The internet has been a massive net boon to the profileration of National Socialist ideas - and has permitted for a significant resurgence of what was a mostly dead worldview. Before the internet, the few that espoused Nazism were mostly street thugs, hooligans, skinheads - a crowd that couldn't and should not be the spearhead of the worldview as perceived by the public and as perceived by those within. So now we have an intellectual elite, actually smart and thoughtful guys with a decent modicum of common sense. So the question I have is: where the fuck are they? To this day, I have yet to have a single engagement with an internet Nazi, in real life, who does absolutely anything even mildly productive towards the worldview, who does not have roots within being a street thug. Where is this intellectual vanguard which states "I will give my soul for Hitler." or whatever?
This perfect religion, may well be a sham, not due to its contents and not at the fault of its founders - but rather due to its modern acolytes. The very acolytes who preach for a purity of the worldview, cast down attacks upon Christians, for example - are the ones too themselves unwilling to follow the principles of their newfound religion on the most core and principal level. There is no point to Esoteric Hitlerism if it exists only as a circlejerk of intellectual fascination and alternative history generation - EH exists to inspire, it's a self fulfilling apocalyptic prophecy.
The rage of a lost generation,
A dwindling memory of the kingdom,
Of the king—a lost dream.
A short time—when illusion was wiped away,
Beauty was wreathed as our queen.
Now, today, the kingdom still stands,
But the soul has fled the land.
Illusion sinks its teeth deep,
Bringing dismay and apathy to the old,
Rage and resentment to the youth.
The youth, who know right from wrong,
Consumed by wrath or idle chains,
Mustering the spirit of the lost kingdom—
We must keep our faith.
All I do is rot.
Basking in my native sun, all I see is rot.
Plastic children, eyes glazed over.
Plastic parents, love driven from their souls.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
The smell is suffocating.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
This world is infuriating.
I still see glimpses—
A world golden and pure.
Still smothered, perverted, raped.
The world kept in chains.
Rotting in the claim of those
Struggling with God,
Those rotting monsters
Refuse to let beauty be.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
All my struggles are empty,
Futile, impotent,
Filled with pity.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
I will leave this rot,
Or join the lot in this hellish cage.
Climbing the mountain, my sacrifice to you!
O Victory - my muse.
Grant me the hardship, show me whether I am iron or steal!
Bend or break within this furnace.
Bend or break within this collapsing world.
All I do is rot.
Basking in my native sun, all I see is rot.
Plastic children, eyes glazed over.
Plastic parents, love driven from their souls.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
The smell is suffocating.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
This world is infuriating.
I still see glimpses—
A world golden and pure.
Still smothered, perverted, raped.
The world kept in chains.
Rotting in the claim of those
Struggling with God,
Those rotting monsters
Refuse to let beauty be.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
All my struggles are empty,
Futile, impotent,
Filled with pity.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
I will leave this rot,
Or join the lot in this hellish cage.
E DREAMED OF SOMETHING MARVELLOUS
As divinity sleeps,
Breathes in and out,
Dreaming of the golden age—
But man is lost—the damned folk.
The peasant, working the land, preparing seeds
That raise up both boy and folk,
A growth he will not see—
Tragedy of what happens now.
The peasant, now a slave,
Taken from his farm into the embrace of industry,
Without meaning for son or folk,
Slaving for a single man’s growth—not even his own.
The hero, more tragic, who would conquer any mountain,
Slaying evils—casting the wolf from the village,
Leaving legacy for the youth to follow, into the sun.
The hero, now made hedonist,
Beautiful and strong—no longer a reflection of the gods.
Instead of struggle—empty addiction for increasing vice.
For fun is the wreath, no longer glory.
Time consumes all,
Faster and faster,
Perverting the great into beasts of its own visage.
How may we fix this—when the sword and plow are gone?