XIX.
XIX/1
America's sharp new knighthood around SAM PHILLIPS piano who introduced the devil's gospel to the first generation of class-mutation had none of the evil intent dark stars of death metal prefer to boast about. That the throne moved from Memphis to Gothenburg is remarkably strange but can be debated. It might only be me who unconditionally accepts the hegemony of endarkenment. I like what I like and that's about it. May I trust my taste just as much as a PAVEMENT fan? No redneck could have envisioned the dark conflagration of Hell the metal of doom brought home to us a half decade after. You don't believe we're on the day of destruction, my friend? Everyone enjoys decay or at least may say so. Apocalypse has become our favourite pastime like it was a video game. That's a terrific renovation by all metapsychical means bearded dropouts of coloured flower-power could never have imagined. It was indeed the white riot's antithetic negation of the 60's that laid the foundation to death and not the idiocy of heavy metal, with all respect. What actually happened to the last generation is that they've never died. Joe passed away but the hereditary few turned into living dead separated from the first-born offspring. And that's where we're at the year of the Triple 0 at: the ashes of the wishbone. The pathetic finale of symphonic blackmetal. Depressionism™ has ultimately become New Style's domineering genre vastly extending the continuum of Alice's funny nightmare. It ain't no youth culture whatsoever, these kids come ageless and oldness is an image of the immortal. It's not only make-up any more. No Youth - No Culture. The Gothic stratum is a shadowland in the global brawl of anarchy everywhere. But, and I build my church of negation on BUT, the Viking reconstruction has been glorious in the parallel world on the other hand. Since art has thrown off its protective veil of espionage turning reality into living fiction, it has itself become the true wheel of history in the cosmic sense that's important. Whatever politicians are trying to do, it's rock'n'roll that has the last word and to underestimate it would outrage even HOWARD STERN. Playing has become the most serious matter of the counter-revolution: to have a good time is harder than labour. It is quite logical that the protest turned esoteric in the space age: from darkwave Weltschmerz to industrial Angst the thing called G-D has become the collective target of the elite's righteous anger. Even Christian grave diggers are spreading the message of Atheist hate just like the pagan colonies. There is unity in the diversity alright – integrity guaranteed. Mythology's caught on hidden cameras, superstars are worshipped worse than ancient deities. Just look at those paparazzi go. It's all right but it's not alright. Something's strikingly missing from every personal cult any wide the fanbase: that None actually exists and is more than One is hard to digest for the rationalized thought. It's a challenge Martin Luther hadn't had. All in all we're still just pretty slaves of a program we know less about than the apes of Eden. Even the Buddha is killed by neurosis. Everything we raise the enemy occupies in an instant – there's no way to save the future from the past. Evolution is a wormhole, let's face it. Creativity has turned quite introverted therefore in the Ninth Decade of the Twentieth Century. The quality's unbeknownst quantum leap into a higher order of mass production theoretically incorruptible by the corporate greed of the main stream has proven to be solid as a rock for stranded souls, but the lack of a movement turns the scenery frozen like the ice age – the dark creation consumes itself in vain quest for the light. The warrior dies without battle – it's the paradox of paradoxes. Rock without roll is an ambivalent dancer – suffer is virtuous but vengeance is inevitable. Revenge everything they've done. There's really nothing else to it. I don't wanna be sage. Abel must be risen and may not get fooled again. A happy end is all we need.
XIX/2
I hope you understand, Sir, why I feel so atavistically doomed. The Bridehood's unanimous alliance with Satan severely jeopardizes my notion of a wedding feast. I perfectly understand the trend and know what women want, but the chances of a Time-putsch we used to dream about when we were young and restless are confusingly scanty at a closer look. Like Nazis are my main enemy on the ideological front, so are the Satanists on the spiritual one. Moreover, it comes in mutuality. Overnational socialism is set up to convert radical loyalists - which is far beyond my capacities, I'm ready to admit. My convincibility rating would be much below zero if there was one. I'd never try such if I wasn't forced to. I'm only following Osh's insane orders, be that my ultimate apology. Anyway, let me abuse this autogenerated forum to send out a secret warning to the unholy rollers' worldwide congregation from under the cover of my domain name, the Bardo. Should be special advertised as a message from Baphomet. It is my innermost belief that true traitors must call off the false engagement before it's too late – it's no fun any more. But an escapist pact of deceit that won't deliver nobody from the bilateral bondage of the cosmic bargain. To change God to Satan just to keep worshipping is an infantile alternative. The UR should return the ring immediately and join the anti-party of O.S.P. in nomine Homini. Let me footnote, that Iggy Pop has always been my most targeted number one of enrollment. Because, just between us frankly, isn't it the best idea a human brain ever had? A declaration of total independence of the vale of tears? "God Is None/Devil's Gone" is the punchline of our 'Traitor's Anthem'. It'll be a trying transition till we learn to stand on our feet alone, without hook or support, servant without a master, disappointed with all there is. But the price of a fair release ought to be paid, I guess, and it's not so high after all. It couldn't be more merciful in fact. Redemption is our own business, we need no Messiah. We have developed a competence no parallel life form has been allowed before: the right to betray – the chance to face the Maker. Remember, we're going against the end as we go towards it. It is the very dimension of the Bardo. Those that know the way should take over the lead. Gehenna must fall or else we'll never lose this skin. Screaming with throat bleeding is a noble effort but won't mean a thing unless you name the cause. The cause is crime, not the Jews. That's what global civil war is imagined to salvage under the moral dictatorship of divine terror. Brotherhood is not enough against the sly chaos of totalitarian democracy. You ought to kill the guilty in place of the innocent, that's all the self-proclaimed tormentors are required to correct for love of Antichrist. Is that too idealistic for skinny puppies? The objective is genocide, I can't deny it, but a right one this first time. The infamous final solution they're all shouting about. All of them babes are fucking hypocrites.
XIX/3
How the teenage craze could transform into such a sublime vehicle of deliverance may remain the puzzle of the century – what rock'n'roll doesn't need is another vindication. Hail, Hail, and leave it at that forever. We don't have to be told what to tell. It's all about us – I've always considered world-beat a carnival of treason from grotto to ghetto. We're going to the other side, that much is for sure – all we've got to do is to get there. Magic is crucial, but only science can effectively guide us. Hell's fire is burning for the culprits – that's how you must feel when feeding it. That's how you serve Satan if you want to: not through arsenic havoc but by targeting the blaze. There is nothing sadder on Earth than theory without practice. Not everything is medicine that heals – prolonging suffer is a senseless act against nature à rebours. That's why we want the last judgement right away. It makes no sense to wait idly in the mist. The genetic war of human propagation is between value and waste in terms of mass-production. The parable of weed and chaff is simply evergreen. To keep the plantation running, the waste must be eliminated so that the value may grow – there's nothing more obvious, is there? Life is anything but sacred – genetic control is. New Jerusalem is not a fairy tale for autistic children. We must face our worth and defend the rights fought out by the accomplished sacrifice. There are two basic human rights. The right to live and the right to die. That's the first paragraph we shall constitutionalize when on power – it's another electoral promise. In spite of the false rumours, we aren't altogether wrong. The quantitative judgement is profoundly unjust. We could work it out if they let us. That we reject both sides does not mean we're pacifists. We're up in arms against them: both parties of the Bargain. The Atheist army is incorruptible. We want total war or nothing, sick and tired of the endless compromise. What we ought to overcome is no less than human nature at its worst incarnation ever. Now that we have manufactured the key, we could as well close the gates of Hell, that's all we are saying. The day of glory has arrived. In the high-standard communism of Eden, luxury is no longer the privilege of a few. It is an illusion everyone deserves: materiality could be a nice dream to wake up from in the astral bed if it wasn't besieged by the mortal natives. The dissecting pressure of the cosmic competition is exhausting our libido – we aren't fit for a marriage of eternal orgasm. Prolifically recording meanwhile the most outrageous beauties ever consecrated to the air only adds to the frustration of helplessness nothing but an overdose can cure. The depression of the manic ones is indeed epidemic and not covered by the Welfare system as I stand to testify for it. Again, I appreciate decency more than heroism, but the solitary forfeit usually is a crime against individuality. Only those school-shooter kids got it right so far. My quixotic battle for the Bride is against the reign of the hazard refusing to accept the fiction of justice. Forgiveness is the biggest crime of all – every dedicated Nazi-hunter will tell you so. How come I am not the voice of the people? I'm more common than any other place. Like in a degenerated feature film of Planet Hollywood, we know exactly how it will end but cannot do a step to stop it – fuck the whores of Babylon. The machines in the garden are all corroded beyond repair. The epoch we are iWitnessing with our pods is in fact die Endzeit – everybody knows it, everybody says so, but no one behaves accordingly. Only mads do still believe in dates of the wrath. I admit, I was one of them. In spite of living in The City by "The Book of Days", I'm still remembering the annual anniversaries of my alleged revelations in secret. But don't give more shit to the prophecy except for its mechanical application. 144 000 surely is a good number to start with – what better to figure out. But where are they, the UR of G.I.N.A.'s military fashion show? I can see them on the screen within – the tribes of saved sex dressed to kill the crime. But in the outside around only the vacuum abounds. I'm so lonesome I could cry.
XIX/4
To revisit the diabolical inflation of shock value would be a good kickstart of a new Millennium for socio-linguists, but I don't care. I just want to stop it here and now before mutilation becomes a sporting event again. The wheel of time seems stuck in the mud. Putting a decaying body as massacred by the chainsaw on the cover of a digital masterpiece will surely make a good geek buy it, but why to serve consumerism so ardently is a reasonable question I'm not ashamed to pose. The harmony between technology and pathology seems to me the ultimate proof for evolution's intrinsic fraudulence. The knowledge we acquired through bloody strife and hard labour is largely negated by the live-stock's relentless exploiters – demons are freely feasting on our electronic body. I'm not against movies, don't get me wrong, I'm against reality. And hate to mix the two. I'm the simplest man. I believe, if we do not wear the mark that protects us, we should design it for ourselves DIY. Because we damn deserve it, and that's a fucking fact. We can be anything we wanted to be right now – this is the moment and won't come back again if we fail to catch it. That's the very situation OSP was founded to profit from. It's not another transformator house but a gathering of the tribes lost and found, like the chançon said. Though the best tracks of all fine genres are explicit prayers for deliverance from the infernal slavery, the Lord who taught them won't listen to hear us: the order is to fight for the right as it's always been. Ours is what we win, there is no Santa Claus in the spiritual sense. That's what the new Vikings recall so well: the tooth-for-tooth mantra. But it's only a chant with no batallion ever formed. A LEGION 88 never existed. And that bunch of gabbers won't line up for the cause of ethic cleansing, I'm unfortunately sure. And goths, mein Gott, are into a completely different kinda violence. You may call me Werther, but I'm really down. Nothing I see but the impossibilities. I'm only doing the Bardo because I'm a dialectical cynic by second nature. If never ever materialized the way it should, I want O.S.P. remain the world's greatest miss – next to a miracle. We don't ask too much and offer a lot – we offer ecstasy and order in face of chaos and boredom. Do what you will but don't believe that suffer redeems. Joy is commanded with utter cruelty. Those are the familiar words of the Antichrist by the book. Don't do anything to others, you wouldn't do to yourself, remember? Jesus knew it all, no doubt about that. I love him more than myself; only deny him from duty. That Judasian hint of my darned imago. It's only the dogma of forgiveness that has to change in accordance with the prophecy of old. It only needs a new mind tuned to total peace. Sin and crime must be radically separated in the mind of the elect. Those sadistic vibes of slaughter won't prevent no one from the gore next door – only offensive protects from paranoia. Since aesthetics and ethics, once twin obscenities, have been drastically divided into belligerent opposites, you can't tell the virtue of no artistic statement. They mostly tend to confuse, beyond pro and contra. Even the gloomiest tunes are often promoting the worst possible behaviour. I hate to play the virgin maid but I wouldn't depict the UR as bloodstained killers in the dark forest if made my choice – then rather the labrats of the new clonery. Why isn't there anything else in the middle than Nazi nostalgia? Etwas neues, quoi. I know it's all performance, but wait a minute: isn't what you perform that you really are? Where are borderlines drawn at this age of the picture? Has rock'n'roll reduced to commercial simulation? The gravedigger of civilization as early evangelists foretold? And some of them, you know, because anarchy has no limits, identify fascism with murder and that's what attracts them in it. I feel so stupid thinking moral dictatorship will save the beauty from the beast she is in atavistic love with. Osh is surely mad – you can't go against the grain for the Grail. Humankind is not ready for treason, I'm so sorry to say. We need some divine terror to free the hostages, if it's not too late.
XIX/5
'NOVA AKROPOLA', the emission I call home, is altogether quite segregated from the mainland on the transcultural map of anti-Sunwise progress. I do adore novelty rhythms and enjoy monotony a lot, but the latent charm of rap music someone has to show me yet without that feral gesticulation. Hiphopsters are also mayhemists, rhyming about Armageddon all the time, but don't have to worship the devil to get privileged. By lucky birth alone, they feel finer than the sarcastic alternative ever could. That I don't like this kind of music is my problem and I'm not trying to solve it, but that they make me hate it is quite an achievement. If there's a thing that don't concern me are troubles of a neighbourhood. O.S.P. never looks down but straight ahead. Next problem is the eventual message that promotes everything we are against: namely, violence and crime. There you go, if you want a formidable enemy. I for one, would never dare to challenge them. By the way, they too are antisemite. These Jews are really something. As to the actual brutality factor much aspired, those hardcore gangstas overwhelmingly rule over the gorest of deathtrash. Let alone the gay beasts of Stakhanovite vampires. Rapcore is farther off good-time rock'n'roll than the most depressive doom, so in rhythm as in blues - boogie down, there's no soul left in the production except for the samples. No rhyming shit will undermine HAL DAVIS, I falsely swear. Itsy, bitsy, teenie, queenie, Honolulu – I remember what's it like. No gangrape or slutbeating implied. I might sound ridiculous, but it's no laughing matter. We're going from worse to worse which is a strange progress. It always can be channelled like the Nile from overflowing but it's an arduous task. It is a systematic decivilization process, maybe blame it on D.E.V.O., that's overcoming the baroque etiquette big time. Violence against men I don't really care, but against women it is right against our progrom. This tribe is my second main enemy beside the Nazis. A fine little trap, only Osh could dig it. The white trash threat that seemed so victorious in the parallel 80's proved to be nothing but headbanging for no reason at all. It's very nice but a crying waste of the dark revolution. Skinheads deserve better, I believe. They would deserve a better uniform.
XIX/6
Without the sisters of soul canonized alive in the zoo of the past, the jam-packed halls will echo like an empty prison. The scented excrement of uninspired imitators freely blend with the stinky sacraments of the waveless dropouts. There's something foul in the air. The choices are between bunker and catacomb – and no one to cover it up like THE BEACH BOYS. We're rather descending deeper into the well which is honourable but pretty pointless. Even the Neue Deutsche Härte became Todeskunst. It's immensely great, not that's what I argue. But the abuse of power for artistic statements like CORVUS CORAX. I have a most functionalist view about music, that's why I'd only cut marches if signed with Roadrunner Records. Urban marches for inner cities. You can take out the boy from idealism but you cannot take idealism out of the boy. The deception liberated by the capitalist atmosphere is coming through like pure magnetic force these darkest hours of the cosmic fair – you can't say no to the Faustian masses. Mephistopheles has its people now beyond need and greed: the best of the last generation howling in the Wolfschantze. What the mistaken intelligence of black rebels cannot grasp is the cheating heart of the diabolical business: all malevolence and mysanthropy will turn out a sheer humanitarian act in the end – the fallen angel's karmatic circus. Save your soul for None. There's no way out but through Osh at this moment - but Osh doesn't sell and buy. Osh doesn't give a shit, just wants our gold. Not so different, is it, only more up-to-date. Really could work the miracle. Hell's flamboyant pirates have looted the vaults of the Sun but what to do with all those beauties in the unlight with our artificial knowledge of destructive alchemy? Here draws the overnational battlezone – the war for New Jerusalem. We have the right – the right to depart from the scene before it blows. All the due homages are ardently paid.
XIX/7
Unlike the yuppie takeover smooth like underground velvet, the RaceRiot of Osh! Osh! Osh! is supposed to be a very rough one by the necessary means. Unfortunately, those dogs that bark too loud are usually reluctant to bite. Would sooner turn against each other and devour the innocent.Neo-Darwinists know the scheme. Under the 24's benevolent reign, Inferno's degenerate elite enjoys the Necromanteion Lucifer donated them for the bitter exile. You can scorn church and state but cannot touch the taboo of the killernet - cyberpunks will stone you first. Eighty percent of television's airtime is devoted to murder cases – only disasters rank up in fascination. Criminal investigation overshadows the worst news. Hell is homemade and interiorly designed despite the miracles of science conjuring Paradise on the quaking Earth. It is freedom at any cost - the 60's are gone but surely not forgotten. Not a word Orwell wrote came any true, just on the contrary. Censorship is impossible under the technological circumstances – the notion of ethic cleansing would be considered sheer terrorism by all the winged liberals in Nemesis' unconditional service. You can't instigate hatred against the wicked protected by all the laws of the land. Strange revolution, isn't it? That's exactly how the Revelator imagined Babylon. I really feel like a stranger eternally silenced by providence. I am the sole enemy and I am the weakest. I hate to complain on pretext, but the deal is quite unfair. I couldn't say an acceptable word to the Illuminati if asking financial help to The Building. Rothchild would spit on my boots. Redemption is very expensive – only martyrs can pay the price. It is the curse of the legacy – the Christ's very bad example. Jim Jones saw the thing, I wonder how he could. As the womb inverted in this age of tolerance, only some of the worst killers are granted the grace to give up the ghost with dignity in some republican states yet. That'd be a good reason to be against death penalty, but it's not that plain. Now, if you're a great spirit of fame and fortune, even if you die of natural causes like the lucky average, you'll be most possibly misremembered again – there'll be no rest in peace. The best of course would be to leave no trace behind but who can afford that - Milarepa is still worshipped for all the wrong reasons. Divine gifts are meant to be returned – more talent, more responsibility. That's the simple pattern of the awful bargain we are poignant objects of. The holograph of our memory is prone to the same helpless abuse as Plato in translation – you must very carefully chose your friends and relatives. The ways we dispatch for want of human rights are abominable to say the least – even Brother Leary couldn't hop that trip. Horror's much likelier and less humiliating: voting for Hell gratifies the loser. It's our somatic response to fate – to blame ourselves is yet the best method of reconciliation we got. Against such formidable forces of subreality, we have to resist the victim's temptation with all our constructive might! No, we cannot get again together. But still could stop the war on drugs.
XIX/8
Whatever you call homeward in the rocklands of the benighted Occident before the Great Noontide of 2014, your locomotion will be generated by the pop machine any deep you enter the eternal forest. Pop, in the original sense, marks the famous momentum when art inseparably wedded fashion under the aegis of rock'n'roll: the music and the style. It shaped a new folk for a new nation beyond the linguistic barriers of native poetry. It was not only the classification of industrial design but an inauguration of the People's Kingdom on the evolutionary agenda of alternative history. Reaching from The Factory to the Playboy Mansion, it combined the different divisions of the new age's constructive hedonism in a sinful fortress defended against the feminist invasion by the sword of beauty. It could not have happened without democracy and we owe an awesome lot of gratitude for that to Benjamin Franklin on the Bill. At the core of its spirit, pop meant an enormous leap of time-consciousness versus the patriotic mindset of tribal orthodoxy – it's been the exoteric cradle of overnational imperialism all over the world. It swallowed the avantgarde root and branch, and converted traditions into a common property of mutual exchange. We may well retrospect the phenomenon as the nuclear encounter of ritual and circus – ABBIE HOFFMAN was one great example for that experience. By the unsolved mystery of taste alone, it selected its citizenry on a global scale like a prototype of The City we are trying to reconstruct. Warhol and Heffner are definitely lead pioneers of the third-hand path to Atheist spirtitualism. In New Jerusalem where lovers can be heroes and every worker is a star, progress and decadence automatically blend into an undividable unity beyond left and right. By restoring mythology in a socialist cult of freedom to sin, pop elevated life to a state of art and art to the status of an intervention largely ignoring the political conditions and the traditional taste of the land. It meant organized anarchy – the precondition of all revolutions. It gave the terminal sect a view from above never seen before the space age. Drugs helped but it was part of it. Defying the intellectual abuse of the theory, pop, the music and the art, has brought the action factor in the collective foreground, producing the most attractive antithesis ever crafted by homo sapiens. Where example creates the law – the triumph of rebellion. It opened the gates to a new mentality transforming vices into virtues and vice versa – it's been an incomplete gesture but reversible only by the forces of United Hell. It's the thing we call pop herewith that changed the world in the face of Senator McCarthy after all. It's Lucifer's nuclear weapon. Comparable only with Enlightenment's impact on the Renaissance, it equalized humanity's idealized fiction under an aesthetic dominion of the Zeitgeist finally enthroned over the house of Lords. The rationale of pop, arguably the most memorable episode of art's blasphemous history entering the age of mass production, was the establishment of a new hierarchy by unnatural selection. Eliminating the outdated gap between art and entertainment, pop did not level the center but raised the marginal currency to the top of Middle Earth, turning the table of values on their reactionary shareholders. Don't let us forget that pop killed the Kennedys and brought man to the Moon – NASA and the CIA were just executive forces. It gave power to the people through instant karma. In a Ballroom Blitz as it were, it launched the system of a new monarchy based on the genetic aristocracy of the immaculate conception propagated sans frontiers. Pop was the atomic bomb America innocently dropped to win the cold war – the victory of market economy over the idealist work ethics of communism. The opposite revolt of a different youth: in place of the proletarian, a mutant dictatorship. SPIONS didn't concoct the winning formula, just followed the cosmic fashion. All we ever wanted was to make propaganda popular again.
XIX/9
No need to stress, the new wave of domination has been a arch-Capitalist trend at the core of its heart beating for equality just the same as the Marxist one. One in diversity, the other one in unity. There are two kinds of materialisms by the tricks of the Bargain: one with and one without God. A Christian materialism and a socialist materialism. We should never try to combine those two again. It's also remarkable how many Jews turned their coats towards the Atheist antipode at the beginning of the internationalist campaign. Guys like Trotzky. The seeds of treason are planted in the children of Israel alright, never mind the immoral bankers. So where does the Oshist way of life enter the unholy picture? Let me briefly clarify this to dispel the fog at the Gate of the Mind. Marxism, still full of Monotheist ideals, declared God nonexistent but set out to eradicate its memory - which only made Orthodoxy stronger as we see now in the aftermath. We, the UR, are not afraid of opium. Ours is a movement of transcendent materialism: a new beam of illumination in the Rosicrucian darkness. 'SECRET WE HAVE NONE'. That's our immortal slogan. I'm not playing with the words, it's the magic of the grammar. The Atheist Church is a church on Time promoting total intolerance towards the criminal nature of the mortal majority. A lost cause, you may say, but what better do we actually have? We want to fuse and not dissect – the best of both worlds, you know what I mean. We want homo novum more glamorous and uniform at the same real time. It's adverse to both materialisms, anchored in dialectical rejection of Satan's foul alternatives. Satan for us, not unlike for most of its adopted children, is a pop icon at its best. The post-spiritual counter-pole. We are spies in space far above dichotomies. Subrealism is "Metarealism"™ with another word, just for the pun of it. It all comes down to the Pentagram of Adam in the Air nailed to the wheel of time. Das Kapital is the ultimate temptation with all its might released – it could make the red star change its colour. No serious artist is striving for modesty in the consumer society of reconstruction – wealth is the farthest we can ever glance with temporary eyes. Luxury is an allegory. Those that don't respect money will go to the living Hell – here am I, your living testament. The last starving poet of the entire universe. Unlike ancient services of the divine in the monastery setting, getting rich has been rock'n'roll's original mandate since seceded from folk music. It's been mundane, vulgar and unholy from the day of its birth on – an antidote to religious fanatism. Pop is a counterrevolutionary medium in many senses but it's got nothing to do with greed: it is pure revenge, to put it socially correct. On everything they've done. The elitarian spirit of gene-democracy that keeps on setting the Earth on fire since a half century of cold peace. Even for its most devoted dwellers, underground is a transitory place - without the notion to rise above you're a wasted liar. Pop culture is driven by ambition like anything. The saints of the Atheist Church are millionaires.
XIX/10
Contrary to the preceding wings of Atheism turning the five-pointed up and down, the Oshist version is based on the unconditional rule of the Octagram drawn by the number of the Antibeast. It's a majestic return to the Kabbalah's control of symmetry encompassing the whole oppositorum in a star of deliverance rollin' and rockin'. It is the symbol of divine terror, Integrity-Diversity-Unity written all over it. None is All – All is None. A new club of nihilism is opening up. Anarchy has exhausted its sources long ago, order is here to stay. Reducing ideologies to iconic images, pop designed a milieu where appealing celebrities of virtues govern the state of things over appalling puppets of family values. Transmissions truly altered reality into a replica of itself, operating the collective dream with a machinery of purification. Habitually, we used to shed blood to obtain such privileges. No wonder we're confused what to do with so much freedom for free. Thrown down the walls of the Puritans' prison, we are confronted with plenty of ambiguous choices with no single command coming over. We have to figure it all out – that's our arduous duty without moral dictatorship. We have to turn to witchcraft to testify our instincts. It's all Alle-Gegen-Alle around here right now, accordingly the devil's original score of the finale. Unfortunately enough, only OSP has the key of the gate but it wouldn't turn. Vainly am I singing the Marchant since 1982. My simple agenda is 'vengeance through joy = joy through vengeance' and ordaining the holy whore of Babylon as Our New Lady. It's got to be a porn star. I can't be more pop, can I? Nonetheism versus Musulmaniacs. That's what I call a time-clash. Pro and contra all mixed up in a poisonous lotion of treason. Drink this cocktail and you'll be immortal. Why no one wants to taste it is my greatest guess. Humanity must have gone completely insane under the long sway of Moloch.
XIX/11
Unlike communism and fascism, capitalism hasn't got an own star on display – the closest to its very emblem is the $ sign. We only attached the Mogendovid to it by association. According to Osh, the Octagram includes the whole gamut: the best of all the three worlds in reincarnation's nuclear model. Traitors to the Earth unite! I can't believe it did not work out. I can't grasp at all where am I situated in this theatre of cruelty. It's a broadly unwanted travel in the past I was told long gone. Yet it's on the rise in fact. All you hear is rape and murder – what happened to free love? Officers of the holy army are sexual aggressors and priest of the mother church predatory perverts. And that's only the echelon of authority The people of the republic are busy fighting prevention and retorsion. So where's the moral? It's only gotten worse since 1982. Doctors of abortion are gunned down in America, the safest place on Earth. Whilst killers are defended by lawless justice and mourned when gently released. Isn't it upside down in every sense of the word? Gravity tricked us blind. I should care a lot less to save my dignity but just can't get over it. How could I be so wrong? Racism is henceforth based on the color of the skin – it didn't multiply as I was suggesting. Tribal slaughter, spiritual hatred, ideological antagonisms, they are all there big time and counting amidst human trafficking and child slavery. Internationalism is gone to the dogs of the lands. Chaos is unforgivably abusing digital technology's priceless gift. I wouldn't believe it if it wasn't on television. Is it strange I feel vastly unmotivated to invest my hardly stolen energy into a cause so low – it's not my charge at all. I've been led astray by false promises. Something must have gone awfully wrong in the meantime of the silent age if nobody would like to join the few. Mea maxima culpa, of course – it's all because of my unconvincing manners as a proletarian propagandist. I've never been a cheerleader. I've got no power of transmission whatsoever – only simulating an imitation. I never could madden up to the impossible task and I couldn't be more sorry. I'm a dull and weird entity in a devastating combination disabled to obey the command he promotes. A hypocrite of sin. I ain't nothing but a cosmic beggar, Sir, but that's enough. I sincerely apologize for this mindless self-indulgence inserting – Me is sometimes stronger than I. Let's get swiftly back to the topic of the great rock'n'roll swindle of the final Genesis.
XIX/12
The ancestral youth of the golden Fifties we consider the first generation of the Immortals' Boogieland wouldn't twist and shout longer than three minutes per item. Tunes got sharply cut or turned down abruptly – no extended mixes to Elvis, only covers. The attention span of the adolescent mind was radically brief prior the onset of psychedelia. The magic of the beat fusing swing and blues in the rhythm of the devil's gospel worked an unprecedented genetic miracle of mass mutation: birth of a new race whose last gen we are at the Z. The expansion of the original blow was plain metaphysical – against all the laws Newton ever saw – by increasing the tension all the way of the inverted chain reaction. In today's electrolytic cataclysm of the mechanised movement's post-dance crossovers, the industrial discipline of martial nostalgia is the only stalwart of the progress towards one nation under the mystic pulse from velvet to metal. Sadly enough, it's been vastly reduced to pure survival practice of the living dead at its core despite the proliferating festival circuit of the gothic minority's old kids on the ruins. Amidst the global ballroom's ecstatic medley, industrial music at large has created the hollow center of the overall collapse – preserving the structure from the demolition hammer. We even call it 'futurepop' recently. Another transfo of the electronic body dance or die. Unlike the Killer who had it all in direct, even ALEX WESSELSKY, we are but hyperintelligent puppets courageously playing with the great balls of fire as the Valkyries ride. And since detached from the mainstream exclusively controlled by the people's taste gone wholly rotten since the Eighties, the duty of beauty had an abysmal turn towards the factory labour on recreational drugs. Fun, fun, fun, but every worker knows: it is exploitation of the meanest sort. It's alright but we'd better be aware. What we lose in innocence is abundantly returned though by illumination: the deal is fair and square as it's always been. God is a good Jew but don't trust him a lot. There is a reason for why we are exactly here, no point to investigate. To know that much is more than enough. Please remember Darwin: consciousness is a curse on the ape. Especially the time-bound part. The rest of it is a battle of the views formatting ideologies to justify the bloodshed irrigating Mother Earth. It's safer in the coffin for the benighted – that's why Dracula has replaced Jesus. Real music has always been for the nightlife, let's face it, long before the supermalls. Rock'n'roll in particular made an everlasting pact with the Vampire against the Sun. It's soultime, the night, any a way shifted – the neonlights only enhance its ambience. On good cocaine the Disco's like a dream. Even if you hate nightclubbin', the music can take you there. Music is the language of the soul – it defines one's orientation better than anything. That's why they use it as a meter of the judgement. Even if you hate nightclubbin', the music can take you there. Again, it was pop, our cultural revolution, that deleted the obsolete anomaly between demonstration and celebration: the ambiguity of work and love. As revolt became fun - no longer born solely from despair – so fun became the ultimate revolt: the claim to enjoy life on the death row. Not such an impertinent demand, is it Loyola? That's the very rebellion Osh has been encouraging at his war with Yahweh. In times of judgement like these we need to openly challenge the Angel of Light.
America's sharp new knighthood around SAM PHILLIPS piano who introduced the devil's gospel to the first generation of class-mutation had none of the evil intent dark stars of death metal prefer to boast about. That the throne moved from Memphis to Gothenburg is remarkably strange but can be debated. It might only be me who unconditionally accepts the hegemony of endarkenment. I like what I like and that's about it. May I trust my taste just as much as a PAVEMENT fan? No redneck could have envisioned the dark conflagration of Hell the metal of doom brought home to us a half decade after. You don't believe we're on the day of destruction, my friend? Everyone enjoys decay or at least may say so. Apocalypse has become our favourite pastime like it was a video game. That's a terrific renovation by all metapsychical means bearded dropouts of coloured flower-power could never have imagined. It was indeed the white riot's antithetic negation of the 60's that laid the foundation to death and not the idiocy of heavy metal, with all respect. What actually happened to the last generation is that they've never died. Joe passed away but the hereditary few turned into living dead separated from the first-born offspring. And that's where we're at the year of the Triple 0 at: the ashes of the wishbone. The pathetic finale of symphonic blackmetal. Depressionism™ has ultimately become New Style's domineering genre vastly extending the continuum of Alice's funny nightmare. It ain't no youth culture whatsoever, these kids come ageless and oldness is an image of the immortal. It's not only make-up any more. No Youth - No Culture. The Gothic stratum is a shadowland in the global brawl of anarchy everywhere. But, and I build my church of negation on BUT, the Viking reconstruction has been glorious in the parallel world on the other hand. Since art has thrown off its protective veil of espionage turning reality into living fiction, it has itself become the true wheel of history in the cosmic sense that's important. Whatever politicians are trying to do, it's rock'n'roll that has the last word and to underestimate it would outrage even HOWARD STERN. Playing has become the most serious matter of the counter-revolution: to have a good time is harder than labour. It is quite logical that the protest turned esoteric in the space age: from darkwave Weltschmerz to industrial Angst the thing called G-D has become the collective target of the elite's righteous anger. Even Christian grave diggers are spreading the message of Atheist hate just like the pagan colonies. There is unity in the diversity alright – integrity guaranteed. Mythology's caught on hidden cameras, superstars are worshipped worse than ancient deities. Just look at those paparazzi go. It's all right but it's not alright. Something's strikingly missing from every personal cult any wide the fanbase: that None actually exists and is more than One is hard to digest for the rationalized thought. It's a challenge Martin Luther hadn't had. All in all we're still just pretty slaves of a program we know less about than the apes of Eden. Even the Buddha is killed by neurosis. Everything we raise the enemy occupies in an instant – there's no way to save the future from the past. Evolution is a wormhole, let's face it. Creativity has turned quite introverted therefore in the Ninth Decade of the Twentieth Century. The quality's unbeknownst quantum leap into a higher order of mass production theoretically incorruptible by the corporate greed of the main stream has proven to be solid as a rock for stranded souls, but the lack of a movement turns the scenery frozen like the ice age – the dark creation consumes itself in vain quest for the light. The warrior dies without battle – it's the paradox of paradoxes. Rock without roll is an ambivalent dancer – suffer is virtuous but vengeance is inevitable. Revenge everything they've done. There's really nothing else to it. I don't wanna be sage. Abel must be risen and may not get fooled again. A happy end is all we need.
XIX/2
I hope you understand, Sir, why I feel so atavistically doomed. The Bridehood's unanimous alliance with Satan severely jeopardizes my notion of a wedding feast. I perfectly understand the trend and know what women want, but the chances of a Time-putsch we used to dream about when we were young and restless are confusingly scanty at a closer look. Like Nazis are my main enemy on the ideological front, so are the Satanists on the spiritual one. Moreover, it comes in mutuality. Overnational socialism is set up to convert radical loyalists - which is far beyond my capacities, I'm ready to admit. My convincibility rating would be much below zero if there was one. I'd never try such if I wasn't forced to. I'm only following Osh's insane orders, be that my ultimate apology. Anyway, let me abuse this autogenerated forum to send out a secret warning to the unholy rollers' worldwide congregation from under the cover of my domain name, the Bardo. Should be special advertised as a message from Baphomet. It is my innermost belief that true traitors must call off the false engagement before it's too late – it's no fun any more. But an escapist pact of deceit that won't deliver nobody from the bilateral bondage of the cosmic bargain. To change God to Satan just to keep worshipping is an infantile alternative. The UR should return the ring immediately and join the anti-party of O.S.P. in nomine Homini. Let me footnote, that Iggy Pop has always been my most targeted number one of enrollment. Because, just between us frankly, isn't it the best idea a human brain ever had? A declaration of total independence of the vale of tears? "God Is None/Devil's Gone" is the punchline of our 'Traitor's Anthem'. It'll be a trying transition till we learn to stand on our feet alone, without hook or support, servant without a master, disappointed with all there is. But the price of a fair release ought to be paid, I guess, and it's not so high after all. It couldn't be more merciful in fact. Redemption is our own business, we need no Messiah. We have developed a competence no parallel life form has been allowed before: the right to betray – the chance to face the Maker. Remember, we're going against the end as we go towards it. It is the very dimension of the Bardo. Those that know the way should take over the lead. Gehenna must fall or else we'll never lose this skin. Screaming with throat bleeding is a noble effort but won't mean a thing unless you name the cause. The cause is crime, not the Jews. That's what global civil war is imagined to salvage under the moral dictatorship of divine terror. Brotherhood is not enough against the sly chaos of totalitarian democracy. You ought to kill the guilty in place of the innocent, that's all the self-proclaimed tormentors are required to correct for love of Antichrist. Is that too idealistic for skinny puppies? The objective is genocide, I can't deny it, but a right one this first time. The infamous final solution they're all shouting about. All of them babes are fucking hypocrites.
XIX/3
How the teenage craze could transform into such a sublime vehicle of deliverance may remain the puzzle of the century – what rock'n'roll doesn't need is another vindication. Hail, Hail, and leave it at that forever. We don't have to be told what to tell. It's all about us – I've always considered world-beat a carnival of treason from grotto to ghetto. We're going to the other side, that much is for sure – all we've got to do is to get there. Magic is crucial, but only science can effectively guide us. Hell's fire is burning for the culprits – that's how you must feel when feeding it. That's how you serve Satan if you want to: not through arsenic havoc but by targeting the blaze. There is nothing sadder on Earth than theory without practice. Not everything is medicine that heals – prolonging suffer is a senseless act against nature à rebours. That's why we want the last judgement right away. It makes no sense to wait idly in the mist. The genetic war of human propagation is between value and waste in terms of mass-production. The parable of weed and chaff is simply evergreen. To keep the plantation running, the waste must be eliminated so that the value may grow – there's nothing more obvious, is there? Life is anything but sacred – genetic control is. New Jerusalem is not a fairy tale for autistic children. We must face our worth and defend the rights fought out by the accomplished sacrifice. There are two basic human rights. The right to live and the right to die. That's the first paragraph we shall constitutionalize when on power – it's another electoral promise. In spite of the false rumours, we aren't altogether wrong. The quantitative judgement is profoundly unjust. We could work it out if they let us. That we reject both sides does not mean we're pacifists. We're up in arms against them: both parties of the Bargain. The Atheist army is incorruptible. We want total war or nothing, sick and tired of the endless compromise. What we ought to overcome is no less than human nature at its worst incarnation ever. Now that we have manufactured the key, we could as well close the gates of Hell, that's all we are saying. The day of glory has arrived. In the high-standard communism of Eden, luxury is no longer the privilege of a few. It is an illusion everyone deserves: materiality could be a nice dream to wake up from in the astral bed if it wasn't besieged by the mortal natives. The dissecting pressure of the cosmic competition is exhausting our libido – we aren't fit for a marriage of eternal orgasm. Prolifically recording meanwhile the most outrageous beauties ever consecrated to the air only adds to the frustration of helplessness nothing but an overdose can cure. The depression of the manic ones is indeed epidemic and not covered by the Welfare system as I stand to testify for it. Again, I appreciate decency more than heroism, but the solitary forfeit usually is a crime against individuality. Only those school-shooter kids got it right so far. My quixotic battle for the Bride is against the reign of the hazard refusing to accept the fiction of justice. Forgiveness is the biggest crime of all – every dedicated Nazi-hunter will tell you so. How come I am not the voice of the people? I'm more common than any other place. Like in a degenerated feature film of Planet Hollywood, we know exactly how it will end but cannot do a step to stop it – fuck the whores of Babylon. The machines in the garden are all corroded beyond repair. The epoch we are iWitnessing with our pods is in fact die Endzeit – everybody knows it, everybody says so, but no one behaves accordingly. Only mads do still believe in dates of the wrath. I admit, I was one of them. In spite of living in The City by "The Book of Days", I'm still remembering the annual anniversaries of my alleged revelations in secret. But don't give more shit to the prophecy except for its mechanical application. 144 000 surely is a good number to start with – what better to figure out. But where are they, the UR of G.I.N.A.'s military fashion show? I can see them on the screen within – the tribes of saved sex dressed to kill the crime. But in the outside around only the vacuum abounds. I'm so lonesome I could cry.
XIX/4
To revisit the diabolical inflation of shock value would be a good kickstart of a new Millennium for socio-linguists, but I don't care. I just want to stop it here and now before mutilation becomes a sporting event again. The wheel of time seems stuck in the mud. Putting a decaying body as massacred by the chainsaw on the cover of a digital masterpiece will surely make a good geek buy it, but why to serve consumerism so ardently is a reasonable question I'm not ashamed to pose. The harmony between technology and pathology seems to me the ultimate proof for evolution's intrinsic fraudulence. The knowledge we acquired through bloody strife and hard labour is largely negated by the live-stock's relentless exploiters – demons are freely feasting on our electronic body. I'm not against movies, don't get me wrong, I'm against reality. And hate to mix the two. I'm the simplest man. I believe, if we do not wear the mark that protects us, we should design it for ourselves DIY. Because we damn deserve it, and that's a fucking fact. We can be anything we wanted to be right now – this is the moment and won't come back again if we fail to catch it. That's the very situation OSP was founded to profit from. It's not another transformator house but a gathering of the tribes lost and found, like the chançon said. Though the best tracks of all fine genres are explicit prayers for deliverance from the infernal slavery, the Lord who taught them won't listen to hear us: the order is to fight for the right as it's always been. Ours is what we win, there is no Santa Claus in the spiritual sense. That's what the new Vikings recall so well: the tooth-for-tooth mantra. But it's only a chant with no batallion ever formed. A LEGION 88 never existed. And that bunch of gabbers won't line up for the cause of ethic cleansing, I'm unfortunately sure. And goths, mein Gott, are into a completely different kinda violence. You may call me Werther, but I'm really down. Nothing I see but the impossibilities. I'm only doing the Bardo because I'm a dialectical cynic by second nature. If never ever materialized the way it should, I want O.S.P. remain the world's greatest miss – next to a miracle. We don't ask too much and offer a lot – we offer ecstasy and order in face of chaos and boredom. Do what you will but don't believe that suffer redeems. Joy is commanded with utter cruelty. Those are the familiar words of the Antichrist by the book. Don't do anything to others, you wouldn't do to yourself, remember? Jesus knew it all, no doubt about that. I love him more than myself; only deny him from duty. That Judasian hint of my darned imago. It's only the dogma of forgiveness that has to change in accordance with the prophecy of old. It only needs a new mind tuned to total peace. Sin and crime must be radically separated in the mind of the elect. Those sadistic vibes of slaughter won't prevent no one from the gore next door – only offensive protects from paranoia. Since aesthetics and ethics, once twin obscenities, have been drastically divided into belligerent opposites, you can't tell the virtue of no artistic statement. They mostly tend to confuse, beyond pro and contra. Even the gloomiest tunes are often promoting the worst possible behaviour. I hate to play the virgin maid but I wouldn't depict the UR as bloodstained killers in the dark forest if made my choice – then rather the labrats of the new clonery. Why isn't there anything else in the middle than Nazi nostalgia? Etwas neues, quoi. I know it's all performance, but wait a minute: isn't what you perform that you really are? Where are borderlines drawn at this age of the picture? Has rock'n'roll reduced to commercial simulation? The gravedigger of civilization as early evangelists foretold? And some of them, you know, because anarchy has no limits, identify fascism with murder and that's what attracts them in it. I feel so stupid thinking moral dictatorship will save the beauty from the beast she is in atavistic love with. Osh is surely mad – you can't go against the grain for the Grail. Humankind is not ready for treason, I'm so sorry to say. We need some divine terror to free the hostages, if it's not too late.
XIX/5
'NOVA AKROPOLA', the emission I call home, is altogether quite segregated from the mainland on the transcultural map of anti-Sunwise progress. I do adore novelty rhythms and enjoy monotony a lot, but the latent charm of rap music someone has to show me yet without that feral gesticulation. Hiphopsters are also mayhemists, rhyming about Armageddon all the time, but don't have to worship the devil to get privileged. By lucky birth alone, they feel finer than the sarcastic alternative ever could. That I don't like this kind of music is my problem and I'm not trying to solve it, but that they make me hate it is quite an achievement. If there's a thing that don't concern me are troubles of a neighbourhood. O.S.P. never looks down but straight ahead. Next problem is the eventual message that promotes everything we are against: namely, violence and crime. There you go, if you want a formidable enemy. I for one, would never dare to challenge them. By the way, they too are antisemite. These Jews are really something. As to the actual brutality factor much aspired, those hardcore gangstas overwhelmingly rule over the gorest of deathtrash. Let alone the gay beasts of Stakhanovite vampires. Rapcore is farther off good-time rock'n'roll than the most depressive doom, so in rhythm as in blues - boogie down, there's no soul left in the production except for the samples. No rhyming shit will undermine HAL DAVIS, I falsely swear. Itsy, bitsy, teenie, queenie, Honolulu – I remember what's it like. No gangrape or slutbeating implied. I might sound ridiculous, but it's no laughing matter. We're going from worse to worse which is a strange progress. It always can be channelled like the Nile from overflowing but it's an arduous task. It is a systematic decivilization process, maybe blame it on D.E.V.O., that's overcoming the baroque etiquette big time. Violence against men I don't really care, but against women it is right against our progrom. This tribe is my second main enemy beside the Nazis. A fine little trap, only Osh could dig it. The white trash threat that seemed so victorious in the parallel 80's proved to be nothing but headbanging for no reason at all. It's very nice but a crying waste of the dark revolution. Skinheads deserve better, I believe. They would deserve a better uniform.
XIX/6
Without the sisters of soul canonized alive in the zoo of the past, the jam-packed halls will echo like an empty prison. The scented excrement of uninspired imitators freely blend with the stinky sacraments of the waveless dropouts. There's something foul in the air. The choices are between bunker and catacomb – and no one to cover it up like THE BEACH BOYS. We're rather descending deeper into the well which is honourable but pretty pointless. Even the Neue Deutsche Härte became Todeskunst. It's immensely great, not that's what I argue. But the abuse of power for artistic statements like CORVUS CORAX. I have a most functionalist view about music, that's why I'd only cut marches if signed with Roadrunner Records. Urban marches for inner cities. You can take out the boy from idealism but you cannot take idealism out of the boy. The deception liberated by the capitalist atmosphere is coming through like pure magnetic force these darkest hours of the cosmic fair – you can't say no to the Faustian masses. Mephistopheles has its people now beyond need and greed: the best of the last generation howling in the Wolfschantze. What the mistaken intelligence of black rebels cannot grasp is the cheating heart of the diabolical business: all malevolence and mysanthropy will turn out a sheer humanitarian act in the end – the fallen angel's karmatic circus. Save your soul for None. There's no way out but through Osh at this moment - but Osh doesn't sell and buy. Osh doesn't give a shit, just wants our gold. Not so different, is it, only more up-to-date. Really could work the miracle. Hell's flamboyant pirates have looted the vaults of the Sun but what to do with all those beauties in the unlight with our artificial knowledge of destructive alchemy? Here draws the overnational battlezone – the war for New Jerusalem. We have the right – the right to depart from the scene before it blows. All the due homages are ardently paid.
XIX/7
Unlike the yuppie takeover smooth like underground velvet, the RaceRiot of Osh! Osh! Osh! is supposed to be a very rough one by the necessary means. Unfortunately, those dogs that bark too loud are usually reluctant to bite. Would sooner turn against each other and devour the innocent.Neo-Darwinists know the scheme. Under the 24's benevolent reign, Inferno's degenerate elite enjoys the Necromanteion Lucifer donated them for the bitter exile. You can scorn church and state but cannot touch the taboo of the killernet - cyberpunks will stone you first. Eighty percent of television's airtime is devoted to murder cases – only disasters rank up in fascination. Criminal investigation overshadows the worst news. Hell is homemade and interiorly designed despite the miracles of science conjuring Paradise on the quaking Earth. It is freedom at any cost - the 60's are gone but surely not forgotten. Not a word Orwell wrote came any true, just on the contrary. Censorship is impossible under the technological circumstances – the notion of ethic cleansing would be considered sheer terrorism by all the winged liberals in Nemesis' unconditional service. You can't instigate hatred against the wicked protected by all the laws of the land. Strange revolution, isn't it? That's exactly how the Revelator imagined Babylon. I really feel like a stranger eternally silenced by providence. I am the sole enemy and I am the weakest. I hate to complain on pretext, but the deal is quite unfair. I couldn't say an acceptable word to the Illuminati if asking financial help to The Building. Rothchild would spit on my boots. Redemption is very expensive – only martyrs can pay the price. It is the curse of the legacy – the Christ's very bad example. Jim Jones saw the thing, I wonder how he could. As the womb inverted in this age of tolerance, only some of the worst killers are granted the grace to give up the ghost with dignity in some republican states yet. That'd be a good reason to be against death penalty, but it's not that plain. Now, if you're a great spirit of fame and fortune, even if you die of natural causes like the lucky average, you'll be most possibly misremembered again – there'll be no rest in peace. The best of course would be to leave no trace behind but who can afford that - Milarepa is still worshipped for all the wrong reasons. Divine gifts are meant to be returned – more talent, more responsibility. That's the simple pattern of the awful bargain we are poignant objects of. The holograph of our memory is prone to the same helpless abuse as Plato in translation – you must very carefully chose your friends and relatives. The ways we dispatch for want of human rights are abominable to say the least – even Brother Leary couldn't hop that trip. Horror's much likelier and less humiliating: voting for Hell gratifies the loser. It's our somatic response to fate – to blame ourselves is yet the best method of reconciliation we got. Against such formidable forces of subreality, we have to resist the victim's temptation with all our constructive might! No, we cannot get again together. But still could stop the war on drugs.
XIX/8
Whatever you call homeward in the rocklands of the benighted Occident before the Great Noontide of 2014, your locomotion will be generated by the pop machine any deep you enter the eternal forest. Pop, in the original sense, marks the famous momentum when art inseparably wedded fashion under the aegis of rock'n'roll: the music and the style. It shaped a new folk for a new nation beyond the linguistic barriers of native poetry. It was not only the classification of industrial design but an inauguration of the People's Kingdom on the evolutionary agenda of alternative history. Reaching from The Factory to the Playboy Mansion, it combined the different divisions of the new age's constructive hedonism in a sinful fortress defended against the feminist invasion by the sword of beauty. It could not have happened without democracy and we owe an awesome lot of gratitude for that to Benjamin Franklin on the Bill. At the core of its spirit, pop meant an enormous leap of time-consciousness versus the patriotic mindset of tribal orthodoxy – it's been the exoteric cradle of overnational imperialism all over the world. It swallowed the avantgarde root and branch, and converted traditions into a common property of mutual exchange. We may well retrospect the phenomenon as the nuclear encounter of ritual and circus – ABBIE HOFFMAN was one great example for that experience. By the unsolved mystery of taste alone, it selected its citizenry on a global scale like a prototype of The City we are trying to reconstruct. Warhol and Heffner are definitely lead pioneers of the third-hand path to Atheist spirtitualism. In New Jerusalem where lovers can be heroes and every worker is a star, progress and decadence automatically blend into an undividable unity beyond left and right. By restoring mythology in a socialist cult of freedom to sin, pop elevated life to a state of art and art to the status of an intervention largely ignoring the political conditions and the traditional taste of the land. It meant organized anarchy – the precondition of all revolutions. It gave the terminal sect a view from above never seen before the space age. Drugs helped but it was part of it. Defying the intellectual abuse of the theory, pop, the music and the art, has brought the action factor in the collective foreground, producing the most attractive antithesis ever crafted by homo sapiens. Where example creates the law – the triumph of rebellion. It opened the gates to a new mentality transforming vices into virtues and vice versa – it's been an incomplete gesture but reversible only by the forces of United Hell. It's the thing we call pop herewith that changed the world in the face of Senator McCarthy after all. It's Lucifer's nuclear weapon. Comparable only with Enlightenment's impact on the Renaissance, it equalized humanity's idealized fiction under an aesthetic dominion of the Zeitgeist finally enthroned over the house of Lords. The rationale of pop, arguably the most memorable episode of art's blasphemous history entering the age of mass production, was the establishment of a new hierarchy by unnatural selection. Eliminating the outdated gap between art and entertainment, pop did not level the center but raised the marginal currency to the top of Middle Earth, turning the table of values on their reactionary shareholders. Don't let us forget that pop killed the Kennedys and brought man to the Moon – NASA and the CIA were just executive forces. It gave power to the people through instant karma. In a Ballroom Blitz as it were, it launched the system of a new monarchy based on the genetic aristocracy of the immaculate conception propagated sans frontiers. Pop was the atomic bomb America innocently dropped to win the cold war – the victory of market economy over the idealist work ethics of communism. The opposite revolt of a different youth: in place of the proletarian, a mutant dictatorship. SPIONS didn't concoct the winning formula, just followed the cosmic fashion. All we ever wanted was to make propaganda popular again.
XIX/9
No need to stress, the new wave of domination has been a arch-Capitalist trend at the core of its heart beating for equality just the same as the Marxist one. One in diversity, the other one in unity. There are two kinds of materialisms by the tricks of the Bargain: one with and one without God. A Christian materialism and a socialist materialism. We should never try to combine those two again. It's also remarkable how many Jews turned their coats towards the Atheist antipode at the beginning of the internationalist campaign. Guys like Trotzky. The seeds of treason are planted in the children of Israel alright, never mind the immoral bankers. So where does the Oshist way of life enter the unholy picture? Let me briefly clarify this to dispel the fog at the Gate of the Mind. Marxism, still full of Monotheist ideals, declared God nonexistent but set out to eradicate its memory - which only made Orthodoxy stronger as we see now in the aftermath. We, the UR, are not afraid of opium. Ours is a movement of transcendent materialism: a new beam of illumination in the Rosicrucian darkness. 'SECRET WE HAVE NONE'. That's our immortal slogan. I'm not playing with the words, it's the magic of the grammar. The Atheist Church is a church on Time promoting total intolerance towards the criminal nature of the mortal majority. A lost cause, you may say, but what better do we actually have? We want to fuse and not dissect – the best of both worlds, you know what I mean. We want homo novum more glamorous and uniform at the same real time. It's adverse to both materialisms, anchored in dialectical rejection of Satan's foul alternatives. Satan for us, not unlike for most of its adopted children, is a pop icon at its best. The post-spiritual counter-pole. We are spies in space far above dichotomies. Subrealism is "Metarealism"™ with another word, just for the pun of it. It all comes down to the Pentagram of Adam in the Air nailed to the wheel of time. Das Kapital is the ultimate temptation with all its might released – it could make the red star change its colour. No serious artist is striving for modesty in the consumer society of reconstruction – wealth is the farthest we can ever glance with temporary eyes. Luxury is an allegory. Those that don't respect money will go to the living Hell – here am I, your living testament. The last starving poet of the entire universe. Unlike ancient services of the divine in the monastery setting, getting rich has been rock'n'roll's original mandate since seceded from folk music. It's been mundane, vulgar and unholy from the day of its birth on – an antidote to religious fanatism. Pop is a counterrevolutionary medium in many senses but it's got nothing to do with greed: it is pure revenge, to put it socially correct. On everything they've done. The elitarian spirit of gene-democracy that keeps on setting the Earth on fire since a half century of cold peace. Even for its most devoted dwellers, underground is a transitory place - without the notion to rise above you're a wasted liar. Pop culture is driven by ambition like anything. The saints of the Atheist Church are millionaires.
XIX/10
Contrary to the preceding wings of Atheism turning the five-pointed up and down, the Oshist version is based on the unconditional rule of the Octagram drawn by the number of the Antibeast. It's a majestic return to the Kabbalah's control of symmetry encompassing the whole oppositorum in a star of deliverance rollin' and rockin'. It is the symbol of divine terror, Integrity-Diversity-Unity written all over it. None is All – All is None. A new club of nihilism is opening up. Anarchy has exhausted its sources long ago, order is here to stay. Reducing ideologies to iconic images, pop designed a milieu where appealing celebrities of virtues govern the state of things over appalling puppets of family values. Transmissions truly altered reality into a replica of itself, operating the collective dream with a machinery of purification. Habitually, we used to shed blood to obtain such privileges. No wonder we're confused what to do with so much freedom for free. Thrown down the walls of the Puritans' prison, we are confronted with plenty of ambiguous choices with no single command coming over. We have to figure it all out – that's our arduous duty without moral dictatorship. We have to turn to witchcraft to testify our instincts. It's all Alle-Gegen-Alle around here right now, accordingly the devil's original score of the finale. Unfortunately enough, only OSP has the key of the gate but it wouldn't turn. Vainly am I singing the Marchant since 1982. My simple agenda is 'vengeance through joy = joy through vengeance' and ordaining the holy whore of Babylon as Our New Lady. It's got to be a porn star. I can't be more pop, can I? Nonetheism versus Musulmaniacs. That's what I call a time-clash. Pro and contra all mixed up in a poisonous lotion of treason. Drink this cocktail and you'll be immortal. Why no one wants to taste it is my greatest guess. Humanity must have gone completely insane under the long sway of Moloch.
XIX/11
Unlike communism and fascism, capitalism hasn't got an own star on display – the closest to its very emblem is the $ sign. We only attached the Mogendovid to it by association. According to Osh, the Octagram includes the whole gamut: the best of all the three worlds in reincarnation's nuclear model. Traitors to the Earth unite! I can't believe it did not work out. I can't grasp at all where am I situated in this theatre of cruelty. It's a broadly unwanted travel in the past I was told long gone. Yet it's on the rise in fact. All you hear is rape and murder – what happened to free love? Officers of the holy army are sexual aggressors and priest of the mother church predatory perverts. And that's only the echelon of authority The people of the republic are busy fighting prevention and retorsion. So where's the moral? It's only gotten worse since 1982. Doctors of abortion are gunned down in America, the safest place on Earth. Whilst killers are defended by lawless justice and mourned when gently released. Isn't it upside down in every sense of the word? Gravity tricked us blind. I should care a lot less to save my dignity but just can't get over it. How could I be so wrong? Racism is henceforth based on the color of the skin – it didn't multiply as I was suggesting. Tribal slaughter, spiritual hatred, ideological antagonisms, they are all there big time and counting amidst human trafficking and child slavery. Internationalism is gone to the dogs of the lands. Chaos is unforgivably abusing digital technology's priceless gift. I wouldn't believe it if it wasn't on television. Is it strange I feel vastly unmotivated to invest my hardly stolen energy into a cause so low – it's not my charge at all. I've been led astray by false promises. Something must have gone awfully wrong in the meantime of the silent age if nobody would like to join the few. Mea maxima culpa, of course – it's all because of my unconvincing manners as a proletarian propagandist. I've never been a cheerleader. I've got no power of transmission whatsoever – only simulating an imitation. I never could madden up to the impossible task and I couldn't be more sorry. I'm a dull and weird entity in a devastating combination disabled to obey the command he promotes. A hypocrite of sin. I ain't nothing but a cosmic beggar, Sir, but that's enough. I sincerely apologize for this mindless self-indulgence inserting – Me is sometimes stronger than I. Let's get swiftly back to the topic of the great rock'n'roll swindle of the final Genesis.
XIX/12
The ancestral youth of the golden Fifties we consider the first generation of the Immortals' Boogieland wouldn't twist and shout longer than three minutes per item. Tunes got sharply cut or turned down abruptly – no extended mixes to Elvis, only covers. The attention span of the adolescent mind was radically brief prior the onset of psychedelia. The magic of the beat fusing swing and blues in the rhythm of the devil's gospel worked an unprecedented genetic miracle of mass mutation: birth of a new race whose last gen we are at the Z. The expansion of the original blow was plain metaphysical – against all the laws Newton ever saw – by increasing the tension all the way of the inverted chain reaction. In today's electrolytic cataclysm of the mechanised movement's post-dance crossovers, the industrial discipline of martial nostalgia is the only stalwart of the progress towards one nation under the mystic pulse from velvet to metal. Sadly enough, it's been vastly reduced to pure survival practice of the living dead at its core despite the proliferating festival circuit of the gothic minority's old kids on the ruins. Amidst the global ballroom's ecstatic medley, industrial music at large has created the hollow center of the overall collapse – preserving the structure from the demolition hammer. We even call it 'futurepop' recently. Another transfo of the electronic body dance or die. Unlike the Killer who had it all in direct, even ALEX WESSELSKY, we are but hyperintelligent puppets courageously playing with the great balls of fire as the Valkyries ride. And since detached from the mainstream exclusively controlled by the people's taste gone wholly rotten since the Eighties, the duty of beauty had an abysmal turn towards the factory labour on recreational drugs. Fun, fun, fun, but every worker knows: it is exploitation of the meanest sort. It's alright but we'd better be aware. What we lose in innocence is abundantly returned though by illumination: the deal is fair and square as it's always been. God is a good Jew but don't trust him a lot. There is a reason for why we are exactly here, no point to investigate. To know that much is more than enough. Please remember Darwin: consciousness is a curse on the ape. Especially the time-bound part. The rest of it is a battle of the views formatting ideologies to justify the bloodshed irrigating Mother Earth. It's safer in the coffin for the benighted – that's why Dracula has replaced Jesus. Real music has always been for the nightlife, let's face it, long before the supermalls. Rock'n'roll in particular made an everlasting pact with the Vampire against the Sun. It's soultime, the night, any a way shifted – the neonlights only enhance its ambience. On good cocaine the Disco's like a dream. Even if you hate nightclubbin', the music can take you there. Music is the language of the soul – it defines one's orientation better than anything. That's why they use it as a meter of the judgement. Even if you hate nightclubbin', the music can take you there. Again, it was pop, our cultural revolution, that deleted the obsolete anomaly between demonstration and celebration: the ambiguity of work and love. As revolt became fun - no longer born solely from despair – so fun became the ultimate revolt: the claim to enjoy life on the death row. Not such an impertinent demand, is it Loyola? That's the very rebellion Osh has been encouraging at his war with Yahweh. In times of judgement like these we need to openly challenge the Angel of Light.
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XX/1
Since the legendary Saturday night blackened by the Sabbatic rejection of groove society's rhythm tactics, dance is no longer a sheer erotic exercise – its meaning has significantly deepened in the parallel world of the conquering underground where dead do it. This goth movement, or how else to call it, is actually the great reunion of Thanatos and Eros – hats up to Friedrich! An eventual wedding feast in perennial costumes in the better cases. From afar looks like happening. On the information highway to Hell the messages are plenty, all we got to do is to receive them right. It's all about death since 1984 – even earlier. Two years earlier. It's not anything new of course but has never been so exclusive before in the modern ages. Not in Tanzmusik. THE CRAMPS didn't remain a novelty act. DEATH who formally established the trend by monopolizing the word did not know what they were doing when recklessly liberating the sheep from the burden of choice. Heralding the reign of terror in such a positive way was a true Meisterschaft. This guy could simultaneously obey and revolt. It's become the main characteristic of true deathmetal's unrelenting attitude. The crash course that commenced at the eternal dawn of punk is escalating alright – you'd better drive your car with care to get safely to Hades 'cross the collective drama of the human traffic. Follow the signs of the rocky road eight days a week if you want to survive to die, as DESTRUCTION candidly put it. I know it sounds nihilistic, but if you're cynical enough it's not so militant. The gate was a trapdoor but don't blame it on Newton – the fall is one-way and everybody's coming since Lucifer revealed us that the exit's at the bottom of it. Temptation or Promise doesn't matter right now – our energy is to accommodate the acceleration. Who'll arrive faster is the nature of the test – however, it isn't a race. Speed or doom – metal is metal. Three chords are left for racist punks to persist – debutant giants will rise from the womb of the tomb with Byzantine symphonies of otherworldly settings in celestially arranged crescendo, putting their adamant listener to a tormenting trial of voluntary mortification through vocal insults and electro shocks. The borderline between creation and reproduction has been washed away in the meantime by the deluge of synthetic sound pouring down from seven heavens upon the gathering troops of the second coming. What we need to understand yet is that it's not simply a background to the ongoing Apocalypse but the very event of it. The quantitative impact of the electronic revolution modified both the production and the performing process – along with the phonic experience and the dancing habits of traditional rock'n'roll. Technicality dominates the alternative business – the hands took over the actual stage. Slick thieves of the former entourage practically stole the show, removing the focus from the hollowed center. It's been a welcome tendency for rising new labels of the raging independence, relieving them from the grueling quest for charisma that's hard to find and can't be fabricated. Talent and skill will vastly suffice to sell away the men in grey as genuine role models of the elect forever young. When someone like HIM comes around, feels like we're all grateful dead by now.
XX/2
The fresh robots of Klubland's faceless Vamporium are, ironically, the only ones left alive united in the vale of tears and fears. They work and love hard in the glamour factory for symbolical wages, crucified on the famous cross of time as an enigmatic penalty. Sons of a bitch, sons of a god. The sacred allegory sublimely fits. By the enhanced technology of the electric wizards in control of the atmosphere space music is no longer secret knowledge – anyone can do whatever he likes. If JOE MEEK was a socialist, we are his wildest dream. Playing samplers and sequencers, every techno kid's aware that music directly comes from beyond the wheresoever – just switch and click and there you go. Electronics finally solved the sham mystery of art. It is a quantum physical phenomenon as opposed to the spiritual quality, and free for everyone. A chance meeting between Crowley and Marx on the strawberry fields forever. Synthesizer is the greatest gift to man second but to handgun – that's where Sam Colt and Bob Moog share a common grave. Although it catapults many individuals to the dark stardom of Pandemonium, the dominantly anonymous league of the industrial trade is a sectarian community where workmanship is all that really counts, not the magnitude of groupies. Hiding behind pseudonyms often cryptic to immemorizability and multiplying their aliases at an alarming rate, musicians of the new nobility have set their ambitions higher than the heroes of old school. Unlike power metal, they don't want to be God on stage – they want God in them audience. Greater than one is the mathematic modern. No unbiased critic can sincerely distinguish between the perfect items of excellent products dumping up – ratings became utmost unreliable. Let alone the charts any alternative. Only rumours help a bit. Reference to influences is the sole method of orientation. The grooveyard we enjoy is oddly reminiscent of the pre-Palestrinian ages when music might actually have been more of a common property on a small scale as compared to our digital library's enormous database. The borders of NOVA AKROPOLA are narrowly drawn therefore, I'd never venture out to the endless sea of jazz and acid. My transmission is limited to the extreme core of the central nervous system: the machine in the garden, to steal my legendary definition. I'm fishing in dark waters where the Sun never shines and I know what I'm catching. I'm catching a cold. The point of my askance view overlooking the fields of decay is the reconstructive process: the progressive intelligence of the classically trained. I'm selecting my stuff by the Ten Commandos no less, each show's like a lesson. I'm flexible and accurate and optimum versatile with my limited collection of used records. I should be heralded rather than unheard but that's the only way I can stay uncensored at least. My emissions both happen and don't. I think I have solved an equation.
XX/3
Every normal artist is thriving on feedback – it ain't worth of doing if nobody's buying. We all are around to serve each other in the great mutuality of the social transaction – pay no heed to the ego's hissing. A fine piece of music must want to communicate – it has to be confessional and agitative at the same beat. It has to be commercial and avantgarde in one person – a true spywork – or else it'll suck like a parasite. It's a demanding calculus but all comes down to the pure matter of taste at the final mix. It's instinct versus intellect – the ancestral roots of rock'n'roll. Which ain't no longer adolescent havoc like BILLY FURY: the spontaneous revolt has augmented to a conscious movement of lucid counterrevolution against the scheme of things. Fighting the backlash of the past, we are advancing counterclockwise and nothing can stop us now. Aggrotech, as we learned to name it, is like a Wunderwaffe of the industrial revolution's final victory. Another one is neofolk by the label. Now, the best of all is when they get blended. There you go, back to the fiction. To Germania, from all places in time. We're wont to imitate history for want of our own since punk rock. But we won't paddle out of the metaphoric vortex without a stream of socialist subrealism. What we badly need is an end to poetic transmissions. We have played it the other way too long, let's turn the rifle now into an instrument. The war on crime must be waged – it is our promise and our duty. And this is the war that must be waged, not the pitiable territorial conflicts. The UR have no political motivations. It is a combined army of angels at work. Well, that's how I see it from my window when the darkness falls. Big 3D seraphim by my side like an anime. The rational options repel me a lot; I don't wanna give speeches to the peaches. Overnationalism is not an alternative – I could never fathom it that way. It is the final solution or nothing. But I am not a persuasive converter any hard I'd try. I frankly don't believe the very words I'm saying. I just don't see how should we overcome one day. The ghost of the spy that couldn't lie is haunting me down. To battle a people that can't differ serial from mercy killing and opposes death penalty is not such a alluring object of triumph. The Party was meant to dethrone evil, not the human psyche's multiethnic throngs, I used to presume. The Brides of Babylon are a heterodox herd, they ought to kill their ego first – the witch within – before going on a rampage. The devil's Siamese twins of sex and violence given wicked birth by the corrupted Kapital have to be radically separated before it's too late. Through a painstaking operation cleansweep, as they properly call it. That's about the mission of mine. The main detergent of my brainwash-machine. Only if you want more than you can get will you gain something. Let the Oshist wisdom shine.
XX/4
Rock'n'roll was born as an alternative to philosophy but has grown into an alternative philosophy under the adhering intelligentsia's infectious patronage: music without a stand is outright garbage today, even the classical sort. Actually it's an impossibility, even love songs are written with an ironic edge since the everlasting Eighties. The Ballroom Blitzkrieg is long lost. Total death surely is the best bet on the truth, but still only a philosophy rendered to the Gōthenburg sound – more distracted from the real thing than those pornographic nurses. The reign of random has never been challenged – control is automatically refused by the rebellious populace. Everybody's taking Nemesis for granted like we were in Sumerland. What's predictable is inevitable – blame it on the Law of Nostradamus we are up to disprove. We live in an age of paranormal paranoia, crushed to pulp between creed and doubt. Epiphany is paradoxically denied from the children in no time. Escape into dystopia is a romantic devotion – poetry alone saves us from the facts. Flirtation with death is nothing new per se – its exclusive popularity is. Morbidity is a must if you wanna boogie with the devil. We can sincerely talk about a mass movement in the Netherworld. But it should in no way mean the deflation of life as suicide commandos are eager to propagate through catchy samples of rape and murder. Even tragic deaths do fail to confirm their heroes' testament, only contribute the overall disorder. TOM CORA's is dismal, JIM SHEPARD's is sad. Even if you pass away onstage like MARK SANDMAN happened to be granted by the Fates recently, it'll only move fans to have their tickets reimbursed. Survival's price is guilt for dreaming – you'd better have no hope if wanna be followed. His truest feelings one has to simulate for authenticity's sake when artistically expressed – you may roar like a lion but must be aware of your power. The human mind will never be free – all we can do is ignore the chains of knowledge. We can carry but that much weight in Gravity: the future in a suitcase. Pretend that we're dead and paint our corpses rot. Dark funerals are pure formality when your life's documented – media not only helps the actor to face himself but reduces the mortality quotient to its less than half. Which amazing grace gives every starlette the chance to design her destiny like a burial gown. ANDREW ELDRITCH wouldn't dig this, but we can really hit back the sisters sowing the thread with their empathetic smile. It is eventually the first message we dare to send back after eons of receiving, as a proof of intelligent life down here. A petition in place of a prayer. Any funny are the stories of the overdosed, the circus of martyrs is no comedy whatever divine – no monster will scare us again. The device of thrill vs. fear B-movies delivered before going bad has diminished by the race of gore – the worst vultures of the matrix unscrupulously intersect surreal fiction with criminal realism, killing Bunuel and Hitchcock with a single stroke. That's why I prefer sheer trash amidst the amorphous heap of destruction in a growth permanent like a revolution. Defying the dangers of subreality, the divided underground is wider than ever these Halcion days on the bayou. And much deeper too as the substance's sinking. Six Miles Under. Here flows the true mainstream of dead time's endless river crammed with the strangest pisces of the transmutation. But the scene is as deceptive as the platinum surface – they might not notice it, but these orphaned children of the hardcore are no less images than the warriors of gothica. They don't mean what they say either, that's what I mean. Lyrics come as naturally as virtuosity, all they got to do is to write them down on toilet tissue. Scandinavia's would-be cavemad brewing the blood of the Grail are no otherworldly incarnates of evil as they're selling themselves out by the names of demons and wizards, nor are martial industrialists an adhesive militia of revenge. But the same domesticated bushmen trying on new dresses to kill. This is my struggle and I don't think it's worth it. Evolution is a relative process of the heavens keeping us eternally confused about the sense of it all. The achieved complexity of the rock'n'roll experiment is a glorious revelation however: the multimedia equivalent to Moses' burning bush. It is the third point to form a firm triangle with politics and art. The ultimate balance splendidly restored. And in the symbolic midst of it shows Osh's all-seeing eye for the Note of the Overnational bank für alle mögliche Fälle. It is called One Dracula since the First Day of the Capital and is waiting for you to design it one velvet morning, Sir. As New Jerusalem's official currency, of course. Spiel!
XX/5
So after all these idle wanderings in the electric ladyland of metallic subgenres in bewildered quest of synesthesia, the question what anyone considers industrial music remains largely unsolved except for the Ogilvies. We are producing in a dream factory haunted by the spectre of the spectrum. The core I'm getting at with my top secret emission is a largest compilation of possible deaths: a fusion of the mortal revolt from diverse sonic aspects. It's not difficult because the vision I'm talking about effectively exists, no surprise there. At one mystic point the world is one. And it sounds exactly as I pictured in 1979; I can't believe my ears. Lucifer rules over the land, including the Christian sector, which I could never have imagined if I was John Lennon. All I can say is Hail, and getting on with it – our alliance is true. Futurist Machinenwerke and medievalist Inquisition compose a delicious playlist for the absolute supper. It's an atomic cocktail for all worthwhile tastes – a gathering of the self-conscious elite for the Battle of Armageddon, I should say. And why not? I've got as much right as anybody else. I am determined by the doctrine of the new when making my choices – there's no nostalgia I wouldn't bow to. Nor I'd ever separate the beauty and the beast: my ambience is dark and my rocks are bleeding. The artist must tear out his heart like an Inca MC for the Altar of Azazel to be enlisted in the army of the UR – times like these require total devotion to the common cause. Melancholy's only fork to the knife for the fine young cannibals of melodic death. The infernal takeover has successfully happened – every attraction comes from the negative pole and it's super-natural. What the gothic empire's feudal insignia got to do with the industrial nation's robot cult is nobody's dilemma amidst the time-clash of the final countdown heralded by EUROPE. Darkness is the new light - the chaos of anarchy is only precursor to the order of vengeance. Idealism is not stupid. There's nothing to be afraid of except our own shadows. There is an intrinsic solidarity between the disorganized brotherhood based on spiritual affiliation: between the anguished and the angry, the enchanted and the possessed. Misanthropy and deophobia have been mould into a canon of he Atheist crusade under the metal hammer of Thor fallen to iced Earth by awkward accident. The Pagan warriors' politheism is a field of treason – the transition from One to None is an arduous path. A counter-clockwise movement of the executive body towards the demolition of Monotheist temples. The valiant coldwave gradually frozen to its recent consistence under the changing climate of the Northwind has dissected the hot vibes of Regaeton from the heroic pathos of symphonic conquest as attributed to Lord Belial. Voodoo is no longer the choice of magic at the funeral march of the alchemichal warfare. It is the ghost army of resurrected Vikings that confronts the cybertech mutants of death industry. That's what they might have meant about the graves opening up. A very interesting time we got, Sir, judgement time. I wonder what's so boring.
XX/6
Quite radically separated from the Vamporium's ultrasonic decadence, on the other side of the urban fence is the realm of the living: the neo-tribalist kingpins of hiphop killing brethrens out of sheer dignity. They run the city on the ground I'd never venture to surface onto. Their violence is no emotional rescue but naturally born and their thirst for revenge historically justified. Nor aren't they so afraid of death as sissy German folkies – they know how to live forever. The Neighbourhood über alles – no need for Fatherland. Nor do they have a real problem with Jesus except for his race, color and sex that's always debatable. But no blasphemy to Pentecostal faiths. The Antichristian warfare is left to white Aryan reconstructivists to wage, atavistically supremacist with every reason. That's the current 93 at this peaking moment. The flagbearers of the UR are ghosts without resource versus the Nation of Islam. That's how OSP emerged on the projected horizon: a home for the universal refugee. The elect's main characteristic is that we don't belong to any school but are building our own college whilst traveling time. We work for an intergalactic enterprise by trivial comparison and do nothing else here but the spywork of a higher intelligence. The Neuropolis formula remains valid for the rest of the days, though with a modified attitude towards it. We are here to observe and report – what we can do is the information. We refuse to take active part in the ongoing misery and swear no allegiance to the mortals' combats. We belong to New Jerusalem purged from the greed of Planet Hollywood. The socialism of the living dead is not a political institution but a house of justice built upon the global hate of the corrupted system. In terms of the Cosmic Bargain, its main goal is high-standard communism for an idealistic humanity freed of fear and pain. Not bad for a Utopia, is it? The core of the Luciferian alliance was, let me remind you for a flashback, to let the chosen few gloriously depart from the Pandemonium in fair exchange of the divine terror provided by Heaven to the ethic cleansing. Satan, contrary to popular belief, doesn't want Hell – he creates it from necessity. But what he really wants is a brave new world, and that's the best news I ever overheard. He is no longer the radical adversary – his mind has completely changed. The Lord of Treason is coming mighty clean. All he wants is to get rid of the scum of the Earth. Nor he needs the starmen to tell him what to do on the other hand. He would let them gladly go in friendly terms. Lucifer's dream is a peaceful Middle-Earth of human illusions like a David Lynch nightmare. He offers work and love and equal comfort for everyone. A Paradise Island we could always visit for a cosmic holiday later on by the way. No more suffer for the deeds of the wicked, s'il vous plait. The theory of redemption may go to the dogs of space. That's in a nut's shell the Oshist transaction I am called upon to campaign about to the democratic masses. For the classless society of a devoted workforce with overnational interests. A reunion of the twelve tribes sanitized from within. We herald a global civil war on crime since 1984. The return of the great Pan to the throne of sin relieved from the devil's repugnant image painteth by the Ascetics. We've got fourteen years yet to put it all in order. Still more than the Third Reich's entire span. What a pity Time's no longer with us.
XX/7
Since the capitalization of artistic creativity, the fiscal balance of the spiritual exchange has been gloriously restored - elevating the status of barnstormers to the best paid of all jobs on the white market. You need no Maecenas, democratic states would grant their worst enemies sometimes. Talent is the new nobility on constant rise in the frenzy of the media. Consumerism is the greatest bliss of all, those that despise it should really be spayed. We can't be grateful enough for what the city offers to the modern man of wealth and taste. In ancient times work and love were irreconcilably separate entries on the template of existence. For the concerned classes of human civilization's turbulent history industrial labor was hardly a joyous occupation and it still isn't for most of the staff of 9 to 5 offices by the Sabbatical week. Only artists have the privilege to directly enjoy the fruits of their labour: profit from the gift the Maker bestowed upon them. Even this is brand new on such massive scale – only since the wholesome separation of church and the state has it become constructively possible. You had to be Michelangelo to reach a commission for substantially less than Charlton Heston got for the role. It's enough to compare the Mozart story to that of Paul McCartney's to collect the vulgarity award. Genius was seldom in harmony with fortune – only poet laureates could make it right like Goethe. The avantgarde was to starve on dope, happy to be recognized post mortem at all not so long ago. From its appearance on in the apted caveman craving for magic, art has evolved as a third parallel along religious beliefs and political ideas, serving or defying them as the times were a'changing. The esoteric doctrine of creation for its own sake – the gap between William Blake and Isaac Newton – that liberated art from functionalist science was only born with the Cartesian input three centuries ago. Culture and fashion beforehand was largely monopolized by the royal blood of the territorial heritage. In our democratic age of class mutation Mephisto has grown a corporate giant. The manpower of entertainment turned into a huge industry of the people's business comparable but to the military investment. Celebrities of no bloodline rule like royal couples; the Monarchy is nothing but an image. Rock'n'roll, for example is a blue-collar takeover of the proletarian elite, let alone the Mississippi Delta, with all the pride of the avenging rebel. The music of genetic revolt successfully equalized the youth of the world in a global culture, offering an opportunity from rags to riches practically overnight for every gifted one as entertainment matured into sporting event. The star system worked like American roulette: a profane manifestation of probable providence. Picking cotton or playing the flat top box made an enormous difference in Tennessee and beyond. And so is between engaged death squads in harm's way and the stormtroopers of doom on the road to fame, to flaunt an updated example. Don't have to entertain that Maoist guilt, but you should never forget how lucky you are, boy, to do what you will and not getting lynched by the mob but worshipped like gods for it in the deepest South. Something really worth to die young for. Or even survive. Transforming workshop into worship, alongside the sexual revolution, is the abolition of the penalty for sin imposed by the humanophobic godheads of old. In spite of all intrigues of the monetary system imposed upon the fallen specie to redeem their mistake, we stand erect before the throne: no temptation could break our ambitious spine. And unlike bloodthirsty pirates, we can get it all in the most civilized way of equitable competition. Though unfairly distributed for want of true socialism, prosperity created a civilization of righteous selection raising priceless works of art to the status of prime commodity in unprecedented mass production. Art as a breadwinner is the sweetest burden providing the agony and the ecstasy for anyone who dares. A life of fashion may be sheer escape from reality but an escape to the City of Eden: a rehearsal for the next life in the crime-free zone of nuclear rebirth. Where work is love and love is work. Welcome to the Winter of Hate.
XX/8
In this sullen wasteland where we find ourselves wandering in quest of one direction, R'n'R is no longer juvenile delinquency in the biological sense. The stylistics of Scandinavian takeover are the plainest indication for that ageless maturity. Though still teenagers do it when they start, the innate disposition of deathmetal is anything but funky. This crazy shit, as they used to define themselves just like their hiphop brethrens, is in fact the most serious music ever swept through the Earth – it's achy-breaky heart is beating for retaliation wilder than of crust punks'. From kitschwave to mathcore it is full of hopeless hate. Besides, these Satanic kiddos of dark intentions are growing old much faster than the preceding generations, due to the acceleration time's departure triggered. Their wearing the masks of ancient ghosts is the immortal's precautious pretense. The guitar skills improve ever so amazingly but the body paints ain't meant to please beach girls. Scary is the new tease amongst the living dead. Though they only perform it, this is no theatre: if that's what the public wants, let them get it. Always the demand creates the supply – it's a major law of the Bargain's objective economy. It's been a winding road from Memphis to Valhalla by the inverted axis of the counter-revolution. A transformation no Zimmerman could have predicted. Eternity is here in mezzo-soprano. The living are ready and the dead can dance. Hail, hail, we are verily delivered to a certain degree. Hard cores do not create dance crazes – metal is a real heavy thing by definition – but if headbanging is not a progress in revolt, New Jerusalem is a city of devils. The original choreography of rock'n'roll, for it was ballroom before mosh-pit, had been the onset of a new hysteria for the post-political age: mutual liberation of the body and the mind. The rebirth of ecstasy in its true cosmic sense. Dance was no longer evasion from the troubles but actually to create them: an expression of rebellion against the social concept of leisure in the labor camp of the Seven, culminating in the metaphor of Manchester's party people. It invoked a society of strike, resistance and revenge. Saturday night became the urban mass challenging family values and work ethics. Rock could not beat the swing but pioneered the twist whereby the couples separated into solo acts defining the future of clublife. Whatever violently would they smash their living deadheads, tonight's paying audience is henceforth like orphaned children craving to be taken care of. Albeit less greedy than JOEY DEE & THE STARLITERS, the responsibility of the unholy trashers has enormously increased: the show must be a havoc any sold out. There's no slowing down on the slope. R'n'R can't become untrue, that's the bitch in it. Any way you do it, it remains the controlled catharsis of a histrionic drama of instant redemption. I know it sounds fairly pathetic but it's absolutely true. You don't have to be ROBERT PLANT to feel it.
XX/9
Beside the perennial treason best epitomized by The Beatles Band transforming from phenomenon into a self-conscious project under the Maharishi's counterfeit guidance, the interior tensions of the group formation will equally modify the outgoing sound of the collective strife for success. Rock'n'roll at its best is a battle of giants: the bluescore of every frontman gone solo act. The main reason for the breakups of perfect units, beside the jealousy factor, is the fear of stagnation. Every spirit needs to evolve, even if for the worse. An act of rock will play on the band members' chemistry creating a powerful molecule out of the interacting atoms session musicians can only underscore. That's the chief antagonism between classic and pop: the personality cult. And of course the stage antics if carefully improvised. Gimmicks and costumes are inevitable if you've got a message to transmit – the new minstrels have always known it. The anti-aesthetic of grunge only emphasized the rule of the unholy land. The greatest chasm of the last decade of constructive destruction was the one between Kurt and Rozz probably, to only mention the top of the pops. A matter of attitudes - their philosophies of entertainment. What they proved having had in common though was the sacrificial quality of them missions characteristic of the innate drive to independence rock'n'roll is here to satisfy. Rock'n'roll is a voracious animal, and loving every minute of it doesn't mean it wouldn't suck you dry. Punk's ragtime dandysm didn't need permission to reproduce an imaginary past – it was a riot of its own abolishing the last divider between original and artifice: natural instinct and conscious refuse. It made chaos the official state of the disunion, giving freedom a better name than the hippy peacefare. In today's mystic embrace of advanced technologies where every worker is a star as predicted, mythology is written with the blood of self-made robots risen above society's abominable intrigues. The war of worlds is a war of styles autonomous armies of universal soldiers are waging for the right of the individual – that's been the soul of the boogie since "Rocket '88". Industrial noise is only a culmination of the primal clash. Beyond cradle and grave, rock'n'roll is a born vampire that cannot die any way you kill it. No dissing rap will put an efficient dagger in her heart. Not as long as we can remember. Gathering the traitorous elect under the imaginary aegis of the Church on Time, it has been setting a burning example of intelligence by its dynamics of changes fighting the procedure of establishment. Its cathedral is built by demolition – nothing lasts but nothing's lost. Looking at it from above the clock, it is exciting to see how the process has slowed down throughout its seasons in the Sun. After a fairly short teenage springtime, its psychotropic summer was comparably longer and its chaotic automn even more extended. Around 1984 indeed the fourth season set in and is going on ever since: the eternal Winter of the North conquering the Southern lord on the virtual map of sonic imperialism. The hybernated Nazis have all melted up in the cold fire. With all respect to mighty Calypso and Mambo kings, the run for fun is no longer the main pursuit of happiness for Dracula's unwanted children. It's all about nuclear reincarnation they may call the dragon's awakening. There is always hope. But that's all there is.
XX/10
Only future will respect the past – evolution's strictly one-way and going backwards. The Z-generation presumed to be the last has chosen bloody gore against the everlasting boredom of the mortal dream – a good choice but a bad sign o'times any way you scan it. Dystopian doomsayers are the coolest of all cats tonight. They have no inhibitions and no fear. The reign of Satan prohibits superstition. Challenging Hell remains the sole weapon against paranoia – profanation is the last security. Sacrifice has always been pleading for redemption and sacrilege the Antichristian repentance. The diabolical brood of evil is a synthetic produce of simplicist eclectica where deviation makes the acts equal in their import. A real spectacular encounter of the scattered tribes under the cover of a global Israel via Internet. Exemptions are the rule in the enriched dominion of the alternative market of blackened pop. Uncategorizability is a key word of distribution – tastes are acquired like unusual habits. As a matter of fact everything is new all the time any more from forest to factory: the pagan spectrum of moribund revival. Immortality's no longer a myth but a social issue of the creative talent. What's profoundly lost though in the evil mechanism is the hope factor. The ritual is robotic as can be: to believe in oneself is almost impossible for the intelligent man. We are expected to be fit to survive but wouldn't know to what end. In June or July you'll die anyway – Osh won't save you from the trumpet. It's not his job. Osh is the way out but you have to walk it. St. Francis of Assisi got the thing. We, dumb gnostics, need to know the importance of life beyond narcosis: the meaning of being in one good phrase. Never the less, the harmonic crusade from close to dis wouldn't hear anything but reverberations: the sonic invasion, except for the few crash worshippers, is ominously civilized. Horror is a soundscape and crime but a source of lyrical afflatus. No terror, please, we are only kidding. Leave the chosen alone, they don't wanna be part of it. They wanna live and die in L.A. for ever. None of them would go to the war they declare on cassettes. Not to a global civil one for sure. Türkenjagd will do just fine. I for one don't know how to change such an imbued mentality without moral dictatorship. I can but sing along with them. My bleak vision lacking both memory and imagination is reduced to a focus on the present: all I know is what I see. And I must see a lot farther than I should or wouldn't feel so forlorn. At the dawn of reason where hate is the most hated, only fascist love can spare the works from getting spoiled by the dove of mercy. The cult of death will not suffice without the cult of life – that's been G.I.N.A.'s primordial call to the UR since her slapdash foundation. The necrosanct tribulation of the born-again heathendom has created a luxuriant vacuum for the supreme input – better than I could ever have imagined. Every dualism could be defeated now with a well-pointed sword at the Hexe: the bureaucracy of chaos that leaves nothing impossible. What are the youth mongering carnage waiting for in fact? The Angel of Revenge? Vows on retaliation are infantine jokes of junkies. The words have lost all their moral commitment. These people, and I mean all of them, would sooner kill anything but crime. World music has not overcome the ancestral racism. O.S.P. is fiercly instigating elitarians to unite for the final showdown, but the asocialist Bridehood is colder than death: she only loves the vampire if it sucks. And that's what I can't do despite my fake ancestry. Reality is none of their theatres of pain. Sex versus war is all right, but you can't make peace with crime whatever the police say. It's Baphomet versus Christ in the final analysis as long as dichotomies rule. Ethic cleansing or subhuman rights. But my deserted voice wouldn't come through the walls of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' – anyway, I wouldn't say anything personal on the air. Just play the tracks resonating my broken vision in my terrible incognito. It seems the last judgement will execute itself, like I always said. Inferno has better chances than gardens of delight – it's safer to bet for the sure winner. Temptation works sheer miracle these days and I understand why. The truth has triumphed.
XX/11
The tour de force of death on the alternative market replacing illusions of social engagement is the ultimate battlecry of the awakening intelligence in the age of Aquarius. It is quite antithetic to THE 5TH DIMENSION but definitely better. Demise is a Leitmotiv in our lovely specie's collective symphonia de Infernali – notions of new order are no match to compete. They just become integral part of the overall Dystopia. Genetic engineering is the horror of horrors even for geek cyborgs – vainly tuned in, the past people wouldn't give no future a chance. Robots are solely fashion statements. No, of course, I'm nothing against Druidic revivals lest we forget our cosmic task. Burning down the temple of God is good fun but a gesture desperately symbolic. Pure evil is no disbelief in the good. There is equitum solis on the way, we only have to organize. That's why an OSP would so badly be needed, not because I am the last of the dreamers. The Bardo I'm traveling is an underground tunnel – what rises from here automatically disappears from the sight of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' building in a valley. I am not missing the mainstream, prefer the company of the living dead. My hope is in the hopeless – they shall inherit the City of Eden. Reality is not a CD-Rom – it could be controlled if so wanted. We might be at the most crucial moment of our medical history. So far anyway. We'll stay doomed forever if fail to get a hold on it. That much is at stake, no less. It's no longer prophecy but the fact of facts – the return of Khonsu via Internet. Those that open the seals will themselves become it – you may be ignorant but the responsibility won't escape you. It's always better to live up to your message. Reflecting Hell means voting for it – we are at war with Satan since metal has blackened. We have to clear up the atavistic confusion once and for ever beyond reverence and sympathy. The time has gone, the time is here. Long live the immortal.
XX/12
If you condemn violence do not glorify it – is that too much to ask from the dialectical youth? Objective sarcasm is awfully passé. Bringing it to extremes like Floridian gore is the sole way in. But if you sing about regular drive-by shooting in a catchy tune with a mantric refrain repeating the title, no irony will save you from promoting it. Inarticulate vocalizing will only claim for more attention. We'd better turn and face ourselves in the broken mirror at this numeric moment: where is that violent peace they were chanting about? And the calls for war on war in so many swell tunes? Phrases are used like butterflies caught and pinned on the sleeve – what sounds good is good, don't dare to mind what it might mean. The boys always prove themselves innocent before the press betraying the Zeitgeist that feeds them. Nothing is real anyway – it's strawberry fields for ever. New Age Rock mellowed into a traditional form of art – no more influential than classical ballet on the riot of the races. Since CHRISSIE HYNDE yielded her pretended throne to a coalition of legitimate witches, hope has became an unspeakable word reserved to old school anarchists still eager to destroy. The mind of the 24 insinuated everywhere – there's nowhere to hide but in the solitude. A party of individuals sounds like utter nonsense to the ears of the wised-up: what can't be done shouldn't be tried. The Grosse Arbeit of ethic cleansing starts at the homebase – with burning down the house of your own. Ego has no room on the battlefield – the armed forces of the UR are no exception from the ancestral formula. Only the warfare changed and the enemy of course. You must be a traitor to deliver the sentence – you ought to hate thy neighbor no less than yourself. Thus spoke the Antichrist. Rock'n'roll from rebel rousing boogie has indeed grown into the onerous grind of dethroning gods. That's what Osh may call an evolution. To grow up to it is largely expected from the nation of Satan. It is still pop alright but the posture's no longer enough. Yet henceforth Unabombers have to set the example. The transition from supersucker boy bands into storm troopers of death is quite paranormal: we happened to understand the deception of Gravity. Fall is the new rise and nothing can stop us now. The momentum to take over the lead of history from the hands of the politically corrupt has successfully come. How strange there is no observable sign of it, or so I find. BOYD RICE is smaller than Mickey Mouse. The Dionysian empire would never gain the power to stop the slaughter or at least channel it – new world order remains the foul dream of the wealthy. The most you can do is sweet charity: the capitalist sacrifice of deluded humanists. We can go to deep Hell with our virtual Gesamtkunst on the waves of rotten sounds, the upshot of the easy ride will be less than zero. Or even negative in the heavier cases. The better we play, the less we take the risk to do as we say. The new killers are all filthy Crowleyans fucking the goat for a close encounter. It makes me so sad, Sir, I could cry. With all respect due, this land is not my land. Not what I was promised. So I keep reckoning New Jerusalem on my secret map. Waiting for the Sun to rise from the West.
χ
Chapters:
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.; AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.; AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
_______________________________
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
SPIONS Manifestos
SPIONS Lyrics
The Cosmic Bargain
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
SPIONS Manifestos
SPIONS Lyrics
The Cosmic Bargain
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com
