Wednesday, August 10, 2016

The Black Mummy (or Apocalyptic Sex With Antichrist)

Published in Serbian language in "Unus Mundum" magazine, 2011 and in my book "The Doctrine of Satanism" 2013.

Many imagine Antichrist as the king of this world, as a ruler, as a virtuous carrier of hellish intelligence, as a master, a dark sage, some kind of a sophisticated aristocrat of evil, perhaps as a diabolical child represented by the movie "Omen". Those are, it would seem, romantic ideas, like the idea of the gorgeous vampire. Antichrist is anti-human, the incarnated negation of a human being. He is feeble-minded, retarded, handicapped, and immobile thus perfect medium, one fragile and weak, grotesque and deformed body, a loathsome phenomenon. He is so retarded that it is impossible for him to live without help and constant care. He has no contact with anybody because he is unable to. He is an empty warped shell without brain, with more water than brain matter. He is completely helpless. He does not move, speak, and get excited, he is not even awake, has no consciousness or any emotions. You ask how it is then possible for such a freak to be on the top of the world as the absolute master of life and death, whose power is total and reign global? How is it possible that such an idiot be the living totem of fanatical adoration of millions of followers? His world power is inversely proportional to his personal impotence. He is precisely, just as he is, the ideal and crucial figure in the structure of antihuman Satanist order. Even his sexual determinant is disputable because Antichrist has no defined genitalia, but I identify him with the determinant He because the word Antichrist is of male gender.
I have seen him lying curled up in a glass sarcophagus, in some sort of a greenish gelatin mass, attached to various electrodes, tubes and needles, which were stuck all over his degenerated body. His body was mottled with scars which were actually inscriptions of diabolical forces. The scars periodically bled and that was a sign for the intelligence in his service, various doctors and scientists, to take a sample of that purulent mass, because they would, by using these cells in the process of cloning, get a new being which represented the carrier of that force out of whose inscriptions on Antichrist’s skin he came. That is how Antichrist served as the Father of incarnated demons, also freakish beings like him. In that sense, he had the role of the value carrier, the source of cadres, or genetic material.

He was lying in a sarcophagus set on a small pyramidal elevation in the basement of a large complex which was simultaneously his royal palace, headquarters, research laboratory and a religious temple of his rule. Around him there were in liquid glass containers twelve of his apostles, also deformed brute beings generated from the inscriptions on Antichrist’s body. However, unlike his Father, who was in the role of some kind of deus otiosus, his apostles, Beni Elohims, were not yet in the state of total hibernation, but they would periodically perform some sort of activity. This activity consisted of emitting brain signals of certain frequencies which actually represented some sorts of messages of invisible diabolical forces, which was the subject of detection and interpretation by a bunch of scientist-priests who served the Antichrist and this unique synod. After a couple of such medium emissions, the apostle would, so to speak die, that is, he would stop giving signs of life, if that could even be called such. Then the servants from the inscriptions of Antichrist’s body would take fresh tissue out which they would generate a new member of synod by cloning. That is how the supreme thirteen ruled. 
That nothingness at the top of the global system of government, as an authority source, actually presented the final metastasis of the democratic order in complete negation of the human element. These shells are the final projection of the political and ideological emptiness of today’s presidents, high commissioners, and elected examples of the so-called representative democracy drowned in extreme regulations and administration. The rule of Antichrist in that sense is nothing more but the rule of nothingness, a pseudo occult, para-democratic, and bureaucratic galimatias which actually always protects the obscure interests of diabolical groups whose social power is legitimated by a grotesque authority. Antichrist is a perfectly politically correct creature, a martyr of his own mission and purpose of existence, a perverse saint, because just as Christ died for mankind, so does Antichrist not-live for the same.

These images and thoughts occurred to me while I was standing in front of a glass sarcophagus of the blessed cardinal from the times of World War II Aloysius Stepinac, which ornamented the cathedral in Zagreb, the capital of robustly catholic Croatia, in southeast Europe. The plastic cardinal was lying in canonicals, exposed to looks, exposed to prayers, awe, but also to wonder and laughter. Completely accidentally did my visit to Zagreb match the news of the tragic death of Michael Jackson, man who systematically destroyed himself thus became a paradigm of the modern man, an illustrative example which should be looked upon. The first thing that came to my mind, before the above presented vision of Antichrist, was a bizarre thought of the blessed and nothing less plastic Jackson who is lying in the same sarcophagus, beatified, exposed to prayers, fixed looks of fans. Cardinal Jackson Stepinac! What a mocking thought in a sacred house. Deformed and plastic, perverted and tragic, Michael Jackson would better lie in that place, better than the cardinal, better than Lenin on the Red Square in Moscow, better than any other sacral mummy, because it would more effectively point out the spirit of time and the direction it is headed for, where it is taking us.
I was under the strong impression that worshipping a dead man has not yet reached its civilization peak. Religion which is based on worshipping a dead god, in the final stage of its decomposition and degeneration, must produce exactly what stands in its opposition like a shadow. The plastic doll of the controversial cardinal was shining with subjacksonlike light, which theatrically spread over tacky Christmas installations (made in Chine), by which the contemporary inheritors of the dead god cult have marred the sacred gothic architecture of the temple. And then one thought settled into my mind: cathedrals are like pyramids, homes of the dead…

In galimatias of all kinds of associations which were flooding into my mental screen, with the glimpse of an eye I noticed a lady whose surreal beauty corresponded more to the esthetics of the temple than the pseudosacral thing of jacksonite provenance which was obscenely lying on the pedestal. Of course, the blessed doll in tacky cardinal canonicals was real, while the lady has yet come from a state of dreaming. I have afforded myself the luxury to fall asleep in a sacred place, surrounded by devotees, comfortably laid back on the wooden pews which surrounded the cardinals still life like an amphitheater. Yet again, the lady was very real, more real than reality, more surreal than dream, more powerful than life and death, senior to all antics together. Indeed, cathedrals are places for meeting gods, even devils, with temptations and peace from them. This was one of such encounters. A women of extraordinary nature has paraded through my consciousness thoroughly shaking me up, so I lost the idea what was the truth and what lies, what was possible and what was not.
You ask what is the connection between the mysterious lady, my dream vision over the sacred installation in the cathedral and the mere nature of the mythological phenomenon known as Antichrist? And on top of everything the tragicomic world-known figure of late Jackson? Dream vision? Lucifer’s deceptions? The lady stood like Isis over the plastic corpse of the saint, as if there dead Osiris lies, whom she will, being that she is the mistress of magic, resurrect. How to resurrect something which has never been alive nor it should have been? That exact question placed itself as the flywheel of one apprehension of the final end of the human world as we know it. In light of that purpose was the lady’s presence more than necessary.

Instead of eyes, two green pieces of ice nailed me to the wooden surface with the force of edges who nailed the dead god forever. I have instantly known that something was wrong, that something was not very usual, that it was not an ordinary woman, no matter how sophisticated she was. She had something in her of that supernatural, magical and it could be said diabolical charisma and sensuality. My first association was Asya Hotokalunginova from Gustav Meyrink’s novel The Angel of The West Window. It was some kind of a deity, obscure and mysterious, some wicked priestess, a walking luciferly concubine in the holly home. An incredibly lucid dream. Everything is the same as in reality, same faces around me, the same ambient, same Michael Jackson, only She is the only phenomenon that reminds me that what is happening to me is actually a dream. It is one of those rare dreams so attached to and intertwined with reality, a seducer dream, a dream which gives birth to fanaticism, a dream which creates wonders and dangerous aberrations which scream: “I have seen it with my own eyes!”… But what eyes? The eyes of reality or eyes of dream? One who sees that cannot know for certain. My small advantage was that I knew. I knew that his occurrence cannot be real, but I also knew how this occurrence was more real than reality, being that is an initiation occurrence. This is a dream in which the border between this and that world is not so firm and impenetrable.
Graciously and with dignity, confidently and surreally, she took a few steps, moving her presence near my epiphany. Her fragrant, long, nourished hair. Her white complexion. Her red lips, behind which large white teeth spiked, thus the voluptuous meaty tongue of a beast. Her posture and height. Her breathtaking green-eyed look which stops thought and time. Deafening silence. Real as death, she sat by me looking me in the eyes, penetrating deep, deep into the obscurity of my soul. She told me: “We know each other”. I have spontaneously mouthed “guf ha-Satan”, without any intention to impress the mysterious and attractive stranger with such cabalistic phrase. I said that without any implications of consciousness, automatically, unaware, surprising myself with my own sound, thought, articulation. How did only that cross my mind, to pronounce “the body of Satan” in Hebrew? I have recognized her, beyond reason. I knew that I knew her I just couldn’t remember how I knew her even though I have seen her for the first time in my life, first time dreamt of her. She gave me her right hand turning over her palm, and then her left hand. At first I thought she wanted to shake hands or perhaps to give me a hug, however, she has turned my attention with a look to focus on her palms. Even though I am not a palmist, I could realize that the two identical crosses on the so-called Venus mount, as well as the double line of head on both palms, were not a usual phenomenon. While I was reasoning in my head what it could mean, I felt a weak shaking which suddenly woke me up. An older lady was scolding me not sleep on a sacred place: “Sir, you are snoring!”

In the state of perpetual decay, as a vampire in a silver coffin, the real cardinal lied, a true entity whose only emanation is the monstrous Antichrist. It is the carrier of eternal damnation, the enjoyer of the infinite kiss of the Second Death, down there, at the bottom of the bottom, in the infinite hecatombs of the eleventh, as always pointed out in literature – false sphere of the Kabalistic Tree of Life. Pressed by all the weight of all worlds, endless masses of Darkness, where there is no one and nothing, sealed lies the Black mummy. This I think her thoughts which as fading filthy echo poison my mental atmosphere with hideous reflections. In the sarcophagus with fourteen seals of consciousness, in the agony of eternal putrescence where each thought turns into a worm and the one rots at the drop of a hat, creating new worms which feed on their putridity, there I lie helpless and tied. I say I, and that I echoes the dark and empty corridors of my skull, not further than my nose. As if that echo breeds some new echoes and so my imaginary self creates unbearable noise which dilutes final sparks of light. That dispersion of light lasts infinitely long, as if I had been staked on the spear of time. There is no that inner light which can shine upon my inner sight so I could be able to create images on my mental screen. Everything is taken away from me, sliver of light, glow of being, everything…

Nailed to and sealed in the eternal decomposition singularity as a bared ego, I suffer the agony of utter helplessness and immobility, chaos and noise of the corruption of the soul. There I was cast and shackled, in the sarcophagus of the eternal lover of Darkness. Above me is everything existent, forever unavailable. Everything is better than me, every man, every being, every thing or leftovers of every thing, being, or man… The terrestrial mucus is ontologically more superior, a slug, a foot fungus. Every thought I create comes back to me with incredible force, yet in some way it is allowed to me from that impossible to poison those who are alive, those who exist, who want. I, who want nothing because I cannot want, because I do not know of desire. What does it mean to want?
In a fleeting moment of infinite blindness I reached some sort of infernal innocence in the form of grotesque nudity. Naked I lie under by Destroyer. The only thing I could have done in the chaos of thought, tied and rejected, like a Tolkin’s Sauron who generates huge power in complete weakness, is to relief my own monstrosity. I have decided to radiate Darkness, to darken like the Dark Sun the very matter of NOX. That dark shining is the only thing which an extinguished star can do. From my mouth a dark covetousness surged in the shape of a snake. Concentrated, thick darkness like black earth is my only projection. I am the one who the Darkness idealized and thus seated on a throne, on a corsa, naming me Corzon, Choronzonos, the regent of the corroded throne. The Prince of Darkness, the perfect shell, perfect nothing, perfect medium and a caricature of a man! Non-human, anti-human, residue, remainder, the poison of life process, a shadow… That black derivation is the only matter I can create, the only non-thought from me which can take the path of a shining star of existence that is one whole abyss away from me.  On that weak frequency I have built a Cult, possessed the minds of living and fascinated, the minds restless and egotistic, minds sick and greedy, minds who serve my grotesque projection in the material world. The one who bowed to me first, the one whom God earmarked and cursed to wander the world as a shadow until the end of time, has entered the dream of a man who thinks these thoughts as his own. Entering the dream, he entered memory, entering memory he transformed into an inscription which is now being written by the man who remembers. That is how I act through people. Cain is my first and only lover. Our love is forbidden because our unification will never take place, being that I am unreachable.
I remember the scene in which the beautiful, wicked lady whom I dreamed of in the Zagreb cathedral takes of her clothes and dives into the glass sarcophagus in which in some kind of gelatin vegetates Antichrist. This incredible scene I shall never forget, not so much because of the grotesqueness of the sight of one perverse adoration of the undead or non-living invalid god, but because of the recognition who and what this fascinating deviant lady was. I was shocked at the scene in which one extremely beautiful and superhumanly sensual young woman is experiencing pleasure with some kind of rubbing onto the monstrous and hideous body which exists in the state of eternal hibernation, found in a coma, never experiencing what is the world in which this being manifested itself actually like. However, more shocking was the knowledge who actually was this unreal and obviously perverted lady. Her beloved, her chosen one, her eternal husband, grotesquely and insanely shines in the darkness. Not entirely man, but she is completely a woman. The lady is a perfect transsexual. That is a part of her punishment and curse, to be marked by the sign of God, walking on Earth forever. Born as a man, but as a predecessor of trends a long time ago in the silent biblical twilight changed his gender. “The cross is hell”, mouthed the ancient Cainita. In that moment, I caught myself in a vision how as such glamorous diva rub herself on the unfortunate senseless figure like Stephen Hawking. I knew the end of the world was near. I knew that that eschatological time pregnant with wonders is taking place. Insanity is taking over. Reptiles are awakening from a millennium dream. She said: “There are four types of war: natural, ideological, metaphysical and eschatological. There is also a fifth one, an inexistent one, but that is taught at higher levels of gnosis. Come, lie next to me…”