IV.



IV/1
Although henceforth written with the medium’s contaminated blood, the Satanic verses do not intend to mobilize their public like songs of the protest era. Since the eve of destruction dawned into doomsday, visions of Gehenna contain little ambition to fend off anything Apocalyptic. For a senator of any white state, let alone the non-whites, these inane guys bathing in blood should be public enemy number two promoting thrill kill cult and sadistik exekution. Thank god nobody cares about the uncensored any more. You can play anything in the dark, kiddo, can even win a Grammy with it as long as you don’t misbehave offstage. The chaosphere has opened infinite opportunities before the arts. What SWITCHBLADE or SWORDMASTER are up to render into rocks is instant surrender to the inevitable; spending no energy on arguing with the devil. The time of conversion’s balefully run out. The Revelator has not foreseen this, but the Judgment is monopolized by the underground and made invisible for the faithful. It’s happening behind closed gates - gigantic tours and megafestivals are self-fulfilled deception. Even BAL-SAGOTH ain’t ruling the world. Certainly not alone. The minority has grown huge, that’s all. Armageddon’s lining up. Italian power metal (RHAPSODY; STORMLORD) for instance is extremely competitive with Nordic battle-cries. Even more lustful.  And Christian deathmetal, whatever convinced, is the blasphemy of blasphemies and leave it at that. They’re all pretty good actually, I’ve never heard a bad one (EMBODYMENT, ZAO). Intelligence multiplies vehemently as it should; the self-awareness of TESTAMENT is beyond compare with the CHESTERFIELD KINGS. Don’t ever let nostalgia disqualify decay. We are progressing brilliantly from the LOUVIN’ BROTHERS forward. We’d be on by now if knew the destination. The present contains everything preceding and following – it’s the major law of time-consciousness. We are an explosion of God’s atomic bomb ready for nuclear reincarnation. We are the offspring of the neo-Darwinist baby doom that obviously began with the SWANS if not THE PIXIES, post-ideologically speaking. We couldn’t see in ’84 where independence was heading. And the coming of criminal rap’s savage democracy. Popmusic was saved by the industrialists but only for an exotic reservation of the surviving spirit. No match to RADIOHEAD or the enigma of OASIS. BEAT MEAT MANIFESTO in vain, Britpop ate itself to a pulp by now sucking on PAUL McCARTNEY’s eversweet blood. It’s very sad too that Margaret Thatcher’s going amnesiac. TEST DEPARTMENT should not be forgotten. Nor the PET SHOP BOYS for another matter.


IV/2
Vocal distortion engineered to incomprehensibility is the kernel of unpopular music from grindcore to aggrotech reducing vox humana to an expressive instrument. It usually refers to demons and wizards, and the ghosts in the machines, that aren’t supposed to croon like JIM REEVES. You’ve got to be a synthgoth to allow that luxury without being vomited at. Increasing in direct ratio with the importance of the message, all the authors’ inherent wisdom will turn thus into tonal resistance against the tyranny of the thought. The dehydrated lyrics, however, are pretty predictable no matter the growling style, plus there are the melodic inserts, technical or symphonic, to tease you dead pouring over all the shit of the soul if you don’t step aside. Fifty percent of the textures are about rape and murder, forty thriving on fabulous images of any myth picked up, mainly the Eddas and goddamn Lovecraft, and ten percent is left for the variety – if you actually happen to have an own word to say. KATATONIA belongs here and SOILWORK to the previous grouping. It’s untoward, but we still have to look for the narrow path to find new values. Yet there is a lot, much more than I can handle. And storing up like a self-burial ground. I’ve got a thing with mutilation, but love legends as much as any finntroll kid. And like to look at history on film. And adore folk metal up to SONATA ARCTICA. Although socially dispassionate and mixed up with assorted perversions, it’s still a healthy counterpole to SEBADOH. But it’s harder and harder to proceed in the mounting commotion without getting lost too soon. The best a DJ of trash can do is to ignore all messages and try to listen to the musics alone, which is much less sweat any hot. The rhythm and the blues. Whatever exploited, music cannot lie – what is good cannot be bad. That’s my sole device of orientation in the Bardo. So I keep accommodating like a hippy into punk. That’s been my life and I can’t stop it now. It’s the curse of the Eternal. Once a vampire, always a vampire. The dark orchestra of witch-hunting pagans is conducted by the hand of a single Maestro I like to call “Baphomet” to keep it simple. At its best it’s sheer Luciferian propaganda. And there are lyricist of Lord Byron’s stature out of the smallest villages of the spread from the Fjords to the Schwartzwald. Technology made socialism possible but electricity has only amplified crime in the human specie made fun of by SLIPKNOT and look-alikes. And when you resort to the torture with roses, you’ll find a screaming void of echoing pain, but no objective whatsoever, except for the dishonest wish to die. No one’s greater than COIL in the world at present but if you need hope you’d better play CELTIC FROST on gloomy Sundays. The tower of rock has curiously transformed for now into a wailing wall of sound – stolen prayers of the damned but no pursuit of collective redemption as the middle-class revolt was. Desecrating the temple of love alright but contributing to history less than ENRIQUE IGLESIAS. Everyone’s waging his own private war like crazy old soldiers. A generation of wasted adults. Steal everything from DAVID TIBET, Sir, if you have time. He surely won’t sue you.


IV/3
It must be interesting to observe the incredible metamorphosis of behaviour on rock’n’roll stage since the days of THE KINKS. The Elohim must have a jolly good time. It’s not that the seduction factor would have diminished but its methods vastly transformed throughout the generations of speeding metal. I remember THE DOORS pissing on the audience but it wasn’t the same. Insult meant awakening, and not invitation to murder innocents. Performance is a transcendent combat for the tribes of Neurot and concert in the tattoo age a gladiator game where pure force will make you right. It’s the unshakeable foundation of Odin’s barbarian supremacy, as the sudden rise of the Vikings from their graves forty years after out of the black stunningly proves it. You shout at the public when facing the devil but you don’t want to convert it for you came to praise. Not to make it better but to make it worse. It’s the accelerator that drives the UR. It all began when BRIAN EPSTEIN died. We really need VOMITORY to clean up the emotional wreckage of BELLE & SEBASTIAN. It’s the rule of the aggravated and I’m glad to serve it. The devil wants his share from the bargain and with every right. That’s why we’ve allied up in sympathy. To defend his throne from the new pretenders. To restore the glory of hatred and the power of beauty. Asmodeus is a lot like Benito Mussolini was. That’s why he cannot get through all the wires. Those that listen cannot hear and those that hear do not listen to the future sound of London. Can you remember THE KLF? Now, that was really something and where are they now? Amongst the evil undead. The Prince of the Air spares none. The danger is lurking everywhere, especially in the dark. Not to fear from it won’t defend the victim. The cosmic function of the pop machine was to merge separate dominions in search of nuclear peace. The frontiers have been blurred alright, but we can no longer relate to anything naturally in the forest of transmissions. A backlash on exoteric positivism. Though he’s got all the evidence to deny it, this too can be blamed on the thin white duke quite single-handedly. Confronting both Alice and Ozzy, Ziggy held a third front and she lost majestically in the Orwellian sense of sin and sacrifice. Always a traitor to himself, he elegantly deserted the kingdom of giants for a higher ambition. That’s why I adore him the most from that one-sided triangulum, and of course for his music. You can be forever the same young but it’s always the traitor who wins on the cosmic run. That’s the path I followed in my cumbersome way. The main impeder of the wedding is the Bridehood’s saturated antifascism behind their nationalist flirts. Don’t buy anything with a swastika on it. It’s only their way to say sacrilege. What the skinhead thinks ‘Sieg Heil’ is only another anti-Eichman song with a publicity stunt. Not even PUISSANCE belong to Himmler’s sacred realm.


IV/4
Don’t get me too wrong, Sir, in this askance regard – I’m not a nostalgic fool, am I? And don’t have no intent to restore the positive dialectics of a Marxist constitution. My personal Satan is a tormented  beast beyond improvement like I was JIM CARROLL. Forced to vow on misery and purity under death threats, all I can repeat is the useless mantra of rebirth like a maladroit Messiah. I’m summing up herewith, I came to realize, the last moments of sanity in my rubber room. Minimal capacity - maximum charge; that’s my number. Turning necessity into virtue is the last escape of every bad poet – out of the vacuum into the void. The most revolting nightmare without the safety of a dream. Here stands 888 in ragged undergarment before the bathroom mirror’s unreflected judges. Bad poets write bad poetry. What you got is but the fake reportage of a captivated journeyman disqualified to guide anyone anywhere. An unidentifiable ghost in the information age. Writing a letter to myself I won’t even read. I’m really disinterested in what I am thinking and gave up self-censorship long ago. I’m not doing this for currency. I’m striving hard to get popular but the chances are scantier than a killer’s. My proposal is the disappearance of nations in the sanitizing blizzard of a nuclear winter. Not a sexy groom, is it? I know I’m not alone, everybody I listen to is telling the same, but I really mean it, man. I really do. That’s why I’m no good artist. And it’ll show through trembles and tears. They won’t let my people come. Uncle was a much better liar and no conscience whatsoever. I’m a real Untermensch by comparison. The truest archetype of a counterfeit Antichrist. Drink this wine and it’ll turn into blood in your mouth. Dracula’s testament is a gory gospel. The wedding party I wanna throw is no fertility rite. My table is laid for the perverted few. The ones who have no reason to be afraid. You won’t be invited out of life’s distress but to die laughing with the immortal. I’m in a trap and cannot get out, because I love baby so much in spite of that suspicious mind. Not because I’m a Taoist but because I’m not. The travel through Bardo is not an easy ride. It’s not for a fainthearted sissy with apolar disorder. Treason becomes a terrible ordeal if you can’t profit from it, just lose your self like a baggage. A most unnecessary burden I wouldn’t undertake for any money offered. It is sheer unmotivated compulsion in my particular case. Luxury of a common bum. My source of energy has run wholly dry. All I ever wanted was to be indispensable. But never had a clear vision about the power to will. If Osh wants me, he’ll give me the input, I believed. I’m anything but a true Atheist, Sir, I have to confess it once. I’m the same full of hope as in 1979 just immensely exhausted from the endless waiting for a life. They have put me on hold since 1984. They could do it because I’m the laziest bastard you’ll ever meet. And don’t know whom to blame: me or myself. So I keep on floating idle in the empty space inside like an aborted embryo. I can’t read at all any more – just can’t remember what for. I’m not interested in anything in the mortal world; I’m damned. Knowledge has never been my priority. All I’ve ever learned was what stuck on me like parasites. And then I misunderstood them. All I like to do is nothing. Just watch ole time TV lying on the floor till my eyes start bleeding. No brainwork, no interaction, just the Paradise of passivity. I’m not even envious of JOHNNY DEPP. Yet I don’t remember anything I saw. It all disperses like a dream. You can’t pay attention if you have no money. I’m able to see the same movie thrice without recognizing it as familiar. My brains are perennially washed. Is it Alzheimer or Heidegger? What’s your diagnosis about that Dr. Bardo? And why am I to bothering you with my symptoms when I should be promoting the industrial counterrevolution of the antimasses? Gravity caught me big time and I can’t control it. I wish I were IGGY POP. The luckiest guy in the history of Hell.


IV/5
At the electronically induced phase of our great evolutionary march for backbone, we are experiencing little resilience on the part of the organic matter. Running to become a superior race and reconcile with the guards of the deconcentration camp, we are facing a complete breakdown of human society’s established patterns. Which could be a good news if it wasn’t for the crime. It may be a simple backlash on evolution’s uncontrolled acceleration, but it doesn’t mean we should be waiting arms folded for a leader. We are as guilty as Hell if don’t snatch at the opportunity of the transition. A nuclear power plant is mighty greater than a gothic cathedral but not that’s how we measure epochs. We are incurable romantics even in our fiction. Research is deicide and that’s what the Church knew - God is something that dies when explained. Whoever needed more responsibility above the usual expectations? No nihil can replace the realm of illusion. The crisis is ethical at the core and we should be proud of it. Unintelligence is not prevailing. The dichotomy is not between order and chaos. The dichotomy is between revolt and rampage: the elite and the scum. The socio-anthropological antagonism of every labor movement. The idealist dogma of Baphomet’s counter-revolution neglects the need of a quantity. Nothing but the iron justice of moral dictatorship can save our cosmic graveyard – thus I say unto you. It’s not too original but a saddening fact. We must breech the original contract if wanna get delivered from the slavery, or we all shall perish under the self-construed ruins. I’m not a saviour machine – I only can tell what should be done besieged by the forces of evil if somebody cared. There’s a fatal alliance between reality and the underworld art no longer separates. The theatre of war’s turned into an absurd repetition since the director went mad. We carry in our pockets the entire universe but act like Vandals in New Jerusalem. The homo novum has been consumed by the overpopulation of unwanted rebirths as the recycling multiplies. Boom and doom walk hand in hand like an eternal couple. Against all growths and changes, the ratio stays direct. Adam keeps on splitting into subatomic particles. An invasion of brand new demons is taking place, creating unrestricted nightmares whilst we sleep. Yet the victim will not be forgiven - an Antichristian crusader should never fail to remember that. Humanism is a fatalist epidemy – the end of common sense. What we have lost is the love of the Law since Newton. The Nazarene truly deserves to be impaled for it on the top of the cross.


IV/6
Though reflected in ponds of blood and computed by death tolls, history is, principally, an aesthetic procedure of the cosmic bargain. Technological epochs and political systems are remembered by their styles: the design of their environment. Cinema has brought this message home to every child providing free travel between eras of the passage. We can reconstruct anything any time and project our wildest imaginations by digital technology. It’s heaven for the creative spirit here below tonight, worth to risk a kidnapping or cancer. Style defines everything that’s measurable on Earth. The act changes albeit the activity doesn’t. You stab differently in renaissance Venice than in the modern one. A question of choreography reproducible from the standing picture. Style is Time’s undying face whereby we recognize and remember it. It is the only collective memory we have, that’s why hairdos are so immensely important. Every new ideal of beauty is a step forward on the backward path. Part of the permanent return to the Garden: home of the common soul before becoming sliced flesh. Civilization, most importantly, is a code of behavior. The higher, the more complex. The problem with the culture is never the avant-garde – that’s one thing the Nazis couldn’t manage to get. They were very pastist. The problem is the reign of the average, Sir. The amazing imbalance that kept the good times rolling has been radically equalized in the exploding inevitable of the led Zeppelin, fulfilling the wildest dreams of the middle class. Anarchy begins where the peace sets in to maintain the dynamic of the polar progress which is either zig-zag or total halt. The children of Baphomet are so easy to exploit by a system capitalizing on evil since Phoenicia! When the balance is equilibrated, the mechanism comes to a freeze. Abandonned by the Sun. The wheels on the steep cannot but roll back. Peace is the mutual defeat of both sides tripling the pressure on the warrior soul that drives every trend from urban gangs to naturist pagans. The war we are at is Armageddon – the final battle between good and evil. Not I am saying this, everybody tells me so. From the techno wizards to the priests of Thor. So why is OSP silenced to a dungeon, that’s what I can’t figure. It must be exclusively my own proper fault. And I’ve got none to forgive. My life is an endless fright. Should never have become an Atheist.


IV/7
The present multiplication of styles generated by the technologic upheaval cannot be unwelcome by any lunar standard, but in stead of extending unity, it actually reproduces a tribal state in increasing rivalry for world domination. Popular art, and there is no unpopular one, has created a second land over the map where tastes define races and countries have sonic borders you have to cross over at your own risk without a valid visa. It’s always treason to your fans established and requires the bravery of an Aesir. The fandom is like a people you rule. The barriers have turned into sound but keep on functioning in the likeness of linguistic nationalisms. It’s not so fast as we experience it. It’s the same slowly revolution as ever was. But at least it’s universal and not determined by wealth. Since the media age set in, the sullen planet of melancholy has turned into a hunting field for talents. The virtual arena is our circus maximus a child must be really autistic not to get involved in. Every single body is a potential top model – that’s what the yippies gave to high society. Reality is human cockfight on TV and should be banned outside the Milky Way. The mental conditioning of intelligent life is like a second weather: a permanent atmospheric transformation of the recurring cycles. Changing for the same. A world beating as one is a heartfelt dream but more unreal than tales from the perilous realm. The terrestrial biosphere is full of organic traditions visitors must adapt themselves to or better remain unborn. We can fill wider and wider gaps but no weird tribute will suffice to unite fractions of the imploding galaxy. New mules come to life every day and they’re not always as perfect as presumed. Eighth generation punks like SUPERGRASS were sweet yet but strikingly unliving. No  longer a generation. Time departed in 1984 and the dead took over. Unfortunately, I should say, but I won’t. I love to live in a world where PINK FLOYD sounds optimistic. It’s the guts of the fallen. In the cyberian iceland at the glorious end of the XXth Century media, music’s no longer made to dance or trance to but to torture and infect. THE HAFLER TRIO were very good at that. Sound-scapes are created as commissioned background to the original movie of the period. The electronic Gesamtkunst of audio and visual compliantly blends Wagner and Verdi by DJ Apollo performing in the people’s alternating likeness in the Pantheon online. Art’s no longer a sheltering hideaway for Shelleyan orphans but the offensive vehicle of the collective protest against the primordial submission. That’s what my great granddaddy used to call birth of the tragedy. FRONT 242 were the greatest sons of the new pioneers, along with KMFDM and NITZER EBB, to name three. It’s terrible I’m not permitted more. All those bands come under two hundred influences. And there’s one more secret I have to reveal about the bargain. You measure your kingdom by the sales. Every star’s given an own kingdom today on the world wide web. The more people, the bigger crown. But don’t worry more than necessary, the quality shall overcome after all. The Elohim are rude operators but their taste is immaculate. That the best always wins is an unbreakable rule of the wicked game till the doomy end. And thank to Einstein, it can happen to anyone whilst alive. PHIL OCHS could sit with us here in a wheelchair. The power of music is enormous in the afterclass society Palestrina could not dream about. Especially since classic and folk so wonderfully merged. It is the Air screaming in your ear.  Rock’n’roll is a tornado over the spirit fields theoretically pole to pole in every regard; a cleansing storm of mass redemption. It has irrevocably imprinted gene-democracy in the fascist process of Darwinist evolution. And it’s not over yet - it keeps on culminating. The most successful stratagem of Osh ever tested. Rock is forever young and that makes even ELTON JOHN a vampire. And, ding dong, the witch is dead - Mary Whitehouse is burning in Hell, thank you. Here comes the SUTCLIFFE JÜGEND. Should I be glad to see Jack the Ripper enthroned? But that’s the other question again. I am associating too freely. I’m glad to hear it though, power noise is my elevator. Anyway they cannot harm an iota, considering the popularity quotient. DAVE MUSTAINE could, but he’s a politically correct Jesuit, thank goodness. Don’t tell me there’s no providence.


IV/8
Let me back down to the lost topic of fashion at last. The industry’s flourishing more aggressively than ever against poverty and depression, but mode’s remained a business bitch at heart: private affair of a superminority dictating taste to phantoms. Haute Couture is like a monarchy without people – an overtly secret society of the true genius making dreams come untrue. All fashion designers are socialists, by the way, not only Ralph Lauren. They’re the flagbearers of socialism. Let alone the overnational quality of the enterprise. A strong believer of monopolies, fashion’s dictatorship has always been a paradigm of my moral campaign’s recruiting efforts. It’s a complicated world out there, Sir, that’s why I’m lurking teethless in my den. Modern people, from post to ultra, are dressed fancier than ever – even Lagerfeld’s seeking an envelope to push - but fashion is anything but a social issue as long as it’s not promoting anorexia; it is a gathering of the anarchists of wealth above jurisdiction and out of the law. Just like the knight templars of old. Fashion shows are circus rallies at their best; no one expect buyers to eventually wear the creations in public. It’s for one night in the limo. Judges say rape is triggered by women sexy in the street, haven’t they heard about it? It’s worse than the Islam. Whilst models cannot sleep at night dreaming about starving children in Africa. Something’s profoundly jammed in the transmission and I don’t know what it is. How I wish I belonged to the ruling class and could neglect the news I’m degraded to thrive on! I know it’s full of murder too but still more of a mystery. As opposed to Calvin Klein’s aesthetic challenge, just for a good example, there’s the politics of Tommy Hilfiger, who redesigned the urban landscape into a parade of escaped convicts. Changing our perception of elegance for ever. Turning dandy into pimp without any racist scruple. The situation is that the universe as we know it is blending into a microchip monolith. The parallel increase of quantity and quality is the sure sign of a transcendent economy’s rise against the black hole’s pragmatic sanctions but it’s not tax-free at all. It has profoundly devaluated the exceptional. The result of this bargain is quite obscure yet. But any way you bet you’ll lose, that much is rather clear. It’s not good news but better to be aware of it.


IV/9
Since the post-Utopian civilization of social democracy eliminated the hierarchic division between fine and folk art crossed only in a most condescending manner after the Quatrocento, mankind is practically enabled for equality under the Sun. But the future scares everybody, be it chaos or order. Order even more. To overcome this rational skepticism has been the main objective of the over-nationalist counterrevolution since its nativity. Music’s contribution to the bionic progress of intelligence is invaluable in words. It’s been transformation’s gas, engine and wheel at the same car. The travel and the passage. It’s our basic common language with no verbal interpretation required. Its understanding is an emotional response from the eardrums to the heartbeat. Meaningful lyrics added only highlight the stimuli of rhythm and rhyme. Sound in the multimedia age is a natural selector. Whilst history is collective and karma quite predestined, the soundtrack is everybody’s personal choice. It belongs to your love-life. Tell me your three favorite songs and I tell you who you are with an absolute certainty. I’d sell this as a matchmaker site if I had energy for business. Maybe you should try it, Sir. It’d be a very honest operation. Though its vocabulary is ethnographically rooted and becomes a weapon of distinction at times of ground war, music’s always been positive espionage - friendly exposure of the enemy’s virtues. And the sole medium of mutual respect. Curiosity prevails over repulsion in the electromagnetic fields of temptation. Rock’n’roll’s subversive influence on the cold war was unmeasurable even when it allied up with the Viet-Kong. It has always been building its own great empire that’ll transport us to the next plane. The time has come to turn that allegory real, dude. Am I not agitative enough? The beast is raving whilst the beauty sleeps. Moral degenerates to paid advertisement of alternative lifestyles amongst the evil undead. Democracy is Hellraiser without divine terror. The media is governed by the peace profiteers without whom there’s no access to air. You must join the firm where you can be all you never wanted to and start competing like life was a simple career move. To stay under the ground is nobody’s earnest desire, not even HENRY FLYNT’s. He’d change image with STEVEN TYLER any time, I guess. Children of the reproduction are dying to chose their destiny. But only TRICKY can – you must be nearly god. On the employment scale, the growing stratum of turntable deities – produce of the boom babies of class mutation – perform little more than shadow worship. The techno house is a very dull place to live in. Every worker is a star, oh yeah, but you can’t shine brighter than the circuit allows. Ego is largely unwelcome in the plastic factory. Losing anonymity is the end of the assembly line. Richard Melville Hall is the greatest traitor of all. There’s always a yellow star on the grey sky. RICHIE HAWTIN’s another. But there aren’t much more than two dozens and that’s a little number in show biz any alternative. Andy lived, lives and will live but the end of pop culture is here. To mourn or rejoice remains the only question.


IV/10
Fame is the primal drive of the collective individual that successfully transformed apathetic apehood into cutthroat homosapien - ambition created money and not the other way. Ambition is the eighth instinct. It’s the first spark of intelligence and still the main motivator in all trades of the program from medicinal science to military forces. But nowhere is it as crucial as in the arts promoted to show the face of the culture. Artists, and that’s a whole class in modern society not just some lazy cave-dwellers, have special gifts to deliver that come from above through whatever jerk he or she be. Those that can give have a responsibility towards the ticket-buyer higher than ruthless politicians. Even actors who can perform anything are supposed to be role models like SEAN PENN. Or DENIS HOPPER. The more chaos you can handle, the greater artist thou art. Film dictators have budgets to create whole universes of their own with the assistance of a crew of thousands hired to make capital out of one man’s ambiguous dream. But we’re not talking cinema here, maximum music videos. Only knocking on the doors of Valhalla. Trends are immensely vital to advance somewhere - it matters precious little whertofore. We don’t know but we can always sense it and that’s more than enough. Fashion is a conquest of infinity: triumph of the ephemeral. Our interior design. Everything that’s okay is going in the same direction, and so does what’s bad in the opposite one. This dichotomy is the torture machine we’re thrown down to be grinded by and see what comes out. It is our taste that’s squeezed for them bloody cocktail, to be Danteesque. Taste is the greatest mystery, the best kept secret of the universe. It’s no function of the brains but the shape of the soul. The problem comes in where it’s unexpected: who on Earth can be sure he’s right in judging immaterial substance? Good taste is intolerant towards the bad one, but bad taste’s even more intolerant towards the good. It’s the real war out there, Sir, and everybody’s fighting it under various covers. The major of which was religion before the media too over the age. Only victory will decide upon the case. It is quite unbelievable, but it’s the good guys who win this championship too. There’s more mercy involved than meets the eye. Many casualties of course, but that’s the way it goes. The warrior, however, is reduced to his canine gut feelings and does what his idol tells him to. That’s the responsibility factor I’m talking about, and you must be PETER GABRIEL to carry through with it. Stay untouchable and chose your charity. Future is a reliable equalizer that will change the past. Ethical ascendancy brings aesthetic justice. Style makes man equal in the court of the crimson king from Babylon to Tokyo. It saves the ugly and redeems the losers. Good manners mean good character and there’s no way to lie it. That’s rule number one of independent espionage. Appearance is everything if you’re in a service -it is your distinguished number. Look like someone else - be grey. Don’t come as you are again, please. You are what you wear. Life is a masquerade.

IV/11
No way I wanna turn back time like PAUL WELLER did, don’t worry about that. I respect everyone in the nude but I’m a fetish guy by orientation and no Southern sludge can influence it. I missed out on Seattle like it wasn’t on the map. In spite of a mind cut open, it is impossible not to take a side if there is one. I was into heavier metal and more synthetic pop; grunge sounded like mudhoney to me. NIRVANA wasn’t even grunge; that’s what made it more enticing. But I still don’t know what they were except for the legend. The problem with our present at collapse is that there are parallel generations in the expanding orphanage that really don’t want to get together as long as possible. Alliances are formed on the base of similitude or to provoke incidents. QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE are a lot greater than FOO FIGHTERS in spite of sharing the member. Black metal works with both trash and goth, but THE MELVINS aren’t essentially doom just because of the tempo signature. Individuality is greater than one but to what end if the symbols shatter? No difference counts without a uniform. That’s why The Party was so necessary, I believed. If I was wrong, I was the last one. New Jerusalem is nothing like Israel. It is anything but a state. It is unity, integrity, and diversity all in one. All in one – one in all; the most universal formula god knows if gnostic or agnostic. The UR is a clan of traitors by perception. The City of Eden is a galactic bordel run by red-hot bitchcraft. Not a de3stination for Kohanites. The Elohim’s major mistake, if not conscious evil, was to impose on us their obscene system of duality: the bilateral pressure of humility and determination expected to possess at the same mortal time. Ignorance is our only escape but doesn’t lead too far on the minefield of the hazard. We spend our lives praying for the right decision in the deconcentration camp, addicted to gambling till we lose it all. To quickly nip arousing doubts in the existence of anything significant at all, the passive passenger needs at least the dazing flair of irreversibility: linearity will transport us over the abyss. The sensation of functioning on a purpose is the only deceit that can keep sane the mind in strife for evasion. Until the angel of peril wouldn’t step over the threshold of one’s house built in the desert, honest people must trust that maximum vigilance will deter accidents, and a life without crime repulse the devil out to catch you. By the typical unfairness of the bargain we’re proud victims of, the depth is quite infinite, whilst the high grows increasingly relative as we rise. The fib of the serpent will never change its nature: the more we learn to see, the less hope remains detectable. Enlightenment, fuck Descartes, is a look in hot darkness where the illusions are buried alive. Paranoia, however, is a deficiency syndrome: disability to withstand the truth. To firmly hold the transcending balance between one’s spirit and ego is a terrible ordeal. No one could create, or destroy for that matter, without believing himself to be a righteous brother. Even the sage is undisputed about his dilemmas. We cannot know but we must feel somehow. Degraded to emotional violence, one is looking for his likeness in the physical milieu. If you stay consequent to yourself whilst responding the collective expectations, you won’t be deluded. The blind faith of doing things on command will keep us immune to the venom of reasoning. Improvement is elicited by the wish to remember. Style tells everything and nothing redundant. It gives the Word the power to sentence its speaker. It doesn’t matter what you say. Only how you say it. Never forget, you cannot be right. ALICE IN CHAINS is neither psych nor prog.

IV/12
It is more impossible to keep this writ coherent than to edit one’s meditations. I can’t care about neither rhyme nor reason in the rush to be over it. Work and love are a heavy duty for an unskilled hand. But even for the skilled ones, as far as I can hear. I’m unarmed but not alone. AMON AMARTH will defend me. I’ll have a shelter in the Abyss when the raids restart. But the theatre of war is in fact but the war of theatre, releasing the holy energy in the polluted air sparing nothing in the way. We are living in a surreal reflection in the dark like proliferating beasts of burden, sacrificing will for virtuosity. In this battlefield of inversion the troupes are on stage touring to entertain civilians tired of ennui. The stage is a bulletproof cage and to get there is the best illusion of safety. The louder you say what you want, the bigger is your alibi. Suicides, riots and school-shootings have nothing to do with you as long as you enjoy society’s freedom. No guitar hero can be hold responsible for the effects of his actions. Everyone has the right to express himself; that’s what FRANK ZAPPA died for. BILL HALEY started it officially with his Comets. It was alright till the first Woodstock, but changed at Altamont as we know it. It was a crack down. Today we have a serious problem; I hate to be a crow but that’s my voice. DAN SWANÖ is the nightingale. The dichotomy of gangster rap and gore metal is not the same as between punk and funk was. The only common in their goals, which there are none, is to form an anti-censorship league for the unlimited promotion of gratuitous violence, though quite different kinds. But it is killing sex on both sides in the name of crime as far as the image goes. Something’s wrong with the human race, I guess. I take all the blame but cannot find mutilation as funny as MORTICIAN. And pathetic murder balladeers won’t provide a convenient antidote. Nor the emo-screamos from white Suburbia. LAMB OF GOD (ex-BURN THE PRIEST) is howling great but nothing will prevent the onsetting silence. The Z generation is not another youth culture; that’s why the doomlords have to look like cavemen. It’s not simply postmodern  – it’s a disguise. There’s no room for glam in the catacombs. NORDVARGR for example, in all his parallel incarnations, is not just a superstar of Hell, but the conclusion of a swinging century. The end of a swift descent - the point of arrival. The moment to slip away. It’s pathetic but true.  We are our own ancestors and descendents doing the Yellow to the trumpets’ sound. We know it’s only dance macabre, but we like it, Amen.
χ


V.
V/1
That reality refused to adapt itself does not mean it’s any truer than the fiction - those dualities have been elimininated by the visual effects of the cinematic experiment from Cocteau to Lucas. You can’t preserve the spirit of a revolution without organizing for a holy campaign like British invasions used to. If this sounds Trotzkyst, remember Bonaparte. We are obeying to Darwinist mechanisms on all walks of life. Anarchy’s always a necessary emulsion but you can’t stay DISCHARGE forever, vainly changing your technique. There is a meta-psychological tenet only justified ancients might misremember: symbols are much more than their adjacent contexts. You vainly wear a swastika crossed with a red X for protesting. For a good Nazi it only doubles its strength like a shrewd camouflage. Skinheads give little shit to such transmissions. Since JELLO BIAFRA turned the rest of the world insane, afterpunks can only promote what they condemn. You can be anti-flag but not without your own. Or AGNOSTIC FRONT. The legions of Armageddon are at war with invincible Satan, and everybody knows it can’t be won. It is an unofficial suicide pact of the mutant class of 1984 – the revenge of it all. The one and only problem with it is the no movement’s inborn cynicism. Which is the most normal reaction if we faced it. For any healthful is the actual attitude, the profane drive is powered by the same old engines of extraprofit. Materialist capitalism opened the gates of both Heaven and Hell to the final battle for the soul of man. The war is between porn and crime, let me put this straight down. Between the forces of Lucifer and Michael by the Judaist panopticum. (I hate parentheses but don’t ask me which is which; I’m against polarity.) Since George Washington turned freedom into merchandize for the Masons of the world, evolution’s no longer a Taoist process in the Maoist sense. We’ve long overstepped the speed limit on the information highway with the knowledge of the world in our pocket. The post-moral economy of these darkened days allows every artist to serve his public whatever it needs. It needs bloody gore, that’s alright. We’re not here to tame the beast. But it surely is the end of Plato’s civilization and not because of NINE INCH NAILS. Disseminate evil just because it sells is donkey business from Eternity’s aspect and won’t make you greater than one. The swindle is over. You take the money but there’s nowhere to run, boy. Nobody’s chasing. God cannot count his herd any more – they’ve grown much too many by the multiplication. In our age of higher technology, not to make music is a choice decision only the lonely would bring. On the blissful isles of gene-democracy, talent is no longer some mystic gift to the lucky. Hiphop is the best example but it’s the same in drum’n’bass. Every new epigon is a potential trendsetter. Remember the Firestarter? Not BILLY JOEL but THE PRODIGY. Or the APHEX TWIN. I thought them the future but can’t listen to it today. Time runs under the control of the hazard. That’s the scene I’ll change one day – hey, that’s my electoral promise to the children of Kronos.

V/2
It can still be shared into new schools and saleswisely categorized, but to discern the wheat from chaff, excuse the cliché, is extremely hard when at least ten new bands of all genres form every day and growing. The best will stand out, five of a hundred, but the rest will be over or underestimated by the Fates. Though underground reviewers are most reliable interns, their market influence is pretty minimal. Those mags are made for historical documents. The hardcore buyer does not collect but makes his purchase to show his support. In the anti-entertainment industry to buy is to vote: unlike THE VENTURES, bands are saturated with irreconcilable ideologies today extending the competition far off stage. Especially since the computer world turned electric robbery. It’s probably an error in the calculus, due to Microsoft, but has given back the Capital its rank. Free downloading is a communist conspiracy but will only increase the value of the merchandise in the end of the chain reaction. Most surfers are honest citizens still; crime only dominates the news. What’s happening, in my strictly confidential view, is the shifting of the battle to an individual field. Adam Smith was no Isaac Newton to figure that out. And it is a most positive and hopeful procedure we’ve never witnessed before. Although it won’t burn down the slums, it’s the only sign of peace on the event horizon. Only consumerism redeems - it’s our greatest taming force beside addiction. In the infinite variety of soundscapes discovered, a choice made is dropping the ballot. Just that in show business, you pay for voting just like for any other purchase of comfort. We spend our taxes as a pawn of love for our heroes, as solicited. Providing them for having more produce returned.  It’s a circulation of the blood without, forming communities out of the masses. Kenneth Galbraith’s got nothing to do about it, but this is the fairest economic exchange that can be between dimensions, as compared to the ridiculous political intrigues. It is fundamentally due to the media’s takeover under whomsoever’s service. Any band’s little tour feels like electoral campaign in a victoriously increasing competition People still turn out to opt for officials of corruption, but art has become a colossal enemy of the mortal majority’s fucked-up system in this heroic century of the arms race. And if your friends don’t consider it an alternative government, they’re no friends of mine. What the charts show are eventually polls and that’s where democracy slips in. There’s always a crack. The people’s taste is god’s taste they say, which has always been an arguable matter. So got the creative spirit buried in the vaults since time out of mind. We should be better off by now but aren’t. We can sail in space but the fiction’s henceforth rooted in the soil. Sell and buy is all we eventually do, which is more than hunting and fishing but not relevantly better for the spirit beggars. We live in Ambi-Valencia and it’s a scary holiday. We’re in fact mercenaries in a clash of times. We kill for our cosmetics and are drinking our piss. The dumping of overproduction on every worthy recording domain is outright depressing. There’s much more offered than one consumer can take. We ought to get extremely specialized and that’s a backlash on the crossover mania. When the fans reduce to friends you can be sure that you made it.  The real world of the antipop consortium dialectically inverted the bottom and the top - if you sell a hundred self-released copies you already left your mark behind like carved in the trunk of Ygradsil. Every king is a servant in disguise. Fragmentation is epidemic like cancer in post-rock where dance is no longer the primary notion. The research goes for the resonance of disaster - the perfect sound of the blast. Lemmy wouldn’t care but it’s a painstaking trend from noise to drone. Yet even STING knows we shan’t overcome. Music is its own reward. Wave bye-bye to rock’n’roll all ye millionaires of
Osh. Go back to Jamaica.

V/3
The hard core of the matter is that almost everything’s good when done. Only the ignorant can differ between two of the same. Although accurately classified by patterns of frequency and riffage - every turning key opens a million rooms with various views before the musicianship. Selection becomes an aggravating ordeal so for the maker as for the taker. Artists are self-made dogs orientating by mysterious instincts. That’s why death had to become so melodic when blackened into militant pagan by the Viking invasion re-conquering
Florida. BORKNAGAR, ENHERJER, ENSLAVED – to only name three from the Norse in the forest of equilibrium. I’m used to avoid pretentious comparisons, but nowhere have those instincts been so meticulously channeled as in the industrial offensive of the reunited republic of Germania paving the way to the Fourth Reich from DIE KRUPPS to DAS ICH. Effectively remixing incompatible elements with alchemical dexterity, they succeeded the best in clearly obscuring the line between pro and contra accordingly the Frankfurter Old School. OMPH!, L’ÂME IMMORTELLE, UMBRA & IMAGO  are all transgenders of EBM and Goth filed under Neue Deutsche Härte first applied to RAMMSTEIN for the post-generation. It’s a fifteen years old trend as well, born fifteen years after SPRUNG AUS DEN WOLKEN. Where is the revolution speeding so slowly? You cannot kill the rock’n’roll animal because it changes into retrofit ghosts like a pretty little chameleon. Where you draw the borderline between militant synthpop and industrial metal is a huge dilemma for many executives from Alfa Matrix to Machinenwelt. The best is to put that load right on :WUMPSCUT:. CREMATORY, ATROCITY, LACRIMOSA are a bit more darkcore. And the power synthesis of EVEREVE or DREADFUL SHADOWS is even less classifiable. But except for personal matters always lurking, they embrace each other with a hug reserved for blood brothers beyond borders even in treacherous English. The best to start with listening in is the metalhammer of AND ONE, the timekiller of PROJECT PITCHFORK, and the second unit of FUNKER VOGT in one triune. All of Goethe’s descendents are martially influenced by the Muse of Leni - though it’s only for the art of film, of course, like Playboy was for the articles. And all this in the shadow of EINSTÜRZENDE NEUBAUTEN revered by everyone except maybe ACCEPT. But that’s another black world again. Since the 1st of April they collapsed the Congress Hall they’re composing the cupole of the plastic cathedral of our future’s reconstructed ruins. Let me just call your attention to DEINE LAKAIEN yet and finish it here. There are far too many names to drop - and all the same good as WOLFSHEIM or SILKE BISCHOFF. Even BLUTENGEL is great. And the sweetest lyrics since Heine. Beware only from S.P.O.C.K. and BEBORN BETON if there is a choice. If there isn’t, they still will do. But remember that the prime legacy of DER PLAN remains unalienable. The Deutsch-Amerikanische Freundschaft won’t ever stop the Folkdance. It only went trollish in swampy Finnlandia.

V/4
Though synthpop, like everything else, was born in the
UK blessed by the rain, it took new roots in the Teuton soil fertilized by Krautrock. ALPHAVILLE and CAMOUFLAGE with one leg into Disco cleaned the dancefloor for STERIL. In the most superficial historical view it was German synthpop that defined the first decade following the Year of Change as far as the clubs went on, shaking the industrial hand. But the de-vision’s grown only more fundamental after all these years we live in. Gothic Treffens and machinist rallies bring it all together for some days of swine and roses but even the open air of Wacken ain’t concerned but about environmental issues, saving the planet for the future dead. Even the blackest metal is profoundly Thoreauist and cattle decapitators are the new activists of animal rights. Nobody cares about himself in the chaos – how noble the superman has become! The notion of an Atheist putsch under Infinity’s Union Jack I’m pushing on my lavatory is definitely the lowest of the lowlands. As long as fascism is identified with Nazi ideology, I can’t break down the language barrier. That’s why Uncle has to be killed first as long proposed by Morrissey the Sphinx. People don’t listen to the messages, Sir. That’s why there’s nothing new coming. Everything is repeated a hundred times by now; there’s no greater luck than if a senator hears it from you first. Scandal still works but abominably shifted by the increasing hazard. ‘Operation Hummingbird’ is a loveliest stint but becomes the saddest joke when backed with the wisdom of the wrecked – stay hiding in Tibet and keep mocking at the flood. That’s not what Ziggy died for. I think we missed out on something. By my opinion as humble as can be, we have to focus on the departure and nothing else at this extracrucial moment. That’s all I’d promote if someone passed me a mike. Which might explain why no one would, but it doesn’t satisfy me. The mortal never mind but Time is running out with an awesome velocity. That’s why your Ministry was charged to design The Building exactly twenty years ago. For there’s no other solution to slip away as far as a humanoid can see. We planned it for 1984, remember, listening to new wave mainly. When we were still too young. Young Eurasians. Now we are old farts but it’s not too late yet. Another 14 years should be enough if they let us go. ERIC BURDON’s henceforward with us. And we got VARG VIKERNES too. All we need is a mighty investor into The Party. It surely won’t be Donald Trump but I’m not afraid. I still believe the stadium should be erected on Iceland. Bermuda is too unpredictable.

V/5
Although an unparalleled contributor to the electric reconstruction, sample-based activity frequented by many genres is an ominous signal of the end of the inventive era. It can be argued but hard to contradict. The impression whereas nothing new can be done outside the visual effects is immensely  correct - we can’t go on too farther without a quantum leap. It is our assiduous duty to close the book of repetitions. Only a perfect rejuvenation can raise our time-consciousness to a next level of yearning. It’s jump or drop in these unprecedented days. Rundown time. Though the cosmic player can choose his destination and the vehicle to get there, no gambler can cut the naval string of the Zodiac’s almighty Puppeteer. Whatever he tries to command, the machine controls the operator. The infernal pendulum we are kept swinging by between Heaven and Hell is out of every order known to Gravity. Albeit our collective memory can be infinitely stored since history’s documented more and more profusely, no amount of surveillance cameras would decrease the rate of crime even in
great Britain. Internet wasn’t invented to cure like godheads cure; it’s given birth to a galaxy of new felonies by the highway. Das macht das Kapital.  Like justifying William Hays, sex and violence, formerly arch enemies, have formed an unseparable consensual alliance where making rape is more popular than love. The train coming ever so slowly has been formally derailed by its own operators. It was an accident justly blamed on the malevolent semaphore signals of the Fiend combining technology and democracy by the Apple computer. Nor has the world wide web exercise any influence on the nationalist spectra. Eventually it has strengthened it which is the devil’s miracle. There is no army of traitors fighting for individual rights around here, Sir; I vastly misunderstood the situation. So where is the moral? Nations under their banners are a medieval remnant and a dreadful obstacle of the bionic progress. Even the worst egoists would die for their country. We are sanguine Vandals at the Gates, vainly is FREDRIK NORDSTRÖM producing. LUSTMORD rules the atmospherics and it’s no more symbolic than a mirror image. Kill Rock Stars is a label, but killer killers would sound like the cheapest oxymoron even in Malmö. Most bands name themselves after B-movies and that’s one of the relieving signs. But the lost knighthood is deeply saturated with scorn for the innocent. Counting down to Armageddon like crazy, the human beast is unleashed by KORN. And intensely promoted  throughout the soundsphere in the names of the most exotic deities resurrected from the encyclopedia for the Great Syzygy. With so much knowledge acquired, we should be a bit more intelligent by now. See clearer how the serpent lies. The best method to fight anything is to face it.  We ought to resist dichotomy’s reign of diabolic terror by total defiance of the global Pandemonium’s mechanical torture. The Party invites the self-conscious elite to a fête gallante out of the mosh pit. To the marriage supper of the replicated Lamb. Retro ad absurdum. Join the solitary army of the living dead. Judge or be judged.

V/6
There we go again. Back in the saddle of my nameless horse. Riding away in my own private Bardo. This tube is a labyrinth with no exit in sight, Sir. Every detour recoils to the missing foundation. I should have known it better and resisted the nasty temptation of going into it. Doing something useful for the world in stead like the rich and famous. My dream is my trap. I’m nothing of a seductive suitor of the cravers. The phrase ‘take my hand’ comes with a supplementary ‘please’. Whereas I say ‘or fuck off’. I’m not a prince but a brute. There’s little public interaction at ‘NOVA AKROPOLA (Citadel of the
Socialist Kingdom)’ therefore. I tried all that crap but nothing worked for me. I’m a terrible artist and a measly spy. My agency sounds a lot better in secret. Top secret, what’s more. When I was a freshman I arranged a couple of interviews with bands on tour visiting the hometown of my captivity, and it’s always been a devastating disappointment. Not in the interviewees, that’s another question, but in my dislocated self. I cannot stand my status quo when confronted with it. Opening my eyes is the end of it all. I’m a very bad actor too, getting too easily identical with the role enforced. I’m not humble enough to neglect the scheme and overlook the eyes of the others. I become exactly what I de facto am: a dilettante bum in the shabby guise of an old poseur. No wonder I prefer to hide in my den. Although I never had to go farther than the next corner for the job – my residence is very well located indeed. In the center of at least three nearby undergrounded clubs.  It is very providential, I can’t complain, but couldn’t profit from it nothing. Like cursed from within, I turn into the worst jerk the world has ever seen when wanting to will. Vainly I came with a questionnaire ready to discuss issues, I unexceptionally behaved like an unhinged idiot; asking annoyances in the most  furtive manner, showing appalling ignorance both business and technology wise. I was the worst salesperson of my ideas and it was inexcusable like a crime. An insult on taste, blemishing the otherwise great reputation of Montreal City. I planned these meetings as propaganda activity for The Party – conscription praxis starting with the best. The opportunity of buying me time on FM air came very handy to provide an official background to G.I.N.A.’s promotional campaign. But it was just another fool’s errand engendering guilt and shame. Whoever needed this for whatever reason?  I’m very much in need of a Ministry of Propaganda. Most of the times I fucked up the recording on various pretexts, but when I could listen to them it was like a treatment of shock the worst mad should not deserve. Finally when BLIXA BARGELD called me a self-masturbating journalist and tore apart my identity matrix he concluded an incompetent test of sociology, I put the zealous notion on an ultimate hold. I’ll only write reviews from now on where at least I don’t have to communicate face to face with the busy ones. And can simulate some intelligence I’m so desperately lacking when I have to talk about The Building. Because that’s all I wished to talk about with KEVORKIAN DEATH CYCLE under the cover of the radio. Though not mad enough to do so, the frustration shone well  through every sycophant word I’d say. My love only wanted to get me off her back. I was heartbroken every time we met. ANDY WARHOL’s elitarian empire of underground overnationale showed us The Way to work and love, but could not extend beyond the frontiers of exotica. Did not want to, of course, there were no political motivations around there so all income could be reinvested into socialist art, but it’s so sad it remained such a remote ideal of unnatural selection in the black hole of democracy. The Factory was its own product, built in the air like an ancient hologram. No alien invasion could ever overcome the native population’s innate hate of the uncommon. All the citizenry want is security in the killing field, which only the past can offer for a present survivor. Nostalgia rules. Nothing’s more venerable, but this is the rotten core of the constant war between the tenses and evolution’s of little use to alter it too soon under the sway of Trivia. A radical dethronement  is needed to have progress and peace harmonized. The Home of the UR was proposed to house all sorts of revolting cocks and chicks. Its genius derived from the inviting love of attractive differences. I surely am the last of the dreamers moving my trembling hands, but I’m smoking my pipe for the triumph of imbalance. The victory of a personal revolution against the totalitarian equilibrium of the witch’s justice. The hour to acknowledge the supremacy of the divine has struck,  to impudently oversimply it for the school children of Osh. We ought to get over misery and purity if we wanna stay on the payroll of Eden. My little grey book does not mean to challenge the brown one. It is written down to complement it from the threshold of perception. In the jungle of pagan chaos, moral is a black rose grown in the shadow of the Garden. The seeds of aesthetics were randomly sown – no supreme law will ever subordinate human nature without cutting the roots radically out. It’s terrible but true, even if we don’t care any more. The Ten Commandments were totally inefficacious on the long and deep run. Man cannot be tamed better than lions and the Elohim know it. However domesticated, our baleful race belongs to the vegetation. Consciousness only helps to see it clearer, but what a dubious help it is! It’ll turn one’s mode ultimately passive. No counterforce can dodge Michel Foucault’s pendulum of insanity and madness. Destinies are unique, but the responsibility is common and equal. Even monks repent all night long. Criminals are undertakers, but crime is an enterprise of the innocent. It’s Diabolus game where cheating’s impossible. Dead or alive makes no difference when you are wanted. Outlawed and ambushed, the elite only tries to disappear from the radar. We know we are special but are no longer proud to be the prey of preys. Only sin redeems in the pragmatic point of the anti-psychiatric view. We ought to say instant good-bye to all reasonable doubts. The body must become treason to the thought. That’s how philosophy incarnated into rock’n’roll.

V/8
Now that we’re Atheist, the aims are more abstract than ever. The wedding’s between Thanatos and Eros, like it’s always been. But the Bride wears black and joy is commanded with utmost cruelty. Disobedience will be punished by eternal death in Bordel New
Jerusalem. From the moment you vote for life, you have to live as a cosmic robber eschewing the demon police. Even the worst yank wants to get higher. But no goal justifies the means - that’s where criminology begins. To rise is the primal urge of the dying soul and we must take extreme care not to miss out on the top. That was JIM MORRISON’s testament and not the drug paraphernalia. The rare example when accident becomes grace, and that stands for the other two as well. Overdose is far the best vehicle of departure, no wonder it is tried so hard. Only aspiration will get you through the Bardo – it’s an integral rule of the bargain. The ultimate truth is simply unspeakable. It becomes false when expressed – the more relevant, the falser. Every belief comes from the evil one and that’s the secret nobody wanna know.  Certainty is the ultimate lie of the snake. It ruins the tower of defense. As long as you’re sure you cannot be right. A real spy never trusts his instincts. Verity’s all around you – there’s no mystery about it. All you’ve got to do is ignoring it all. Since TV became reality there is no place to hide. What ain’t obvious must be deceit. Diversity is a supergift to the chosen; you may always carry more crosses if not wanting to be crucified on a single one, but to become neither instead of both is always a grand danger of multipolarity. A spectrum with no exit – infinity’s famous trap you can’t escape by rational stratagems. Stuck in the creative nowhere, the talented artist may turn into a hapless victim of his own genius: a static posture reproducing the beauty of the beast he came to kill. That’s the story of MIDGE URE. There was a time when such dichotomies weren’t existent - you played the devil’s music for the devil, singing gospels of salvation. Those were the simple times. With DEEP PURPLE everything has changed into turbulence; bridges are built to conveniently jump from. We became whirlpool surfers and seemingly nothing can save us. Time is dead but we keep passing on like a clockwork; running the final race for Eternity. There’s no point in overemphasizing the period of your occasional dream though. It is the end of the world since its beginning. Life is the new death. The ancients knew it better without Rolex. Present perfect is a mental chicanery we ought to concur with but may not fall for. The tense we live in is out of our control vainly have we gained a historic overview. We can’t learn, we can’t forget. And cannot plan the nearest future as Lenin’s sublime example showed. Nothing’s brought to completion yet, only comfort has improved a little bit. Everything can shuffle, break, and vanish at any goddamn moment notwithstanding how safe you play. Everyone gets betrayed in the end; the greater he was, the more spectacularly. One’s ultimate treason is to himself - the last exam of the master-spy. Let me refer to Foucault once again as opposed to Lacan, for simplicity’s sake. For an Atheist saint nothing is sacred. The vision’s swallowed by its reflex. The organic daymare is no imagination. Any supper may be your last under the splashing Sun without warning. That’s why it’s more proficient to prepare it in advance. If it’s not obvious for the mortal, the mortal have to die.

V/9
Bringing the constant metamorphosis of our designated environment in the observatory’s foreground, fashion’s contribution to the evolutionary process is unparalleled. It is the Atheist worship itself: the materialist rite far outreaching what churches of gods could offer. Fashion is the transcendent representative of the human race at its fictional best and constant warranty of the promise given to the superman enslaved. It is presented to deliver one’s eternal soul from the unequal body infectious and aging. An apocryphal antithesis to the biosphere’s physical conditions, demanding the instant recognition of our acquired supremacy. It is our major proof of intelligence in the selfless service of the Zeitgeist. Fashion is the vanishing memorial of reconstruction where the spirit world encounters the fleshcrawl. It’s time’s embodiment in its virtual reflection: the clock with a human face. A most reliable channel of communication powered by drive of overcoming, Zarathustra sagt. It demonstrates the everyday heroism of survival in a hostile and murderous milieu. And it manifests the Utopia of a kingdom governed by the unwritten laws of taste and style. Fashion is our wonder weapon against the two enemies we fight: the ego within and the patria without. A pawn of sanity in the organized asylum. A possibility of lasting peace between all competent types. Fashion comes in furs and rules the global market with a silken hand amidst the corporate emperors’ glamorous contest. I know how pathetic it may sound for obsessed designers, but there is this ungraceful twist to it we’d better take more seriously. Albeit under strong spiritual support, evolution’s central aim is corporeal. Whatever said and done, only the body counts at the end of the day. Generation by generation, we are genetically modified by the Moulder to become a flawless work machine better than spiders. Fashion is the autocracy of quality turning the burial ground into a hallowed field of return. It is the original overnational imperialism whose seasonal rejuvenations are premeditated strategies of our star war for autonomy. Ignoring the innate resistance of the evil undead, fashion today creates an own universe defying the demons of psychosis and depression. Under the functionalist camouflage of venturing business, fashion’s ritualized exhibitionism sanctified by unorthodox Jews profoundly altered the magnetics of the polar field and bestowed an unprecedented rank on human life on Earth. If fashion had the word, races wouldn’t riot. Fashion is a civilized conflict of private interests with less violence implied than in a domestic quarrel. Calvin Klein and Versace won’t wage battles on the planes like medieval knights for the territory. In the gay
Valhalla respects are true and mutual. Fashion displays the all-time fertility rate of the culture. It’s the greatest of all gifts we got and should be a lot more celebrated by the hateful living. Fashion is our visual report sent out to tell where we exactly are at in the costume department of the super-production. A periodical review of New Jerusalem promoting the glory of sin and the virtue of vanity. The triumph of deceit.

V/10
I certainly should not deal with the visual domain in this audiographic mail addressing the sender, but the frontiers between music and fashion are more blurred in this age of Gesamtpop than ever before. Under modern society’s multimedia parenthood they became twin children of the electric renaissance. Especially since rockabilly came along to shake the confederate foundations. Any haute, couture is an appeal to the masses: demonstrating the changing face of time whilst creating a uniform of integrity more and more affordable around the clock. The train of capitalism is carrying us into the future of high-standard communism, even Gorby couldn’t imagine. Nor Ronny on the other end. O.S.P. is a brand new way indeed proposed to superhumanists of the anti-Tao. Fashion is our perennial offering to the Elohim, asking for pardon and protection in the most ancestral sense. It keeps us aware of the forces that shape our appearance on the matrix. Just as it’s become independent of the vagaries of the weather in the urban situation, so it negates the political atmosphere of the land’s ideological climate. Mode is a mystic memory of the Garden we’re deemed to reproduce since the birth of consciousness. Before the century of media putting
Hollywood on the throne of the globe to create one nation out of the tongues, folklore provided the sole versatility of the labor camp. The world wide screen introduced the international idol to the farthest countrysides. The invention of moving the picture is only comparable with the discovery of the wheel. The basic concept of stardom has been to unite the world, and success, measured by income, the straightforward method of it. That it’s a most natural notion by now does not diminish Rudi Valentino’s credits. Capitalist democracy’s introducing parity in the genetic lineage of stimulated mutation, the dominion segregated by blood-drawn borders of race and class shifted into the generation gap of a horizontal selection. When the teen spirit defeated the values of the elders. The first amendment of which was the endorsement of rebellion with or without a cause. The factory of the global dream distributed to conquer the geographic market turned Americans into the indisputable master race of humanity, with strong emphasis on the individual character. The other half of the pair was jazz as opposed to avant-garde only Stravinsky and the Kitschmakers could transgress a tiny bit from what I heard. I call kitschmakers CARL ORFF and ERIC SATIE and not IRVING BERLIN or KURT WEILL, to make my point clear. It began in the old country long before the Louisiana hayride, but the best place to start the countdown is around LOUIS ARMSTRONG and BILLIE HOLIDAY. It all culminated in the Fifties when music ceased to be the soundtrack to history and began to dictate the majority’s moral. Entertainment turning into a revolutionary movement with all those neo-colonialist overtones of artistic dominance, the voice of the people suddenly hit an all-time high. Memphis donated the beat of the first world slowly encompassing the entire soundsphere by its attitude. Today both drone and noise belong to rock’n’roll, even field recordings. Everything you happen to like by your perfect taste from martial industrial to depressing doom. Everyone has his own opinion what the first rock’n’roll song was and it’s all true most probably. Let me just mention my pick on this pretext: it’d be “Ben Dewberry’s Final Run” by JIMMIE RODGERS. And that’s from 1928 AD, the roaring Twenties’ end. When the seeds of the new Millennium were planted all over the place. When that bitch COCO CHANEL rose to superpower.

V/11
CHUCK BERRY’s extraterrestrial crusade made it inevitable for national youths to break ties with the local traditions of them folks, in order to join the great rock’n’roll empire up to command and conquer the patriot games. It was a putschist intervention in a ballroom Blitz. Revolt became a communal pattern and treason the inmost nature of a global awakening. Nowhere was it more palpable than in the
Warsaw Pact of the cold war, providing communist kids an alternative Internationale based on rhythm and blues. What EDDIE COCHRAN sang were songs of freedom no military choir could effectively repress. The Kennedys were paper tigers, but the Union of Soviets remained defenseless before the invasion of English beat. They had to ally with PAUL ROBESON to protect themselves. The same trumpets as of Jericho brought the Berlin Wall too down – allegories live and repeat themselves as we do the Yellow. When there’s a battle, there’s always a Joshua fit to it. Although tribal feuds still dominate the third world of JOHNNY CLEGG and FELA KUTI, to question the village being technically global would be as crazy as denying the Holocaust. An insult on sociobiology. Since the great Noontide of technology concluded the equalization process, diversity in unity is no longer a teenage dream. The consistency of increase has never been so arresting. Despite its ridicule by the parallel mainstream, the realm of fashion radically extends its grasp in competitive solidarity between its self-made monarchs fighting for predominance. Frida surely showed him but Leon could not see the potential of fashion’s permanent revolution against the gravity of the past. The specter of a higher dictatorship. Fashion is the everyday magic of secular culture designed by crafted wizards of the magnificent metamorphosis towards the elitcult of a better future. It is an unholy crusade recapturing New Jerusalem from the feminists. All you’ve got to have is your make-up and your hate. Fashion is an institute of deliverance whose creative priests overtly imitate the divine. Looks are everything ‘cause only the mask remains. VIVIANNE WESTWOOD could make the gutter glitter. What a wonderful world have we built from the dust, isn’t it? Aesthetics is the quintessential substitute of order in the chaos and nowhere it shines brighter than in the light of anarchy. That’s what united Kropotkin and Tzara versus the bourgeoisie. Since a hundred years of solitude are we preparing the field for a larger warfare than between systems of belief. For a hedonistic economy under the divine terror of Rhadamantine justice. But no music has overcome yet the atavistic greed of the valley. The conspiracy of oblivion presides over the showcase very well, but the discrepancy of runway and the street is only growing wider in the praxis. The masses are more and more colorful but extravagance is scorned worse than in 1900 despite the absolute reign of supermodels and popstars. The chasm can no longer be bridged. It is a holy lie we live to tell, creating a legend that never existed really. It’s nothing short of heroic in the mythical sense, but works by the same device as religions did. Fashion is the new opium of the people craving for thrill and gossip. Since the gap turned inward by the generation recoil, only psychics can tell guilty from the innocent. Nothing differs rich niggaz from the poor; you really have to be a clochard to be recognized. Things are happening, bigger and faster alright, but the progress froze into an ultimate stagnation. There won’t be another movement coming, Sir, I can predict that any day now. Only the fragmentation is gonna be growing. The masses are a defunct concept – there’s no proletariate to empower in the land of asocialism. You can’t run for presidency without pledges to the middle class. Brutalized and intellectualized at the same odd time, rock has given up its political ambitions altogether. WORLD SERPENT is nothing but a nostalgic joke of the New Skeptics. Willpower’s spent on gay couples adopting African orphans and to say homo superior is strictly forbidden on the ground. You’d lose all the little reputation acquired in the leftfield; it’d be so disgustingly-retro. We’d better experiment with infrasound. For those that still believe in time here’s a warning: there’s nothing new to come any time soon. Only the synthesis of all that was and will be. There is no present and the dream is bad. Now is gone forever with all its theatrics. What we’ve got is a replacement of the evacuated soul – recycled visions of the alternative Gehenna. We are no dummies any more but reasonably refuse another final solution. Forsaken cynics of algorithm. ALEC EMPIRE’s just another solitary soldier of the digital co-op’s power hungry army. The last riot is over and out. It began with STIV BATORS.

V/12
What indeed should be done is the best question to ask, but in all sincerity Sir, I haven’t got a clue. The renegades took over Bardo and our galactic status is seriously damaged. The Constitution of Overnational Socialism is founded upon controlled multiplication and unnatural selection. Radical extinction of the humanist virus to once and forever terminate the 24’s bloody reign of tolerance. Armageddon is a battle between Heaven and Hell and I’ve decided not to take a side. I am plain obsessed with the idea of escape and nothing else matters. All I ever prayed for was power to kill the crime. Or at least die trying. It’s terrible but cannot help it as long as I’m in love. I’ve always been a Maoist that way. Revenge is my single ministry takes what it takes. But what am I to prove out of every law? Even ROB HALFORD’s been vainly screaming his lungs out for decades. Nobody has the guts to play offstage, except for U2 for all the wrong reasons. BOYD RICE won’t be elected governor of
California without a Satanist putsch which is most improbable. Satan couldn’t hold a klezmer band together. Counterrevolution is like renaissance contra gothic by the artificial comparison reversed. Electronic summoning of immortal virtues. Computers have more brains but no moral. The true force is with us: the robots that operate them. The better served, the greater is the master. The attested potential of humanity on the star trek is mind-blowing. New planets are discovered every day and god’s got nothing to do with it. All we are here for is to save and profit. You may cross over every borderline on the sonic map of the world of beats but the cosmic equilibrium of prog and reg is precariously fragile. The war of the tenses has never been trickier. Music is our sole protector from the demons given free hand by the bargain – it predicts the future and alters the past. During the Rossini-Wagner axis the people’s dance was restricted to the respectable margins of the mundane background. What jazz gave to the twentieth century was its changing of character: sound from accompaniment became the drama itself. If Liszt or Chopin was the original rock’n’roll star is an arguable matter. HILDEGARD VON BINGEN was not greater than JOAN BAEZ – only the times are changing. The Sefirot remain digital. We must be exceedingly careful not to mix up what’s eternal with infinity. Rock’n’roll in the end monopolized history by superseding all institutionalized religions and royalist colonialisms. Speeding up on the highway is an immense risk we take, ignoring the false security of conservative liberalism and the cinematic warnings of destiny. Beyond good and evil we are challenging the unknown. When the martyrs turn into avengers, fashion victims take all the precedence. Fragrance redeems every sin. You are what you wear and your dress is your aura. Unto the pure all things are pure, nicht wahr? Reality edition of the book of the dead.
χ

VI.

VI/1
I sincerely beg you Sir to kindly overlook my associative disorder and insertions of privacy and regard them as additional motifs to the tapestry of the grey carpet I’m laying before Time’s retreating feet. On your confident card from
Venice I wouldn’t dare to visit without bodyguards you called my confessional letter to you “venting”, and I’m very injured. Black truth hurts more than any white lie, that’s why I avoid look in mirrors. It is sheer miracle that I can do whatever yet beside sleeping on the floor and praying for money in my private cell where the Sun wouldn’t shine in. There is no sex, no drugs, no rock’n’roll down here. It is Hell per se.  I’m only writing this report for want of the theatre – I can’t forget the role I cast myself for. I do anything for me. When I say ‘rock’n’roll’ I don’t mean ALAN FREED and his corrupted Band solely but the general behavior pattern of the elect as they’re called. I’d apply it to the whole gamut back to Nuremberg – not the tribunal but the Meistersinger themselves. Or Anacreon, it I wanted to be real snobbish. Everywhere there’s rock’n’roll where the performer becomes the message from Orpheus to DJ SHADOW. It is a rock’n’roll world I’m a proud member of by orientation. In presence of the Godhead’s embarrassing invisibility, the idolatry of human models is the maximum purity one’s soul can achieve – fanship is the is software of the bridal character Messiahs are looking for. Cults of personality, especially when so well deserved sometimes, are the most important expressions of the self-respect the UR so badly needs. What you end up adoring is not AXL ROSE or NIKKI SIXX, but the spark of the divine therein as nameless as particular. It’s always the Lamb that lies down on Broadway. Egoists do it every time, but when a good guy grabs the focus he’ll never be rid of responsibility again. Only giants can destroy their own creations within the taste limit. You can’t be so down or high to cancel an appearance – it can cost your Malibu house. You may break a few cameras but privacy is none of your rights any longer. You’ve sold your soul to the image of Mephisto. Great actors become an ideal of their selves: largely alienated objects of desire whereby they’ll be judged and remembered. No gossip columnists can ever touch that sanctum. The badder the boys are, the wider’s their public. Not everything is ultimately wrong; don’t think I’m pessimistic. I love my stars as any girl next door; I can’t imagine what I’d be without them. Stage, movie, or record doesn’t matter – I consume what I like to the bones. Eat their heart bleeding for me like a vampire, no problem how rich they are. Since media have become our temple of worship, celebrities are the priests of the new empire of world domination via satellite. I’m very little moved by digging for mummies in Egypt. It’s interesting to see the awesome road we traveled but could get over it by now. Watching MICK JAGGER is to see the Maker at work and love and it’ll wet your panties. A rock’n’roller who don’t wanna be a star is no rock’n’roller – Jesus fucked us up but his example remains. We only can add new readings to the infinitive. The Word rules, mon ami. BOB DYLAN rules.

VI/2

Pop music in the original sense is a wonder weapon we invented for defense against the annihilator of a hostile biosphere we’re sentenced to explore. It’ll take your life just the same but at least deservingly. PETE TOWNSHEND, to name but Goddaddy, is not a thug – he acts like that to inform you about something. Obeying the law every citizen of the kingdom at hand should. Rock’n’roll is the sword of Excalibur waiting for Colonel Parker – it saves the worthy like no redemption before. The problem with Time is the way it changed. The sales have dramatically separated from the value after the revolution had won, turning underground a most frustrating place to be. It’s the innate dialectic of the craving soul’s desire to leave the prison of her happy home and suffer in stead with the top of the crop where fame and money dwells. Those that disadmit it are liars and that’s the sweetest in them. Why the mainstream had to part so radically with the setting trends is hard to understand for a down and outsider; it must have been a repercussion of the great swindle. Never the less, the exploitation of the virgin has not ceased to impress. Whilst the surface became an arena of mediocrity, the world beneath has evolved into a Luciferian entertainment for the subgenius GENE SIMMONS could never grasp if he tried. And JUDAS’ PRIEST is only a bridge after all. DEF LEPPARD too. The bottom million that won’t tour
Japan except if coming from there are just waiting intensely for their death from Gothenburg to Tampa. Though rooted in hard and heavy, death metal brought instant salvation to the devotees of Baphomet. Black is the new white and there’s nothing like it. And the longest chapter of The Book of Rocks so far. Maybe because it’s the final; we always hope. Like everything else, the war with Satan officially started in 1984 AD. Which is sixteen years of candlemass getting but brighter in the dark. The distance between GENE VINCENT and CHUBBY CHECKER was a mere five. The same between ZIGGY STARDUST and JOHNNY ROTTEN. Since time has passed away, the clock ain’t ticking no more. It is running out and nothing can forcibly stop it. Equally tributing LaVey and Cohen, the Swedish invasion has created an elitarian unity Berlin Bowie could not even dream of, in iron alliance with the industrial records of medieval folklore resurrected. I know they all worship CHARLES MANSON but it doesn’t matter. Manson is a goat and his family was a rock’n’roll band like the Partridges. Natural born patron of the children of Bodom. He’s promoting green peace now but it doesn’t matter either. Actually it’s amazingly logical to me. Satan’s humor is much better than Tarantino’s – only Polanski could match up with it yet. Those two should get together for a documentary before they both die alone. What I wanted to pinpoint was the supremacy of the nightbreed under the Sun. The return of Golgotha’s vampire as the Angel of Light. Rejuvenation of the black hole of disco zombies. The uncharted territory of the ninety-three is wider and deeper than the golden age of surrealism. In the fourth tense where we conditionally live, avant-garde and retro-dudes are a perfect couple marching down the spiral. Listening to MAUDLIN OF THE WELL should be a good escape. Or ELEND. Or even THERION. These are classicist jazz bands from Ether deifying kitsch as opposed to trash. At its misanthropic best it is Odin’s revenge on the breakbeatniks. The counterrevolution is dashing on under the cover of Nordic signs and paints of the metaphoric battle. The Valkyries are riding again and that’s the best thing that happened to us since Wiener Blut. The gates of Hell opened by Wakeford and Stapleton won’t be shut by friends of BON JOVI – they are here to stay ajar till we all shine on. This is the ultimate de/vision where in and out are synchronized. No Bohemian rhapsody any more. Welcome to the jungle. Changes are irreversible. If you forget to take a side, infinity will swallow you up. And what will you play when the walls of sound come tumbling down? TOM WAITS? You’d better bury your dreams safely before they kill the last survivor.

VI/3
Dressed to kill but no enemy soon perverts the
UR into suicidal maniacs. Which brings us to the most delicate question of the sphinx: what would make life worth to be lived for TOM SEDOTSCHENKO? The struggle within is between two demons. Life instinct and death wish. Intelligence makes it  very hard to ignore the lack of reason – joy remains the sole weapon of resistance for the unfit. Suicide is always valuable but can be a terminal error if miscalculated. It may bring on terrible incarnations, worse than a ghost’s unlife. Double as bad than what you gave up with half of its chances. The Overnational Socialist Party was envisaged with the notion of assistance on my evil mind as opposed to putting the patient on suicide watch. The Wedding Theory has innumerable readings in every mad religion but after all it’s between the living and the unliving when it comes to sex. To provide a safe and gentle departure service has always been our first priority in the shadow of The Building. We don’t consider death opposite to life but a most integral, though most important, part of it. Nowhere you need to be so conscious than at the gate. Even the greatest stars can fuck it all up in the last moment and they know it – even SAM SHEPARD is contemplating in secret. Death is your own movie and every man and woman is a film director with transcendent potentials. You do not have to be Carlos Castaneda to reach that wisdom alive. Drugs can help a lot but not the last exhale: you must be fully aware when entering Osh and forget who you were. That’s the last act of treason that’ll get you through the Bardo. Let me scholastically repeat it again: there is no oblivion without full consciousness. Ars Moriendi and Modus Vivendi are one and  the same faculty for a living dead. Death must be controlled or you’ll be finished – is that supernormal to understand? Departure should not be an inevitable accident but a cause for celebration – G.I.N.A. is a very Orphic cult for the computer age. Neo-Thracian, if someone hasn’t used that term before. Instant ascendancy is required for the spirit to cut the passage short across the tunnel. Rocket from the crypt. Atheism is not a philosophical approach but entirely cognitive: the rock’n’roll workship of a functionalist Church. Synthesis of all that was under the aegis of the unknown. Certainty regained. Selfish exploitation of the dream is the faith of the future. If it sounds too pathetic to you, Sir, just forget about it – it’s very cumbersome to elaborate on the obvious when everybody knows what nobody knows. Every word I speak is completely superfluous when we got GAMMA RAY.  I gave up to be cautious a long long time ago. I’ve got absolutely nothing to lose and at the bottom of my unconscious it is a considerable privilege. The more of a loser, the freer you are; and at that one I’m the champion of the world, not BECK. No bargain can break the spirit of a man without need and if Job wasn’t enough, we also got Uncle for an example. Throughout the amateur imitatio of my erroneous propaganda campaign I happened to understand one formula clearly: There’s not a thing in the world worth to fight or die for. And I feel much better since. A life without conviction is a life of sin. I’ve grown up to my ideals.

VI/4
Leaving the contaminated beaches of New Ageian pseudo-psychedelia behind, the Z-generation of the English alphabet was offered a swellest escape by the rave culture of the demolished house from gabber to goa. The only alternative offered to intelligent dancing on the electronic dais were the regressive marching bands of martial neofolk: DIE BLUTHARSCH of the nations. It gave me a lot of hope for a while despite their Nazi affiliations and annoying sopranos. I was quite immature which surely ain’t a credible excuse, but I don’t regret nothing. It was so endorsing to feel less alone with a spiritual front in the imaginary background of my one-man history. The awakening couldn’t have been ruder, and I still cannot get up though not sleeping any more. It’s a most altered state of the mind I could hardly describe if asked how it feels. I’m no critic of music or anything, just searching for my lost core. I’m happy to have lived to witness the rooster of SPINEFARM RECORDS but sorry I did not jump off the train with LITTLE EVA and CHRIS MONTEZ when rock was as young as I. No, I’m not nostalgic like a forced reunion, but definitely too old for the kill. I’m just watching the world pass on by from my blind window. The angels of mercy serially assassinated, productivity has become the afterlife generation’s principal passion on the hellbound ride. Work has always been the prime dope for slave units of the beat remastered, but with Ragnarök at hand as we know it, it happens without the interventionary dedication of TRASHMEN. The instinct’s dictum is that accelerating decay is the very best method to arrive to an exit on time. And it’s too bad to be untrue. While Piff-Puff Diddy-Daddies have a motherfuckin’ good time hopping on, the factory workers of Alastor’s manpower are only praying for a nice death. No jealousy involved, just describing. The kids are wholly satisfied with the power of metal and it’s not alright. They say what they’re told to by the demons targeting the grand average now. First mechanically but then the genius takes over. Perfectionism is a most adorable urge but if it’s not the means to a higher goal the whole exertion’s wasted. Praising Satan seems very substitutional in my contrary regard. No one could solve the dilemma as heroically as THE CLASH after Sandinista, not even DIMMU BORGIR with all their might. Cohesive forces come from beyond and they don’t come easy. True anarchy is seldom spectacular – the spirit always insinuates through the gutter since ROBERT JOHNSON hallowed the ground. Intimidated to the bones by the equalizer’s shocks of disillusion, we no longer dare to believe in a solution in our own lifetime. Only avaricious prophets try to predict doomsday for next week. And to labor for the others not even born yet is not such a fascinating option for the solitary man with no future since decades. The
UR ain’t standing for family values and retribution through the genes. All they can do is to increase the output to the extending maximum, as brutally commanded from Kether to Malkuth by the Sadistic impartiality of the Sephiroth. In an era when BLUR sells more than VNV NATION you can’t stop wondering for whose pleasure are we engineering. Thomas has grown so skeptic, the very touch of his bloody wounds won’t make him believe in any Christ. There’s no program to protect Lazarus – the witness ought to be killed so we can go on living in our antibodies. The Bible is a very good book for references. The anti-industrial syndicate of NINJA TUNES churning out fresh dung for the broadening hill day and night might be making the capitalist history of timeless independence, but the black flag of counter-revolution is streaming on the top of socialism’s inverted tower. We just don’t need that leftfield groove thing. We’re going down high and None shall save us. Tainted blood, painted sweat and crocodile tears won’t quench my thirst of revenge. You may say I’m lazy, but I was trained for metal hammer and steel sickle, and I remember. Work and love without technical support. It is not the electronics that make a music industrial but the workmanship invested. The drama of the circus. No overproduction is gonna change that law as long as we labor. Rooted in the punk race of white rats, the nihilism of the jungle does not groove me at all. I don’t dance well but need to know why. A saint of Eden does not like to escape. I wanna be marchin’ in as the spiritualists were promised. 

VI/5
Dance culture is not a craze imposed on the lame by Saint Vitus but a primordial expression of the nascent thought. The first thought was libidinal, so rocking through ages ever so dark proudly remained a temptationary vehicle of metaphysical communication. Its second main function was threat, as in war-dance for victory – sex and violence always intermingle in human invocations. That’s exactly what we ought to bring to a radical end by purifying passion from its double-meaning. I only wanna stay on the sex side therefore hereto. Dance and fashion belong together since the Neolithic still flourishing in distant jungles at this moment of grand encounter. Run, Claude, Run – it’s the tail of the eel we have to catch. The decoration of the naked body was another major technique of seduction beside the hippy hippy shake at the birth of desire. And henceforward is via Dior, though music and its instruments are no longer coming directly from the woods. Humanity on its sentimental journey for comfort has not become less materialistic, thank no god for it, but rather more animalistic in every sophisticated way. Churches hate it madder mortem, but they’ve lost their bloody grip of control over the labor camp, fortunately maybe. Not in Musulmanism, of course, but we, the OSP, don’t deal with that either. We are coping with a very narrow domain of genetic deliverance in this rush hour. And will never cease our gratitude to Satan for having opened that gate so wide: from intoxicated fertility rites to the endless nights of the discotheca’s self-gratified sin-worship. But like I say, I’d better leave the bio-lingusitic approach down to the anthropologically engaged. All I am to explore with this astructuralist letter are those cosmic rules of the bargain that made our specie more civilized under the circumstances. Community dances are stylistic patterns of the body language whereby time talks through us. The major demonstration of our actual behavioral stage observed by the operator closer than anything. It’s got nothing in common with the Match-maker’s ancestral methods of selective reproduction on the chicken farm. Even if you don’t strip, dance moves evoke the same tease imprinted since birdhood, but got less to do with propagation than maiesiophilia. And dancing in the street, no matter what you wear, even in the carnival circuit will better reveal the personality behind the mask than any sincere rezumé could. Especially since twist separated the couples after
Madison time, communal dance offers unlimited opportunity to the ego to promote itself. Like amongst the Papuas, the bewitched participant may follow his own mystic sense of blues and rhythm. Let alone the her’s. Messin’ around remained a sex machine and the arms of liberation. As opposed to the narrative appeal of statutory ballet, clubland provides free expression to every individual who’s got a story to tell. Who will forget about JOHN TRAVOLTA? And look, what a tremendous actor he’s become. Some guys just do know how.

VI/6
Throughout the dark ages of the inquisitions not only drunken peasants were dancing at their feudal weddings but the highest courts as well – more sophisticatedly choreographed but no less corporeal. Different in form but similar in content, dance is the audio-visual metaphor of the contemporary etiquette defined by the actual balance of the genders on all social planes. As we turned into humans by the book, natural coquetterie evolved into the highest art of courtship in the blissful valleys of genealogic records along the Rhein and the
Loire. When music in the city undertook the task of divine transformer rather than just scoring the landscape, it had to leave the chambers of baroque luxury to violently descend to the mean streets and ghettos. As opposed to French chançon for example, gospel was sung by converted slaves on hope, and that touch of blasphemous revolt was the source of its power to conquer the unholy market of the new world. From Händel’s cold medium of divine propaganda, music transmuted into the sensual commodity of a hot folklore: the flaming torch of progress liberated from the Catholic dogmatica. Popular culture is an American contribution to overnationalism’s socialist democracy. The revolutionary force of the people’s capital has created an unprecedented genetic parity versus the monarchic precept of bloodline. Still strictly denied in mulish Hinduism, mutation became a way of exodus in the free world. The twilight of class society: equal opportunity for the elitariate chosen in the most peculiar ways. The birth of the Antimarx. Dance is the chance embodiment of the spirit of cadence, as opposed to the elusive sound of the spheres Euro classicism was determined to capture. The encounter of the African soul with the traditional spirit of the pioneers was a bang big enough to eradicate colonialism. The line from Hildegard to Aretha is straight and thin. Rock’n’roll, let’s call it like that from now on, is also an ideal means of competition between nations, equivalent to beauty pageants and championships. Flying the throne from Louisiana to Lapland is a jolly good example for this. We are living in one strongly internetted world today and no wall of China will withstand the siege of Twitter. The new tribalism will reunite the scattered tastes. I hate bloggers worse than criminals but the goodwill of the propensity is indisputable. Osh is always correct; the problem is that he cannot care. That’s where we come in. The human race ripened for adultery. Swinging back from musical comedy to the archaic cult of death is not morbid decadence solely but the glory hole of the resurrected vampire. Doom is not the opposite to electric hardcore but the arc of the covenant. A wedding feast is going on. That’s why they call themselves ANATHEMA.

VI/7
Turning treachery, the most carnal of vices, into the best valued virtue of the post-enlightened man is the most absurd idea of the Elohim ever: heartbreakingly miscalculated. A last call in final need, I presume with my trivial mind. Aristotle would know, it’ll never work. I’m only promoting this thing from sheer loyalty, take my word for it. And of course because I love it too madly. Just don’t think for a moment I’ve gone plain insane, Sir; I can very well see where I’m planted. The impossible is all I’m left untried. I’m trying hard to be deluded, believe me. My life is a struggle. But somewhere I hear I am not alone. I hear it all the time. The bridal chorus from the four corners of the map. Maybe I’m just playing my silly role of the eternal optimist, but I find the ground quite prepared for landing. Hail hail rock’n’roll, the new consciousness is here to stay. Changes have taken us right back to the source of treason. The rock’n’roll experiment delivered us to the grand finale. The electro-industrial revolution’s prime merit is the restoration of a lost synthesis: the desire to sum it all up in a bombshell enriching the great divergence in a most powerful fusion of minimal techno. Though heavier metals are abundantly stainless from BLIND GUARDIAN to DEMONS AND WIZARDS, due to their followership’s low-brow fanatism they’ll get automatically degraded to bands of Hell playing to the devil face to face. Evil’s good when in the right hands. Even with medieval nods motorheads would spare off. FATES WARNING or AGENT STEEL are very important pillars of the collapse. But, although the trash is fresh, metal in its less precious alloys always carries the risk to get rusted too soon. WHISKEYTOWN has less challenge to meet but attracts an accordingly smaller audience in exchange. Since the grass turned grey by the grudge of depression, what happens in the country – remains in the country. Some roads can’t be crossed any more but it’s going fine. LEONARD COHEN keeps us in focus. Futurism and retro, speed-up and slow-down, the living and the dead are one and the same produce of nuclear reincarnation’s monomaniac input. Symphonic black metal has didactically taught us so. Treason’s no longer a closeted orientation. Good old Jerry Lee did not have to deal with such dilemmas; he’s never been an Atheist at heart anyway. Just possessed by the devil as we knew it. But even he had to change style like a stoner doom act tending to reconcile elite and raw cult. The undeniable supremacy of the free world as opposed to the communist ideals of rehab is in its evolution’s consumerist character, as perfectly modeled by the entertainment industry’s official takeover of political syndicates. Televison replaced church and school as formatives of civil obedience and computerization opened the space of virtual subreality. We’re flying like an eagle into the future forgotten. Style is no longer the privilege of a ruling class but everybody’s right – the preeminence of the masses has spectacularly proven the socialist antithesis of Engels’ wet dream. The human race will never be unequal again on racial bases or classified by the wage. G. B. Shaw’s prophecy afterceded George Orwell’s. Contrary to gothic superstitions, the healing virus liberated the unlimited individual from the endless service of the traditional bourgeoisie, turning the people into an idealist concept. The cleansing storm of the capital eradicated the ideologic frontiers between castle dwellers and the homeless. Since boogie-woogie integrated rich kids and poor kids into one generation, socialism’s no longer a phantom of
Paradise. You need NASUM and BENUMB when your grandmother’s a BILLY IDOL fan. Tempus fugit but the UR ain’t to be swayed by aging. Happy at our digital home, all we have to lay down is the new order of the burning house.

VI/8
On the ethnographic map of rap the constellation is quite disparate, however. In spite of its vengeful 4/4 heart, it’s a parallel generation of the ageless age. A brand new nation exclusively rooted in the skin–deep. Like nothing else mattered really; none of our failed trials of transmutation. It all comes down to the pigmentation from beginning to end. That’s why the Bad One had to take upon himself the crimes of the world. Once a nigga, always a nigga, right? If you print this, Sir, we’ll surely meet our rifles too soon. You think he’s very funny, but EMINEM disposed of the humor of GIL SCOTT-HERON in favor of the nihilists. In Farakhan’s Afronazi sheep or the Wu-Tang clans the racial and the spiritual are so strongly entwined, betrayal is organically impossible to inoculate. You can’t quench the pride of the victors any justified. Even MICHAEL FRANTI is a sham exemption in that respect. Rap’s self-gratified fugees, as opposed to the
UR, are merely ego–trippers, using beat and dub for personal duels between non-electric bodies. Hiss and diss but never miss. Who called that rhyming? Certainly not THE LAST POETS. Releases are meant to be assault weapons of a violent showdown – peace and power don’t form no couple. Songs are written to insult: if you are his friend you ain’t mine. Freedom drives the people insane – Confucius knew it as well as Mao. Under their devoted street gang’s dour protection, every ambitious MC is waging his own revolution for the money. It’s as far from Dixieland as it can get. Every city block has its own unit fighting the neighbourhood – the once homogenous ghetto is divided into criminal districts where police fear to thread. It’s an uncivil war and so is art imitating life on the midtempo lane. 2PAC and other martyrs are puppets of a mad child trying to govern us by mirror effects. Soul offensive went wooly bully with AFRICA BAMBAATAA. Gangstas killed the Rastafari and expropriated their treasures. The urban greed created an artificial contest for market domination. Same as it ever was but uncovered of the revisionary camouflage. I tried but could never understand the lethal difference between East and West Coast turntablism – it’s a typical Mafia affair unlike the RAT PACK. Right is the one who wins, let the heroes fall. What else is new? In my ears hiphop is one single interest group even from Nebraska. They speak the same awful body language, use the same awkward cadence. That fanships would turn into hostile squadrons was unimaginable in MOTOWN times when black was beautiful quite unexceptionally. Fragmentation did not extend but eliminated the core as usual, creating an extensive breakdown of the aboriginal union. It’s still a treacherous process but not rock’n’roll any more like MAYHEM. It has no moral background whatsoever. It’s a Christless gospel but not Antichristian. Entirely self-indulgent. In fact it’s more pagan than in the woods, just isn’t called so because of its transparent materialism. Nothing pays better than the foul blurb of the asocialist mob. Though the BEASTIE BOYS were third-way afterpunks from Brooklyn, it was the Bronx that expropriated the genre by the dignitaries of a new tribe called quest unscrupulously stealing whatever came their way. GRANDMASTER FLASH and his race-griot opened the room for fun loving criminals from the most delinquent sides of townships. The once common strife for world domination ultimately split around 1984, as PUBLIC ENEMY literally became number one most deservingly. It also was the year of SCHOOLLY D. Thrash metal and rap poetry, though both very anti-social, separated like two dimensions, dividing the antipop consortium into tremendously different pathways to uncommon wealth. Trials to cross over the expanding chasm disastrously failed, and those that succeeded nuly (BODY COUNT; LIMP BIZKIT; KORN) are only giving metal a worse name than ever. That the dancehall ended up in tribal tribulation of hegemony in the Zulu nation was a predictable outcome in the retrospective. I knew it since KRS-ONE whatever he says nowadays. History is a universal scheme that can’t stop repeating itself under the circumstance. The image of niggaz with attitude bluntly shows the shift of causeless revolt towards a deliberate descent into gratuitous felony lead by the avarice of the living. I know how many jailbirds country western sheltered, but believe me, Sir, it was something completely different. In those days of old, rivalry was a virtue and the innocent took the blame. LEAD BELLY wasn’t a killa, just happened to be. What we are experiencing since 1984 is an ethical, let alone aesthetical, meltdown of the globalized civilization. The polar disorder of the colorless soul. The perennial agitativo of racist rap based on sampled beatboxing is surely a rouser but hiding behind specters of oppression is the most primitive exploitation of the past by the nouveau riche flexing tuxedo muscles. I know he’s more gifted but I won’t compare SEAN COMBS with SAMMY DAVIS, not in this lifetime. I prefer the LENNY KRAVITZ posture anyway. I was nurtured by the elegance of WILLY DEVILLE, remember? VANILLA ICE leaves me as cold as ICE–T. No matter black or white, rhythm is nothing without blues. No one knows it better than the king of pop.

VI/9
After all the fake power and vain glory we’ve been through, the time has come to face the truth about art thought of as a vehicle of deliverance before the 21st Century. Despite the media of the masses, the flow has remained as mysterious as of the undocumented ages in the dark. Reality TV and YouTube only increase the gap between magic and fiction. Overproduction is like no production at all; thank goodness that scandals still prevail. Nothing mankind needs more than celebrities at this ungodly hour. They are our undemocratically elected representatives before the Judges. They alone can beat misery and torture. They can be stronger than earthquakes on the news. At the virtual triumph of Warhol’s elitarian socialism when anyone can do anything with an equal chance of instant fame, to separate the remaining wheat from the overgrowing chaff is an alchemist’s attainment not even JOHN PEEL could impeccably execute – he took the width but couldn’t plunge deeper. Time shifts too, not only extends. The solar system can’t proceed without sides: we’re obliged to take one. If the enemy’s missing, you ought to fabricate it. Though altered a few minds available, and maybe that’s enough, pop’s cultural counterrevolution made no impact on society at large – the hate of the extravagant is steadily mounting in the suburbs. And the touring scene has become a ludicrous parody of the crusades. What can you do to save sex when gays would fight for the right to marry at an altar, and superstars adopt pretty orphans of unknown genes? We can rave three days and nights in a row, but like the living dead cannot see ourselves in the passing mirror of everlasting time. We don’t know where we came from, don’t know where we’re going; still don’t have a clue about where we are. It’s strange, isn’t it? The present is a gallery of obscure memories and wild dreams no wrestler could support without covering his eyes. The newest technologies keep us following faster and faster. Truly blessed are the ones that can believe in anything supernatural yet. Like those UFO seers. The arrival of intelligence left the chosen few on their inferior instincts. Which could be enough if the tricks of Hell wouldn’t subsist no more. Again, what can you do when the law forbids to protect yourself from peril in a tooth-for-tooth world? Not to care more than necessary is the ultimate acumen. Stay cool and enhance your potential, snapping fingers at the threats of paranoia. Good for you if you can. I’m certainly no one of those. Gaia’s psychic warriors refuse to fight the enemy. It’s only COLDPLAY, isn’t it? The army’s gone on strike. The emergency broadcast is promoting unconditional surrender. It’s big time for minimalist housekeepers. And no, it won’t be over so soon. There’s a lot more AUTECHRE to come yet on the abandoned tracks of electronic migration. Evasive robotheads with artificial intelligence will automatically terminate what FAD GADGET naively initiated.

VI/10
Black hole is an explosion in the vacuum and that’s where we’re at – only the insensitive mortals do not feel a thing. The black sheep keeps on scattering whilst the shepherds are sleeping in the shade. Meanwhile they burn down the temples of God and believe they have served well Satan. What they do not know is that not those who say “evil, evil” will go to Hell but the unaware lot of the benevolent multitude. There is this reverb effect that overturns everything. Lucifer is not only a sacrificial goat but the very lord of vengeance. You don’t have to be a Satanist to worship Satan. Signing upon his symbols you mechanically are, whatever is your fancy. It’s a monster magnet. True servants don’t praise the master, just grow up to it. With a new
Aurora, as you know, everything must change and no rock left unrolled. We have to fast reconciliate with Time in a coma. O.K., it’s not dead yet like I used to say but is getting there soon. We got three decades for the agony. And are more than half way through the final bargain. What we need the baddest are new holidays. We wanna feel Time’s hand on us like before – the calendar is our safety belt on the cyclic flight. Time is our eighth sense – no other animal of the kingdom has it. It is a memory of eternity, creating the illusion of progress. We are a commemorative specie born to workship. Even the greatest revolutions break out on a specific day like Vulcan’s wrath, to be marked with red letters later when they won. Evolution under Gravity’s dictum closely follows but never precedes the moment. Every anticipation is superstition. There’s no useful experience – only the fear’s increasing.  The process would be a dead river without points of culmination – even mutation would lose its random charm without the impact of the sudden. Amidst the global epidemy of disorganized crime, the divine comedy reduces to an endless series of healing soap prescribing violence and sex on the same recipe against the depression era’s uncensored tedium. Life in recitativo is not for the lionhearted. No underground heresy could purify the human being of his nature imprinted by hunting. We can see the evil seeds planted in the flower garden and the temptations of decay but not a thing we can do about it. Though on HD television now, myth is created and sold in the same form of lip service to the people of the new republic as throughout the theist prehistory we had to endure. Between foetus and carcass, existence is sandwiched for consumption by the Sun. The strife goes for carving in one’s name on the swelling trunk of Yggdrasil. It’s a great challenge even for Kung-Fu fighters but not such a big deal as it seems. That makes true Cohenites so frustrated. That we are doomed to advance by periodical revolutions is in itself a devastating condition. Since art, from 500 Dutch painters, has grown into everybody’s business for the Millennium, only the oldest school can tell avant-garde from retro-grade. Now that we have movies and everything, a whole visual culture in 3D or more, art is an industry like any other, employing a quarter of the overpopulation. With a financial policy autonomous of political budgets. But flapping only one wing, the left one at this turn, won’t make the eagle fly. Counter-revolution, provided it’s permanent just the same, gives the UR a chance to harmonize their air travel. If rock’n’roll had not occurred, let’s imagine if we can, mankind would still be shared into a major and a minor populace with no other redemption available than the spoken words of the Christ. R’n’R unified the youth of East and West better than the Internationale into partisans of the wild frontiers, replacing the struggle of classes with the battle of generations. It meant a remedy of the Nazi error and a wall of sound upholding the Bolshevik offensive. Just ten years after the war, its own revolt became America’s very wonder weapon against the Reds, more powerful than Marlboro and Coca Cola combined. The family values weren’t so different, and style will always triumph over everything. There is a law, there is a hand. The cold war was won by The Beatles after all. The huge chaos that ensued BILL HALEY and his COMETS on both sides of the curtain culminated with the birth of the protest song combining the divergent souls of various civil rights movements united in the counter-patriotism of the anti-Nixonists. It was America the birthplace of treason the British invaders little followed up. Lennon tried everything to become a traitor but quite unsuccessfully. A nation where you can burn your own flag cannot be defeated. There was Woodstock and the Gulag to keep it pop. The capital’s democracy largely superseded the people’s republic. O.S.P. has a fascist ideal of history, but our founding fathers certainly were those desecrating yippies, no matter what moved them. My roots are very Sixties – that’s when I was young. No one can take away from you the first impressions. That’s what the MOTHERS OF INVENTION exploited. The Party’s general program will always be to quash the Christian-Marxist dialogue – the only way to exorcise Moses from the collective consciousness. The UR is a measuring device of quantitative elitarianism. We refuse the bondage of the psyche. It’s destroy or perish in the free world. Though unfortunately dying, we belong to time and nothing else, beyond male or female. We are a race of fashion, a new fellowship of the post-mutant era. The new moralists of the war against violence. The cult of entertainment defeated the churches of religions. The event’s no longer a circus of the gods.

VI/11
I am terribly sorry, Sir, but have to interrupt my subrealist propagandada to confront with the ugly facts of my lackluster existence for a moment. My coffin’s got a new nail. No rest in peace. Today for example is the first Equinox of the 0000 year of the Antichristian Millennium, as we planned it in youthful folly. We planned it as a magnificent celebration of The Party’s Fifty–year Plan with the Building in building, if you don’t mind to remember. This overmystified date of the burning wheel provides an inevitable pretext to face the shadow of my skeleton on the wall of the cave. Look at me. I’m broken like a promise. Every day’s a new scar on my antibody. I can’t believe Time has passed so fast whilst I’ve been waiting isolated for the miracle to come. I must be dreaming this nightmare and all the musics I overhear in it. The 21st of March is also ‘The Day of Fashion’ on the overnazi agenda – I’ve been invoking a putsch in New Style on this date since the foundation year. It’s the second major spring rite of the cycle beside ‘The Day (And Night) of the Capital’, that inverts the 1st of May into an elitarian parade by the usual overlaying method of mentality’s progress. All I ever wanted was to start something. That’s why I could never be a member of any community. I’m gradually challenged. Prefer to visualize in the closet than go out and convert the enemy. I sketched a draft about the ritual model of Capital Day’s overnational carnival five years ago, and sent it to WIM WENDERS asking for a documentary. WIM WENDERS did not respond, nor WERNER HERZOG or anyone ever to me. I mustn’t be weird enough. Just another familiar madman to keep away from. Provided anyone has ever gotten my black mails in them hands at all. Anyway, I couldn’t do more. I’m only a penniless suitor in a bum’s skin begging for attention without any ID. Disgusting as it is, I’ve got nothing to do with my life on the row. Lupus Dei is calling it a day tonight. And this is my vow to Bardo. No more idées fixes! I am run out. I couldn’t handle another disgrace. End of lonely daydreams – I’m going  back to  sleep. The mania’s all over, only the depression remained. These pointless paragraphs really are the last drops of my contaminated blood. Fuck the Graal and the Graaf. Fuck everybody. I dash my empty cup at the wailing wall. Under survival’s abysmal terror, my mode turned exclusively passive: I can’t initiate my predictable downfall ever again. I’ve put myself on hold. Could only function as an answering machine yet, but who should be asking when nobody knows me. I’m lost in the translation and
Osh knows how sorry I am. I’m not gonna send out another invitation to the Bride to save me – I lay down my barbed crown on the altar of destiny. My ambitions are reduced to nought. And it’d be alright with me, that’s where the catastrophe dwells. If Gina wouldn’t keep on revisiting Hell I’d probably have become catatonic by now or sooner. The price we pay for our doomed concubinage is the domestic violence of a mad couple without a hint of sex lingering. So she is rambling out loud all night addressing her devils I learned to know by names, whilst I try to watch horror movies for divertissement – I can’t imagine how Wittgenstein could handle it without television. And coughing her lungs out from the cigarettes she chainsmokes in constant insomnia versus my chronic somnambulism. There’s little room to relax in our 1½ filled with misery and guilt in place of furnitures. And nowhere to go – I fear of the people worse than wolves. It is an ordeal of unreason. I wish I knew what am I representing.

VI/12
Warped in the somber aura of an illegal alien, I’m crossing my camp’s demarcated district from corner to corner since times immemorial. I know the area like a dream but don’t know what city is it – thank god it’s not
Beirut though. I’m totally illiterate of maps. All I know that the plane that should carry me somewhere else can crash – even to take a walk is risking my life. There’s nothing that couldn’t happen. I’m kept on a very short leash, like a guinea pig of paranoia tested for his endurance only delirium could save me from. And for that I’m incapacitated by birth, I don’t know why. I’ve tried all I could but you can’t become a junky when allergic to alcohol. I won’t be an exception. Thus I’m hiding and biding as long as they let me inhale, interested in no adventure or exotica. It’s always the same day, 7 by 7, and the smallest change in the habit-code throws me straight into convulsions. I’ve stopped interrogating where I am; I kinda understood it’s none of my business. I’m just a discarded prototype beyond past and future – could be anywhere really. My skin is my home, and it’s a big problem. Since I’ve never been employed for anything, I’ve spent my whole life in retirement with no benefit deserving now that I’ve reached the age. That’s not fair, is it? The biosphere screwed me up. I am a playboy, Sir, not a bum. Nor is Ta a hooker. It’s only the subreality, I dareguess. I would need an instant transfusion to prevent me from turning into Schreck like Nosferatu. That I can’t sincerely care any more is the most alarming signal. The inane dope of hope consumed all my vigor aboriginally limited – I have no drive to move my iron ass. Couldn’t stay up on the wedding night, I’m afraid. I’m still checking out the state of porn in this most wonderful of all worlds, but the libido that is one’s eternal source of power is long long gone. It goes with the ego, I presume. Ego is life – I should have spared it. Self-hate either turns you into a murderer or a saint. One must be dead when insensitive of pleasure but cannot stand the pain. It’s the worst perversion from the path home. I think Gravity hijacked me. Even anger I shoddily fake – my once rapturous rages diminished to a sheer simulation of adrift hysteria. I’m only sitting impatiently in the Limbo of solar darkness, singing my mantras to the air out of every tune. The total lack of prospects reduced me to none like god is: to be invisible is the sole desire I’m left. I’m not expected to repeat myself and said everything I had to at least thrice by now. Yet all I ever got was instant excommunication if succeeded in getting that far. Normally I wasn’t deigned a response, but the few documents I collected are rejections solely. I’m marked by the brand of the untalented fascist due to Uncle’s legacy, though he was significantly more talented and skilled. Let alone the bravery factor. And the will. I still can buy my cigarettes with well-imitated dignity and order a double espresso cool as a cat in the safest café, but to say what I think – man, I completely forgot how. I forgot to lie and that’s the end of the Word. I’d agree with anyone on anything – I’ve lost every urge to show myself up. Even more terrified I get from hearing someone else’s opinion – I don’t need to know more. I’m keeping my senses tightly closed – three wise monkeys in one. I’m the Antishiva. The impotent Negator. The first secretary’s sadly become a Narcissistic asocialite – self-control I surely don’t possess. Spoiled by Illusion is the name of my one-man band. I am a ghosttoy praying for somebody to play with me something. I am both the passenger and the train, waiting for myself just like anybody else does at the abandoned station with no valid ticket. Isolation becomes a complexity if you’re lazy to rise. It’s been for sixteen years now that I literally haven’t talked to anyone but my poor bitch and god knows, I do not miss it. Besides, she herself is sick of me speaking – my pure tonality causes her cramps in the abdomen. I respect it alright but it means I’m shut up like a trappist. Anyway, I can’t bear my broken English. I’ve got nothing new to tell since 1984. So I make my rehearsals where nobody’s looking, but can’t recall the actual plot of this dissonant melodrama. All I remember what the final destination was. The City of New Jerusalem, if I’m not mistaken. But how to get there I do not have a clue. Smart my ass is not. Maybe I should ask SNOOP DOGG about it.
χ



Chapters:
I.III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX. – XX.; XXI.–XXII.; AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B

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NEW JERUSALEM
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