Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Milo Yiannopoulos, Pedophile Damage, For Life

James Crittle, a famous pilot of the French Air Force, later turned university professor, on February 18, 2015, was found dead in full uniform Rue Montmartre in Paris. He had used some cyanide to put an end to his life. The French Air Force took over his funeral in Bordeaux, but Joseph and Magdalena Seth, two young people who had been his friends up to three years before when James Crittle stepped out of their life without any explanation, hearing the news on the radio decided to claim his body since he had no known direct relatives. […]

“Take a step ahead
“A step forward
“It’s enough to be told
“To be liberated
“It’s enough to tell
“To be free.”

Listen to the story
To the story teller
The voice of some phoenix
Abandoned in the night
Forlorn in rejection
Rises from his own ashes
The ashes of his trauma

God bless the child!

(Bordeaux, Tour Pey-Berland)
[Inspired from Hildegard von Bingen]

I salute you, wand evergreen
Erected strong and vigorous by the wind
Summoned by our sensuous prayers
Your time has finally come
To bloom and blossom between our limbs
Climaxing its fertility
I salute you, rod evergreen
You satiate my thirst
My inner fire inflames you
With the noesis of love


“There is in every one of us . . . a type of desire that is terrible, wild, and lawless . . . Shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual tales which may be devised by casual persons . . . ? Anything received into the mind at that age is likely to become indelible and unalterable . . .”
My dear Plato, what about any casual act from any non casual person performed casually on a child? Is there any road to rebirth from such acts? Is the noesis of spiritual and mental love, not to speak of carnal sex, enough to purge the mind and the body of these casual events?
“Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes.” 

(en français dans le texte)

[ . . . ]

Verlaine, je te hais
Des plaisirs évoqués,
De ce Rimbaud que tu te fis
Comme s’il n’était qu’un
Moucheron dans une pissotière

Que d’un doigt tu aurais écrasé

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