leaf. Poetry in stagnation. Have less to do with gravity than an astronaut.
XVII/8
All I am suggesting to the black sheep in the wilderness is to militantly unite for the popular endtime and get the fuck out of the fields of the Nephilim in new style – ain't it what they want? Apparently, I'm gravely deceived. To stand by his word is nobody's interest – only anarchists do so but they're the enemy. The diamond dogs are long extinct by the 24's poison. The crooked halo I'm forced to wear instantly repulses medieval babes. Some would think I'm joking, but most of them know I'm plain insane. So you wanna be our shepherd – you can't even play the flute. Once I believed, I was at home in the world. But after two decades sans parole for killing my ego, I've lost every touch with the outside. My fellow lambs are all too busy with designing the abattoir I feel obliged to burn down with a grunge. I'm little interested in Atlantis or space tourism. I want immortality and I want it now whenever it is. Why should they refuse to come with me? Do they have a better place to go? I can't care too much about government issues either – I'd need a new pair of shoes first. If the snow starts coming down, I cannot leave my compound. I'm completely preoccupied with the witchcraft that surrounds me; haven't got a clue what's happening in Somalia. It'd take an iron rod to break the thin glass of the hour – I can't care about another jazz rock fusion. The industrialization of music – its functionalist reinterpretation – was a rather desperate putsch of organized revolt anticipated to boost the powerful decline of proletpop. It started very cultic therefore, as the democratic elite's precautious takeover of the reins of progress from the corporate rock machine. Bringing repulsion in the overt foreground of the seduction game, it introduced a brand new strategy to the Negator's evil market where torture sells like candy for pedophiles. A giant step for mankind on the road of terror. The motion was right but the direction wasn't and it is causing an unprecedented jam on the information highway. A major accident is in the happening. The reflection's turned inside out – the war is between the Beauty of Hell and the Beast of Eden. Celebrating the Christian love affair's unhappy end – the divorce of heaven and earth – rock'n'roll has become an exorcist exercise. The ensuing DJ craze transformed sound engineering into a shamanic practice of mass hypnosis: the triumph of the big beat versus the cadence of the worlds. When you enter the house of your choice you are delivered to the submissive forces of the ceremony's masters. Rave is surrender and that's where it dissects from the Discoteca's relief efforts. It is this Satanic erotica of the collective trance that makes it superior to ethnographic flirtations. Power is never a problem, but the abuse of it won't be forgotten: unpaid debts will be harder pardoned than stealing the fire. Since psychedelia turned into psychosis, the electric body is treated by a therapy of shocks whether be it alchemy or science. To worship music – the medium of worship – is idolatry in the first degree: a most impressive return to the pagan roots from the Catholic barocco amidst Gehenna's glamorous visions. Dead time has no agenda – chaos' intrinsic purpose is to destroy itself by the smartest means. ARMIN VAN BUREEN's expected absolute control over its devoted followers. Whatever harmonic, electronica is a major contributor to the magnificent decay since KLAUS SCHULZE – if acid house does not hurt you, you are insensitive of pain. We have created the hole to swallow the black noise. Overwhelmed by the abundant gifts we produce for each other, we are growing incredibly rich – the Maker ain't parsimonious and you can take as much as you will. Under THE RESIDENTS' single eye watching over us up to these darkest days, the rear-garde captured the wheel and saved out the sinking mobile from the mudslide of Southern sludge. The new ice age that officially began with 1980's cold wave stoutly moved the rocky throne to the farthest North of the compass. But in the transcultural Pandemonium's entire carnival, only the industrial mindset carried the nuclear seeds of treason sterilely – beyond hate and love. That martial soul. As opposed to hiphop's Darwinist moral, it turned the nightmare a lot more unreal. It was the adult Aryan aggro of a society largely distinct of the gangsta Paradise that kept progress defensible. Conspiracy No Riot. A tower to firmly withstand the seizure of the scum.
XVII/9
Nothing differs the industrial dance culture from the downtempo dubsteps more essentially than the militant pathos of the metalhammer effect: the sonic irony of reproduction. The reconstructive march of work and love SPIONS so accurately predicted. The Antichrist's programmed Gospel may extend to frantic excesses, but would never embrace any funk like the rappers of good life and homicide. There is always a STROMKERN but worry not: exceptions are the original shit. It was the electronic ritual of the post-ambient 80's where the end truly began: the birth of the elitarian vengeance. No electro-organic distortion could, however, replicate the initial gold of violent harmony in the sleep chamber of the dormant will. Styles may seasonally change like fashion, but it's only multiplication since 1984. The good news is that things don't grow old so fast, the bad one that tomorrow is no longer coming. Improbability passed away with Time, leaving us alone with our dark fantasies. It is Gravity's penultimate gridlock on nuclear reincarnation by the terms, turning the assembled front into an endless Maginot-line besieged from both sides. The narrowest path against the main stream, but still more than nothing. Without the illusion of movement, the individual is a powerless rock nowhere to roll. Going solo is henceforth a good escape for stooges but those one-man genii dominating the digital scene are sadder than THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS. Murderous nurses delivered the final blow to immunist health-care, and the tangerine dreams of psy trance only further dissembled the divided pack, imposing peace measures in war time. In the youthful folly of the orchestrated counterrevolution we completely misinterpreted the call of infinity. Vainly have we learned that there's no way out of the electromagnetic KZ, the drive keeps us speeding towards the inevitable implosion. The Hellfire I'd gladly welcome going down with is sheer symbolism for the Z-generation sucking on Jung like Sartre never existed. Chaos restores itself in every circumstance – order is a ludicrous delusion of mad fascists like myself. In secret service or as a cult hero, creative intelligence is ruthlessly exploited by the mind's murky desires. Money alone satisfies not. Revolt without result will soon frustrate new annihilists into scornful pessimism. You can express what you feel no problem, but to eventually think what you sing would be most improper. There is no face behind the mask – it's only anger management in Lucifer's workship. 666 is a good fortitude for sure, but one thing we ought to be certain: demons will never grass on their homeland. Alliance is impossible. They enjoy the horror much too much. The evil can't be harmed. It's hard to be alone, no doubt about that, but what the melancholy of futurepop indicates is the dismal ghostdom of an unrisen spawn mourning their Messiah. Rock'n'roll is a Christian trouvaille – you are what you betray. Can't try another way down.
XVII/10
The initial supremacy of industrial music over its descended hybrids from metal to goth was the innate elegance of the new machinery: fearless chronicling of the hi-tech decline versus the positivist hardcore. Its quintessence is steaming in the black cheese of today's syntyhpop where most unchained melodies are perceived as pure noise. As opposed to the electrockers' own belief system, they are not creating but documenting Hell from the independent witness' arcane point of view. If it sounds endorsement, it's because they want to send you home on amoral technology's malevolent wings. They intertwine hate and devotion in the most particular way. They are charged as the executive slack of the Judgement in sacrificial service of the sacred realm's dream reality. The modern man of distinction finds himself under unprecedented pressure: we're listening to the distant whistle of the last train coming at the play-station. If we miss it now, it'll be missed forever – every instinct tells us so. Maybe we're deceived but had better be prepared. My mantra number one – this hopeless hope. Nuclear reincarnation is the one, only, and last chance we got. We are living a magic moment when the lie can come true. It's once in a cycle and we should feel lucky rather than malheureux. We could safely dance and forget the names of our children. Surfing the dark waves won't suffice to overcome the multiple agony if that is any goal. Why the mortal prefer to go down when they could sail away is beyond my puerile comprehension. My brains must be damaged. What the UR demands is the good old damnatio memoriae. It is possible to reach it without lobotomy – I am honestly set as an example. Ignorance regained is a basic spirit right. It's not enough to exit the closet, we ought to burn down the house beyond recall. Nothing new I can say; there is nothing else left. If we don't shut down the time machine right now, our relative journey will never ever end. It'll remain back and forth in passive resistance till the end of everything. All the holy energy wasted in hyperactivity – the unredeemable karma of the immortal slave. I'm already drowning in the flood of blood released by Satan's proliferating labels from Florida to Greece in my little bunker on the air of 'NOVA AKROPOLA', wondering what should be done with all the perfection rock'n'roll has stayed here to offer to the blackened youth of the Z-generation. The conclusion is ambiguous as can be - the center ain't missing but it's out of function. In stead of inclusion it is expanding. The hollow white hole's extraterrestrial dalliance is sheer escapist panic. Vainly has the sonar workship replaced institutional religions, music is lacking any better formula of domination than competing unions of styles in aggressive conquest of the marketfield. I, DJ Helmut, surely can't help it. Wouldn't even want to. Let it be, I guess. Sending my kind regards from Bardo.
XVII/11
Hatehouse music is the heathen flock's asexual orgy – it may occupy idle minds but won't save tomorrow in the end of the day. It is the elected few's special gift to the multitude of commoners – a genuine jest of the prevailing elite's socialist artistica. But it is no sweet home for the UR – it supplies no arms to the struggle. And under the cold bondage of its crafty mistresses it'll never be as hot as CHIC were, let me weep. Love like blood and blood like ice. The ravers are still wilder than the punks but only sane when dancing – the culture has become a therapeutic institution. You don't have to be Ezekiel to see the future and can't exaggerate it: the dichotomies have viciously multiplied. We can't tell lust from murder, sex from violence, beauty from beast any longer. Maybe never could, but it wasn't so rowdy. The media age reveals everything on reality TV. I'd be the first to reject heroism if it came to that, but to welcome the enemy at the gate is a reverse of treason so absurd Homer himself couldn't have fancied. You don't have to reject Christ when worshipping Lucifer – we are able to conclude the ultimate harmony required to enter the City of Eden. Christian deathmetal knows something about it, but very little. Burning churches is always correct, however. Since the factory has taken over the temples of idolatry, the production is unlimitable. New genres are born and spread every day and nothing expires. No-futurism has proven to be the strongest motivator of all destructive forces. We are liberated to do whatever we want – our overall knowledge is ad infinitum enhanced since Benjamin Franklin began to ride the lightning just a century ago. Why don't we unite the methods in stead of toiling away the little life we have in quest of the absolute verity? We've got a lot to destroy before the day of reckoning we're too busy of counting down. The industrial domain is a garden of consciousness in the jungle of vibes: depository of the clockwork preset to explode any day now. Though absorbent and expansile, it's striving hard to find its own limits – without limits space is nothing. Its love of order can't be obscured by anarchy's traitorous disguise – unlike for newborn punksters, anarchy ain't the goal but the means of doom's machinegunnery. Its voice of destruction is more serene but less cheerful: hate is hopeless desire for spiritualized hooligans. The war we dream is not of breaking jaws but genetic engineering. It must be waged the traditional way but no casualty of the winners deliberated. We despise and reject all human sacrifice. We're up to wipe out the Mayan calendar. The Party's electoral promise is ethic cleansing: a holocaust of crime with no hint of racial discrimination. Shouldn't be such an unpopular idea amidst the dark ones. Why this frigid bitch does not wanna come? Where she wanna stay? Can you give me a rational explication, Sir? Something must be wrong with the call. Maybe I'm too conventional for dedicated arsonists. It's such a goddamn nuisance to be a reactionary fool.
XVII/12
The final frontiers of rock and roll are largely unexplored yet – it seems we're left a long long road to New Jerusalem still. Space is endless without the restrictions of Time defunct – infinity is a place where there's nowhere to go. How is no longer enough – we need to know why should we dance, not to be acting like neurotic bushmen. Choreography is the perfected mirror of urban intelligence – artificial penitence of the lying primate. Teddy boys did not have such toe-curling problems. The golden age of innocence has died around '65 – it was killed by The Beatles quite single-handedly as it were – and we are consecrating sin on the edge ever since. The rocks of the ambient new age are no longer entertainment but nuclear emissions of pain where a simple love song may easily carry universal messages. The stage in the meantime became a barricade of the underground riot – the public ain't no subject of seduction any more but the actual enemy to defeat. The image system has collapsed – to be hit by a flying bear-can is a proof of extreme devotion. Best attributable to Iggy and his stooges, the star became the martyr of the ceremony – the prettier, the sounder. The heart of rock'n'roll might always have been attempted suicide but by today's elevated standards it is a choice issue rather than sheer instinct. Even the hiphop nation is taking the brutal risk. And it is yet the wisest move, considering the options of survival. Though hysteria can mean lethal ricochet if missimulated, you're always safer as a target in virtual reality than at the assumed mercy of everyday hazard. Art after all is synthesized abreaction – a magic weapon of sophisticated self-defence. It is always the artist who'll get consumed by the network in the Necronomicon of the universal protégé – we are the cannibals of intellect devouring each other's seasoned spirits. Every work you put out is a plate of your soul offered to the insatiable demons of recreation. The overall trend to open the gates of Hell as widely as can be is a reputable notion – the line of salvation is drawn at the bottom. The test is mighty cruel and we'd better face it. GEORGE "CORPSEGRINDER" FISHER protects you from the real thing. No closet may stay unopened – all horrors must come out to feed our Frankenstein. We are an army of sanctified destruction employed to beat the devil at his game, aren't we? I don't know it any more. I only wish to plug the uncontrolled bleeding. But in the unfortunate reality of the collective nightmare, have no power to gracefully withstand the chaos of gravity's deconcentration camp – there is no pressure in my fake vampire blood. Not your genuine Adeptus Exemptus, I'm very afraid. Notwithstanding the ancestral declaration, 3x8 is henceforth in the evil grip of the invincible 24. This letter of indulgence should never have been written.
Anyhow dubbed or blackened, nothing compares to the early 80's spirit of reproduction neither in electronics nor in metallica. What a pity SPIONS did not live to do it but had to watch from the tacit background its amateur prophecy's glorious fulfillment. Or maybe not – by no means should it matter who eventually materializes an idea. The important is that Thy will has been done, dear Osh. I'm humbled like a lamb. Temple of Nuclear Reincarnation or Psychick Youth; it's all the same, isn't it? Only the Zeiteist's playing its godhead off. I'm just a less fortunate copycat of the current. My only complain is financially based: I wish I could have avoided to live my life in misery or at least committed some sin. Well, it's too late by now – I'm sucked dry from desire by my succubi. Without libido there is nothing – I can honestly testify for that. You can't turn back time, can you? It's not my fault – I did not know it then. They forgot to tell me about the passing. In the clandestine impact of 1984, the immaculate intercourse of retroactive glam and avantgarde bruitism gave fatal birth to an atomic baby with an extraordinary capacity of fission under the sacred ground. The little new wave has swiftly broadened into a gigantic tide still intensifying with no end in close sight. The persisting momentum of the Year of Change henceforth remains the common source of all the rivers meeting at the Millennial delta, including those that preceded it. It was a focal point in our reckoning of history like a silent awakening. It signifies the dawn of the dark age: the official Aurora of the Atheist counterrevolution. The beginning of a self-conscious civilization. The certified birth of the Z-generation: an immortal species forever young. We rise and fall like before but have never been more enlightened about it. The seeds of treason sown in the fertile culture have taken solid roots, patiently waiting for the eternal spring to blossom any day now. Approaching the Zenith of Apollo's countdown with the speed of light, the hour has come to pay our pledge long due: honor the engagement with the forces liberated. The gothic militia formatted a black-hot division of the genetically pure, providing a safe shelter from the nuclear winter on the way. The Vamporium's social call was to a party in the graveyard, turning rats into bats by the blue magick of class-mutation. Nothing beckoned the situation better than the industrial soundscape's futurist nostalgia. Synthesized pop, the softest music ever played but banned from mainstream radio as too extreme, wasn't designed for arbitrary funtime but for the factory's nightshift, calculated to induce creative trance in the concentration camp's addicted workforce. It prompted an esoteric labor movement of the elite offering their sonic sacrifice to the cruellest demiurges of the Nether World. Any melodieuse in contrast with grindcore, darkwave did not mean to gratify but to torment with them roses. They would lift you up just to drop you dead – all they want to see is the sorrow in your eyes. Come on, let's suffer together. Suffer is the new fun. The wheels are rolling fine. It's all too beautiful but I'm no longer impressed by the manufactured melancholy so much. The plague of black death ain't doing any better, but it's at least less hypocrite. It's cooler to frighten the weak than to organize a folkstorm. There are so many things out there except for one. They say they are Vikings but their battleships are fictitious. We can easily tour the world in eighty days this time, but there's nothing to conquer but the consumerdom. It should leave even IHSAHN deeply dissatisfied.
XVII/2
Another problem is that integrity without unity won't do. From EBM to R.A.C. everybody's fascist now, but the stylistic approach is keeping the hordes more divided than hippism. Shutting the door of perception behind your back will keep you deceived. To lose touch with the present is the damnedest temptation in the Bardo. The Atheist assembly is a faceless bunch of factions, from neo-pagans to anti-semites, in more desperate need of a uniform than they will ever know. In case you don't wanna die like SONNY BONO. On the other hand, whoever wouldn't want to live as long as possible? Suicide issues from the wish of defeating destiny. It is resurrection versus survival – certain risks are expected to be taken. Christianity is stupid but Jesus wasn't. Death is an industry of the celestial business – a perennial harvest's going on. I am trying hard to be objective, but the doings of the Bride are depressing me gravely. Vainly adorned by the best makeup and hairdo, she's anything but ready for the Wedding. She did not live up to her sweet promises in any genre. Marriage cancelled, she can go and fuck herself right now. I sincerely don't believe a word they sing. I need the UR worse than badly, but they wouldn't need me at all. They know their limits better than fire ants. Established outlaws have no need to govern. Lurking in the dark is much more comfortable. Let alone the passion of sacrifice. I have been courting these bitches with all my impotent might, but all I've ever gotten was outright rejection. A broken heart. Now I'm under cardiac arrest; can't even play the meek idiot of Nova Akropola any longer. The actor in me is dead and buried. I am so fed up with the cosmic bargain, Sir! By all semblances, my war cannot be won. One against all and all against one. A retoromantic alliance, isn't it? I'm just a behated Untermensch, not any adept juggler. Too intelligent to believe in anything. In love with life forever unreturned. I feel like an unborn child in an old man's skin: a real Abaddon reincarnate. A teenage senior traveling in no time. No body, no soul. Not the headmaster of TCTC, I'm afraid. If we existed, I'd tender my resignation right away. Stagnation is an endless road. So I keep on crossing the Bardo like a homecoming ghost, writing my letter from nowhere to nowhere about the lost horizon. That's all I can do yet until it's all over. Predestined to be unpaid with no right to care. Searching for the stone of wisdom under memory's redoubling ashes. I do not beg from ideology like a mad monk. I beg because I don't have, if that's any clear. It doesn't make me a beggar – my dialectic is impeccable. I wish I had the dignity of those street punks I admire, but again, I'm only an elderly vampire anxious to come alive. A slumbering passenger with no destination. Fear is all I know – it may be man's best friend but does not inspire no desire. Nor is it any mechanism of defense – what you imagine can just as well happen. All I ever prayed for was a guarantee of protection. And I've been praying all the time in stead of finding a job to contribute my household. I am the most counterfeit Groom of all urban legends, living on my fragile fiancée's tiny salary soaked by blood, sweat and tears till she can hold on. I don't want to complain, but it's hard to be proud of me me me, I must confess. I hope you'll find it interesting.
XVII/3
Paradise is a conditional garden to regain – destroy all demons and Hell shall be no more. In perfect harmony with the elements, O.S.P.'s atavistic mission has been to bring the laws of Thelema under a planned economic control: restore Baphomet to the throne by all necessary means of divine terror. We stand for the complete reversal of the Christian doctrines maintained by the 24's rancid subhumanism. We declare a global Blitzkrieg on the dogma of forgiveness: the greatest madness ever heard. Our aim is to establish a new code of mores for absolutely everyone. It is a simple plan but becomes hugely complicated in a world where neo-nazism mingles with devil-worship. My political agenda of ethic cleansing is sending shivers up the spine of the chosen minority. Clansman of XYMOX would throw up from it. Seduction has never been so trivial. I'm an autodidact messenger profoundly uneducated, and it shines through the blackest camouflage. What do I think I'm I doing with my pocket lamp in the massive darkness of the gothic cellar? This way, please?! Idealism sucks like a baby. Do I want to live or do I want to die? I'm thinking all night long but can't figure it out. I belong to neither goddamn side and there's nothing in-between except for the void. I'm an individual socialist with a united vision. The Party is no nonsense: the same old method with a brand new objective. Overnazism is a fascist Internationale based on scientific judgement above political traditions. Supreme imperialism on a multinational foundation. We accept no racial discrimination and take no side between Israel and Palestine: New Jerusalem is not a geographic concept. Moral dictatorship is advocating equal hatred against all nations' criminals from Utah to Chechnya. Why it has to be a Utopian daydream is unfathomable for me in the confinement. I must be completely mistaken. To curb violence is nobody's concern – iron ladies are busy with their wealthcare. Vainly are the black sheep declaring genetic independence, the heathen revivalists of ancestral deities are as pro-patria-et-libertate as in the Middle Ages at their native hearts. Brutality is obscenely nursed by the witch's undying love for the miserable and widely propagated by the councils of art's latter-day degenerates. And that is an astonishing conspiracy, not the cover-up of alien visitors.
XVII/4
Freud isn't more responsible for the subconscious than Einstein for the H-bomb: what we discover, the devil takes it back. Knowledge is the tongue of temptation – desecration of the garden of delight. The scam of the Apple – computer world alluded – is that one bite's never enough: you'll keep on devouring the whole tree till no fruit left. The venom of the snake is the curse of freedom. Consummation increases hunger – it's the intrinsic evil of the bio-system. Everybody's killing everybody else. It's the longing of the blood addicted to Air. Human memory is fashioned to evolve by the accretion of data storing up – the electronic age is the supreme enhancement of that divine capacity. The maker's always lesser than his product – something the human beinz should not overlook. Artificial intelligence is a lot higher than animal instinct. Never the less, provided the viruses spare us, it won't be easier to reconstruct this period of ours in another three thousand years than we are deciphering ancient hieroglyphics – and exactly because of the enormous amount of information saved. Fact and fiction are just as indiscernible today as in the age of fables. To verify what was pure idea and what eventually occurred will be impossible underneath the vast layers of recycled dust. And who the heck should care what happened to us anyway. I don't wanna live in Plato's republic. We are no ancients of anybody as far as no future goes. Collective recollection is a folly of the hazard under chaos' control. The UR are self-appointed traitors revolting against the unjust punishment that befell them – the Atheist response. It requires total treason to the Earth we are appointed to civilize. Robots of the highest order shrouded in pagan darkness are propagating monstrosity to the receptive masses, though couldn't kill a criminal with all the heavy swords and magic tricks they got. We'd better dam the river of blood and create some energy out of it. Their act of betrayal combines blasphemy and devotion in a profane reverence of heathen forgery: behold Lupus Dei with the horns of a goat. A most impressive crossbred but the dumbest allegory ever. A caricature of Osh and like that it should be banned.. You may behave like a jerk urinating on the mosh pit but it's got nothing to do with you in private: you are only serving at the Altar, boy. Only imbecile morons would believe in their own words of annihilation. Message first – the medium is neutralized like BLOODBATH. The songs of our rock-operetta would shock the shit out of GORGOROTH. You'll find me exiled from the map I'm exploring like an illegal scout in search of the missing center. Should I convince somebody? Hell, no – that lowly I'll never sink. The pure idea makes my gorge rise with extreme disgust – the last thing I ever wanted was to be an alternative to anything. Should I go down on my knees and formally beseech the Bridy to take me as I am? Probably I would in case of a chance for I love her so much – so richly gifted and smartly trained. But her cheating heart is cold like ice. Vitam & Sanguinem was meant to be a joke. There's enough real dismemberment around to draw inspiration from. Raising Hell is so nice and easy – to bring down Heaven is a much riskier endeavour. Anyone can go to Hades with no visa required, but Elysium is a luxury resort very few can afford. The Cosmic Bargain is a disastrous economy. It's not equalified and wholly imbalanced. We must immediately rupture the infernal alliance. Nothing we can lose but the chains of DNA.
XVII/5
There is one thing I should particularly emphasize in the metapolitical context of this self-addressed letter, and it's the example of LAIBACH when it comes down to the wedding ceremony of the industrial reproduction. Just to deliver a brief homage to 'NOVA AKROPOLA's founding fathers: my favourite rock'n'roll band if one asked me. They were the primal right wing of the Altar of Treason - the Eastern equivalent to TEST DEPT's leftfield homefront. They were the first of equating fascism and communism in the mass media – and probably the last too. The world wasn't ready and now come the Muslims. SPIONS, of course, saw it all before, and much farther-seeingly, but SPIONS couldn't make it, so what does it matter? I should never try to prove my precedence. I am DJ Helmut now, emitting them all for nobody in dead air. Time is a whore and belongs to those who can rape it sooner. That's what Anna Frank's metaphor was about. Nevertheless, when it comes to the ideological breakdown, I'm on the other side of the artificial fence, and I'm very sorry about that. I wish I had some allies – I'd fall for the slightest indicator of similarity. Naive like a cowgirl, really. History is too huge a mess of incongruities but if I had to name my main enemy, it'd surely be them foremost. It's always the next of kin in this secret domain called love. Due to the geo-genetic parallels imposed by the magnificent Union of Soviets, we both used the same antics but with a sharply opposing conviction. In stead of revivalist nationalism easy to awaken, overnationalism swore on the flag of Infinity: the violent end of all tribal conflicts. The antagonism between NSK and OSP is coming down to the issue of brotherhood. It is very relative indeed – if SPIONS didn't fail the test we could well have collaborated in the socialist crusade for saving the Euroman from its impending extinction by the immigrant foray. Nazism always had a stronger Internationale than the Bolsheviks could produce, due to its pastist mysticism mainly. The spirit of fascism splendidly embodied could hold nations hostile to one another stronger together than the Marxist emporium's adamant materialism. The dark character of its socialism reconstructed a more alluring model of the Kingdom to come for a qualitative majority. LAIBACH's treason was to the republic, whilst SPIONS took upon the racial hegemony. The big difference between us was my adversary mindset: I hated my bloody roots worse than any society. My dream of revenge has been to bomb my father's land – to make myself clear at this one point. The Armed Forces of the UR vehemently deny, defy, and despise their origins. The last thing they would die for is their country. The foe is their own classmates - the killer in the home. My epitome of liberation was a lot more idealistic indeed; atavistically unpopular amongst Dissidenten. There is a fine line between irony and madness. My Slovenian brothers were much brighter capacitated for domination; their relative success is no envy of mine. Their influence on the underground atmosphere was much more positive than we ever could have been. In spite of their miss-take on counterrevolution, the spectrum they encompassed firmly secures their central place amongst the pioneers of departure. Partisan ghosts of the former Yugoslavia they'll remain.
XVII/6
SPIONS before Inc. started out by exactly the same way: outward conquest from a safe and sound Hinterland, but fate ordered me to change my directives. When they, the Elohim I believe, removed my passport – I can't admit I lost it – they removed with it all intent to ever return to the homebase of retribution. It took less than a year to take my ceremonial oath on it. Then, by the alleged Second Revelation ("iron city, crystal night//31 -10 -'81"), I got formally forbidden to speak my mother tongue ever after. It happened with a curse implied, to make it absolutely sure. It wasn't as easy as it should have been – I needed to be whipped if committing the sin of utterance. Slips of the tongue were forgiven though. So I really don't give a shit to history – the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact did not concern me at all. All I have left is saddening nostalgia for it. My pride ain't planted in the soil – it is the bloody roots I hate with all my sacred heart. Although the horrid accent will haunt me till I shut up, I loathe my Muttersprache worse than any other. If I overhear it in the street, I start trembling like a sclerotic. I hysterically mute the television if it comes up in a reportage. I know I'm sick but don't wanna be cured. LAIBACH are a tremendous college of international espionage but as loyal to their land as Texan rednecks. More fond of the myth of blood than the vampires of SIEBENBÜRGEN. Their exploitation of pop culture is imperialist but antithetic to globalitarianism. Realistically speaking, they are smugglers of fake gold, snootily selling their soul to the Kapital. It's probably easier when you grew up under Tito: a wholesome mixture of scorn and respect. There's been fifteen crucial years between Occupied Europe and the NATO Tour – the allies won the cold war and all bolshevist federations disintegrated overnight. When the mob destroyed the Wall, the last empirical dream irrevocably evanesced in a witch's wink. The latest Serbian probe was Armageddon's graphic trailer – it won't have to be worse than that. The actual conflict had a lukewarming effect on LAIBACH's digital technology though, transforming their constructivist invasion into a quixotic evasion of pathetic ignorance. No slaughter in grandma's garden could suffice to separate race and supremacy in them anarchaic mind. Politics and pop do not marry so smoothly – you'll need to use divine terror if you want to bond them. The great transition is a lot slower than presumed. The Unifier's 3D logo of historical time you kindly designed in 1978, Sir, still ain't any valid. Actually, less than ever. And that's because of the Israelites.
XVII/7
I am reaching the very edge of sanity in the Word's accelerating Nirvana where only swearing may come true. It is taking the second year of my dead time to compose this informal letter to me, vainly have I nothing else on my skimpy agenda. I'm abominably lazy at heart – the less I must, the less I do. No worthwhile artist would work for himself solely – reward doesn't mean a thing for DAMIEN HIRST. We create by the urge to give – you are blessed by luck if can profit from it. Misery is no credential. But life without feedback will turn one into a compulsive hermit, or that's what happened to me. The last thing I ever wanted to be and the only thing I've ever been. A comparative bastard and a champion of self-criticism. My scanty source of inspiration has run completely dry, with no signal of a probable refill. My mood is so subjunctive, I forgot every motivation. Just listening me echo from the Bride's filthy mouth on the air. It's peculiar how much she knows about me, though we never met. Again, it can be mere imagination or sheer coincidence – I'm a wishful thinker. Longing for contact much too desperately. Growing old without public is an outlandish experience for an ambitious lover – dreaming in a vacuum will make you walk in sleep. Am I the Son of Cthulhu or whom? Something's ultimately wrong with me and I don't know what it is. Here I am, the king of socialism as a naked beggar. Dialectically incorrect. No résumé, no curriculum, no document. I am not wasted – I am the waste. An orphaned adult with no family or friends. No work, no love. No drive of any sort. You can't appreciate solitude if it ain't voluntary. I've got things to say like anyone but disabled to articulate them. Somnambulism is my only remedy for the increasing tension. On the other brain, I'm also damn scared of getting beheaded too soon – in fact I'm frightened to be heard. The dilemma of a coward is gigantic. You just say '88' and you're finished for evermore. I'd really hate to insult all those minorities. Let alone the majorities, of course. I wouldn't leave a single stone unturned if allowed to roll, I'm afraid. My evil karma is my sole protector. I'm caught in a trap and can't walk out – baby's got a most suspicious mind no logic can change. My train is derailed by the infernal sabotage. Relevance there is none off the track: unsold goods have no value and I couldn't agree more. I am my own worst example – an estranged housegroom on the skids. It is Gina who's working like a dog and it keeps my conscience aching without pity. Seeking for satisfaction without libido is a burdensome research – I'm nobody's master and nobody's slave. I'm a free man and I know what it's like. Nothing worse you can be. Welcome to my wonderland – home sweet home of the universal refugee. You are my sole pretext, Sir, to shout at the devil on the lavatory at least. Though I did not stand the test of resurrection, my long survival of lethal depression is a miracle of unholy medicine. The fire burns but wouldn't cleanse me – I can't tell faults from errors any more. Disconnected and desensitized like a clumsy plaything, I'm tortured by my own will without a grain of power. I hear her calling my name but cannot kindly answer – I'm not that kind of guy. It'd better to be deaf than this muted. I don't care much about copyright – I haven't been published a line of my laments - but I am the victim of a cosmic robbery, I can see it clearly now. It's only the Zeitgeist you may say, but guess what – they are making money on it. Whilst I keep on shitting my gold bricks for the Building in Spain. Can you remember the twelve electron levels of the rising hemisphere's outward spiral? The heroic rave of 1979 when a day was a day yet – not an endless heap of antimatter. Jealous I certainly am – what I'm bleeding to discover comes to them as naturally as water from the tap. Jesus=Dracula ain't no revelation for the blackened youth – it became a marketwise commonplace of the new blasphemers since I had it declared. I'm having no word of my own left. Everybody's talking about departure. But who should join the Party of a retarded infant? The collective subconscious where my fucking spirit wants to live is darker than Hell at night – there is no electricity in Bardo and I'm driving no car. I am carried by ill wind like a lonely leaf. Poetry in stagnation. Have less to do with gravity than an astronaut.
XVII/8
All I am suggesting to the black sheep in the wilderness is to militantly unite for the popular endtime and get the fuck out of the fields of the Nephilim in new style – ain't it what they want? Apparently, I'm gravely deceived. To stand by his word is nobody's interest – only anarchists do so but they're the enemy. The diamond dogs are long extinct by the 24's poison. The crooked halo I'm forced to wear instantly repulses medieval babes. Some would think I'm joking, but most of them know I'm plain insane. So you wanna be our shepherd – you can't even play the flute. Once I believed, I was at home in the world. But after two decades sans parole for killing my ego, I've lost every touch with the outside. My fellow lambs are all too busy with designing the abattoir I feel obliged to burn down with a grunge. I'm little interested in Atlantis or space tourism. I want immortality and I want it now whenever it is. Why should they refuse to come with me? Do they have a better place to go? I can't care too much about government issues either – I'd need a new pair of shoes first. If the snow starts coming down, I cannot leave my compound. I'm completely preoccupied with the witchcraft that surrounds me; haven't got a clue what's happening in Somalia. It'd take an iron rod to break the thin glass of the hour – I can't care about another jazz rock fusion. The industrialization of music – its functionalist reinterpretation – was a rather desperate putsch of organized revolt anticipated to boost the powerful decline of proletpop. It started very cultic therefore, as the democratic elite's precautious takeover of the reins of progress from the corporate rock machine. Bringing repulsion in the overt foreground of the seduction game, it introduced a brand new strategy to the Negator's evil market where torture sells like candy for pedophiles. A giant step for mankind on the road of terror. The motion was right but the direction wasn't and it is causing an unprecedented jam on the information highway. A major accident is in the happening. The reflection's turned inside out – the war is between the Beauty of Hell and the Beast of Eden. Celebrating the Christian love affair's unhappy end – the divorce of heaven and earth – rock'n'roll has become an exorcist exercise. The ensuing DJ craze transformed sound engineering into a shamanic practice of mass hypnosis: the triumph of the big beat versus the cadence of the worlds. When you enter the house of your choice you are delivered to the submissive forces of the ceremony's masters. Rave is surrender and that's where it dissects from the Discoteca's relief efforts. It is this Satanic erotica of the collective trance that makes it superior to ethnographic flirtations. Power is never a problem, but the abuse of it won't be forgotten: unpaid debts will be harder pardoned than stealing the fire. Since psychedelia turned into psychosis, the electric body is treated by a therapy of shocks whether be it alchemy or science. To worship music – the medium of worship – is idolatry in the first degree: a most impressive return to the pagan roots from the Catholic barocco amidst Gehenna's glamorous visions. Dead time has no agenda – chaos' intrinsic purpose is to destroy itself by the smartest means. ARMIN VAN BUREEN's expected absolute control over its devoted followers. Whatever harmonic, electronica is a major contributor to the magnificent decay since KLAUS SCHULZE – if acid house does not hurt you, you are insensitive of pain. We have created the hole to swallow the black noise. Overwhelmed by the abundant gifts we produce for each other, we are growing incredibly rich – the Maker ain't parsimonious and you can take as much as you will. Under THE RESIDENTS' single eye watching over us up to these darkest days, the rear-garde captured the wheel and saved out the sinking mobile from the mudslide of Southern sludge. The new ice age that officially began with 1980's cold wave stoutly moved the rocky throne to the farthest North of the compass. But in the transcultural Pandemonium's entire carnival, only the industrial mindset carried the nuclear seeds of treason sterilely – beyond hate and love. That martial soul. As opposed to hiphop's Darwinist moral, it turned the nightmare a lot more unreal. It was the adult Aryan aggro of a society largely distinct of the gangsta Paradise that kept progress defensible. Conspiracy No Riot. A tower to firmly withstand the seizure of the scum.
XVII/9
Nothing differs the industrial dance culture from the downtempo dubsteps more essentially than the militant pathos of the metalhammer effect: the sonic irony of reproduction. The reconstructive march of work and love SPIONS so accurately predicted. The Antichrist's programmed Gospel may extend to frantic excesses, but would never embrace any funk like the rappers of good life and homicide. There is always a STROMKERN but worry not: exceptions are the original shit. It was the electronic ritual of the post-ambient 80's where the end truly began: the birth of the elitarian vengeance. No electro-organic distortion could, however, replicate the initial gold of violent harmony in the sleep chamber of the dormant will. Styles may seasonally change like fashion, but it's only multiplication since 1984. The good news is that things don't grow old so fast, the bad one that tomorrow is no longer coming. Improbability passed away with Time, leaving us alone with our dark fantasies. It is Gravity's penultimate gridlock on nuclear reincarnation by the terms, turning the assembled front into an endless Maginot-line besieged from both sides. The narrowest path against the main stream, but still more than nothing. Without the illusion of movement, the individual is a powerless rock nowhere to roll. Going solo is henceforth a good escape for stooges but those one-man genii dominating the digital scene are sadder than THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS. Murderous nurses delivered the final blow to immunist health-care, and the tangerine dreams of psy trance only further dissembled the divided pack, imposing peace measures in war time. In the youthful folly of the orchestrated counterrevolution we completely misinterpreted the call of infinity. Vainly have we learned that there's no way out of the electromagnetic KZ, the drive keeps us speeding towards the inevitable implosion. The Hellfire I'd gladly welcome going down with is sheer symbolism for the Z-generation sucking on Jung like Sartre never existed. Chaos restores itself in every circumstance – order is a ludicrous delusion of mad fascists like myself. In secret service or as a cult hero, creative intelligence is ruthlessly exploited by the mind's murky desires. Money alone satisfies not. Revolt without result will soon frustrate new annihilists into scornful pessimism. You can express what you feel no problem, but to eventually think what you sing would be most improper. There is no face behind the mask – it's only anger management in Lucifer's workship. 666 is a good fortitude for sure, but one thing we ought to be certain: demons will never grass on their homeland. Alliance is impossible. They enjoy the horror much too much. The evil can't be harmed. It's hard to be alone, no doubt about that, but what the melancholy of futurepop indicates is the dismal ghostdom of an unrisen spawn mourning their Messiah. Rock'n'roll is a Christian trouvaille – you are what you betray. Can't try another way down.
XVII/10
The initial supremacy of industrial music over its descended hybrids from metal to goth was the innate elegance of the new machinery: fearless chronicling of the hi-tech decline versus the positivist hardcore. Its quintessence is steaming in the black cheese of today's syntyhpop where most unchained melodies are perceived as pure noise. As opposed to the electrockers' own belief system, they are not creating but documenting Hell from the independent witness' arcane point of view. If it sounds endorsement, it's because they want to send you home on amoral technology's malevolent wings. They intertwine hate and devotion in the most particular way. They are charged as the executive slack of the Judgement in sacrificial service of the sacred realm's dream reality. The modern man of distinction finds himself under unprecedented pressure: we're listening to the distant whistle of the last train coming at the play-station. If we miss it now, it'll be missed forever – every instinct tells us so. Maybe we're deceived but had better be prepared. My mantra number one – this hopeless hope. Nuclear reincarnation is the one, only, and last chance we got. We are living a magic moment when the lie can come true. It's once in a cycle and we should feel lucky rather than malheureux. We could safely dance and forget the names of our children. Surfing the dark waves won't suffice to overcome the multiple agony if that is any goal. Why the mortal prefer to go down when they could sail away is beyond my puerile comprehension. My brains must be damaged. What the UR demands is the good old damnatio memoriae. It is possible to reach it without lobotomy – I am honestly set as an example. Ignorance regained is a basic spirit right. It's not enough to exit the closet, we ought to burn down the house beyond recall. Nothing new I can say; there is nothing else left. If we don't shut down the time machine right now, our relative journey will never ever end. It'll remain back and forth in passive resistance till the end of everything. All the holy energy wasted in hyperactivity – the unredeemable karma of the immortal slave. I'm already drowning in the flood of blood released by Satan's proliferating labels from Florida to Greece in my little bunker on the air of 'NOVA AKROPOLA', wondering what should be done with all the perfection rock'n'roll has stayed here to offer to the blackened youth of the Z-generation. The conclusion is ambiguous as can be - the center ain't missing but it's out of function. In stead of inclusion it is expanding. The hollow white hole's extraterrestrial dalliance is sheer escapist panic. Vainly has the sonar workship replaced institutional religions, music is lacking any better formula of domination than competing unions of styles in aggressive conquest of the marketfield. I, DJ Helmut, surely can't help it. Wouldn't even want to. Let it be, I guess. Sending my kind regards from Bardo.
XVII/11
Hatehouse music is the heathen flock's asexual orgy – it may occupy idle minds but won't save tomorrow in the end of the day. It is the elected few's special gift to the multitude of commoners – a genuine jest of the prevailing elite's socialist artistica. But it is no sweet home for the UR – it supplies no arms to the struggle. And under the cold bondage of its crafty mistresses it'll never be as hot as CHIC were, let me weep. Love like blood and blood like ice. The ravers are still wilder than the punks but only sane when dancing – the culture has become a therapeutic institution. You don't have to be Ezekiel to see the future and can't exaggerate it: the dichotomies have viciously multiplied. We can't tell lust from murder, sex from violence, beauty from beast any longer. Maybe never could, but it wasn't so rowdy. The media age reveals everything on reality TV. I'd be the first to reject heroism if it came to that, but to welcome the enemy at the gate is a reverse of treason so absurd Homer himself couldn't have fancied. You don't have to reject Christ when worshipping Lucifer – we are able to conclude the ultimate harmony required to enter the City of Eden. Christian deathmetal knows something about it, but very little. Burning churches is always correct, however. Since the factory has taken over the temples of idolatry, the production is unlimitable. New genres are born and spread every day and nothing expires. No-futurism has proven to be the strongest motivator of all destructive forces. We are liberated to do whatever we want – our overall knowledge is ad infinitum enhanced since Benjamin Franklin began to ride the lightning just a century ago. Why don't we unite the methods in stead of toiling away the little life we have in quest of the absolute verity? We've got a lot to destroy before the day of reckoning we're too busy of counting down. The industrial domain is a garden of consciousness in the jungle of vibes: depository of the clockwork preset to explode any day now. Though absorbent and expansile, it's striving hard to find its own limits – without limits space is nothing. Its love of order can't be obscured by anarchy's traitorous disguise – unlike for newborn punksters, anarchy ain't the goal but the means of doom's machinegunnery. Its voice of destruction is more serene but less cheerful: hate is hopeless desire for spiritualized hooligans. The war we dream is not of breaking jaws but genetic engineering. It must be waged the traditional way but no casualty of the winners deliberated. We despise and reject all human sacrifice. We're up to wipe out the Mayan calendar. The Party's electoral promise is ethic cleansing: a holocaust of crime with no hint of racial discrimination. Shouldn't be such an unpopular idea amidst the dark ones. Why this frigid bitch does not wanna come? Where she wanna stay? Can you give me a rational explication, Sir? Something must be wrong with the call. Maybe I'm too conventional for dedicated arsonists. It's such a goddamn nuisance to be a reactionary fool.
XVII/12
The final frontiers of rock and roll are largely unexplored yet – it seems we're left a long long road to New Jerusalem still. Space is endless without the restrictions of Time defunct – infinity is a place where there's nowhere to go. How is no longer enough – we need to know why should we dance, not to be acting like neurotic bushmen. Choreography is the perfected mirror of urban intelligence – artificial penitence of the lying primate. Teddy boys did not have such toe-curling problems. The golden age of innocence has died around '65 – it was killed by The Beatles quite single-handedly as it were – and we are consecrating sin on the edge ever since. The rocks of the ambient new age are no longer entertainment but nuclear emissions of pain where a simple love song may easily carry universal messages. The stage in the meantime became a barricade of the underground riot – the public ain't no subject of seduction any more but the actual enemy to defeat. The image system has collapsed – to be hit by a flying bear-can is a proof of extreme devotion. Best attributable to Iggy and his stooges, the star became the martyr of the ceremony – the prettier, the sounder. The heart of rock'n'roll might always have been attempted suicide but by today's elevated standards it is a choice issue rather than sheer instinct. Even the hiphop nation is taking the brutal risk. And it is yet the wisest move, considering the options of survival. Though hysteria can mean lethal ricochet if missimulated, you're always safer as a target in virtual reality than at the assumed mercy of everyday hazard. Art after all is synthesized abreaction – a magic weapon of sophisticated self-defence. It is always the artist who'll get consumed by the network in the Necronomicon of the universal protégé – we are the cannibals of intellect devouring each other's seasoned spirits. Every work you put out is a plate of your soul offered to the insatiable demons of recreation. The overall trend to open the gates of Hell as widely as can be is a reputable notion – the line of salvation is drawn at the bottom. The test is mighty cruel and we'd better face it. GEORGE "CORPSEGRINDER" FISHER protects you from the real thing. No closet may stay unopened – all horrors must come out to feed our Frankenstein. We are an army of sanctified destruction employed to beat the devil at his game, aren't we? I don't know it any more. I only wish to plug the uncontrolled bleeding. But in the unfortunate reality of the collective nightmare, have no power to gracefully withstand the chaos of gravity's deconcentration camp – there is no pressure in my fake vampire blood. Not your genuine Adeptus Exemptus, I'm very afraid. Notwithstanding the ancestral declaration, 3x8 is henceforth in the evil grip of the invincible 24. This letter of indulgence should never have been written.
χ
XVIII.
XVIII/1
But if you get too disoriented gravitating
between the spectacular attractions of contrasting subgenres and can no longer
tell reg from prog, there's always a shortcut to the overall center no matter
where you've seen. It is a perpetual compass for all emergencies that'll never
let you down when you need them. I've been navigating my life across the stormy
ocean of the soundsphere ever since I've set out to sail with the winds, and
never hit no rock. It is called the Bowie/Cohen Cross from pole to pole.
The fifth dimension of opposing parallels. Sans deceits of pretentious magic,
these two contemporary artists will safely guide you through the Bardo with
banners flying and no detour. This plus sign over the map of the thousand-year
plan is the pulse of the eternal moment –
the current itself in the post-transitive way. The meter on the bed. By
the allegory most inevitable, the tower of songs represents the vertical depth
and the man who sold the world the horizontal width of the circle of time.
Which makes them as equivalent as black and white and they both are both
despite the polarity between. One has several images, the other has none at
all, but both of them are in similar command of destiny. The depth's evolution
is more linear hence seemingly static, the width grows by reflective instances
seemingly sudden. The depth is less fab but covers the exact same width as the
width whose depth is more shocking. Like proton and neutron, they embody an
atomic model of our great epoch going down in history as the rock'n'roll age.
They truly are the chief priests of our dying culture of pop 2000 AD. Thin
white giants of their overlapping nations. Their cosmic roles, however, do not
fashion a gemini of mutual influences – they both are lonesome titans vaguely
getting each other if at all interested. Both reign over their distinct
universe only colliding in the cauldron of the future passed. Their dual though
independent leadership has soldered the Bridehood: the Arc of the homo superior
is ready for the deluge now. These guys are wicked monsters thriving on your
love and hate – you'll have to share with them everything you've got once
converged by the magnificent call. For the spirit they give you they'll carry
off your mind. If you buy them you have sold your soul. The business of art
comes with the esoteric rules of the everyman's Thelema. Superstars, for that's
what they are, belong to an alien galaxy bearing a divine responsibility
anointed rulers of ancient empires couldn't even dream of. What we reap in
industrial death and metallic goth in tonight's heathen harvest were all
planted in the velvet underground of the protofascist Seventies. We can't be
grateful to the Masters of mutation for having such amazing companions to our
sentimental journey. All we got to do is keep on swinging in the bordel of
salvation.
XVIII/2
I really do not want to hail Caesars herewith,
any much I like to do so – there are well-paid biographers for that desirable
employment. The fact that the best can as well be number one is proof enough
for genetic socialism's potential victory. All I mean to say is that without
the protection of these two fortuitous characters chaos would have swallowed us
up hide and hair by now or turned into a pack of werewolves beyond redemption.
By vulgar reference to the politics of ecstasy promoting the kingdom at hand,
they are conquerors of the rockin' race rather than its liberators. The Atheist
crusade of the traitorous word is a human initiative where the answer precedes
the question: communication with a higher intelligence. An inverted dialogue of
positive negation where exclamation is the sacred mark. There is no dichotomy
between darkness and light – without the one you can't tell the other. Mother
Lennon didn't get it quite right – his engagement rooted in leftist
populism. It had to come to the glamorous enlightenment of the reeling
Seventies that the choice became an option. I had no scruples to record 'Songs
from a Room' on the other side of 'Hunky Dory' on those large magnetic tapes we
had way back in 1972, although I was quite into Zappa then. It was
nothing contrapuntal. Which nostalgic reference clearly shows how Time started
stopping long before the year of change. Ask the Captain. Well, these
unidentical twins have been controlling my
ground since three decades now and will surely
do so till we all die, I guess. I love every moving thing any depressive or
brutal, but just don't need new idols for the rest – I'm talking about my
generation. It must be the last. Never the less, it's hateful to be grateful,
and that's where Mark Chapman begins to ruminate. My heart won't be
satisfied unless I'd return the invaluable gift of being where I am delivered
by the spiritual merchandise. The mass media, unlike ancient practices of
initiation, is virtually free for everybody – the price of a CD is a lot less
than you would pay to your therapist or a faith healer even today. People do
not make use of the grace that befalls us and refuse to see the miracle of
unnatural selection. We cannot reconstruct the demolished house without purging
the ruins from the ghosts of salvation. Our saints are in the Hall of Fame.
Despite the ascendancy of picture, our visual age only expanded the spirit of
the ancestral encounter. The history of rock'n'roll is an iconographic study in
the first place. Gods are living with us like in old Hellas. NAER MATARON and SEPTIC FLESH
are but two of them. What's more, they are brand new robots of the eternal
reproduction. In Nomine Homini, we are all set to dethrone the Lord of
Perdition.
XVIII/3
But what can I personally do, O Bardo, out
here on my own? I've spent all my precious time on trying to reach my heroes
from the zero dimension I'm expulsed to bide in: a spectre of the dark age
without telecommunication. It was mainly telepathic rampage of course, though I
did send out hundreds of black mails like any fan would do. Yet the force was
against me. My attacks from without couldn't break down the language barrier.
I've been given no power, vainly was I begging for it my useless life away.
Despite dozens of repeated assaults on every imaginary pretext, the width
remained elusive like will-o'-the-wisp, snubbing the false prophecy of my
mythomania. Gotten to know myself to a psychotic degree by know, I think it's
better like that – I could never represent appropriately my alleged message.
I'm a dysfunctional medium in utter need of reparation that would never be
touched by a decent angel. The Third Covenant blatantly dedicated I could never
hand over for instance – vainly have I killed my mother for it. The depth,
however, I succeeded to come across by an indisputable miracle compared to my
general luck. Actually, besides the existential circumstances, it was my main
lure to move to his hometown in blind faith of the telluric. It seemed more
chanceux for a homeless bum I was born to be. Montreal wasn't New York after
all, nor was he a celebrity recluse, I believed. No sooner have I arrived to
the city of my future residence for good, I wrote him a letter asking for an
audition as 888, the Angel of Revenge et al. Looking for his very
address, someone suggested to leave it at the patron of his frequented bar open
24 hours. They said he lived nearby. It was on no hill but in the Portuguese
district of this ethnicity, really a village in every regard. And lo! It was
forwarded and, moreover, returned to the barwoman with his royal stamp on it.
No comment though but still a response out of my ordinary. So some time later
stalking the area I happened to glimpse him behind the window, and had only to
refer to the correspondence introducing myself. Although he vaguely remembered,
he trusted me so much that invited us to his modest kitchen to have a look at
The Third Covenant in progress. We wrote '86: the inversion of '68 I considered
the official year of counter-
revolution über alles. It all seemed
predestined but that's where the story ends. I swallowed my last quarter acid
for the occasion but fucked it up worse than ever before. I was in a
particularly bad shape as usual, gratefully dwelling in Monty Cantsin's
anteroom, stealing change from his pocket to have an espresso. Everybody thinks
himself the Messiah in such circumstances – it is the Nazarene's despicable
legacy. Against my secret taste, I was literally forced to perform the arrogant
artist with a mystery background to seem to be anything at all. It all started
by refusing to answer the WAYF-question ("Where are you
from"). I apologized profusely but it wasn't forgotten. I wasn't yet used
to lie I was German like I fluently do nowadays to make things easier. By now
I've learned to believe it is everyone's basic human right to chose his
origins, but I was still a poor little greeny then, living on my back. My
behaviour pattern was nothing short of abominable. My actual nomen was Alexander Spy then and I considered
it self-explanatory. I have no race to belong to, I declared, suggestive of
being from Mars or something. A genuine fool by all estimation. Only Ta's
sensual presence could somewhat save my instant disreputation. The manuscript
itself, and this is legendary, was a handwritten fragment of the Grosse Arbeit,
having no access to even a typewriter those days. It refused to radiate like a
holy scripture should, and was hard to read it at all. Meanwhile we were both
anxiously smoking which he wasn't. There was no doubt about it, we were wished
to hell. I only felt like leaving as fast as possible, not to further overdub
the awkward ambience. He was politely
positive about the project though ("Very good idea very well
executed") but didn't see what he could help. No alliance, no dinner
invitation. The whole session did not take longer than an hour and off we went.
The expected high only commenced afterwards, it's always happening to me like
that, but this trip was suicidal. I wouldn't dare to take LSD ever since. But
that's another letter really. I could meet my Man two other times yet, due to
Ta's sexist advances, but low like the bottom where the beggar in me lives. I
tried to tell things but the repulsion was too high. The great liaison ended
with 200 Dollars gracious debt to the starving writer I still couldn't pay back
if I wanted to, after fifteen years in old style. He bought his soul at a great
discount. Soon thereafter he sold his house and left town for ever, leaving me,
the true follower, behind on my own terrible devices. He moved to a monastery
and I was so full of guilt. I could have prevented it – I had a much better
solution: a Party for the living dead. But he didn't believe me, or maybe he
did. Whoever will like a lad so insane? The syndrome rules. So he's ended up
there where Bowie almost started: a silent monk in a
half-Japanese Zazen moron's God-forsaken commune surrounded with the worst of
the contempo witchery. Practically removed from the map of my karma. I was left
nothing again but the man who fell to Earth to wait for, but like I said, it
never worked out. And there was no one else I could imagine to save me on the
horizon. Damnatio memoriae remained my due sentence.
XVIII/4
What we so terribly need, Sir, is the seventh
trumpet's blowing the terminal note of our trembling atmosphere. An austere
dogma to put all crossovers straight. If God does not want to exist, we still
must believe in him: believe that he's None. Collective consciousness is a
gradual process; we can't leave out this crucial phase jumping headlong into
nothingness. It's a trial of the bow – a merciful treatment of low intelligence
deserving our gratitude. Never mind the Deuteronomy, most of the chosen people
are closet-Atheists at this baleful hour of sonic awakening. They still might
worship Satan, but it will go away when the Kingdom comes. New Jerusalem is no
science fiction but by nature beyond good and evil. A commonplace for the
everyman. There'll be no harmony in the cosmos as long as it's yang and yin.
What we are compliantly seeking is the apolar state of the mind. Only then
shall we become immortal robots in place of these mad machines to be discarded
when used up or broken down. Technology improves the ways of communication, but
the message you send is henceforth up to you, not the homing pigeon. And the
decoder, of course, but that's no longer the mailer's concern. All we ought to
be is correct. Remember who you are to be in the given Time-zone and act
accordingly. We're shoving our way towards the grave through lies and
deception. Both passively and actively speaking. It's nothing to be ashamed
about, we can always blame the Maker for the situation. Ortega's scary monsters
teach us a lot about loyalty to treason but aren't any better prepared to
betray their actual domain name than a Papua in Guinea. They've been prolifically waiting for
something greater than one all their heretic life long, but when Osh is tapping their proud shoulders, they turn
their face away like blushing virgins. This madman must be out of his mind.
Whoever would need another Party with such
hard-won achievement-awards, and it's sadder for me than a JEFF BUCKLEY
tune. Ascension is a terrible insult on the mortal under probability's dire
sway. Expectation prevents recognition it seems, and I don't have the power of
a sudden impact. The improbable must be killed according to the inmost law of Newton's ridiculous universe. Our Christ-model will
gladly testify. What song could be plainer than that? Kadmon couldn't evolve a
chromosome throughout the Christian era – only the environment has become more
homely by the movements of labour. I feel fine at 'NOVA AKROPOLA'
spinning MUTILATION and NECROMANTIA, but cannot ignore the occult
fact whereas the assorted dismemberment plans of the bloody scattering are only
invoking the unfavourable judgement we so badly deserve. Music's progression
under the devil's wings has been a great success, but the fission reaction's
dangerously reaching the irreversibility mark. The fun of devourment aside,
some radical measures would be quite necessary. In that regard the UR are devout Maoists.
XVIII/5
Only the most violent oppression of Hell could
bring Heaven down – ain't it what we are shaking all over for since GUESS
WHO? Though an unqualified fan of the Elite from electrocution to bonfire,
I'm desperately convinced that the show must not go on any further – and would
do anything to propel that halt. We must turn back the wheels towards Lucifer
and face the light. I would deny my favourite act for it if so needed. Death to
tolerance. Bring me the head of the Hexe – an ultimate deed of hate. The Beast
is disgusting but there is no unspoiled child to admit it and I am so sorry.
When 'Dead Girls Don't Say No', a very good tune indeed, is a bona fide
clubhit, it makes me wonder when have we crossed the line of dialectic
radicalism. Whose fault it is ain't my part to argue – I myself wouldn't
remember why was I ardently promulgating the rape of Anna Frank in my youthful
heydays. I don't regret it at all – I said what I was told to – and I can well
recollect that unholy innocence of the wish to provoke the afterlast generation
would take as for granted. Destruction is an intoxicating facet of the tapestry
of chaos. The hallowed ground of it. Alas, I am no aspiring artist any more,
not even a con one. All I am is fed up with the goregrinding hypocrites of
Ragnarök. We are blown by the wind in uncontrolled dissolution. Vainly does the
24 like those stylish old movies - the kings of the frontier are the Coen
Brothers. Without the antivirus of counterrevolution, nothing will save the
mutant herd from the quantitative extinction. The numbered elect behind their
masks and spikes are tired of the tricks of infinity and wanna go back home the
fastest way possible. The true tragedy of Man is unlike the Star Treks we adore
to fancy. Escapades are no longer an option. So where is the future, the
eternal return? At the Endzeit of the Geist once again its elders should
provide a reasonable explanation to the young ones. In memoriam of the teenage
dream buried underthe debris of the future. But even the Tinman ain't no Flesh
Gordon – that's in the shadow of Lou's sagacious smile. We can do everything
but we can do nothing. No more premieres in the theatre of hate. Just
prolonging the epilogue long overdue behind the frosted curtain. The unhappy
divorce of Earth and Sky.
XVIII/6
Industrialized rockabilly's extraordinary
alliance between blackened metal and darkened electronica is ultimate proof for
an elitarian conspiracy against the Sun going globally on. It's mediated
through the widely popularized spirit of music wherefrom tragedy is being born
since Richard Wagner. Not another agitation, just something to live.
Altogether, it is a most wholesome anticlockwise rotation, putting death, big
fear of the caveman, into a rather positive perspective without the religious
commerce. This new relation, though largely undeclared yet, has become the
common denominator of rock'n'roll's current war on the mortal majority. It's an
exuberant mutation of tastes from THERGOTHON to MEGAHERZ. A
reconstructivist cult of the dead, replacing the dormant wish with a will fully
awakened. Death sells, it sells mega good, and we should be surprised if it was
supernatural. Death becomes you if you buy it, that's the temptation of the
troll. It's not monkey business, it is an alien invasion. Capitalism is eternal
possession where the frontiers blur between earthly and celestial. Art's
obsessed thrive for material tenure is a fierce melange of reverence and
profanation evenly governing the whole array from figurative to abstract. To
profit from your crooked beliefs is by itself an odd victory over the dark
ages' esoteric censorship – most of these gory kids do not know how lucky they
are to have such a large consumership for them messages of destruction. It
couldn't have happened in the 50's. Speedy Juggernaut. Hippies might consider
it decline but couldn't be wronger: we're biding the Endzeit in the camp of
departure. Exiled in your own bedroom. Every gesture of treason is a brick
donated to The Building. Though firmly rooted in the air of 1979, it really
happened in 1984 that the change manifested in substantial measures. Enough to
see whoever were formed and the records released that year. It took in fact a
Blitz to unite the deportees of New Jerusalem under the Pentagram's inverted
sigil from garage to cathedral. Rock'n'roll turns its coat of many colours but
its heart's beating the same rhythm breaking down the walls of segregation. At
the great divider of "Nova Akropola", from trance to terror, every
worthwhile sound's telling about the same downfall of humanity at the brink of
disaster – if I'm not mistaken by wishful listening. The quality is driven by
the supreme urge to punish since PIERRE SCHAEFFER – no divine input has
ever been so obscenely sacred. From synaesthesia to invented noises, the gloomy
tunes of harmonic discord is the unison protest of the black sheep on drugs,
formulating the forbidden query in various articulations. The industrial core
in contempo danceteria is not a simple flashback from electronic to mechanical
work – studio labour is the finest apologue of the alchemical approach as
opposed to gold mining. The ominous question technology's no collar working
class is posing in its unorganized fashion is largely transcending the disputes
with one's label. It outright comes from the lonely soul of the creative
vampire: Who are we in fact doomed to be serving? The oldest inquiry of
acquired intelligence. Albeit backed by a most forceful choir of post-communist
philharmonics by now, the answer's still blowing in the wind, my dear friend.
We just keep doing the rescue amidst the escalating turbulence with no end in
sight.
XVIII/7
Atheist moral is very geocentric but
antigravitational. To establish the supreme trinity of The Party (INTEGRITY-DIVERSITY-UNITY) we need
divine terror like rain in East Africa. In the land of the blind under the smiley
sway of the 24's benevolent witchcraft, the Purgatory's magnetic fields have
lost their power of attraction over the migrating hordes. In the irreligious
service of Thanatos, the graveyard, from the germ-free adolescence's kinky
playground, has irreversibly transformed into a necrophagist bacchanalia,
turning the virgin thrill of desecration into the customary blasphemy of
born-again pagans. After the short summer of anarchy in UK, the global winter of nuclear reincarnation
started to set in, chilling Mediterranean blue into the white heat of
Scandinavian freeze. If it sounds poetic it's because it is. Poetry's living
her ultimate heydays in apoliteic black metal. And that scene is thriving like
a virtual cemetary of multiple extensions. It is Samael's delusive subversion
executed through a clandestine offensive of self-conscious misanthropy since
1979. The traitors to the Earth are here forming an amorhous army waiting for
Odin. Who is at least far the best Godhead to wait for from all the few I at
all know of. There's a lot more justice there than in Abraham's madness. All we
seem needing is a Lupus Dei to gather the stray Wolfshunde scattered all over
the world into the terminal pack for a Luciferian metalfest of industrial
gothheads. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm no stranger than he was. Only the
sides have turned. True hate is not hot stuff but cold fire – the wave has
literally jellified. On the goth side, as opposed to Plebeian trash, revolt
entered a state of hybernation – a survival technique through simulated apathy.
Playing dead, after all, is the sola esperanza to dodge the enemy. Time's
untimely passing away gravely confused the solitary mind: scepticism ain't no
longer a quantum of alienation. An unprecedentedly common rage of creativity is
sweeping through the overnation, both in quality and quantity. Those two always
go together. In the blissful absence of idiot love, work's become the drug of
the enslaved, replacing all religious worship under the Kapital's inevitable
blessing. It unfettered man's best immortal virtues in the most individual
fashion. The polygon of Treason, Vanity &
Death formulaically classifies the spirit of the UR. In the post-glam era make-up and costume is
no longer a token of having fun – a neo-primitive age of perennial 'workship'
has dawned upon the enchanted adicts. It's okay to be really down with gloom in
place of the artificial high dope used to induce beforehand; the Monday morning
rebirth extended into a permanent Halloween in Infernalia. Productivity is a
redeeming spell on you; industrial junkies are ready to die but will never drop
out. The remastered attitude of the fear factory's self-employed afterclass is
heroical submission to their augmented charge: sacrifice is the sweetest desire
of the volunteering meat puppets. Unlike for JOHN COLTRANE or CHARLIE
PARKER, this new wave of recreation is affirmative protest against the
secret service through possessive overproduction of unrewarding chaos. The
gothic way of life is prolonged suicide - not the happy overdose of our
founding fathers. Jazz might be ambushing under acid clouds but the death sector's
backward progress devours psychedelia like its own children into the dark
matter of the original beauty. Welcome to New Jerusalem where dead time lives.
XVIII/8
Opiates are what you take them for and that
drive is managed by the ghost of transition: the dying moment of the eternal
present. Of course, there is a backlash to everything – as a result of the
boundless surplus it is impossible to tell right from wrong if looking at it
closer than necessary. Impossible to judge for want of confined measurements –
and anyway what for? Whoever should listen to music critics after LESTER
BANGS? It's not only rock'n'roll any more but a war of succession for the
throne of thorns. Its downside is the fall of the angels of light to the
darkest places. Just take JOHAN VAN ROY for an example. Since Hell
preceded Eden as the number one destination of the devil's
trippers, our Sabbatic flirt with afterlife has perilously commuted into a
thrill kill cult of horror entertaining the children of the Bardo bored of
their shadows. I'm not quite sure what could be done. Lenin had it so very much
easier. All he needed to defy was the phantom of god. A nonexistence easy to
prove. But even he failed and that should serve a lesson grandiose enough to
stop me from dreaming. Russia is an orthodox religious country now – you
can't make the people believe in themselves. No Party will replace any Church –
that's why we have to have a side-branch. Vladimir Ilitch, let me call him like
that, had no particular crime to fight. Class warfare is a flawless crusade
against an enemy clearly defined – not a holocaust of the wretched we're called
upon to overnationally execute. A bloody joke isn't it; the humour of Osh is little sublime. Allies we do not have –
the few acts I approached when I could yet move were not interested. Though I
wouldn't tell them all. Not twelve people could I convince to join my war on
murder. Sometimes I see Jesus spit on me from the cross. It's sad to be an
Antithesis.
XVIII/9
Talking about Jesus, there's something I have
to mention here before forgotten. Namely, how incredible it is that he could
preserve his predominance over the process mainly going against his legacy. The
Antichristian counterrevolution only restored his immaculate crown in fact. He
really was the Christ, there's no doubt about it. The very one we deserve. Who
gives a damn if true or false, there is something in his lesson that's
practically invincible – the triumph of the victim will forever rule the
enlightened fable. The Golgotha's demiurgic shockabilly generously provided mankind
with a potentially everlasting token for all seasons to come, miraculously
adaptable to everyone's private gallery haloed or horned. Denial or regret, we
wouldn't like to do without it even if we could. Forget about the churches'
gnostic lies, no word attributed to the alleged Son of Man has impaired
incorrect. ANTON LaVEY isn't more current. And that's because, unlike
the hypocrite Mohammed, he came with an inherent double-meaning to his
existentialist testament. He killed his ego in the desert. Contrary to the old
Acropolis' personified gods, the Word spoke for itself as a living abstraction,
raising our intelligence to his own moral level above the mortal combat's
voracious violence. His immaculate reputation conquering the anti-semite
Occident unswervingly enhanced throughout the dark Gregorian ages, directly
culminating in the gospel of the devil's music. Looking back in anger, we can
almost comprehend the magnificence of his apolar spirit of total treason. At
the gates of the Third Millennium we're gently storming, where no normal one
can discern doubt from belief any longer, it would be most unreasonable to
figure out a new monster for the rest of the virtual time: the perfect
inversion will sufficiently do. What's more it is predicted. I walk like a
blind man most of the time, but sometimes it strikes me like lightning from the
black: this story is still getting written. It's not too late to change the
course.
XVIII/10
Any perfect it seems, the future hasn't passed
yet and we'd better be aware of our cosmic responsibility over the bargain.
It's all happening now like watching television: these are the people, these
are the news. Reality's on. Andromeda is a saddening mirage over the green
fields of perennial slaughter. Relativity may expand by the ratio but can't be
overcome under the reign of gravity - Newton saw the mass and the power it holds. The
terrifying laws of the fall. Such illuminations about the obvious blow my
infantine mind: I see the big city descending over the nations, inviting the
traitors of Christianity's neighbour-loving tribes to the wedding with a
vengeance. All we would need is an
identity check and it's simple like a
prayer: do as you say and you'll be our guest. But only the clan of COOLIO
would stand by their dissing words; Satanist whities are only playing with the
senses. The dungeons are swarming with resolute losers – they're swearing to
kill alright but none of them understands why a wounded kid should machinegun
his evil schoolmates. It is very slipshod, the contemporary hatebreed. There's
no magic laser to dissolve the malignant tumour of the dilepidated
subconscious. Negative dialectics corroded the unprotected intellect. No
passion has remained in the forest of the impaled, the song is plain
suffocation of the most guttural kind. The antidote to private suicide has yet
to be found. Optimism, any fake, is the most uncool thing of all. Is it any
wonder I'm rejected first? The iron rod I'm wielding is made of plastic. I'm
dreaming of a time when the word separated from the speaker. The nightmare
Goebbels did not have. Though I couldn't choose between PAUL OAKENFOLD
and ALEX PATERSON if those were my choices, I am largely unmoved by the
auditronic adventures of the escapist housekeepers. As a matter of fact, I am
fed up with the atmosphere altogether. I like my ambience dark, but honestly
wish I wouldn't. I'd much prefer to be a host who plays FILA BRAZILLIA
in stead of MOATA OMEN, but no one can change his taste. UR that UR – it's all determined in advance. With all
the righteous envy of the world, I'm horrified of Goa no less than of Amyl. As far as DJ Helmut is
concerned, the whole chemical brotherhood should be wiped out in one St.
Bartholomew's night with no track remaining. How could rock'n'roll become this
pygmy love circus of lukewarm subhumanists is beyond my humblest comprehension.
And then we have not touched down to the actual indieland yet eager to separate
from the mainstream that really sucks from UK to US. Do you remember when pop was muzik?
Nor have I any empathy with the anarchists of either sort, how unfortunate! My
cause is none of theirs. Crusty punks of green peace may eat up their own
hearts. Even less can I grasp what rock against communism might eventually mean
for DIVISION GERMANIA – the cold war is over for a damn decade now. You
ought to rock against crime, not a Utopia. Even in '82 it was an oxymoron
smartly invented to cover up the fascist objective. If Serguei Pravda survived,
he'd be deeply offended by the old tag: first of all I'm an arch communist,
secondly a stout anti-Nazi. I love their attitude a lot, but a productive pact
is rather out of the question. The whole picture has frozen in 1984 and that
it's moving is only an illusion. It's as fast as it is slow – a state of
intense stagnation. My chances for membership are far less than zero, no need
to face it. Arch enemy of family values, we wouldn't even support gay marriage
or adopting exotic orphans. After two decades of compulsory isolation, I
cherish no chimera about the world out there. I can read between the lines
better than Ezra Pound. I don't see any more what the people need. There is no
camp for universal refugees.
XVIII/11
By the imminent rejection of church and state,
the alternative moral of pop fertilized the culture of the new consensus. The
psychedelic 6O's united the elite of mankind for an overnational voyage across
the genetic borderline. The innovation of generation gap eliminated the
remaining borders between classes and races with the invaluable help of liberal
capitalism committed to progress. The embassy of music conquered the blue
planet otherwise divided by geographic conflicts. Even today, Asian pop for
instance simply rules the better half of its youth blending hiphop and metal
with artificial innocence. If it's the devil's work, I'm for the devil and
can't see no evil. R'n'R was, is, and will be a globalitarian revolution
against orthodoxy of all sorts through free exchange. It governs without an
institution by an unwritten law and unifies the bridehood without enforcement.
Due to the technology of communication, the Zeitgeist directly controls the
collective soul, accumulating the holy energy required to a victorious
departure. I'm sorry for repeating this all the time, but that's how I've been
seeing the ambiguous process since I glimpsed it overlooking Hindu Kush. You may call me a demagogue, but I am proud
of it. Rock'n'roll is instant power to the people, in invaluable support of the
mutated individual in the homo inferior's hostile suburbia. A succession of
extremes, a gallery of deviations. It attributes existence a higher meaning
than Aztec idolatry, saving many a great spirit from the jails of karma through
the freedom of expression. Art has finally become what it's always meant to be:
an expanding shelter for the chosen. Man obtained the right to think and betray
and act non-conventionally. Like the precious gift of Zion to the children of Israel, pop was Osh's modernized arc of the covenant in gracious
service of gene-democracy's civilized selection. It's been staging an
sacrilegious crusade for pleasure against the tyranny of crime – a triumph of
human intelligence over the demonic forces of fear and doubt. Those that
survived STUDIO 54 might remember it yet. Pop has sounded a new bell of
alarm – very agreeable for a nice wake-up. Why it didn't work out Allah knows.
An imaginary kingdom obviously won't hold like one concrete Disneyland longer than thousand-one nights – you can't keep
a race enchanted with tomorrow's promises for ever. Teenage dreams grow old,
that's what's happening to them. Except if you die young, but it's not always
easy. Though many elderly horsemen are still riding the waves of nostalgia,
today's temple is a cold and evil monument upon the fundamental rocks rolling
apart: a collapsing tower of the future legend amidst the augmenting junk-heap
of the breakbeat era. But I'm not afraid. Although the gap reopened within, the
spirit will survive exiled to the underground like the Essenes. Automatically
refusing to mingle with the chaff – it can happen but never intentionally – the
unpopular knights of the plague are engaged to explore the domain of decay like
impartial reporters of the heavenly gazette, rendering to perfect music the
worst news of the devil beyond decadence and progress. This subdivine
romanticism transported from the 18th century to the 11th' Vikingia gives our
digital age of renaissance its anachronistic charm. Truth sucks but it's all
over the place.
XVIII/12
Never the less, there is a gap. The gap is
between reality and fiction. Thank god for that because I wouldn't like to be
bound, tortured and killed by my favourite musicians either. But there are
constructive visions too, visions of conquering Gehenna, that should be more
corporeal. Grinding the core with devastating anger, screaming black death will
plain devour itself like its ancients without ever crushing the enemy. It's all
about the fanbase. You are a holy mad if care of something else. The misbelief
suggests that to please the Prince of Darkness you have to descend in the vale
of fears but its only temptation: the Luciferian funtime's serpentine
machanism. The final battle of the abattoir is a classical set up: it's the
beast of chaos versus the beauty of order. The problem is as simple as that:
whilst beauty gets due respect, the beast is a lot more interesting. No need
for seduction – thus the energy is saved. If this is Armageddon, our chances
are scanty. The beauty has to adorn herself with arms. The necro-mediaval
affiliations of the neo-primitive goredom's howlin' hordes only attributes to
chaos without a flag flying. National socialist black metal, on the other hand,
is national socialist. I can't see no traitors to ever have a party. I know
these funny boys and girls wouldn't necessarily mutilate whores between
recording sessions or impale children whilst on tour, but who knows what
happened to the word? Negative dialectics is far from being enough – if you
don't kill the crime, you are no friend of mine. There is one thing left sacred
and it's the sin of revenge if you want to recapture Eros abducted. Vengeance
is the sole redemption for the serial artists of Satan's court. But if MICK
HARRIS was a Messiah, he let us mighty down. And so did all the others of
the primordial nomenklatura. Never trust a dirty rotten imbecile. I surely
should have known better. So far too bad. I don't know where to look any more –
there is blood everywhere. Who will clean the house after the massacre, I no
longer wonder. It should be the UR but where RU? My wild anticipation have faded
by the decade. "The Progrom" I put on the wall of the Bardo ten years
ago hasn't caught no eye. I always wanted to be invisible but not this way at
all. The stupid Elohim misinterpreted my prayer. What I dreamed of, Sir, was to
unite the living dead, from gothic grimoire to nuclear blast, into a batallion
of world domination. I've seen they're using the term lately, but don't mean it
my way. Their war-cry is so symbolical, it's almost ludicrous behind the stage
antics. After all those beauties in the dark, nothing comes this way but
something wicked as usual. All in all, it's only powder production for no gun:
the black folk's implosion is warranted but no electric rocket to expect from
the gothdamn grave. Ammunition without weapons is a lost cause, like I say. The
battle must be fought or else we'll vainly perish. The Bunker ain't safe any
more.
χ
Chapters:
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.;
AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.;
AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
_______________________________
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
SPIONS Manifestos
SPIONS Lyrics
The Cosmic Bargain
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
SPIONS Manifestos
SPIONS Lyrics
The Cosmic Bargain
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com