Ref.: ‘The Seven Towers of Satan’


Q.: Exonerate whom, beg your lousy pardon? Why you have to digress from the customary lore? To show up
       how wide-ranging your agnostic curiosity is? And then reverse everything and call it counterrevolution?
       Isn’t it a Luciferian programme in the final synthesis?
A.: Melek-Tawüs is the Peacock God. The closest emanation to Osh you’ll ever find. A perfect symbol of both
       treason and death. Let alone vanity. And like all fallen angels, profoundly misinterpreted by the anti-lifers. 
      The Antichristian crusade is a rehabilitation campaign. Not neo-paganism.
Q.: I hope so. But it’s quite misinterpretable too. You think you simplify the chaos but only obscure it. Come
       back from the Levant and exonerate Hugh Hefner. Is now too soon?
A.: ‘The Seven Towers of Satan’ is the abstract monument of a timeless terminology. An exalted illustration of
       the homo superior we all should strive to become. In stead of worshipping the devil’s trepidation. It is mythos
      versus fable. Occult versus folklore. Renovation of the old theosophy. To Liber AL vel Legis with love.
Q.: How come? Isn’t he the main enemy of our uprising?
A.: We love our enemies worse than our neighbors. We are coagulating Siddharta and Jesus. We advocate 
      harmony over discord. No More Hell. Baphomet is the only solution. The last judgement right away.
Q.: Very well, 888 contra fate. If Melekthaus is a peacock, you certainly are a grey parrot. No new slogan since 
      1984. Aren’t you weary of yourself? You are not a reliable son. You’ll inherit nothing.
A.: Time is entombed waiting for the rise. What hasn’t happened cannot outdate. By my clock the after is before.
       I don’t need another word. The Ten Commandos are the whole of the law. 
Q.: I am not so enchanted with the third revelation as your uncrowned majesty seems to be. God is none – we 
      are gods. More trivial than Bertrand Russell’s best. You’d better come up with something more sophisticated
      in order to break the original spell.
A.: Osh is not an anthropomorphic entity but the phonetic transcript of the squarified Octagram. A geometric 
       statement that can’t be overruled by reason. Beyond positive and negative. Gods have always been inscrutable
       but Osh really is the top of it all so far. Not another deity but the air we breathe. To believe in it would be
       a superfluous anomaly. Osh is a genius you ought to enjoy. Not death but life.
Q.: To expect self-conscious Atheists putting their lost faith into nonexistence is a premature evaluation. 
      They’ll see through the trick before you’d raise an arm.
A.: To grasp that God isn’t is the easiest conclusion. But to know that it is None is a leap of the mind. A victory 
       of the predicate. It has an imperative effect. It motivates us to do something against it. Halt the random
       evolution and the war of the worlds. Return to the City of Eden.
Q.: What kind of a parrot are thou, brother? Cannot enhance your tiny repertoire? Every inflection leads to 
       New Jerusalem and no way out. You must modulate the frequency if wanting to entertain crash street kids.
A.: ‘The Seven Towers’ represent the human aptitude. Not more but nothing less. That we can do it is proven by
      Hollywood. We have our living idols and know how to observe them. Who needed YHWH when you had Elvis
       for instance. I know it’s a vulgar example but that’s how my Satan speaks. The seraphim are amongst and 
       saving us alright. Legends are documented, existence immortalized. Who could ask for more?


Q.: Your Kindergarten treatise is an outright turf war on verity. It negates the overall cataclysm surrounding 
       the cabalistic fortress of your resuscitated Kadmon. And it begets a model no human being presides over so
       far. Maybe Bowie but he doesn’t matter. Private life is a tabloid issue separated from the public image. Even
       Vivianne Westwood is very reclusive. What the Bride needs is something almighty. The very same thing as a
       paleolithic woman. A Lord of Hosts and Salvation. All these things Osh isn’t. He is the nothingness
       disimpersonified. Who will suck on this? You overestimate the postmodern percipience.
A.: Oshism is neither religion, nor ideology. It is a transcendent philosophy of elegant survival for the universal
      refugee. It is the annihilation of the subconscious. The reconstruction of Hyperborea.
Q.: Thank you, bird, that one was yet missing. And what about the dark side of the Noon? The mayhem and
     the carnage behind the silver screen. The fates of the supermen.
A.: That part belongs to Papa Legba. We’ll talk about it later. You see, these two are twin pages of one Heptagon. 
      The two sides of the dime. Papa Legba and Melek-Tawüs capsulize herewith the overlords of the underworld
       at everlasting feud. The demon of the night and the angel of the morning. Voodoo versus Art in our 
       particular case. It is an allegoric warfare because the winner is obviously preconceived. One day the children
       of light shall overcome the scions of darkness and to-day is that day. Now or never, if you don’t mind. This is 
       the last exit, honey. Certainty is security. We only can be something if we want to be Osh. 
Q.: I honestly try but cannot share your apostate optimism. The determinist trust you put into intelligence is
       more infantine than Rousseau’s discourse. The homosapien is an unredeemable specie prone to extinction
       by all justifiable means. That’s the way I see it.
A.: All plagues originate from the crime of submission. The Star of Osh is enacted to shield and protect the
       Army of the Few. Integrity-Diversity-Unity is the Party’s sociopolitical triangulum. Including all tongues and 
       nations. Science must gain absolute control over natural selection. Monopole capitalism has to be destroyed 
       and transformed into high-standard communism. The genetic meritocracy of the mutant class will 
      overthrow the bloodline of the serpent.
Q.: Bravo, parrot machine. Quite a Gospel from the closet, camouflaged as neofuturist propaganda. What a pity
      it’s all wrong. Science is the master in servitude. Rearmament of the slaughter house. Earth is a massacre.
      Unlike Valhalla where nothing is real. Titans like Ortega or Borghes are resting alone overlooking the 
      infernal progress.
A.: That’s exactly what we’re up against. Science is the medium but its message must be justice. O.S.P.’s major 
      incentive is global  civil war. And the eradication of spiritism.


Q.: I am moderately interested in your mimetic prophecies of the impending boom. You know it is false and I
       know it too. You haven’t changed your proclivities but I’m not as naïve as when we met. I don’t believe in
       the importance of fairies any more and that’s what you reached. I’ve become a skeptical and suspicious girl.
       From a cheerful and excitable one. A therapeutic masterwork.
A.: I’m sorry to hear that. But you aren’t just. I couldn’t give you life but gave you a new mind to process. The 
      lie that’ll never die.
Q.: Despair and paranoia. Those are your wedding gifts for my perfect sacrifice. The saddest love affair ever 
       fabricated. A treadmill of monotonous anxiety.
A.: Don’t be such a negativist, Gina. My vision is very nice and I’m happy to share it with you. I also wanted to
      see the wonders of the world. But the demons of reality incarcerated my soul. Or maybe it is a feat of
      providence. I wouldn’t get too far with my Holocaust approval in the current climate. 
Q.: Because you can’t adapt yourself to the milieu. You should be a chameleon rather than this measly parrot.
      Even in the best company you act like a neurotic rat escaped from the lab. I do know nothing and you can’t 
      tell what you know. We are a monstrous couple, sweet Dracul. Whoever should invite us for a dinner?
A.: Never mind that one, I couldn’t handle it. To be left alone is my Paradise. I’ve got nothing to say and that’s
      a dismal fact. I do not possess any of Satan’s seven miens. My share are Papa Legba’s truths. I’m a nobleman
      on general strike. No part of the system.
Q.: That’s no cause for celebration, is it? Even your beloved Wittgenstein had a job. That you cannot work is
      no sign of supremacy. It makes you inferior to a Dalit from India. Can’t you see yourself in the mirror?
A.: Destiny and hazard are twin obscenities of the macabre equilibrium. You must ignore them both with all 
      your might to ever slip through the crack of deliverance. We have to resist, refuse and reject the cosmic
      bargain’s obsolete conditioning.
Q.: The flagrancy of your Portfolio is its ginormous complexity. Every little fragment you succeed to churn out 
       comes with the whole gamut of an epic Utopia hard to seriously take. Overnational socialism is a more
       ridiculous objective than Trotsky and he was a brave man. Not a lethargic coward like yourself.
A.: I hate to reiterate it, but New Style is nothing new. Just reproduction. Neoteric crown to the senescent
       Monarchy. I am fighting for the rights of the individual.
Q.: You don’t say. Your repetativo is the worst humbug of the ages. You should change your speechwriter if
       wanna be an electable candidate. You should resist the Author’s temptation.
A.: In polarity’s accursed dominion every step takes place in two directions. Simultaneously, what’s more, 
      because decline is permanent too. How disintegration can cumulate tension is way beyond me. Science is a 
      stallion if its reins are firmly held by Logos. Otherwise it’s a wild horse running into desolation. Technology 
      without focus is a recipe for catastrophe. We are at the climax of the continuum right now where all tenses 
      collide in a carnivalesque vacuity. Where we go from here is down to us. A unique opportunity not to pass by. 

                 
Q.: OK, parrot king, what you gonna do? Keep sermoning the shadows of the night? Hoping you cut a most
      majestic image of pointless perseverance. Don’t deceive yourself, my Lord. All you could form if so wanted
      would be some avantgarde cult. The world is not ready for your tidings and you are not ready for the world.
      The time or the place are viciously asynchronized. Or probably both. The agenda is in a dire need of instant
       revisitation.
A.: Paradise was a black and white place. Since we lost it, we see it all in colors. But we do remember what was
      behind the rainbow. The eight-pointed star is shining bright at the end of the spectacular tunnel. We won’t
      get fooled again by popular fallacies. We are rushing against the odds on the wheels on contradictions. The
     Compass will keep the passage untarnished by coincidences.
Q.: A wisenheimer harbinger you are, Spiel! Traveling agent of the Bardo. I’m so fed up with the whole entirety.
      Is all the Word can create beauty from horror? Winsome proverbs scribed on the wall of the abattoir?
A.: Art is the greatest weapon of the Adversary. The collective noun of the seven towers. The Name of the domain.
      The token of our Resistance. The pawn of victory.
Q.: Zarathustra, mon amour. Your fiancees will surely like it like that. A poison aero into duality’s heart.
       Revealing the secret of the always-been.
A.: The real good news is that we are no big deal. There must be more intriguing showcases out there than the  
      sadistic circus of our murderous biosphere. Chekhov suggests that the atomic bomb introduced in the first act
      will be dropped in the end. The tragedy of man is getting too long. If we don’t blow it now, we’ll never
      leave the scene. 
Q.: Echoes of a lovebird in a cage. Have really no intuition left? Just the screams of boredom…
A.: Of course not. There’s only one notion under the Sun. To be the missing center is good enough for me.
Q.: You are the most cynical bastard the world had ever seen. It is fortunate it couldn’t. You’ve chosen isolation
      in place of the frontline. You betrayed your maximum mission for a minimal comfort. And don’t tell me it’s
      all kismet because it’s the worst escape of sham artists. One is responsible for what’s happening to him, isn’t
      that your maxim? There is no pardon for passivity.
A.: The third world war is not a Völkerschlacht at Armageddon. It’ll be waged on the Prince of Gravity by 
      cyborg-enhanced astrobots. New Jerusalem has been designed as a city of time where the dead don’t live. 
      The saints will go marchin’ in through the twelve gates tribe by tribe. And that’ll be the end of eternity.
       I may be old-fashioned but couldn’t draft a better libretto. I use the best, I use the rest. All I ever wanted
       was to be the first.
Q.: Then don’t make such a big fuss of it. Hold your tongue in cheek and don’t talk about Osh to strangers.
A.: The supremacy of Osh over the pagan deities is that he’s self-evident. Didn’t have to be invented by stuttering
      sorcerers. Osh is a strictly cultural phenomenon. The sound of exhalation. The Atheist Church is a 
      reactionary enterprise of transhumanist abolitionism. Our ultimatum to the Elohim.
Q.: Viva Victoria, asshole of the abyss. It was endearing to chat with you tonight. Now take a deep breath and 
       return to the organic actuality. Papa Legba’s uncensored nightmare of breast cancer and cardiac arrest.
      The death of the ordinary man.
A.: Let me say just one more thing I’ve been taught to replicate. Counterrevolution is not anarchy but the exact
      opposite to it. We decline the malign manipulation of free thought. We have obtained the right to be straight 
     and rough. The twelfth hour is striking. Long live the Supreme Court of Sophia!