Curses upon the Open Grassland

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Curses upon you! Fuj!

On the long, low land, the owl-eye gazes far. He sees you, the owl, for there is no shelter in this wide terrain. The owl is a foul creature, a winged rat, a cannibal of his own kind, with horrifying eyes and cruel talons.

In the Open Grassland, every creature is cruel. Every life, in this expanse, is painful and meaningless. Where are the Trees, under which we may thrive? Where are the tall protectors to which we can come when distressed, when our shoes are worn and our taxes pile into economic ruin? And where is that Prophet who can answer truthfully in a Field of Lies?

We are abandoned!
Krimoka cares for us no more.

She has flown East,
preferring now the Oriental Man
in his dismal village.

We are abandoned!
She could not endure our lies.

The Time Cube of Infinity

In the innermost and most secret chambers of Haus Helwegia in Olde Vienna one could study the most obscure and mysterikal topics. Topics of Mathematix, psykologie and on obscurity itself. Many a seeker would find him self on the divan, searching for the well-undefined and

Young Dr H. (name unkown) came to study the fields of numbers super-naturale, on matrices of granite (and of other bedrocks) and on curves eternal, ethereal and smooth. He was assigned two assistants, Paolo and Ivan, one humble (Ivan), one proud (Paolo), both well respected.

They studied for many years, digging ever deeper into madness and disarray. Following a continuous path towards the Krim-origin, the very singularity where logik and un-logik is one. Could they pass the borders to His realm?

Ivan could not, in madness (or a moment of clarity) he took cyanide. Yet H. and his now lone assistant sustained their search.

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Paolo, Paolo!

And then, suddenly it was clear! One day was not one, nor four, it was infinite. Four roads to madness and wisdom, forty-four dimensions and infinite bi-directional edges. An infinite graph of time and obscurity, at once nowhere dense & everywhere dense; a graph that only the wisest and maddest could traverse. Traverse over cuts and cliques, by tree-width, on flows and over mountain pass. A graph traversed perhaps only by Him, Krim!

… and Dr H. yelled:

Paolo, Ivan, come and see – The time cube of Infinity!

Dig the Earth

Consider the Simple Man: he is honest and he is true. In every aspect of his life, his honesty and truth, his simplicity, is reflected. Indeed, the very soil in which he plants his seed (be it of botanikal or sexual nature) will in time reflect his simple nature. Flowers will spring forth along with his harvest, bird-song will follow the laughter of children and childish adults, and in all his Days he will be at peace, and all his Days peaceful. He is honest, he is true: He is a Simple Man.

Have you ever met a Simple Man?

Does the earth you dig surprise you with treasures plentiful and rich? Are the maidens you meet inviting and open? Or, on the contrary: Is the ground rock-like and cruel, devoid of fertility, host to hollow carrots & rotten roots? Is every girl who smiles at you soon revealed to be a wench of false modesty, an ungrateful and undeserving witch-woman? Does she grow pale, shuddering at your touch, at the mentioning of your name?

The Simple Men left these lands long ago. Complexity reigns.

Confessions of a Kriminal Mind

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In these – the last days of Empire, the final days of Peace, the first nights of Shadow & Sorrow – I write my confessions of Kriminality. They are not intended for any listener but my own conscience, except perhaps the Lords above or Demons below. They are of no morality but those Eternal & Unshaken; that is, unmoved by any but the Prime Mover – raw, original, true. They are, also (and finally), of no consequence, as my Life and Life-line are already ended.

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I will first provide some context to my Kriminality, so that you (and I) may better understand it, better appreciate my position and choices, and, ultimately, better avoid such a Grande misfortune as mine.

It was not so long ago, in a certain perspective of Time, though it feels now like Æons & Ages: I lived for some years on this Earth before I found Him, but was then birthed anew, and reckon now my days since that Event – and these Days are in a very true sense an entire Lifetime. I think it valid, then, to claim that while the Calendar-Years since my discovery of Krim amount to Six or Seven, it was a discovery Most Ancient and Mystikal. So old, in fact, that That Person I was before is to me like some Classical scholar or poet, an explorer in times long lost, of Ancient Kingdoms and Customs. He, that past me, was a wanderer & seeker, fresh and hopeful, swiften’d by False Faith, unburdened by True Knowledge.

In studies Metaphysical I first encountered Krim: obliquely, indeed, and never by Name – as a whisper or echo in Poems and Treatises. His harbingers were Hegel, Von BrotenManné, others too. Their inferences frightened and fascinated me deeply. Is there a Man that has lived forever, that predates the Christ and all our Religion, and – worst of all – entirely denies Divinity? And does this Man, this Eternal Man, walk among us still? Where? How?

I believe now that the rush of consequences that arose from asking these questions were entirely unavoidable: My fate was set at the very moment Krim sparked into my Thoughts. Yes, like His original Creation, that hollow husk, I was doomed from the start. I denied Home & Family, and resorted very quickly to Violent Measures when they would not let me go. Yes, I did things in those fevered months that will forever cast me as Depraved in the eyes of the Godly – even to the Heathen in his primitive hut and beastly life-style. Yes, by infernal machinations I sent my own, eldest Mother, Europa, to her Ruin. But I have no regrets.

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My position, as you should now understand, is this: To taste of the True Knowledge, the Ancient Logik, leads inevitably to Earthly doom & death, but in that brief, sweet moment of Realisation all that is Earthly (even doom, even death) is understood fully, and discarded knowingly. Krim chose me, and I chose Krim. All else I cast aside. And he will Reign when the acid gun-smoke has settled, when the Fire ceases, when all the World is barren & at last Reborn.

False Waldemar – The Boolean Prophet

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They call him Jacob, my Lord …

He who is True, who liveth in truth
Is never welcome in Unholy Halls

I am the True and Final King
Son of the son of the son of The Bear
And I am a True Bear, also
Westfalie and Brandeburg bow low before me

This was the personal prayer of False Waldemar, true Skolare and true King. A true King who was mocked and abused by the weak-minded, scorned by the Jealous Men in his time. We will not further assert nor argue for his legitimacy here, but recite instead some more from his Grande Book of Prayer. This wild tune he called If ever you see a tall mast:

If ever you see a tall mast in the woods
Linger a while and reflect on the mast
And the woods

If ever you meet there a grey-bearded stranger
Listen a while to his maddening ravings
And his truths

If ever you know then that you are true king
Claim what is rightfully yours, your domain
And reign

 

The Silver Tower on the shores of Totensee

Where the plains of the heathens meets waves of an inland see, lies a town. A town named for the son of Krim. Not Livare, the soulless, but His second son.

Majahi Hamare Majahi!

In the name of Yoham they built a tower of pure silver. There it stands tall on the shores, shining ever gray!

Hail that monk ancién!
He who danced with death!
Yoham!
You have grown old!

Ayem Ayem Ohm!

From the eastern wanderer Ville, wild and wailing, we have this song, which may well bring us to the silver tower and tragic monk:

Pray for Livare
Pray at Hamare
Pray at that Temple to Truth

Walk for Livare
Walk by the seashore
Walk through the fields

Sing for Livare
Sing for each fracture
Sing for that broken soul

Historical Regions of Kroatien (Elegy)

Opening Hymn

Regions five
Received five visits

Regions divided
Regions collapsed

Krim did not accept
The Land of Broken Slavs

Regions Five

Alt-Kroatien

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Moon and star! Like that of Moslem Mahomet?

The Old. Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?

Old! Old! More ancient, perhaps,
than old Yoham,
oldest of his kind!

Old bones grow
and new flesh suffers,
hair shines white and
splendid,
but you are dull
and feeble.

Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?
No friend!

Dubrovnik

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Spin in circles, wild and free

The Whore. Who were you, Dubrovnik?

Yes, sour city …

When Krim came to Kroatien poor
In times now so far gone
Did he visit
that old hag
Dubrovnik?

Who were you, Dubrovnik?
A cold embrace!

Dalmatien

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A lion, three lions. Nothing compared to the mighty Bear!

The Wild. Who were you, Dalmatien?

Three false crowns
Two times three false lion tears

Oh, yes, you have teeth
Oh, and fierce eyes, too
But you are not royalty
Not splendid
Nor divine

Who were you, Dalmatien?
A rabid dog!

Istrien

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Meek, humble, horned creature.

The Humble. Who were you, Istrien?

Such pride below
false humility!

There are no songs of your
accomplishments,
as you achieved nothing
and your children can
not hold a true tone truly.

Who were you, Istrien?
Sentimental and stubborn!

Slawonien

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The Worst. Who were you, Slawonien?

A poor fisherman
is he who has
poor harvest

The Sea itself rejects you,
Slawonien,
and your diet will forever be
awful offal,
watered ale!

Who were you, Slawonien?
A beggarman!

Closing Hymn

Regions five
Were five-fold abandoned

Regions in ruin
Regions of eternal rain

Krim firmly rejected
The Land of Broken Slavs

Sakhalin; a Survey

Introductions

These are the melancholy journalistics of a wandering Photografeur whose name is forgotten or otherwise lost. Let it be known: All lands are islands, disconnected and despairing. Let is also be known: All souls are lands of infinite darkness, save for the Light of Kirim.

Rejection

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Red Krim, return! Have you forgotten us? He is surely a fool, he who still holds Krim close.

Remorse

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Yes, but those were better days! Days of Spring and growth. It is our lot to suffer, for we are abandoned, child. Be not judgemental, for one day you, too, will abandon your dreams.

Rejoice!

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Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless this land of Pikkyia! Bless this cursed soil! We are Children, you are olde – You are child-like, we are dead and dying. May the ocean carry us home! Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless our vegetares, poor as they may be! Grant some salvation for these fields, these farms, this peninsular sadness …