Dear __________,

I have crash-landed in the radioactive desert outside of a relatively nasty hive-city. We survivors are scavenging the hillbilly- and dire-wolf-infested countryside for spare parts, supplies, and food, but the ship itself is an irreparable hulk. Due to a Warp storm, the nearest rescue ship is years away.

I'm writing in this book and broadcasting it across the Grid in the foolish hope that it will reach you. I don't need to contact anyone else, of course, just you. I've missed you; for a long time I've missed you. It's lonely in the dark, here. The Void holds many terrors, as mayhap your dreams have spoken of.

You know that what I've sought is what you have sought: help in the Great Work, as described by Aleister Crowley. It is a stony soil to bring forth crops when the workers are few. I do not claim prowess, only desire, but even desire is flagging. The Universe has need of people of good will and skill. Can we still muster these against the onrushing collapse of the Empire? Or is a candled, quotidian, inoffensive life all we have left to us?

What wars of the soul have you fought? Are you bereft, like Sadak, on the shores of black infinities?

How aware are you of your instincts? Men and women are evolved creatures, and being mammals we have differing instincts for different sexes. I study this, but I wonder after your answers.

What do you hate, I wonder? That's a surer view to one's Self than one's fancies. I don't mean easy things to hate like Hitler or adulterers or people who kill kittens. I mean hating, for instance:

* television for the reality-deforming, capitalistic waste of time that it is, or, one better,

* Political Correctness as a redundant, truth-rotting regimen of scraping before the conquerors of Western Civilisation; of

* "fashion" as industry and brainwashing; of

* "cuteness" seen in grotesque, pop-eyed anthropomorphisms; of

* religious pluralism begging the question of why have a religion at all; of

* so-called "artificial intelligence" and its potential to autismify society by filling it with compelling simulacra bearing false intimacy; of

* the death of Western Civilisation and all its unparalleled promise...

All I can do now is wait. Either the beacon shall shine through to its intended, or it shall not.

Yours in exile,

Donnadogsoth

THE BLACK SNOW

The black snow fell,
But why, none could tell.
Down, it fell;
Down, on the gates and temples;
Down, on the ice-clogged rivers;
Down, so soft,
Like the touch of a monster
That knows how to woo.

Where are the footprints?
Where has the traffic gone?
The autos lie abandoned.
The clouds obscure the Sun.
My tread piles drifts before me;
I leave an ashen track.
I fear the silent, black-eyed crows
That stare upon my back.

Down, it fell,
And in the square, alone, I waited.
The birds had long since flown;
The black snow fell as fated.

Then,

Death came to me,
Ravishing was she,
With lips of black,
And eyes of clover,
And skin as white as the cliffs of Dover.
“Come,” said she,
“It’s time to die.
Don’t cry,
There’s nothing left to cry for.
You are the last;
It’s time to fall,
You stupid race who stood so tall.”

I choked, then sputtered,
Strained, but muttered.
And then,

“What did we lack?” I cried.
“We had the heart to free the Slaves,
We had the brains to gain the Moon,
We had ancestors,
We had rites,
We had the Cross to guard our knights.
What could we do,
What could we say,
To make the black snow melt away?”

She smiled in mirth, but grave remained:
“It’s in the Monster’s blood you’re stained;
Your knights did win,
Your hearts did pour,
Your brains hath craft a mighty Door,
To the Future you now stand before.”

“What Monster did we slay
To lead us this fell way?”

“You slew the Poet,” said she.
“You thought he looked like me.”

“A monster was he?”

“The worst – sweet soul of misery,
His flesh enchained by Agape,
You could not bear his whiter day,
A snow of truth and gods at play.

“You chose Logic, you chose Meat,
You singed his Reason with your heat.
He cursed you not; you drew your blade:
You knew he’d judge the world you’d made.

“The Poet is a Monster, friend,
His claws are sharp and made to rend
Your preconceptions, brainy vice,
And fill your bestial veins with ice.

“Your nerves recoiled,
‘There must be more!’
You screamed,
…And opened up the Door.”

I fell then to my knees, in soot:

“Oh God or gods that be, I pray
Have mercy on our race this Day.
It is not meet children should pay
For slaughtering the Poet fey.

“He came to conquer, came to smash,
To lay our dreams beneath the lash,
Man needs Logic! Man needs Meat!
Man needs soil beneath his feet!

”The truth and gods should suffer heat;
All things are seasonal, ‘tis meet
To romance Change and not be fleet;
Man cannot Merely spirit eat…”

I looked up then, and Death was gone,
The black snow fell, the sky was wan.
The crows were flying, heading North,
And in my veins the chill poured forth.

I have seen Death’s onyx lips,
I have felt her fingertips.
In quietus the slate’s wiped clean…
…I’d prayed the God of Hallowe’en!

GLOOM

We sense it
We think it’s there
Somewhere within
Somewhere beneath
But it can’t get out
Or we can’t get in
And we feel frustrated
By the awful verses
We call our lives

When it comes
We lavish it with praise
We hope it heralds days
Of huge fruits and mellow rays
On suns slow to sink
On flesh radiant pink
And lingering eyes
That betoken
Better things than this

But this tinkling music wanes
Like the wind in weathervanes
And we reassume our pains
And cannot retain our gains
We find ourselves returning
To addictive weary yearning
And forget the rhyme we’re spurning
As our life we set to burning
In the gloom

"Animals are innocent. Why should they suffer? Why should children suffer? Will you tell me that? Why should any baby have to suffer, and die?"

"Why should men?"

"Oh, come on, now. Don't try that one on me. You've got answers for it! Like 'pain makes people noble.' And 'how could man be more than a talking, tennis-playing panda bear if it weren't, at least, for the possibility of suffering?' But what about animals, Hud? Does pain make turkeys noble? Why is all of creation based on dog-eat-dog, and the little fish are eaten by the big fish? Animals screaming in pain; all of creation an open wound, a fucking slaughterhouse!"

Life support systems
Black clothing
Western Civilisation (or at least its good looking corpse)
Internet
Organising fantasies
Knowledge

--REAKING UP SIGNAL BREAKING UP STORM CONDITIONS SEVERE COVER WARNING OBTAIN--

Lost in the Coriolis storm...

ODE TO FEAR

A friend once told me,
“Perfection only exists in pressure.”
Thus, /adieu/ to thee:
All or nil, the Greater, or, the Lesser!

Mind the sea-wash slick
Upon the metal deck and stand ‘fore her:
The Vessel: /Starfish/—
Destined for th’Hadean floor—should I dare!

Triple-hulled, immune
To all doubts the uncandled darkness brings,
Mount the ladder,
Down the hatch; farewell song of songs I sings!

O, Europa, bride
Bemisted, seduced, my fears shan’t deflect
The Erotic tip
Aimed at thine Wintered heart Zeus would collect!

Seal the hatch with welds;
Cyclopean metal limb transports o’er
Chopping, brackish green
Waves: a wet dream of the Black Goat of Yore!

Say my prayers within
This nigh-perfect globe, metal anti-womb,
Burial at sea:
Will I cut my fears, or will’t be my tomb?!

A mighty splashing
Down it goes, forty-five minutes till th’Trench;
My heart hesitates,
Did I Err, did I Sin—my Shield I clench!

To rest, she, I, come
At the bottom of the World-Ocean blue:
Pressure off the scale—
O, for a comrade, t’share this pressure, too!

Creaks and cracks appear,
The hull is not immune to the One Fear—
Some Thing is out there,
Some Thing Out There is really in here!

It came down with me
Within, the hull, I cannot escape It;
My bride it would rape,
My kin, slay, my comrade break, my throat, slit!

I pump out Blackness
Under pressure, every drop, cannistered;
I am not worthy;
Only invoke the Word I be preserved!

Silence now, lights dark,
I take the final plunge and pop the torch;
I cut the hatch seals…
And climb out to find a desert, of course!

Jesus Christ, Mortimer J. Adler, Dawkins, Hitchens, Shelley, Keats, Shakespeare, Cusa, AronRa, Lovecraft, Zen, Hawking, D&D, RPGs, LaRouche, Moore, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Frank Herbert, Dune, Arrakis, Pandora, Pirsig, Hesse, Sutter Cane, Paul Washer, Ravi Zacharias, John Piper, John MacArthur, Poe, AC/DC, Guy Debord, Timothy Keller