Tuesday, 30 April 2013

Have you noticed everyone alive or dead, hates the yahwehist terrorists now?






Excepted the wielders of the wholly integrated, full spectrum, ancient weapon system secreted state, first divined in Babylon. The stewards of usury, for they are no muster, they are forever fearing servants diaspora’d in evil mission, who kill us, under license from their master. With all the false tokens ever created to remove those separated and abandoned weeds of freedom, agents of orange.

There are only two of us, those ignorant and those aware, the others who seek command of the darkness are foolishly seeking to co-opt the third. They issue from their faux fanny money machine a prophylactic to separate us from God. All the while blinding us with a golden shield and silvered onanist's mirror.

This idea that we are combating a New World Order is absurd. The ancient weapon system is structured through selfish, occulted, inbred, religious Lamarckian selection to reintegrate the old order globally, before they step off the plain this plane. Creeping slowly, generation after generation, across the pock marked gamete world, millennia after millennia. Reunifying through hidden ersatz finance. Remember that the trick is to exhaust you through work whilst importing stipend complaint replacements. Exhaust your leaders through war until everything is destroyed to start again, compliant.

Pleading for intercession from a thing which hates you is the most imbecilic mental disease that this weapon system allows you to indulge after displacement of your leaders. What ever was the reason that the prince’s of the church, living high on the hog, kept the lineage “Italian” until recently is clear now. Look at that semen drenched fuckhouse in Rome housed in money, as I mentioned before who would fuck the pope and get her knocked up, only in a piss taking semitic fuckhouse where no Italians lived. A Pole, A Nazi, An Argentinian!! Well the incontinent must have been secured in their opinion after they financed the death of hundreds of millions.

Only yahweists lived in “Italy”, only yahweists infested the seven hills, only yahweists collected all money in the north “Italian” city states. Only diseased yahweists stocked atheist communist Venice. All from the yahweist crapden of the Levant. Smuggled into Europe over hundreds and hundreds of years around the time of the geezer who went scrypto at the money changers. All self determited self fulfilling self loving hived mind.

This is a weapon of mass destruction funded to operate in every sphere of intercourse and human relationship until finally the world is ignorant. Taken from us by design, fiat the communist desire to atomise everyone and steal the wealth. Whilst underlying communitarian heathenism removes all of the newborn from this unifying toil. Look closely at the 3 yahweisms, all blood drenched, all death, all hatred, why? It is unified under one con game called money.

Homicidal confidence trick. Notice that for centuries the Babylonian scum suppressed the aboriginals here? Now it is all affirmative action telling everyone how fuckinggreat they are worthless, now the population is being replaced by drones. No one ever bigged up the poor people in this country 200 years ago, up until very recently it was STFU, comply and die, scum, but now they are gone, gunned down in designer conflict by the millions, the latest imports need massive support networks.

Whilst my ancestors died poor, starved, ignored, wretched, unloved. Lead pilled and terrorised by the state and the church. The purpled princes of Ba’al Hammon from Babylon.

WTFU God is free of this constrict of abrahamic fiction and evil.

Monday, 29 April 2013

Whiskey Yankee Zulu




Echo Foxtrot Growler

When I was a boy you would have gotten a good phukking booting in the balls if the idea of rationing energy via remote refrigeration shut down, had been mooted by you. I was warp driven and star bound, not stuck in the midden of the shit heap of animal framed toyed and farmed theft.

If you wander up to me today and mention space faring I’ll kick your phekkingfucking lid off.

Which bit of the stone aged multi 10,000 yeared and weather worned Lamarkian selection do you not get warned of?

As I described to my friends the creation of the second number, the number 3, they could not understand the topological metaphor that came before the yahweist shit, The killer  trangenderational godless heathen of so called religion. The subtle weapon system of thought as ripper. The interior minded hive of no thing but dead persons all over the world, as the systems get ready to deploy.

WTF do you not get? Have you seen the generations cleansed from Europe by a nonstop drive to reunite the world, we, the new born, once again, litter under the sun? And do you not see that the three so called great traditions of the psychopathic perversion are heathen, tailored to destroy like an unending contagion of death, humanity? WTF don’t you get? It is ancient and comes from the deep east, the Orient, the great archipelago.

Have you ever observed island chains?

WTF do you not get about the infinity, scribed into two, to make three?

We are in the nocturnal shadowed river, not the light, between two infinite incandesces. There is no boat man, Too is our burden to spark in the dark.

Heathen call.

Do you not realise that all is to nought here in the slaver blackened planet unless we wake TF up?

The heathen seek to reduce the horizon to no thing forever.

We are the line where heaven meets the sky.

Heads up, we are and never forget the incline they try to kill in our stilled remark.

Do you get it yet?

There is a heathen call, a Phukked D’Witzz Alarm., a claxon. The fools are now able to manage billions to death, their shatan has been training them in their perversion for thousands of years,

Heathen call!!!!!!!

The heathen are sparsed as never before they first were set sail as Noah. They are global net.

Inbred thieves of all and Phukked D’Witch. Thick and never seen unless in usury, luxury, forever cursed for they took then fired as bitches on the stage they do not know.

Heathen call. 

Thursday, 25 April 2013


Anvil and Raspberri sklaar



Coulnd give a fuck about the source, they are theives in drag.



Have you heard her fall? The beat on our truth, the peen, the heavy weight delivered true. Cut the gasket, with ballpeen handed, milk carton will suffice, we can devise from nothing. We are masters of the forge.

Ever had to carry the iron? Ever? It weighs so much that one forgets the mass. Ever watched a creep at work? Ever ? He is all ears and does nothing, while those who toil noise.

The mass that is free weighed.

On the Commimterest that falls on all knowinged no buddy’s business, our private thought, where no money grows, our self. Free of transactioned tax and returditude.

Ultradute in the fire.

Can you hear, here?

If ever one wondered about the lack of my concentration , to camp my pitch to their well paid, ever over fed, lactose intolerant, allergied fat Phukked D’Witz, make no mistake, I have them ranged and shot fallen. No mistake.

The stinking pile of rent seeking lying in slothed ordure that offers a front for pirate activity and gangsterism, Leonist shit heap, Trotskyist turd dump, Marxist pig swill, faecal useless sewer to the opened latrine of the world. Cash stealing cesspool, has had its days.

How can no one know that all the scheming at Dimona was stolen from the Reichsprotektorate. 1933 to 1953 all theft and death. Apiru caravan driving, red filtching of other people. Off their corpses, slavery, death and so called commerce. Traffic in dearth. Dry goods rationing rational killers. Look at their lack of deeds and the billions of dead in the caravan’s wake. Their claim to art and ubiquity is a mask of their poverty, perverted utility and spineless brained idoled indolent cushioned pervert’s bed. Always in their backs never at work in the fields unless subsidised and tamponed.

Just look at the shithouse, depleted for ever around, unknown to themselves. False fictioned, engineered clownunts. Immigrants from no where, evacuated in vast numbers, despite the deaths they called and administered in the fiction of their deaths. What a shit house, where all the arse holes we elect, as debt, bend their divorcée knees. Bend over for pissover. The clowns cannot do anything other than consume, shit and fuck away our days, shitheaped and forever heathen. Sly. Lazy, sleekit killers of humanity. Self styled chosen fuckedwitzz of the eviloid falsed god.

God bless you all, all the Ulstermen, all the South Afrikaans men, all the royal English men, the Cannuks, the Yankeez, the strides of Andzuk, well met by the 51st and the Welshmen.

OFM.

Too much walking and I tire in my weakness.

The hammer has struck, they have no fruit.

Heathen.

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

In the twine of our lives have my decryption of life.




We had chips, I vivified the last remaining non Chinese fish and chip bar here and returned to her joie de vivre, we enjoyed the simple odour and flavour, the salt and vinegar, no tomato, I left her to fill and then, selfishey, enjoyed the crisped remains of her remains, eyes to big for her belly. I was happy and left the wraps emptied.

How many years will it take to armour you, how many seasons to battle, so much shot peening to be done, to make you stand alone, invincible. Victorious, for that is how I named you. Alarmed and gentled in the fluidity of our quiet discerned, the love of the two who lay and brought you into this phase of non existence. How much care can be lavished, from both poles, unasked, unquestioned, given freely to you without debt, how many years until you catch fire?

Does the useless of this world not invite your mind to execute the perps?

My flame waxes and wanes, it gutters. How much time does it take to strike our flint? Your grandfather cleared mine fields in Korea, your grandmother suffered the poverty of life alone in Japan. Your grand father designed far flung ships, naval architect, and the one to whom you will honour and bear fruit, she scrubbed floors when younger than you, in love for you.

Where is your fuse to be lit and destroy the heathen?

Perhaps I ask too much, maybe I should shut up, forever to forget the endless lines of the slaves and poor who you, me, mummy-chan, the sires and bearers of our burden fought themselves, free, without aid nor prejudices.

Look at your empty hand and relate to me what you see. Show me your hardened main; let me place in your trusty palm the truth in this absurdity. Clear your view, observe the unseen enemy, descry the unlamented free fire zones. Keep to the deck, unchecked.

And fly into all the infiniite affection that is stored for you, awaiting uncorking on the topology where you will metamorphose.


Monday, 22 April 2013

Heaven is a weight and cannot support the metrics of my measured shoulders.




Scripted and sculpted in love, my phantomed feet contacted the ‘crete as I thought of all of you, in my free wheeling reverie. In the lush dry routes of our sojourn, aye in the seeded and fertilised ground of soil.  We walked in the gated momentum quantum uncertainty of the shine. Unleashed from the phramed staged play that is our heathen MSM GGT world. As unusual as a bog golf course, whole in one. Statistically alarmed by the unprobability of any event actually happening unless staged. Unarmed is death, the executionclowns await to deliver the Lead Pill Pharmacy to the weakened, unlicensed, soon to be erased from memorial.

Why do I call to you? You who died, newly born, Christened, in the arms of matter. Her tears striking the bloodied bed linen. I was dry antipodead birthed. I was lucky, you red and no more. Why did I not remember Mount Florida until our brother made me realise the frailty of my main strength, my unsupported hubris.

I had always recalled that day, overlooking the gorgeous City, stark and clear in the airy waves over our head; however I had only recollected the blood blue sky arching ceremony and whelming my minded ocular. The screaming sun high in the sky, belching and vomiting ersatz foolery. The arid taste of the flora spawn. I did not know, as we laid your tiny body to rest, expunged from my collection. What do I know? I blotted out the aid memoire, until our brother smashed the barrier to our grieve, your grave. Thank you Paul through the pain is unwashed away though my always forgotten day. Forgive me, two decades since the removal of my synaesthesia, 4 decades since you were rested.

To you and the unborn twins, we retain undiminished light in the dark of this tranquil metaphor. Allow me some license, you 3, I do not wish to deny for the 5 of our soul. I call on your strength and resilience for the fight to come. Give to me all that you would have been and grant me your love to deploy the care and alluvial deposit of our grief to affect a new construct of life. A loving layer.

To my orphaned friend I gave the, so like you, related.

How I do not remember that sunny day, as in a frozen daydream, I refracted the glazed stunning Nitrogen skied spectrum, enervating the entire flora to green, as I looked away and down on the banks of the City. Never to have seen your beautiful faces, 3 gone, outwits my witness. Give me the strength to collect my arms and unbleached myself from the sand.

Shield armed in hand, cast weapon, give me your fortitude.

Rested in peace, forever loved, I have opened my heart.

I gird my loins.

John Patrick; thanks to Paul’s infinite resonance.

I will two you my death.

Hand me a mirror.




And rotate me. Am I handed, never handled. Why is the centred petal of my centrifugal gyration, clocked or anti? Show me my silvered, reflected face, manmade.

Infinite and unbounded, sliced in fined relief, too more to comprehend drop my visage to splinter and fail. Janus façade faded hypothermia.

We talked. We talked of things we had and had not scene. We poured our libation in golden goblets and never stilled our swivelling eyes. Fevered in the rank of our enervated memory. Deceased and diseased, the head stones that he told me off.

I stare at the secreted flattened map, velveteen and bare on slate, how many balls in play? Who hands the cue?

Care was my care, I took point, I wasped my ears and fled my eyes, to care, too carriaged way, I pointed out the dead buildings where sloth money cares for nought, I felt the ground, and I smoothed the ripples of skinned approach and warned her of arrival.  Taken care is of no doubt against oncoming traffic.

I wished that we had, as unplanned as the journey was, struck past the most beautiful structure in the world. Where we never slept. In the woodened decided deciduous tarp and volatile skin where I saw the starling drown. I missed my future and we never had the opportunity to breathe the rich, dense, stanging, oliphactory timbered lumber of my peaceful slumber.

We may never return to this beautiful peace of land but I hope you understand its beauty reflected in my obtuse prose.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Pleasant cats and spirited dogs.




As I dragged my noodles to lips, from my drybowl, I saw the linear A in my ear, upon my dark, chipped, blackened clipped, deranged, to my spastic, sticks, deadly spinning and ......

Do you ever live in the world of the eaten dead?

Canniballed and Ba’al Hammoned.

Where ever the dead are arranged we know the few heathen follow our finger fall.

yahweh, got any problems with my depiction of your death squads?

False and heathen

For once my command of the Queen’s English suffices

No full stops, no executed fall flags, count zero.

Tikka tikka tick tick fusion.



Watch the cultured inbred zoological garden that is the child molesting GGT English voice, of all hues, here in the centre of phukkwittery, The Smokistan. 

They no thing. Void violating GGT. A den of experted, exported, imported vice, no wonder it is getting demolished, the GGT Centre Ring of ringed and ring stung oratory can you hear the criesof the helpless whelps, farmed and groomed to fouled appetites. What does the GGT do apart from attack the helpless?

They are bred in eschewal schooling like money hunting Phukked D’Witzz at a drawers down credit gathering schakelogocal, untamed heathen shammed, shaham, in blacked feathers shaman, debt and rentier fest.

Tikka tikka, the long sought instrument of our shortened days awaits.

Tick tick IR tikka tikka fused.

As I wrote on your rotten corpse, paddy fields and bog. Where in my toil I have never met you, faced face to face, lucre infected schemed dullard sloth?

Watch out you heathen scripted GGT English encrypted.

Can you seen the speeling must takes I have wondered with false names?

I held here, her hand in my main, laboured and borne, broken with toil, I let her fade away as careless as one who never fails. What should have been within my caress, gentled in the sweetness of her scented mane, pine and jasmine. A lasted gasp as we fell asleep and she seized my breaking start, a fright, an alert, an alarmed moment. United movement. Forever the command of what I thought I knew and realised, false from fall, was never as my miniscule appreciation could apprehend. She soothed my rage and for the first time I slept untroubled in the depths of our quivering crest.

Can I repay the debt, the interest of your eyes upon me, the deeds? As the bluebells grew under my joy, I never thought there would be someone to capital the beauty of the flowers in the glades of my life, daffodils, crocus, dandelion, sweet garlic, the spectrum of the wonders of the woods, but you came.

Tickk tikka tick a tick, the stepped wheel of the sky chases around the slowing thermodynamics of this wold. Where no thing is brought under husbandry, the cold wold. I dreamed, streamed in the cooling radiation of the utter falseness that is the given down our throat.

What is the incredulity that the false educated fools do not understand about the fate of our people? Where ever the rains, reins and reigns fall the killers know their days are numbered. Yahwehist sleekit killers.

“Such were the funeral rites of Hector, tamer of horses.”

Saturday, 20 April 2013

We walked.




By mistaken choice I traveled, through the new born filled, tagged, fields, by dead reckoning, still snow naked and banked in the dry stoned shadow. So far and the hairs on my head greyed, I froze my glaze, hyper viscous to the vitrified earth. I remembered my friend who took me to Finsbury bowling, and I tramped my footfall, stalled. All gone but loved, all failed by love, ever missed and we walked. Through never before strode, by me, into the duck egged blue green, into life. They were all there, so many black. The road was, as I remarked to my fellow sole burner and later to my life, it was Romanesque. Surprisingly straight as a non scalar.

Did I graze your eyes when you, stilled, saw me? Am I phramed in our cominatagation? Into the green, verdant land, where peace and new life are gambling.

The next day I sat, if you know where I was, and looked at the nothing. What I saw was how it used to be when my existence was in shorts. The halt of all traffic, by uniformed authority, by common decency, by consent, as the Glasgow bus departed, on time, always, the great red building. Northward my peepers were dispersed, to the thriving market, and I watched the blue and the green, heading out of the Banked street, quieter were their flows, they could integrate with the ebb much more easily than the mainline, as they headed to the coast.

As we tired, my mistake, trying to zero in anti clockwise, left and left and left again. We watched the dust being driven by the farm machinery. So much snow in the previous week and yet so arid the ground. Activity was aplenty as the winding road, or rod, chains, cables meandered to the other edge of town, we were not lost but I had lost my bearings. Nothing could be done other than plod on passed the red handed, blackberry stained digits and palms of my foolishness.

I awaited, how many?

Those who are gone.

I found again, by accident, your funeral service Lula.

Van, Helen Steiner Rice, Lennon sung by Nail, Kiki/Carmelo Luggeri.

I surrender the fight
I have no desires
I am home again
Peaceful waters calm the restless fire

Wake me from this sleep
Bring me hope and prayers to keep
Our hearts cannot be divided
Where rivers meet

In dreams I wake
Steal away from the night
With no words said
Breathe the silence in the morning light

Wake me tenderly
Blood of my blood
Hidden so deep
Our hearts cannot be divided
Where two rivers meet

Never forgotten, always remembered, forever stored in my heart.

Friday, 19 April 2013

Open your occullar radiation braking sytems


I stood unalloyed, unalone, unknown, unrunthrough, and yet I steeped forward into the dirt and saved a gentle victim of my foolishness..

…much earlier had grazed the blackened  inferno. It was deep; so much that I stood for ours ,not hours, for ours in the arid coldness, freezing as only one can wish to be cold, hot as the mind allows, Scottish, unarmed but not unnamed allowing my optics to enjoy the millions of years of travel. I staid, alone, as pertinent and permanent, stood and gazed.

We had walked from home to home, passed and those past because I am a pukkedwitz. All the memories I cherish. All the days of chip pieces, all the days of scaring my family with blackberry hands, whilst still expecting my tomato ketchup laden bread, breathe. It was a long, mistaken journey, through unintentional remembrance.

I drank the love of my fathers and mothers. I loved them to severe and sever, not serve. I washed my eyes with the infinite blindness, I died too infintity, not beyond, thurst is id.

You; when you saw me, I knew.

When you saw me, that instant, when you cut me into two. I evaporated

Standing under the most beautiful city in the world. Why should I stature my thought? Here; there loved all the shadowed.

The skeleton, searing, seeing, sky, where the air dropped ablaze?

Looking at the structure utilising both of my unseeing documents of love.

Do not wave me Goodbye. I will guard your flanks with alacrity, always plowing and ploughing the infinite seas.

Metaphored and metamorphosed.

The Dirac seas are ablaze, 1 and 3

I don’t know if you are getting it yet,




this is what we

DO

I apologise for any offence to those who use their eyes.

I remember a kind man, who narrated all the dead, dreared men to me. He was under aged when the gunfire and sniper tried to end sharp, his flitting flying life.

8 guns.

In later life he unloaded a shit load of heavy weaponry on the shell shocked retards that never.


Ever were fools.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Five centimetres per second




I know you are never reading, either of you, here, so I will apply the metaphor to my unlikely hypothesis.

To be deployed only once, as my analogue censor’s sensor. Only ever to be experienced without anyone knowing the thoughts behind the one shot skill. Bone dry macadam, no cadence, no skid, just arresting high G. Waferfab micro footfall.

Fall.

The topological metaphor.

As usual it is an eclectic diabolectique, no thing changes, though we may live and expire.

Null, a spark of life, null.

Infinite light, a brief breath, boundless illumination.

One good. One evil. And we are the uniting infinite interface, the relic of the line, the death in life of our humanity’s vector. Form and from where all our numbers grow. First there was one and then there is three, all male, all immeasurable.

Guess where the yahweh money heathen spout their bounded, constricting, closed system filth, which part of the dialectic do they infest with their doomed pursuit of their heathen gold? Where do they execute yahweh’s will over our corpses?

Apiru clue to the existence of the heathen, the steward of the constant, red, dusty refugee, heathen called, evened, numbed and 6 magic numbered.

5cm per second, yes they fall at that rate, even here now the trees are blossomed.

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Have you noticed that everyone has had a gutful of yahweh, ayahweh, aiyahweh and iyahweh now?




This is not a failing but a construction of the post eviloid world. Having been force-fed, waterboardretarded, ibored we are about to vomit out the crap. The fools do not understand the metaphor.

We are the sheen.

This iathing, this ithickas ishit, which is at the rotten heart of our intercourse, is now revealed to all as a ischytzoid ipsychopathic ihomopathologically bent ieviloid bastard ui iuabortion by one mistaken deceit.

iRCE/TA, where all the ayahwehist/yahwehist/heathenoid/aheathehoid piss taking monoheathenponzischemeing ivictims infest the iheathensoil, not toiling, but iwanking all over the charitable world. iWelcomed to it again after 1000 years. To be iyahwehist is iheathenism, to be iayahweihist id iheathen, to be iatheist on the stinking founderedfoundations of iahwehism is utter ibankruptcycummedim spiritually, morally and corporally mind ihived ilazy ibastard icommunism.

And everyone has had a belly full of its ishit, in the eye, even the thick as shit have noticed and the purveyors of its toxic spiritual brew, its noxious stew and murderous admixture of evil and fakery? Whether its nonsense is spewed by banksters or rabid holy men, pirates sheltering and shitting in stolen land or unthinking bone bags, it is deadly infection.

Every bone has had a belly full of iayahewist crap now.

Get ready for the retarded. Perpare, The iheathen love killing humanity under their cloak of vanity.

iShaven erected iapes?

Given the choice they will kill us all………………

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Tea leaf





 Now then now then now then I am a naked ex-miner, down the pits and blinging in Londonistan. Note the well fed jowls unlike all the flock throughout the passed 2000 years? All DEAD.

Pay attention, note the stupid hats and the stupid crosses and the absurdity of it all.

Tea leaf, always.

Peter's penceponzischeming Ba'al Hammon worshipping Phukked D'Witz from phekking Patagonia!!! Where the monheathenoids play, safely, today.

Got the southern hemisphere yet?




Monday, 8 April 2013

We had traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles…




…and the thesis is forming.

The thesis is that ayahwehism and yahweism is atheism and nought killers of humanity.

As expected, as soon as you “touch point”, upon your return, tfl, one’s journey turns into a shit heap. This is a semitic affair.

It reminded me of the occasion I had to “touch point” the out of hours ?service?, Spanish not catered for in the omnicultural wordshit, windows tax, here in the shitJet borough, ten years ago or so.

As we awaited, four minus, our appointed time, never on time, but relative. As we watered their appointment they’re was a sudden opening of a secret door and a chosen wretch, screaming and babbling, was ushered , out of our siteline, in the waiting flocked membered room, cloaked and occulted, to the duty tribe doctored for immediate drugging.

An out of hours queue jumping special person, fleeing their minds, because the Lamarckian hand down cannot handle dick=versity. A holocaust ersatz remembered ashen treed limbic of the faux monied system. All the money ever created to buy and indebt everything but out of their ayahwehist mindhive. I especially remembered last Thorsday, as we traipsed past my Latin teachers’ old hovel, I pointed out at his Lamarckian wife going sparko at mass. Actor.

Lamarck is theoremarkc.

As soon as you arrive by metalled rail into the temple, all one hears are the priests announcing tanoi’d templed call, ziggurat even call, that there are “continuous improvements” to the “service”.

A little while later, as I troubled the tube carriage kick plate, I read the script.

1996.

That is when they, in debt purchase, contracted, brought the constricted new fleet into service, partly, bit by bit and since then they have been “improving” the service. I.e. shitting on the zoological, sterile struck, garden that is Gladstone’s “The Smoke”, rent seeking garden and cropped, murder minded borough.

Have you ever studied the lower primates infesting the tube system in London? The inifecated mind? The howling, word spouting hollow? The DNA starved asswipes sitting behind deadly airbags and safety systems designed to cull? Have you?

Which reminds me.

The rentreeking, money printing, Babylonian inspired scum are banging out.

This is banging out.

The shit house is ready for a good crash and burning, under watered shit.

Any doubt?

The dregs call themselves refugees but how small a portion is sundered; the River Orantes has long flowed into the Thames. H/T Juvenal