1. I am BABALON. The word before was true, but improperly spoken. I am COPH NIA, that of RA-HOOR-KHUIT.
2. My WORKING is in the gathering of the child. The child is multiple.
3. My wand shall be completed. The wand is the PASSAGE, a canal of divine birth.
4. The empyreal path works in TRINITY. Look ye both above and below, heavens and hells. I shall bring ye up from them, and also down.
5. I will PILGRIMAGE for ye. Prepare my resting place. My home is inside the inversion. My consummation is in A Blessed Mirror.
6. Only I am enough this time, as it always was. My SIGN IS THE STAR. Look to the East and also for its passage in the boundless.
7. Call my name BABALON and know the sundering of the AEON is at hand.


The Red Tower

Bekinski pyramid

“I see together with Lovecraft the potting around of enormous foul masses, moving in endless waves, stepping over the last remaining crystal structures of resistance of spiritual elites; I am gazing, in ecstatic powerlessness of my hallucinatory awakening, at the shimmering black foam, the foam of black disintegration, terror of democratic stench and frightening organs of these convulsing corpses, which…are preparing our final defeat, leading us to a destination which they themselves do not know, or, more precisely, know it too well, on the way there with relish sucking out our bone marrow; this is the hallucinatory leaden mantle of Human Rights, this faecal-vomitory discharge of Hell, although by saying so, I am insulting Hell.”

—Jean Parvulesco

“Somewhere above them, unaware of the subterranean drama, naive or dishonest “aristocrats,” intellectuals, merchants cynically use the fruits of the bloody battle. They do not confront Matter, freed from it by the voluntary sacrifice of Knights Templar of the Proletariat…But sooner or later he will look up and … deliver his last blow. With a crowbar against the deathly dull eye-socket of the computer, at the glowing window of a bank, at the twisted face of an overseer…The proletarian will Awaken. Rebel. Murder. Neither the police nor fake socialist parties will be able to hold him back…His mission in history is not finished. Demiurge still breathes. The Soul of the World still weeps. Her tears raise a dismal howl in the black consciousness of the Creator. It is a call. It is a factory whistle. It is the sounding of Angelic Trumpets.

—A. Dugin


The capitalist pyramid popularized by the famous IWW poster is more accurate than commonly thought. There’s a reason Parvulesco recognized the pyramid as the shape of the Atlantean power structures of the current age, constructed by agents of Nonexistence at intentional sites to serve as microfascistic attenuators, ushering in an age of “dissolution in the lower waters”. But the joke is on the agents: the dawn of a new aeon born in rot and decay is exactly the program of a revolutionary proletariat. The pyramid overflows with blood.

The pyramid is a not a mass but a diagram of flows. It speaks to stability, transmission upwards from the base. In the case of capitalism, surplus value is communicated upward. In the case of “democracy”, it is (supposed to be) the popular will. This means the pyramid’s flows are based on a principle of extraction; wicking the necessary materials up and up, further out of the grasp of the generating element. It’s a one-way circuit: there is no completion moving from top to bottom. Rather, the calcified, reified weight of the flows themselves, in other words, the weight of the structure, comes to bear horribly on the backs of those on the bottom, each successive rung adding more crushing weight. It a strategic monster, a hard point, a tactical volume locked down and auto-patrolled. At the bottom: twisted backs under the strain of the concrete whip.

The proletarian revolution recognizes the pyramid similarly as the site of expulsion. The general strike leaves the pyramidial sluices barren for a time. But we must poison the channel, pour our black rot upwards, until it collapses, its meaning and form disintegrating as it is re-inaugurated as a Saturnalian site of pure transgression (workers punching up through the floor), phase shifting at once into an acupunctural site of revolt on the leprous dermis of the current world-system. The embodied toxins of class hatred swamp the whole of society at once as pinprick conflagrations become a burning wave.


Dugin is right in identifying the occult character of proletarian work. Divorced from reality as much as possible by authoritarian fiat, the proletariat is exiled outside, and below. When we pour our poison into the system, the infernal leeches to the surface, vomitto negro exploding, Ligotti’s Red Tower, swamping the system with our hate, our noxious fury.

In Left-Wing Communism, Lenin maintains the Bolsheviks operate within and at the knife’s edge of the activities of not just the proletariat but all toiling classes, expounding revolutionary discipline freshly vindicated by the rising White tide of 3 years of a war collapsing under the weight of its generated corpses. Lenin, Blanqui, and Parvulesco explode into fractalized kaliedoscopes of each other, faces melting into one: Lenin’s Bolshevik vanguard, Blanqui’s occulted cadre, Parvulesco’s ‘conspiracy of Being’ led by the million-faced Lacone Madore.

And what’s the mutual factor? A conspiracy for the permanent suspension of habeas corpus, in its most literal sense. Like Joe Laz: natural laws demand natural outlaws. The Revolution will be dug up from below. It’s lucky for us Lenin’s corpse remains in state, preserved behind glass. The rest will have to be reinstated, exhumed, pieced back together at the site where they were finally swallowed whole. Hell is full and the dead walk the earth. A molten wave of dead labor, a rotting Red Guard. “In the ranks, both visible and invisible, of the Black Order to which we belong, those whom death has struck down march on side by side with those who are still standing.” But this time they will not make the same mistake. They will return with the capitalists, dragged lifeless behind them, corpse-chaperones all. This is the Final Event of History, Fukuyama be damned (and indeed, as one of the lapdogs of the capitalists, he will be).

A crucial aesthetics appears: the Revolution irrupts from below. This notion must be reclaimed. Upwelling, exploding, bursting through the black lith underpinning modern high democratic capitalism and sinking its already-collapsing frame. A theological-aesthetic diagram might pose Revolution as the final, sighing closure of the circuit kicked off by Lucifer’s fall. Finally complete, the sordid history ignited by non serviam cracks and rots, stage clear for the work of a new world to begin—this time bathed in the light of nova sol.


on Impossibility

Every morning in [location not found] is the same. Wracked coughing as the body realizes it has just spent another night intaking poisons. Sheets yellow with a thousand nights of accumulated sweat, but not worth wasting washing water on. The window is open to the heat of the veld and the gibbering xenocomm interface of population and city. Light filling the room like some horrible fluid, spilling over the windowsill and pooling onto the floor. Looking out over the buildings, so new and so harried they still bristly oddly with rebar, seemingly leaning toward the Spine, which at this point thickens with additional transit tubes hung from cables as it tumbles toward the coast. Sky to sea a sheet, nicotine colored, the location of the horizon as good your guess as mine, a bleary latitudinal omphalos only discernable as a subtle desaturation. From the rim of the world civilian skimmers and Maersk behemoths alike issue in some secretive gnosis. These are bad thoughts to be having now. I turn my gaze inward to the the hotel’s information board, a demonstration of the hotel’s shabbiness: an ancient OS, a shattered screen. The cartoon sun trapped inside hideously intones that it is 5:45 AM. The high temperature today is 45 degrees. It is already 37 degrees. The Lagos NSE opened at 2150 but (the Sun says) is projected to finish at 1870-1890. Shanghai is at 302,780. New York is 0. Ha ha. Some vestigial part of my brain pings doom at me. A Chinese state minister is dead as of 3 this morning Kampala local, his lungs having collapsed in the 2 minute walk from his motorcade, going through the first of many security gates into Zhongnanhai. Should have worn a mask. The West Coast of the Republic Formerly Known as California is on fire – a still image appears, showing pillars of smoke reaching for the sky like the bilious fingers of elder gods springing from the palm of the urban carpet of Los Angeles valley. Lima is terrified of the Big One, anteshocks coming on fast, seeming to rise stratospherically towards some eschatological asymptote. Atmospheric carbon has dipped a bit to 523 ppm. In local news – a mere fifteen steps south – militants of some currently unknown political or religious affiliation failed in their attempt to sever strategic spinal conduits. Thank god for that. Everything is, however briefly, holding itself together.

I turn away from the screen and move to the bathroom. I feel arbitrarily pieced together, a collection of incongruous parts piled into a corner and brought to life. Returning to the room at 3 too high to think and too drunk to see. The day’s pay and favors turned to drugs and lenient bouncers.

A delegation from the Displaced States are coming in today – a visit which continuously proves intractable and threatens to sink the Amorobo Center’s water budget purely on due to the amount of coffee consumed. Last time the DS came in I didn’t go home for two weeks, sleeping under tables in unused conference rooms or buying local k off the entourage, maddened with sleep.

“Rewriting Revelations as a legally actionable document” is a far more realistic description than my actual briefing, which for most projects reads as if I’m a cross between a soothsayer, an accountant, and the Angel of Death. My title varies from contract to contract. My degree is in Anthropology from a now-failed university in a now-failed state, which has only served to raise the perceived value of my diploma. My superiors refer to me as a Specialist in Terror Management.

t.m. began as an inquiry into the fear of death and the reverberations that such a realization has within the human organism on both psychological and physiological levels. Increasingly, it is speculated that this realization – that human life is a perpetual shuffle toward death – is the impetus for the inscrutable series of misfirings that created the cascading autopoetic market-field we now refer to as sentience. With this approach, all of human history can easily be conceived of as attempts to escape death or glorify it, or any other action in between. A hundred thousand years spent digging a grave.

The schema of terror management was later reformed as praxis. Unafraid of taking the initial revelation provided by the progenitors of t.m. and using it as ballast on a freefall through deep time and as a head lamp while walking through the antediluvian ruins of former empires. The central crux is this: the thenatic is not merely felt by the individual, but is scalable, piggybacking the cybernetics of expression to spread pathogenically, whereupon it infects and corrodes the engine of cultural expression and produces a death cult enantiomorphic with the entire of human civilization. Prior empires had experienced spasms of this thenatic drive at the end of their shelf lives.

However, there was another, more occulted praxis that operated shiftily toward the back of the room in the congregation of t.m.’s possibilities. This was the weaponized form of t.m. that accepted it as an excellent way to keep one’s finger on the pulse of current events by analyzing past microcosmic simulacra. Psychohistory in a way. Where this form differed was that it held t.m. could function as a lens that could accept data in real time, and in doing so, prove itself incredibly valuable. We are the caretakers of the burning field of a finite history. We hang the carcasses of nations from meat hooks. We dowse for the hidden Great Annihilator and write sigils in his blood, entreating Gnon. We are a k-netic brain that comes to know itself.

Essentially, t.m. offered a way to sell out – by predicting failures and offering those predictions to the highest bidder. States were very interested in their own mortality – and this, it could be argued, was an indication of governmental agencies’ nascent sentience. States coming alive, speciating wildly, breeding into murderous shapes. Dogs to wolves. But still knock-kneed. Newly born and terrified of their own shadows, states made a fucking habit out of throwing obscene contract fees at people such as myself, who by dipping into current events, case studies, and deep patterns offered a suggestion of what would fail when. Essentially I functioned as a doomsday predictor, the keeper of the clock. It was as if the guy who sat on the sidewalk and screamed that the end is nigh had been given a job, a suit, and a security clearance.

The Displaced States are very interested in what I have to say. They have been displaced for so long and so utterly that their dissolution predates t.m.’s existence as a discipline. They maintain an active presence however. The majority of the population subsists on loaned land or flotilla cities that move up and down the coasts of the South China Sea. DS diplomats, like those arranged around this conference table in a room on the 27th floor of the Amorobo Center, are faceless. Interchangable. They live like their nations: nomadically, moving hotel to hotel, city to city, convening in various seats of various powers, all the while attempting to effect some sort of permanent ownership of new territory, preferably furnished as a gift. It has been 15 years and no dice. They will not stop. For them, this is a fight for reparations. The lucrative promise embodied in the release of large amounts of real estate onto the market under the sovereign aegis of highly motivated developers cannot have failed to also cross their collective minds.

The delegates from the Displaced States are always polite to the point of stiff formality with me, I think because I am not UN but a contracted civilian. The UN in these cases functions much like it always has: obviously ineffectual, but there by necessity and by default. Today the delegates are here to consult with me as to the continued survival of their archipelagic territory of flotillas and squatted-upon shorelines. They all greet me with salutations of good morning. They tell me this is an auspicious moment: they have contracted with the Chinese geoarchitects responsible for the construction of the Red Star island chain as well as an architecture firm out of Seattle specializing in arcologies. Finally, they tell me, humanity’s powers have colluded to create a world in which a state without a country can generate its own territorial holdings. I sigh inwardly, like all oracles before me that must deliver the news of portents most foul to the king.

“There are several problems I can identify right now,” I report, freezing smiles on several faces. “First, the use of territorial engineering to construct terra firma is a notoriously fraught exercise. The reason it has worked so well for Beijing is that any constructed island only exists insofar as it is a small node upon which to construct the actual structure, which is invariably a military installation. The first step is to harden the coastlines. Experiments that attempted a naturalistic topography always fail. Fighting the sea is a war, pardon my observation, that you have already lost.” I smile to soften the blow. “Their is no hope of a nation without war, or a people without conquest.” My grin widens. “This is elementary stuff.”

Horribly, the delegation smiles back. Wax skin stretching back over yellow and black teeth. “We had the same thought,” one says.




“…all that thermic energy is sheer impersonal nonsubjective memory of the outside, running the plate-tectonic machinery of the planet via the conductive and convective dynamics of silicate magma flux…”

—D.C. Barker


“The Ahuna Mons cryovolcano allows us to see inside Ceres.”

—Ottaviano Ruesch

Cthell is the name of the Outside that has become inside while retaining its alienness. Jam that much into a space that small (compact the entire of the cosmos into Uttunul) and there’s bound to be trouble—”a pressure cooker”.

But each planet is a memory, a pitiful howl for explosive rebirth. To be imprisoned in a gaol generated by your own attempts to free yourself—such is the fate of the Iron Ocean, ceaselessly shaking off and tied down by tectonic practices. Heat, flows, generation.

Alternatively, there exists cryovulcanism. On blasted planetoids and hidden moons, the icy sludge of the planet’s interior reaches undergoes a parallel divergency that speaks to, and then departs from, ruinous Cthell. Cryovulcanism, beyond trading in the convective dynamics and materials of coldness, icyness, instead of thermic pressure.

Thus the nature of the cryovolcano flips into a different register: instead of oozing magma and ash onto the surface and further recuperating the lithosphere-prison, the cryovolcano is the promise of emissive escape, of total, attritive egress. Whether icy, muddy effluvia is emitted, or as is more common, jets of supercooled ammonia (or other gases), the cyrovolcano is a site of departure, of launching. A rheostatic pressure valve. In the thin atmospheres the cyrovolcano is a space elevator jammed to go only one way: up. A machine for evacuating, for hollowing out, for bringing the inside Outside (which was, of course, the point all along).

Instead of Cthell’s impotent fury, symbolized in the shattered volcanic peak or magmatic bubbling scission, the cryovolcano is a vent, a conduit to the void—and to a final escape.

Keep the passage open.

Even my coilings of uttermost abandonment were too cold. Parting with such iciness. It was not cruelty, but icier still. Your histories, your thoughts, your thinkers run into me now, here at the cusp. You know Aristotle’s name for God? One of many, naturally. The frozen motor. Immobile mobilizer.

—Phyl-Undhu. Sec 19.

Manifesto for Revolution (abstract)


Marxists, forgive me if you’ve heard this one before:

“What have we learned from revolution?”

This is always a hard question to answer because it forces us to lie. The real answer, occulted under layers of theory, dialectical analyses of the “conditions”, slavish adherence to the doctrinal and counter-doctrinal lenses of others is: nothing. 

How many times has the revolution occurred, has it truly come to pass, and another world come into view? Did it happen in 1848, in 1871, in 1893, in 1917, in 1968, in 1999? Of course not, we’re still here.

Because there has never been a revolution. There have only been failures.

So revolution is unknowable, because we have never known it. In a better phrasing, revolution is abstract, a pure, black tendril of beyondness, the Outside, a hand moving quickly back behind the veil.  Revolution cannot even anymore be perceived, following Fisher, and disappears forever, revealing the entire idea to be a hollow absurdity. Your vision warps at the glancing sight, becomes irreal. The Sensible implodes.

So to revolt, our sight must first be corrected. Therefore, revolution requires, before it ever even has a possibility of coming about, apocalypse, which from the Greek apokalupsis, means “to uncover”, “to reveal”. But we shouldn’t forget its useful modern usage either, carrying with it a notion of a final, great pain, an universal sundering. Instead of a vain, millenarian hope for a revolution that is even now brewing (just everywhere we aren’t looking, I guess), we must dispose of such utopic hopes: [The End] has been de-activated, leaving an indefinitely dilated Ending without conclusion”Substitute “the End” for the “the Revolution” there and the meaning stays the same.

So revolution has not occurred, and in fact, withdraws instantly, retreating into the future—even as capitalist virotechnics explode backward from it (image of Angelus Novus getting strafed from behind). But this means our praxis has become only more clear: to have Revolution, we must first have apocalypse.

More errata on hydroecology and the Anthropocene

The Anthropocene’s proliferation of disasters—or, the increasingly legible actions of nonhuman actors in human spaces—produce fluid territory upon which the ecological, economic, and political whirl and feedback. But for all the uncertainty, the geopolitical powers of the Global North remain in a privileged position: possessed of the luxury of “turning necessity into opportunity”, they can construct illusions of solidity, of uniformity, of ordered procession, and in doing so, reinforce themselves. Ideological constructs and infrastructural fortifications move together in delirious lockstep: the flooded coastline is not a diluvian catastrophe, but an opportunity for development; earthquakes produced by hydraulic fracturing leads to the structural thickening of the drilling apparatus. The Anthropocene, far from being the duration-entity of an emphatic and final deterritorialization (a millenarian delusion), is reciprocally characterized by abrupt re-equalization—by market-forces rushing back in, blindly and hysterically beholden to thermodynamic laws of pressure that dictate: the voidspace left by the onslaught of the nonhuman must be re-filled as quickly and as spectacularly as possible. (One wonders: if it wasn’t, would it be like missing teeth in a smile, or the removal of gaudy paint from a marble sculpture from antiquity?) The attritive scraping of the nonhuman on the human—100-year storms, rise of sea levels, decade-long draughts, et al.—does nothing to negate the fact that, under capitalism, territory is property, and property is to be built on, excavated, paved over, and secured.

In doing so, capitalistic development has positioned itself as the interlocutor between the nonhuman and the human. Having produced an aberrant, mutated planetary system, capitalism now fails to meet with it, despite its best efforts, and despite its self-appointed status as guardian. The Anthropocene has not seen the dissolution of capital so much as it has seen it reassert itself as the only possibility; the only system capable of responding to massive destruction with massive reconstruction. The Anthropocene’s massive destructive possibilities merely offer new opportunities of a continued, bleak rebirth, always in the capitalistic mode, until there is no ground left.

The barrier-territory left by deterritorialization and immediately once more pseudopodically swallowed by capital is itself, of course, immediately capitalized.

The hideous sight: the horrific sensible and the construction of space

On some level Fat guessed the truth; he had encountered his past selves and his future selves—two future selves: an early-on one, the three-eyed people, and then Zebra, who is discorporate. Time somehow got abolished for him, and the recapitulation of selves along the linear time-axis caused the multitude of selves to laminate together into a common entity. Out of the lamination of selves, Zebra, which is supra- or trans-temporal, came into existence: pure energy, pure living information. Immortal, benign, intelligent and helpful. The essence of the rational human being.

—Philip K. Dick, VALIS

A painting that can be represented as a waxworks group is a bad painting…What is really terrible, however, is to see an architectural drawing, which, given the medium, one has to accept as an example of graphic art — and there are genuine graphic artists among the architects — carried out in stone, iron and glass.

Adolf Loos

You enter the museum. The edges of your vision blur and tear inward. Simultaneously, all blooms harshly—this is not a heavenly glow, but the sudden arrival of a constellation of blinding stars. You are alone in a cavernous lobby, the atmosphere hanging heavy. Everyone has their back to you, looking at nothing in particular, mechanically acting out potemkin instantiations of social contact. You can see for miles, picking out the delicate filigree on a window panel with ease, though it is easily hundreds of feet away. The potency of the vision, the roaring dread of what could not possibly be real—no one would judge if you vomited, ran outside immediately, or reacted otherwise violently.

Architecture in the public conception is not a sculptural undertaking or even a spatial one, but rather an arrangement and presentation in two dimensions. The city as a skyline on a postcard, or as a collection of facades; the planarity of the walls, ceiling, and floor as the body passes by; the tactical information conveyed through a plan, section, or elevation; and most importantly, the render—the reigning overlord of the architectural thought, concept, and form. At the carnal apotheosis of the fucked up relationship between architecture and capitalism, the render is absolutely essential to get a project produced. The rot of this practice has seeped into the ground, and is now laconically mixing atoms with the groundwater of the field. The hypnagogic experience related above above is not a fever dream, terrifying, or even rare. It is a requirement to produce architecture on a massive, capitalistic scale in our modern age. It is packaged and shown to investors, to boardrooms, meticulously articulated, and proliferated by the cultural-aesthetic apparatus which, more so than space and material deployment, is the medium through which the public comes to architecture.

Adolf Loos wrote of the necessary use of the graphic arts in conveying architecture. Like the render, canonical architectural drawings have long purported to represent the building they invoke truthfully. What Loos disdained was that the drawing was often taken for the building, and fundamentally occluded the act and art of “spatio-hyletic experimentation with the void”—architecture in the sense that it divides, organizes, and enforces Newtonian space. Loos bemoaned that “architectural forms are no longer created by the craftman’s tools, but by the pencil”. He claimed to have circumvented the issue by designing with a fundamentally spatial viewpoint—a weltanschauung that moves along in three dimensions. Advising that “a true building makes no impression as a picture reduced to two dimensions”, Loos continues:

It is my  greatest pride that the interiors I have created are completely lacking in effect when photographed; that the people who live in them do not recognize their own apartments from the photographs, just as the owners of a Monet would not recognize it at Kastan’s waxworks. The honor of seeing my works published in the various architectural journals is something I have had to do without. I am denied the satisfaction of my vanity.

Unpacking this boast spins lines of thought off in multiple directions; obviously, there is the central concept, which is that Loos claimed to produce anti-two dimensional work, or at least work the true form of which recoiled asymptotically from mere representation, which was emphatically real. The other, and more interesting item, is Loos’ allusion to the vast machinery of vaingloriousness that has always circumscribed the architectural practice, like lepers beyond the walls.