Why do you cry out thus, unless at some vision of horror?
This land reeks of death and dripping gore!
How so? ’Tis but the odor of sacrifice on the altar of progress!
The stench is like that breath from a tomb, still exuding the watery gas of maggots on fleshly decay.
Home cursed of God! Bear witness unto me,
Woes seen and yet unseen within
The blood-stained hands of them that smite their kin
The strangling rope, and, spattered o’er
With human blood, the reeking floor!
For I am persuaded by testimony from those who,
Lamenting, were sacrificed in the womb,
Their flesh roasted and devoured by physicians, their fathers and mothers,
That Henceforth, you are all meat.

Preface

You are trekking, too lightly attired. Suddenly, you slip on a path and tumble downslope, losing your pack and all. When you awaken, things seem to swim about your field of vision for a while. The typically brief but intense afternoon rains begin, and you try to find your way back to shelter. For whatever reason, you find yourself quite lost, are soon soaked... and then hear voices. You approach an encampment and call out greetings. The group includes men, women and children, and the men arise and approach to take stock of you. They are not afraid. After all, you are carrying no weapons and must appear quite soaked and freezing by now. They bid you forward to their fire in a language you are quite unfamiliar with.

In physical appearance, you might almost interpret them as Polynesians, yet lighter-skinned and thinner overall, and with quite another speech-sound. They are dressed in some kind of fur-lined “homespun”, very chic (and very warm-looking at that!). You are offered a sort of robe, and sit down. The women urge you closer to the camp fire, and all nod agreement. Try though you might, you can’t seem to find any words in common understanding, until you ask for water.

They seem to understand that, and offer a beaker of pure, refreshing “vasa”. The beaker is hand-made crockery, well-decorated with fine geometric designs. Somehow, you feel comfortable and begin to relax. The women are cooking some kind of stew of meat and veggies. All others sit down in anticipation, and they pass around hand-made (well made, at that!) baskets with more kinds of berries and shelled nuts than you ever knew existed, apparently as a kind of hors d’ouerve. Together with the good water, you find the appetite really beginning to rise, and you wish to stay with these strangers. Suddenly, the word “apvel” is heard. You say apple and are immediately handed a smallish but very flavorful fruit. So, at least you have two words in common!

Looking around, you realize one very young lady is looking intently at you. She is full-figured, with the pinkest skin and no makeup except for a bit of ochre-red on the cheekbones. She has the fullest head of very loose black curls you have ever seen, and dark eyes. Really pretty, in fact. Relaxing by the campfire, you begin to realize everything these folks have is hand-crafted, including composite wood and stone hammers and axes, bows and arrows. The basketry and pottery, the clothing, all hand-made, and beautifully so. The meal is served on their ware, and delicious simple fare it is at that!

You can’t believe how comfortable you’re feeling. Twilight begins, and everyone pulls out some form of art they wish to show their guest. Sophisticated animal paintings on hide, wood, stone, and some kind of ivory carving. Their most artistic pottery, basketry, embroidery and beadware. All unimaginably attractive. Others pull out flutes, stringed and percussion instruments you’ve never seen before, and start singing with a tone and inflection that floats and seems somehow timeless. One of the elders begins telling some kind of story. Although you don’t understand the words, then again you do. You are escorted to one of their tents, again they insist, the one closest to the fire. It’s made of some kind of softened, flexible hide. You are given an undercover and another robe blanket. You doze off listening to their speech and laughter in the background.

When you awaken, it is very dark and very quiet. You realize the very young lady has your hand in hers, and that she is looking at you, and that she is smiling. You feel that you are finally... home.

This is an image of what might have happened if you came unarmed and in need of assistance to an encampment of Europeans 30,000 years ago! It is based on the latest archaeological research. Now think about the kind of “welcome” you might be given by non-racial kin. Let’s say... you are transported defenseless to a non-white community not 30,000 years ago, but only 300 years ago. Certainly, these aliens should be far more civilized than 30,000 year old whites! And yet after careful consideration, don’t you acknowledge that, rather than being greeted, you would quickly be killed and eaten by any typical early 18th Century non-whites?

The White Man ONCE KNEW from EXPERIENCE what sort of monstrous savagery he would be on the “receiving end” of should he ever let down his innate racial guard. Consider that “gentle” and “noble red man”, “in tune with all things”, whom “we so victimized”.

In 1779, Mohawks captured 16-year twin sisters Maria and Christina Manheim from their home in Pennsylvania. The band who captured the twins thought it would “cause” conflict among their owners when they were turned into slaves, they looked so much alike, so the chiefs decided the girls should he destroyed. The Red Niggers sharpened a supply of pine splinters about 5 inches long, then dipped the blunt ends in turpentine. The twins were stripped naked, hung from a sapling by their hands tied together, then had more than 600 splinters hammered into their bodies from their knees to their shoulders. Each of the splinters was set on fire. It was almost three hours before they died. By that time they had lost “almost every resemblance of the human form”.

In 1757, drunk Indians “killed one of the (British) prisoners, put him into the kettle, and forced his wretched countrymen to eat of him.” Another witness saw the Indians “compel mothers to eat the flesh of their children.” The Red Niggers were at ALL times motivated only by brutal serial killer sex murder lust and wantonness. Pregnant women were ripped open and their babies thus “born” thrown into flames or stewpots.

Near the close of 1763, the “Great” Chief Pontiac invited several prominent French settlers to a celebration feast. When it was over, he asked one of the guests how he liked the very good young beef. Pontiac said, “Come, I will show you what you have eaten.” Whereupon he opened a sack and held up by the hair the still bloody head of a British soldier, and added with a wide grin: “There is the young beef!” (Here it should be noted that in the late 20th Century, the self-styled “Emperor Bokassa I” of the “Central Africa Empire” did exactly the same thing — again to the French — but told them it was “young lamb” sautèed in its own pulverized brains!)

“They begin at the extremity of his body, and, gradually, approach the more vital parts. One pries and tears his nails by the roots, one by one; another takes a finger into his mouth, and chews off the flesh with his teeth; a third thrusts a finger into the bowl of a ‘peace’ pipe, which he smokes like tobacco; then they pound his toes and fingers to pieces between two stones; when tears are discovered, hot coals are applied under his eyes with the statement that his face was wet and would be dried for him.

They cut circles about the fleshy parts of his limbs, and try to pull the skin and flesh away from the bones; red hot irons cut, burn, squeeze, tear and pull off his flesh; bit by bit, they devour with greediness pieces of torn and broiled meat, smearing their faces with the burnt fat. When they have thus torn off the flesh, they pry loose and twist the bare nerves and tendons, tearing and snapping them, whilst others are employed in pulling, twisting and extending his limbs in every way that can increase the torment, until the arms are, one by one, torn off. This continues five or six hours; and sometimes days together. They frequently unbind him, to give a breathing to their fury, to think what new torments they shall inflict, and to refresh the strength of the sufferer. They then run sharp reeds into every part of his body; drag out his teeth with pincers, rip off the eyelids and finally, slowly tear out the eyes, one at a time, by the roots. After having mutilated his face in such a manner as to carry nothing human in it; after having peeled the skin from the head, and heaped red hot coals or boiling water over it, they will free him to wander about the camp blind and armless, prodded this way and that until finally, prodded to a huge kettle, he is lifted with huge regales of laughter and thrust in feet first, to cook down...Of the heads and their contents they will make a form of Indian pudding.

They made the prisoner sing and dance for some time, while six gun barrels were heating red hot in the Fire; after which they began to burn the soles of the feet until the bones appeared, and they continued burning him by slow degrees up to his privates...This barbarity they continued about six hours...They cut off his thumbs and offer’d them him to eat, pluck’d off all of his nails, and then stuck splinters of pine all over his body, and put fire to them. At last they ran two gun barrels, one after the other, red hot up his fundament, upon which he expired by the Grace of God” —Benjamin Franklin

Mutilation was in fact practiced out of timeless tradition and racial habit. It was not uncommon for a Cheyenne warrior to cut off the arms of an enemy and preserve the severed limbs as trophies. Strangers captured by the Cheyenne faced a gruesome fate. Captives were stripped and spread-eagled over anthills, their hands and feet lashed to pegs driven deep into the ground. There they were abandoned, to go blind from staring at the sun, insane from hunger and thirst, and eaten by ants and wild animals. It was then considered “mercy” to burn them alive.

One Cheyenne brave recalled the killing of an old man. “We cut off his hands, his feet...We ripped open his breast, breaking the ribs away, and opened his belly. I stood there and looked at his beating heart and quivering liver...We stayed there until there was nothing left but ashes, having crushed his burnt bones.”

Soldiers found after the quite typical Indian massacre “had strips of skin cut out of the body, noses and other members cut off...iron nails thrust through the testicles into the ground, pinning them...here a penis cut off and stuffed in the mouth...there cookfires built over stomachs, or a body ripped open, with a coffee pot and cup filled with blood, and obviously drunk from...heads with the eyes pulled out by fists would be ‘arranged’ to ‘stare’ at one another or would-be rescuers. Many had arms, legs and noses twisted until actually wrenched off. Many had their flesh cut off in strips the entire length of their bodies.”

As for the legend that Custer was “untouched” as “a suicide”, he was in fact untouched to the extent of an arrow rammed up the penis, and arrow shafts hammered into each of his ears.

A favored Indian yuck was to cut a body in gashes, fill them with powder, then set fire to the end of each. Indians would often dance with the naked headless body or lower half of a white woman, sawn through. Sexual violation would then follow, cheered on from the sidelines. Pubic area scalps ripped off the bodies of shrieking white women and teenagers shaking with pain would be worn after “drying” either as merkins over their own pubes...or as eye-patches. Sometimes they would hack away all of the upper torso from around the backbone without removing either it or the head atop, tie the detached upper torso to the nearest horizontal branch by the fingers in either a “pull-up” or “chin(less) up” position, and rig the lower torso, protruding backbone, and head “sitting up” for relatives to find thus. White babies, when not killed immediately, were often taken along on the trail, and then hung from broken tree branches rammed deeply into their lower jaws, so that anyone following them would be able to join in on the joke.

When the Red Nigger was “exhausted” by his “sport”, he might choke the victim to death by cramming sand or ramming stones down his throat. (Again, it is fascinating to noted that this was again exactly how “Sergeant Sammy Doe” of the Liberian Presidential Bodyguard Unit treated his own leader before immediately thereafter promoting himself to General of the Army.)

When settlers turned to Arizona after the Civil War, they confronted the Apache, who were a ferocious tribe. The Apache captured white women, then literally tore their bodies apart. Prisoners were hung head down over small fires, their uncontrolled jack-knifing giving amusement to the Apache for hours while the prisoner’s brain slowly roasted into a mush until death. Eyes torn out would be laid on nearby rocks; chins hewn off; teeth chopped out; brains taken out and placed on rocks with other members of the body; entrails taken out and wound around branches; feet smashed by cobbles; arms twisted out of sockets and then... off; private parts severed and placed in the eye sockets, ears, and mouth; and muscles of calves, thighs, stomach, breast, back, arms, and cheeks sawn out.

After gang-raping and murdering one woman they found hanging the wash to dry, they found one white infant in a cradle in the cabin and put the baby in the oven with the day’s bread...Women and children not killed immediately were often tortured to death later that same day, for blood sport. The Red Niggers would bet one another on screams, fainting, crying, begging, madness, and death. The scalps of women and girls with long red or blond hair were especially prized, being worn on the belt, and were highly valued when offered as collateral on the gambling floor.

Families were burned alive in their cabins, children crucified, girls nailed to doors — first backwards and then forward, raped by dozens of “braves”, then hacked to pieces while “standing”, while babies were dismembered by ripping and their limbs flung in the mother’s face.

One Chief said to a war party in front of captives from an earlier assault: “War now. War forever. War upon the living. War upon the dead; dig up their corpses from the grave; our country must give no rest even to a white man’s bones.”

Don’t ya hate the Red Man now, grandfather?

Let’s try one final approach to reality. You are set down in a black “hood” somewhere in the world, not 30,000 years ago, nor even 300 years ago, but only some 300 seconds ago! Will you be welcomed by your oh-so-civilised black brethren, or are you far more likely to be tortured to death amid general rejoicing, glee, dancing and drunkenness? Come on, white fool! Your ancestors from 3,000 generations ago would be better neighbors than the common jig you find on the street only 30 minutes travel time away.

And if I was a pagan living without any sin I was aware of in a thick beech forest in a clearing near year-round running water or perhaps a beaver pond, subsisting with my wife and children on game, beechnuts, our pear orchard fruit, mallow, roots, mustard, marsh plants, berries and mushrooms as my ancestors had done since time immemorial, would we all still “need” (let alone the diversity of “modernity”) the sacrifice of some Savior centuries and thousands of miles away? Never having stolen, nor cheated, nor killed but for food? Never having broken any oath sworn on my father’s maul or axe? Never having worshipped aught but the forest, breeze, soil, running water, and the milky way in the sky? Would I or they need anything else? And isn’t our only Sin NOT living in such a place of our own, and God’s, making?

Time itself calls to you, calling again and anew for (horror!) white lands flourishing with sustainable uses, natural places for wildlife (and our souls) to forever be protected, purity of air, water and soil, unity of neighborhoods, real social justice for the majority, eternal pride in and respect for the awesome accomplishments of our ancestors, and finding truth in beauty and beauty in truth. How dare anyone stand in the way of such real human progress!

And yet they do. They stand unashamedly for melding the good with the evil, the high unto the low, the heavenly into the foul, and for a future of social integration at the point of some Federal agent’s gun. Will we ever be allowed... to go home again?

Only One Thousand Years Ago

I swear this solemn oath upon the sacred ring
To fulfill the duties and responsibilities of a white man seeking God
To strengthen our way
To reconcile within the community
To keep to the race-law, moderation and the good path
To uphold and transmit our lore and culture
To respect the ancient pact our ancestors made with mother Earth

As long as fire burns
Wind blows
Water flows to the sea
The sun shines
And the earth yields

So long as mothers nurture their child
And men tend their fields
Fire flames
Ships sail
And the sun melts the snow

So long as people live on their land
And the Heavens turn
Trees grow
The fish swims
The stag runs
And the falcon flies in the long day of spring,
As the winds bear up her wings

1898 France

The state, falling into Jewified decadence, decaying from within, squeezed dry of soul, was pulled this way and that by the puppetmaster, while the nation was facing a war to the death with them. Our ancestors have demonstrated the physical and spiritual fertility of our race. Deep down all the non-Judaized among us still have the deliberate valor, courageous pride, and analytical good sense, that is, the virtues of the original race in us today. What we desire is to rekindle our old spirit as a race, our natural character.

A nation is an expanded family that has developed normally from a territorial zone in harmony with its temperament. What constitutes the nation is first of all our national territory, which has its special conformity, its soil, its flora, its fauna, its flowers, mountains and valleys, streams and rivers, its very atmosphere. A set of customs, practices and mores constitutes the harmonious natural law common to all truly of this land. All this glorious and precious patrimony is today compromised and tomorrow threatened with destruction by the corrupt, perverted, chaotic, inchoate, and forever “mysterious” minds of the nomadic wanderlust-souled Jews. We are their prisoners, they are our scourge, stabbing and strangling us from behind, our blight and cancer, our national leprosy, arrogant maggots at the feast of the dead, buzzards that batten down into their entrails, putrid gangrene, vampires after the last drop of our racial blood, and vermin in the gut of the worst kind.

The Jewish question is and always will be one of race. On one hand we have men of the land, with their religion based on the admiration and study of nature, their social science based on equity and justice, their sense of family, respect for the work of our ancestors, the worship of heroes, possessed of a sacred love of hearth and home, feelings of honor, and the ultimate truth-telling of laboring with one’s own hands. On the other are the Jews with their dark and anarchical thoughts, their extreme materialism, and their rapacity, destroying the cult of the native land, the dignity of work, respect for the family and for ancestral traditions, vipers, asps that inject the most lethal venom into our entrails, rats that gnaw into the body politic and the national soul, devouring both, only to shit them out, toads that stink up our earth with their poisoned spittle.

This accursed syndicate of woe, vile and shady, spins its web of deceit, represses the nation while distracting, diverting and perverting its people, as pimps of those who have sold their souls to the Devil, pornographers, and would-be national whoremasters. There is the same difference in quality of soul between this Jew and the Aryan, with our noble passion for glory and the ideal, as between the Aryan and the lumpen Chinee or the savage Nigger. Do you really want to end up the way Poland has? No, then excrete the Jews! What is in the blood and soul does not change. In this race war, the Jews must all be driven off into the night.

Our young people, national republican, national democrat, and national socialist, march and sing with all their hearts old songs with new words to poison the Jews. They shout “Hatred grows with each step. When will we finally arrest the Jews en masse and put them safely away?. We say drown the Jews with their filth in the sewers! They are ours now.” They burn the publications of the enemy, boycott their stores and shops, and bar the way to others. They break all the windows in their shops and synagogues, and take little tours through each. They call for the Jews (even three generations from Jewish racial purity) to be barred from elective office, public service and public education, and demand “a good bit of confiscation”. Never buy from a Jew. Throw off your chains and no longer be their slaves. Drive the parasite Jew from the host nation...deported to the east, or perhaps to a tropical colonial “paradise”.

Heroic brawls take place at every public meeting, as they challenge the rest of us to combat the Jewish presence and battle the Jewish race relentlessly. They thus rediscover the moral sense of their own traditions, rooted in one’s own soil. They cry for the nation to be resurrected from the dead, and the peoples’ minds to be remolded as of old to fit the national spirit.

In 20 years time the Jews will wring the neck of the nation, if we don’t cut theirs within 10. Think of your children, your families, and their enslavement, then think again of the nation... and act. Your good blood does not lie. The cursed race of the Jews must be exterminated. There are many noble means to act. The Jews should beware of being scalded or steamed to death. We have enough lampposts and enough of rope, enough ponds they could drown in, and gold and silver will not stop lead. Yet there is a difference between letting the Jews take control of your lives, and murdering them on the spot like mad dogs. We war not only against the Jews but even more so against the Jewish “spirit”. Death to the social power of the Jews and to their state within a state. We yet do not want a general massacre and extermination of all the Jews, merely of the Jewish peril to the nation. The Jews, as people, may merely be excluded. And yet it is just as clearly time to take up the final challenge, and end it all, one way or the other.

Onward, children of the nation — the day of vengeance has arrived! Against you and us the obscene banner of Yiddischry has been raised. Tremble, Yids who would murder the fatherland! You will finally get your reward, when every one is a soldier against you! We’ll begin to rummage through the shitpile that is Jewry, and dispose of it. If we face asphyxiation from the hideous stench, others will come to relieve us for a while and allow us to breathe a little good fresh air before returning to the sacred task at hand. And if our young heroes should fall, the nation will produce new ones to replace them, to destroy you. Sacred love of the nation leads and strengthens the might of our vengeful arms. We pray to the Living God to deliver us from the Jews. The sons of Judas, traitors all, will pale upon seeing the Leader of Tomorrow. Freedom, o cherished freedom! May all the dying Jews know with their last breath God’s victory and our triumph over them. We must at all cost continue the work cleansing ourselves of the Jews. The day will come when all these have disappeared, as we will simply kill them. We will not pardon any, and may spare no more than those of us spared entire from their terror. It pleased them to fight to the death of all of us or all of them. Yet we will stop and pause for a memorial, when the Yids have all been hanged... and not regret spilling their blood for our sakes. Long live the slaughterers of the Jews!

Less Than 100 Years Ago

The Forgotten Joys of Murder

Increasingly, we in defenseless, suicidal white Amereeka seem to have forgotten the thrill and sheer joy our antecedents felt at butchering a well-defined enemy. “Once upon a time” we volunteered for armed service to a REAL nation — in which the essence of such service was to kill. Far from genocidal killing then being “the realm of vicious psychopaths”, it was ordinary, God-fearing people of the finest intentions who found themselves quite capable of mass murder for the highest, holiest, and most irreproachable reasons, including EVEN those who “found a joy through stalking human prey...which more than made up for incessant fighting and weariness indescribable”, when one of their bullets or grenades would be followed by “a few groans and then silence”.

At least one white woman in Vietnam repeatedly went out on successful night sniper patrols when her Special Forces boyfriend begged off, finally saying “I know exactly who I am”.

We USED to be proud of narratives of women who had been captured by the Red Nigger Indians turning around once their captors were asleep and hatcheting entire Indian “families” to death.

As for men in vengeance, they once “often delighted in giving death and unrestrained slaughter”, their “killings were enthusiastic, the massacres frankly merry”, and when one cried guiltily that he “had become a murderer”, his WIFE said “and you’ve also become a man”. The 6 foot 2+, 240 lb. red-bearded, blue-eyed “mountain” man Jeremiah Johnson was a God in terms in racial understanding. He killed hundreds of red niggers by kicking them in the balls to death, punching them in the throats, or poisoning them. He also killed within minutes the only black he ever met, and resigned from the Civil War when they asked him not only to scout trails... but to kill white men.

Wartime instructors insisted the very purpose of male life in defense of one’s nation was to kill cleanly, kill quickly, kill efficiently (“Never cease to think how you can best kill the enemy...If necessary, stomp right between his eyes and push the nose right into his brain. Or stomp on the ribcage, in order to push splinters into the lungs, and THEN stomp on his heart to smash it...for mercy’s sake”).

All knew that “killing” was murder (see the constant war diary entries of having “been murdering all week!”), and often reveled in that powerful knowledge. Time and time again we read of the joy of killing.

“I sought out this new religion of Blood and Fire, the Blood that cleanses, the Fire that energizes.” In Britain, training included splashing warm blood in the face, with men encouraged to “smear it about” and “scent it”.

Men cherished the hopes of bayoneting someone. “How they hungered for the wild exultation of the pursuit of prey and the heavenly joy of driving ‘home’ deeply the blade, crunching through manrib-bone, and twisting it to hear either deep bubbling groans or sobbing little screams and to FEEL jets of blood spouting out amidst the bodily shaking, so that one’s blade would not only be stained but bejeweled with bits of hair or flesh...I would have driven my bayonet into the throat or eye without the slightest hesitation and my conscience would not have bothered me in the least.”

As a ripper, this was the kind of fighting that rejoiced the hearts of pirates. It was “beautiful, awesome work”, “joy unspeakable”, “hot exhilarating butchery”, “murder to weep over with joy”, and “gorgeously satisfying”. How far would one go for these “good feelings”?. To the point of willingness to see absolute hatred in eyes that you have stilled forever, and then simply to move on to your next murder.

The very essence of unit morale in war was the degree to which its potential fears had been converted into murderous hatred, and preparations for serial murder. The side that hated the most would be victorious.

Snipers also received immense satisfaction from their jobs, and were highly motivated killers engaged in a labour of love. “I had a feeling of the essential rightness of both my stalking AND my murder of man-animals that might kill me otherwise. To use your own skill, single-handed, against the enemy: it could be murder most foul, AND most delightful.”

Bodily “trophies of the hunt” were also inherently approved of at “killer-level”. Indeed, a necklace of ears in Nam could be called love beads. One ack-ack gunner from WWII remembered how those on his ship had partaken of fresh-dead Japs. “Parts of destroyed suicide planes were scattered all over the ship. During a little lull in the action, we would go on bugeye hunts. We didn’t have to go far. The deck near my mount was covered with guts, brains, torn tongues, scalps, hearts, arms, etc. from dead Japs. Someone would either have to scrape them off, or paint over them. One scalp had black hair, cut very short, and the color of the skin was real Japanese yellow.”

“I put a tongue with deep bucktooth marks in it on a pie plate. It was very big and long, with part of the tonsils and throat still attached. Otherwise, it looked like something you’d buy in the market. One of the Marines later told me he’d found the best way to interrogate a Jap prisoner was to slap him in the face with the hand on a severed Nip forearm.”

As for THEM, the Japanese were every bit as proudly racist as Americans once were. While it is fairly well-known that the Japanese baked, broiled, fried and crucified, beat, whipped, frothed, and then ate white westerners (see “Prisoners of the Japanese”), it is less well-known that they did the same things to others of the East Asian race. Koreans, in particular, were prized for medical experimentation because, though “not of the Yamato race”, they were as close as these Jap versions of St. Mengele were going to get, with actual members of the Yamato race being holy things.

Even in the first months of the war, Japanese OFFICERS ordered surgical teams to sever white Aussie prisoners’ genitals, staunch the bleeding so they would not die of that, and sew the mens’ cocks and ballsacks into their mouths and over their nostrils, so they would asphyxiate “on themselves”. Virtually no prisoners were taken by the Australians during World War II thereafter.

“Guadalcanal Diary” includes the following entry: “Everywhere one turned there were piles of bodies; here one with a backbone visible from the front, the rest of the flesh peeled up over the head like an artichoke; there a charred head, hairless but still equipped with blackened eyeballs; pink, blue, yellow entrails drooping (the color depending on the time of day, it seemed); a fresh red bullet-hole through the eye here; one there still wearing his tortoise shell glasses over buck teeth, lying on his back, with his chest a growing and constantly changing mess o’ ground meat...There was no horror to these things.” There was only Glory.

Wholesale slaughter of large numbers of the enemy, men, women AND children, might be “a godly affair of great and seductive power”, and “full of spiritual resonance”, with some preferring the silent omnipotence of napalm, others the showy exhuberence of white phosphorus, with its fulsome elegance, wreathing a target in intense and billowing smoke, and throwing out glowing red comets trailing brilliant white plumes.

Other forms of killing were “closer to the heart”. “A shot should never be fired if your enemy can be disposed of by the blade, the strangling wire, or a shovel to the head...for the demoralizing effect is great when one is found thus mutilated.” Flamethrowing was “most intimate”. After all, human warmth was essential to the offensive spirit, and that is what murder in defense of your own is all about.

The link between savagery and heroism is unmistakeable, with no hero more feared than the fanatical fighting man imbued with ruthless and impelling racial, political or religious ideals. Asked to comment on the My Lai village depopulation project, one officer up the line in command said: “A very good tactic. If you scare people enough they will keep away from you.” Patton said: “We will be given the name of killers, and killers are immortal”.

Psychologists have LONG recognized that more men break down in any theater of war because they are NOT allowed to kill than those “who broke under the strain of killing itself”. It is “the sensitive individual who cannot develop a pleasure in killing (who) quickly develops fear, from which surrender or his own death is the only escape.” Those quite “unable to kill...were (and are) men who lacked the ability to understand complex ideas, such as patriotism, appreciation of the alternative to winning a war, tradition, (were) psychologically inadequate ineffectives, and narcissistic poseurs concerned only with self-pleasuring.”

There is then only ONE moral question involved with killing: “If the only way to adequately protect one of our babies is to kill theirs, then it is OUR duty, however repugnant, to accomplish this.” Men who expressed reservations about killing “innocents” always had to be reminded that they were doing so out of allegiance to the still higher moral authority of their OWN group’s long-term survival. “You may discover extreme danger in some apparent innocent, when God has educated your spiritual sights”. Or in the words of a former military chaplain: “If one has blown away women and children but experiences no unpleasant feelings about it, then there is no issue left to resolve.”

Training one to kill, to murder and then sleep like a child to awaken refreshed, thinking “what a glorious morn to sink a knife to the hilt in someone’s belly,” starting all over again with a new wind of righteous ice-hatred, is essentially just remembering that killing, in the end, is part of Everyman’s natural inheritance.

The real problem for our vets returned from Nam perhaps was in NOT responding to catcalls ’bout “whether they enjoyed killing babies”, by saying: “Indeed, I enjoyed it a great deal!”.

2000: The White Race Martyred on 21st Century Altars of Jew-Worship, Negritude, and Faggotry

There are filthy brown clouds dimming the White-hot Sun God in the skies,
brave Helios and his steeds needs must fear an end.
Your beloved grandancestors, ancient, dreaming of the Forest and the Glade,
are shocked no doubt to see you Otherside
now it is for you, my Dead Race, to grant the favor of stories tragic in their telling.
Deep within a frozen wasteland of shit
filling the spirit of hoomanity,
brownblack, redyelloworange and “chosen” murderers
smashed and shat upon the souls of every white friend, peer, and fellow
simply because they feared
our spirit, our being, and our love in Race eternal.
We were, we are...and...will be (again?)
The Universe’s brilliant beams.
Now we have precious little time and twilight is falling on our souls as Despair makes his calling.
In darkness it creeps in on mist-y shades of niggerous night,
casting horrid shadows over love’s shining.
We keep on walking into Non-existence.
So many are happy creatures of the loneliness,
dying quietly in well-moneyed latter-day dreams.
We stand on the brink of an abyss, a desert, the edge of never-ending pain.
We don’t even know enough to say our last farewells,
Though we are sentenced to be shot,
or buried alive to die.
At the “beginning” of a “new” millennium,
On the way from hell to hell,
Some still carry the Love of centuries,
Inside our hearts,
Where the sunset still burns.
Yet, can we remain white covered with our own ardent blood?
How many times today will a white child be born,
not knowing the life they’ll face?

Some will wonder o’er it, take long walks through the empty sands
thinking they are held in God’s protecting hands.
Some will cry about it,
awake at night bleakly watching the walls
and die a bit remembering how you left us one beautiful Fall.
Race, was your brightness
too much for this world?
Or goodness, too?

That the powers of darkness in the creatures of the night did swell up red and black, bloated like weeks-old death,
and with brutality unimaginable,
seek to snuff out... your brilliant light.
And all for “equality”.
On the last day of sun in winter’s depth,
Suddenly I’d remember the Race
and be moved to tears to raise Him from the dead,
or die with Him.
“No!”, Grandfather shakes me awake!
“Have only hate,
for the monsters
who do exactly what they must,
in their eternal nature of suffocation!”
But, what of the silent,
who voice not at all,
’cause the fear has them?
“You must make them learn to scream again!”
A defender’s shout.
Feed the Hate, whilst
others breed the Lies.
Oh, yes, Christ would weep,
but that will NOT stop THEM from shitting you to Hell!
You can ONLY spin the planet backwards, a mad thing!
by blinding white passengers with Healthy Hatred.
Look, there is still a royal blue sky!
And warmth remaining in the year’s life.
Today above the last flower fields,
a thousand voices sing raceworth;
And you need NEVER travel alone again that road at night!
Ask no mercy, grant none at all.
At night hunt in small wild packs, befriended by the noble silvery frost moon.
The yellowing year,
the bitter constraint,
skin-parching wind,
even the remorseless coming of winter
brings occasion
in the woods and caves,
for the hungry to look up, and
scent out blood.
Yes! We should have known it sooner.
We should have cried, “Don’t wait!”
To all loved!
NOW, do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the silent, soft winds that blow
I am the gliss on new fallen snow
I am the Eagle in a high Freedom Flight
I am the star that lights up your wolf eyes.
I want you to hate and be pure in its close embrace.
It will warm you
That, and fresh blood in the night.
I will then laugh,
dance with joy.
my soul,
re-filled, sated,
caressed.
Heal thyself and
heal me.
And for all
who love
cherish
honor
esteem
men who
love their own
God’s grace will be expressed
in their every action.
Yes, we’ve lost
sons, daughters,
brothers and sisters,
fathers, even mothers!
In racelove,
We mourn,
grieve,
and come
together
in rage.
lawlessness
wild, intoxicated with blood in the snout!
Interdependent on the others,
no longer neurotically, necrotically isolated!
Self-expressive with cruelty,
and rugged of spirit with violence in intent!
What subtle
Morbidities will then be bulletblastblown
Across the fields,
everlasting in their own demondust.

What stinking “divinities” will we
plant with the new soil, to remain
in winter a perennial whorefrost?
What livid indignities
were suffered upon
our Racial body, echoing,
like the cries of
a slain eagle
faded across
the canyons in
gasping whispers?
But the slayerjew’s
rancid secrets,
fetid truths can yet be expelled
from consciousness,
today imprinted underleaf
on the drunken “culture”, resting on its “laurels”
on a bed of incestuous lies,
a pile of shit,
season by season,
it “progresses” unto Death and self-sodomy.
If necessary we must kill the seasons,
and plant at all times, even through caustic ground,
unyielding, thick or acrid,
if only to bury the Things!
Be generously hateful
to the putrid.
Savage sons
you may yet win the day on a splitskull,
and slaughter their
foul winds back into oblivious vermin
Whose feasts would otherwise be
your mother’s blood
and your father’s bone.
Slay.

We am not alone though many have turned and gone away,
The golden trees have lifted up
your sweet racesoul to the sun,
And every power we possess
needs simply be the re-discover’d land!
To undo what’s been done with Winter’s grip
which deeply holds
the hearts of many men.
The death dealt by the dead is powerless itself amidst
the rise of Race’s Spring again!
And each time flowers bloom with
white-all-color living brilliance on display,
We will never be alone!
Did the trees writhe for you, White Race,
were not the stars ashamed?
Sometimes it seems like the darkness will never turn.
the struggle never be won.
That’s when you call upon your demons, and go mad with hatred.

Sons and daughters
In your time
do not wait
to be liberated
on this land
It is yours to reap
and benefit
And to bury
your lowing “brethren”.
Then, only then,
golden youth, may you
rest beside the stillwater,
knowing we will be
Everlasting
again.
For years the battle
will roaring render on,
for us the darkness
still encroaches.
Pray that your light,
God’s light,
might shine fierce over and
until all the pitch and filth
is finally banished
and racelight eternal
embraces us.
Then with rejoicing
we will be joined with you,
Grandparents and all,
and see once again
the brightness of your smiles.
I hear the mighty chorus of dear ones gone before:
Light a match and burn the face off a devil, yid cherti!
Mark the boundaries of the world with rivers of their blood
And unite the race as one.
Open the haters’ eyes with steel
And remember for our death they...lusted.
Who has learned to truly love their race,
knows both the shadows and the sunlight,
And a song lost in the wind.
yet keeps summer in their heart...
Who grasps the gift of honor fought
In some deserted, barren spot?
Step forward, hero...survivor.
carver of death
bloodlord of war
agent of God’s destruction
hear my shriek
focus my rage
purify my hatred
narrow my passion
point my spear
’gainst all the brood
of those who murder senselessly
the only Race worth its weight in wisdom;
those who destroy claiming “to create”!
who tear the singers from the dance
and the dancers from the play
who wouldst spatter upon the ancient cycles
...yet who “create” only cancer.
I call down the purified rage of my people
and the backlash of torture
to burn their eyes away
from the psyche of real humankind.
May my earth-black and fire-red emotions
of rage and death
blast away the stagnant undergrowth
in which choking weeds take tangled root,
and crack open the dormant seedlings
of real Truth and Justice.
We will make their skulls into communion chalices
and use their bones for candlesticks,
with executioners’ eyes and garrote hands,
and a smile knowing He is finally avenged.
The rats scurry;
watching with unlidded terrified eye,
they know now what you are capable of, white monster!
Today beautiful little creatures will come to sniff the decaying spongy mess of your societal rot.
And I laugh at seeing them eat of you.
HATE be the Sun that warms
our souls, bring back the light
to darkened rooms of indifference,
pull back the shades and fling open the windows,
freshen the air — let the light prevail
be the heat that ignites our hearts white hot.
Stoke the flame
of outrage.
Consume that part of us lost, and
Weld it anew.
All of you, white men and women!
The Race is forever your child, your son, your own!
Let every fear be waning, lift up your eyes forlorn,
the Hammer’s strike is calling,
as it sings the sky back to Godly blue.
Eternal Hate reigning, and eternal life re-born!
So listen to the sad songs and cry for ten seconds more.
Then prepare to celebrate possible new revolutions
emerging from the ashes of lost dreams
burn with love and fury crushed terribly in one,
breath sucked back into throat to cry that last cry,
...and kill.
Think of them burning, and then...
Bury them all where
Vast and cold,
Fields once flowerful, calmly lie,
under our control again,
...seasonably White with snow.