the worst lies are those that
separate us from our racial identity,
for that is a negation of the soul.
March 30, 2025
Ajax Kallistrate
The aesthetic of the Aryan
is the love of all beautiful things.
March 30, 2025
We can neither remember
nor forget what we never knew.
We can neither forgive nor avenge.
We can neither grieve nor honor.
We can only wander like lost souls
in an underworld hollowed out by deceit,
a people untethered from the horrors of
a family history stolen by a cadre of
shameless liars.
March 30, 2025
the little houses stare
back at me.
peaceful.
attentive.
as if all I have
to do is reach out
to them and they'll take us in.
March 30, 2025
some day
some warm place
will take me in and
i will curl up
curl up
and
sleep
March 30, 2025
If you know where it is, you might
not know how to get there.
If you know how to get there,
it doesn't matter where it is.
March 30, 2025
broken things
are constellations
of
stars over
blackest Heaven.
March 15, 2025
i must hang
on in Hell
to
hold on
to Heaven,
and
i'm losing
my grip, i'm
losing my grip.
March 13, 2025
we must separate ourselves
to preserve who and
what we are.
February 25, 2025
You looked up at me like you
were going to tell me a secret.
We see with our eyes,
you think.
We see with anticipation, expectation,
assumption, context, history,
propaganda, illusion,
desire, fear,
and
so
are
we too, blind.
Ghosts.
We live life on rails, behind bars,
our noses pressed up against
the limitations of drywall.
We peer, squint, blink,
rub, splash, call out
to one another,
request
a
second
opinion, demand
confirmation. Is this it?
Do we know?
Ten percent is too generous
to grant conceited
animals.
One,
maybe,
and then
only for the
materiality of
round numbers.
The rest?
The difference is a lifetime.
Divine creation or evolution,
the question is moot in
the minds of animals
who function on
a linear plane.
A decade,
we can remember.
A hundred years?
A hundred thousand?
A hundred million?
We've long since stopped functioning.
We think we see and we're wrong.
Dead wrong.
Holmes was right, Watson.
It doesn't matter.
We were born into Plato's cave.
We will die in Plato's cave.
The puppet masters own your entrails,
and mine too.
Demons,
gypsies,
wizards,
extraterrestrial space aliens,
Babylonians,
the Pharisees,
Eastern European degenerates,
Talmudists,
Ashkenazi Jews,
Zionists.
Does it matter?
Judaized, negrotized, this land
is their land now. Only the
blind see red stripes
and believe
in liberty.
And what do the rest of us see?
With our glass eyes, our natural armor,
our own anticipation, expectations,
assumptions, we cast a
jaundiced gaze over
this blasted
civilization
and
the only
thing we lack is
the stubborn confusion
I spent a lifetime trying
to straighten out.
Otherwise, the decay is just as putrid.
We discover and abandon hope,
backtrack from false paths,
and keep our eyeballs
fixed on the wheel
that reaps and sows.
We are no smarter.
We bear no fewer burdens.
We shall sink beneath the horizon
all the same.
So when you looked up at me,
I canted my head, as I saw
and thought, you have
a secret to tell me.
I'll keep that, for now, and believe so.
February 23, 2025
