“Quid Est Veritas?”

On Conspiracy Truthers, Dante’s Inferno and the Dialectic

Preface

To understand the media spectacle in its totality then one could do far worse than beginning with Dante’s vision of Hell. Lamenting expulsion from his much loved Tuscan homeland, the good Florentine envisaged an underworld of concentric rings of torment: when the world seemed strange and foreign to the Poet, he sought to descend through the mire in the hope of finding eventual respite in the summum bonum, the highest good. Which modern searcher of truth could not relate? Naturally for his guide he chose the most modern of the ancients, Virgil, to shepherd him through the fire and ice of a Hades where fraud and treachery, naturally, occupy the lowest circles.

It is a not a perfect but nonetheless useful analogy to conceive of what is best termed the simulacrum - namely the media and alt-media (composed of the largely online podcast based “truthers”) - of occupying similarly a malign Inferno. It is one comprised of concentric rings, burning not with fire but with narrative. Each has their varying degrees of torment reflecting their varying degrees of fraud and treachery. Or, if one would prefer (for optimism’s sake): each possessed of varying degrees of “truth”, floating spectral throughout the ether of the respective rungs of this Hadean ladder. It is pertinent at this point to add that each ring, whilst operating as a discrete and deliberate pen of isolation, also can facilitate mobility to other rings: one may find one’s way to one rung of this waking Hell only to then be shepherded by a denizen of that ring to another ring unawares, as we shall see.

Let us then retrace the footsteps of the laurel wreathed Poet and enter into that Hell writ large on the canvas of modernity: that Hell broadcast, wi-fi’d, and fibre-to-the-premises’d into the homes and pockets of us all, thence to be refracted through scrying mirrors sigil’d with the forbidden apple. It is from that black obsidian screen that Hell does then stream relentlessly into our souls, borne on by the wings of the Prince of the Air. So let us now ascend and descend, whirl and swirl and oscillate; through truths and untruths; dialectics and kayfabes; influencers and assets: and in doing so hope, that like the Florentine and the Roman, we should one day find our way out.

Canto I - Communism

Like the Tuscan Poet of old, good Virgil has also conceded to be our guide. However, unlike the poet’s, our journey will not begin at the uppermost rung of Hell, said then to be composed of the indifferent (one might even speculate that today a little more indifference would do a great many some good!). Instead we will begin our trek through this modern Hell in the lowest, most execrable, and the by far most populous circuit, which we shall call: Communism.

One only has to activate the scrying mirror and instantly we are transported into this realm. Here the androgynous interchangeable ghosts of Anderson Cooper and Rachel Maddow float aimlessly, crying out in lament of the vital need for fourth trimester abortions all day. “All white people must be ghettoised entirely in Mogadishu and live solely off lab grown maggots and MRNA injections for sustenance,” these Furies then shriek all night, when darkness falls. “Everyone who is not gay should be injected with enough vaccines to give them VAIDS or they are anti-semitic”, a holographic apparition of renowned sorceress Emily of Maitlis solemnly intones, flickering in and out of reality via VR projection. “Look now”, my guide nudges me, “look how they all wail and contort their visage in horrifying groans, kneeling low on one knee! It must be in deference to their Owl God” (is it not said by the Esotericists that this deity is itself bipartite composed of newly canonised St. George of Floyd’s reanimated trans-humanist corpse merged with a Furby that dispenses birth control pills at the speed of a bullet?) The Horror!

“But wait, over yonder: what is that?”, points my guide. Turning I see a hulking Baal Gates, shooting vaccines like arrows from his bow into innocents who are but babes. “ass-stra”, “pffii-zer”, ‘zenn-acca”, they hiss as they whizz past me. But the great Baal Gates seems unconcerned, all the while sitting on a pile of Clinton lucre. In fact this entire realm is built on this Lucre and when I reach down to hold one of the coins in my hand, I behold its silver is clipped and cankered. Regarding the superscription of the piece, I see that each one says “USURY” and each one is imprinted with the six-sided star. “The Star of Remphan?”, “the Seal of Solomon?”, I ponder. “No, the Star of David!” a great choir of the obese blue hairs, foot soldiers of this benighted land, all thunder back in echoing rage, somehow discerning my thoughts. “Let’s. Unpack. This”, the feared blue hairs go on to wail in high pitched monophony, thunderously clapping between each word, injuring my still but mortal ears. How distressing this realm truly is! What confusion! What cruelty! And there, further, I spy the scrying mirrors, all embossed with a strange heraldry reading “CNN” or “NBC”. And on these portals I see the Dark Queen Beyoncé, performing a ritual ablution with the Tailed Swift at the altar of the High Demon’s Super-Baal festival (presumably in their functions as Oracles of the Single Ladies). These are the putrid, whore-oracles of Old, so I have heard: the August cult which tells virgins to play the harlot to empower their Saturnic taliswoman, the demi-Goddess Nike, surely a great Power indeed. “Just do it” the great Nike taliswoman chants to them in incantation with her never ending rolls of fat spilling over eponymous boxer briefs. Oh the putridity! I can scarcely take any more!

“Enough, enough, we shall stay here no longer, dear friend”, my guide consoles me. “Have not our eyes feasted on the horrors sufficiently? Are not our lips chapped and dry, suckling on the sour milk that drips from the paps of this great rotten whore of Modernity?” He is right. Oh what sweet consolation my guide is to me. Why just a brief moment in this upside down world where ugliness is beauty, and women are men, and right is wrong, makes me so long for respite. For health, oh how I long for health. “Let us depart,” I tell my friend, “for my soul and body are sore vexed”.

And so we leave, running with legs made heavy by the pressure of this realm. Reaching a fjord, or perhaps it is a channel, we are hindered and know not how to cross. “We must somehow change this channel” my guide intones sagely, and in managing to do so through his ancient wisdom, we are instantly transported into a higher realm. One where the luridity of the blue hairs is replaced with gold, gold everywhere, and so we enter the second lowest rung on the Inferno. A great shining arch stands before us, these are of the MacDonald, a Scottish Thane I presume, and beyond a vast sign, also gilded with the fine metal, iridescent and glittering in the gloam. “MAGA. MAHA. BREXIT” read the inscription, with “conjured by Palantir” engraved below in fine print. “I have not heard of this God, Palantir, perhaps he is of the new divinities,” I muse to my companion, “but regardless, pray tell me we may find peace here?”. “I fear we shall not,” he intones knowingly, “but let us perchance see”. And so we enter the second ring of Hell: that of the Conservatism which Conserves Not.

Canto II - The Conservatism which Conserves Not (colloquially known as MAGA)

“This land is exceeding fair,” I said to my guide, “why look at all the gold and how it glisters”. “And the people?” asked Virgil, bizarrely unenthused. “The people too”, I responded, “I haven’t seen a shrieking blue hair in sight. You know they call this place MAGA,” I chirped, rather pleased with myself, “yes, it’s a homage - of course - to its greatness,” I concluded proudly, slightly perturbed at my guide’s lack of shared joy at reaching very Elysium so soon into our voyage. In this demi-paradise there were men and women with nice teeth and smartly dressed, and no one here seemed to wail with visage contorted as they did in the land whence we had departed. So did we venture boldly through the heartland in great machines embossed with the heraldries FORD and DODGE, and most magical of all, TESLA (I have heard whispered this is the insignia of a great sorcerer of currents and magnetism of ancient times). Looking out from the spying portals of these vehicles traversing the Kingdom, I saw in this land many things which did indeed succour my wearied soul: agreeable gestures of peace and good will much abounded, especially from the Priestly class (who are all tonsured with red headpieces in blood oath to the Great Emperor Trump). All the while a Chorus sang around us in harmonious tones. Shapiro, Peterson and Hannity were the choristers’ names and they did make many pleasing melodies to the Great Trump, he who is Emperor of this Realm. These odes were disparaging of the blue hairs, and brought me great mirth. “The woke mind virus is done”, sung Peterson softly, “and the future is a Golden Age of Sun”, Hannity and Shapiro sang back breezily. Calm finally ran through me like a spirit. But when I turned my back, I thought I heard the Shapiro cackle in incantation, “MIGA. MIGA. MIGA”, distorting the colloquial name of his supposedly native patria in a hidden sorcery. But why would the noble black hatted Shapiro, famed member of the esteemed Chorus, do this?

Having sensed my incipient confusion, my guide leaned over and advised me: “Renown and learning in this land is to be found in their prophets, and if you look over there, one fast approaches”. Then I saw indeed that great prophet named Brand gallivanting and whirling towards me much like the dervishes I heard about in tales from my boyhood in legends of the distant Orient. He drew closer leaping extravagantly across the yoga-matted floor in tight pantaloons and with neck draped in ornate jewellery from the four corners of the Earth. His hair was long and waved in the breeze and he was featured of an august beard, surely betokening wisdom. Opening his maw to reveal luminescent white incisors I thought he would now begin to expound forth his most learned doctrine, but instead he only bellowed: “Ello my six million awakening wund-aahhs”. “What signifies this?” I wondered. But then the Great Prophet Brand begun to read from a print-out parchment he was holding. I couldn’t make out his words due to the strangeness of his tongue, and so I caught only brief phrases. “Eeeyyy-aaahhh roiiiight. Wotttttttt Gawddd is zaaying yeaaaah” droned the prophet. Discreetly beckoning my guide, I asked him if he had a missal to interpret this strange teaching but he shook his head sadly and sighed. “Whhattt-ittt-isss-yeeeeah,” went on the Prophet, “what-it-izzz-yeahhh, is that we need to completely dis-establish-ment-arianize the establish-ment-arianized structures, superstructures, and outrageously bureaucratic cantilevers of autocratic managerial overlying, and underlying, if ya know what I mean”, he winked at the gathered audience, “Poww-aaaahhhh!” And the people did much applaud the prophet and I saw him then do a great many baptisms to much adulation, in their most Holy river that is named Thames. But when I ventured closer and beheld the water he sanctified his disciples in, I to my horror saw it was polluted through with much effluent. And I looked at the great prophet’s arm and I saw the number 33 engraved in his very flesh and I wondered at this mutilation. “The Brand is branded: what portends it guide?” I asked my dear Virgil, but he remained silent, as if it was not for me to know these things at this time.

Not before long we had indeed encountered all which were of this land of MAGA. I saw even the noble RFK, a great scion in this Kingdom and from one of the ancient dynasties, and he did profess that he would rejuvenate me and make me healthy again (as I was still convalescing from seed-oil derived ailments acquired in the first realm). But then I was waylaid by his magick and found myself in a KFC while he laughed uproariously and shot the wings of chickens at me from his biceps. The girth of these muscles is said to be formed by a mysterious potionry derived from the bullock, evangelised by the Bald Mystic of the Red Cave known only as Rogan (or “Jowe” to those inducted into his mystery school). We thus fled the RFK who had entrapped us in the KFC, and were bombarded by scrying mirrors advertising the JRE (possibly linked to that cave mystic of recent discussion).

The days then began to blur into themselves as I found myself quite caught up to seventh heaven in this world of the Conservatism that Conserves Not (what signifies this foundational riddle, I wonder?). I laughed maniacally with the Friar Tucker of Carlson and danced entranced to the odes and spells of strange demons of the subcontinent with Jayti Vahnz, an albino of the Hindoo tribe who did practice much occult sorcery on the population (and is prophesied in ages to come to perform many wonders). I lost weeks in the cathedrals of the X-God chortling at the deranged furies of the first realm and retweeting (a form of benediction here) those fearsome Libs of the Kingdom of TikTok, a land which I know not but is rumoured to be in the Orient. I listened to dark Satanic odes performed by the young Kid Rock, and then watched the moving iconography of the Man Rock, a former great warrior of this Kingdom turned stage player. I rode the coattails of the Musk-demon until I was at top of the DOGE and I even saluted the Great Elon (second only to the Emperor) for destroying the bureaucracy of the blue haired Furies.

He gave me self propelling contraptions, did the Great Elon, enchanted and bewitched by Tesla - that famed sorcerer of old - and he brought fire itself down from the sky on rockets: this is an exceedingly powerful spirit no doubt. But the contraption he gave me to drive spluttered and then broke, and the rockets he brought down from the firmament begun to combust and then explode in much fire and sparks, turned supernova in these subterranean heavens. And I watched as the scrying mirrors, embossed “FOX” and “YouTube”, all around me showed the evildoers and ne’er-do-wells who had broken into the realm being deported. But when I turned my eyes from the black tablets, the intruders were still there. And then Ramaswamy, a fearsome and cruel deity of the East, with eight arms and eight legs, threw back his head in laughter, his entire countenance transformed blue and frightening: “You fool,” he shrieked, red tongue jutting out and from it blood dripping, “don’t you know that this is the land of the H1Bs, in which you are sitting?” And I looked in his hands and one grasped a sword and the other a severed head and on its countenance was written: “THE AMERICAN WORKER”. But I was sore confused, because I thought I was in the realm of MAGA.

“Come guide, let us approach the Great Trump and remonstrate with him,” I implored the Roman. And so we went, and as I came to his golden throne as supplicant, I saw him painted bronze and shining and did indeed marvel. “Look on Trump’s works, ye mighty and despair,” I enthused to my guide, “is this not how ill-fated Achilles must have felt when he spied great Troy’s mighty walls, its merloned pinnacles glinting in the sun?” But my guide was silent, simply gesturing for me to examine the Trump, and I did thus look closer, and it was then that beneath the glow of his gold-shimmered face, that I did find my mind transported to another world, and there received a vision. I did in this vision realm discern most clearly a great mass of the people that were toiling, brows covered in sweat, to produce much coins and lucre. So I picked up a coin and bit into it but every time I tried to bite its silver, the Great Trump ordered it to be split into two. And the coins kept dividing and dividing and I could never taste them, and so was denied a privilege even poor King Midas was granted. And the Great Trump remained nonplussed enthroned in the centre of the realm, sucking up all the coins of the land into his cavernous maw and then belching them all out. And they all flew out of his mouth to a far, far away land to the east. Turning my gaze I saw it was that Kingdom helmed by the mystic and necromancer Netanyahu, named ISRAEL, and no one could speak about it for their lips were sealed shut. And I looked behind the Trump and I saw the word “USURY” again and that same six pointed star. And on that star the likeness of the Great Elon and Sir Peter of Thiel were on two of the spokes (and the Thielite did scream forth “SODOMY” from his lips), and Jared the Kushnite and Netanyahu (that before mentioned necromancer) were on another two of the spokes; and the last two had an eye in a pyramid on one, and a compass insignia’d “G” on the other. And as it spun the six sided star hissed “ZION”, “ZION”, “ZION”. “But why would the Great Trump steal from his people?” I inquired of my guide. “Great Trump, why will you not aid us?” I asked, turning to the enthroned King. But he looked sad and casting his face down, I saw that the Great Trump’s hands were tied, and the handcuffs were too made of six-sided stars.

It was then that in an instant I was transported and found myself in a strange land, quite unlike the first two rings.

Canto III - The Dark Magicians

“You have been lied to, it was the Sabbatean Frankists all along," chirped the vision as I woke up, knowing not where I was. This realm consisted entirely of scrying mirrors and disembodied spirits. There was nowhere to walk and explore but instead now pure information was being beamed and streamed at me. I must be in a realm of the higher intellects, that much is clear, where the Platonic forms are realised and not abstract, perhaps this is that sphere. “Spirit, who art thou?” I inquired. “Guys, I’m just learning along with you,” she shot back happily, “here, have a Stan-dace mug, it’s only $159.99 if you use my code “Candace” at checkout.” “This must be some sort of spell, this riddle: Candace”, I intoned to my guide. “I think she is an Oracle,” he replied nonplussed, “a high Priestess in this ring of The Dark Magicians,” he solemnly intoned.

The first thing I observed was that all the scrying mirrors now were transformed. No longer did they bear the superscriptions of the first rung of this Inferno reading “CNN” and “NBC”, nor the hallmarks of the second rung of “FOX” and “YouTube”. Here they were all carrying the insignia of the strange spirit “Rumble”. I realised that the spirit’s appellation, “Rumble”, must be because here the seers - on behalf of this Power - intend to let Truth so shine through that it will shake the very foundations of the rotten first and second realms.

Thus in a whirlwind I spent the next few months, and over time I was inducted into the truth, ascending to such a height of knowledge that everything I had experienced thus far made sense. I had finally truly entered the ethereal realm of Veritas. I was here made full in my wisdom.

“See companion", I joyfully informed my guide, “the Blue Hairs weren’t blue hairs because of woke-ism as the Zio-Choir of Peterson and Shapiro did so grievously lie. They were actually part of a conspiracy. 9/11, NASA, everything, you see,” I lifted up my hand using my Standace mug full of Wellness Company liquidised-vitamins to illustrate my point, “it all goes back to the Sabbatean Frankists”. “I see. What great gnosis, you are achieving” dryly intoned my steward, but I cared not for his gloominess when my saviour, kind Candace, was so sweet in her pronouncements.

Yes, dear reader, Candace had saved me. I was redeemed through her and so I pledged my fealty to her, as true love demands. Here I sojourned enraptured for a time as my brave champion went into battle against Piers Morgan, a demon of the first realm, and fought valiantly, receiving much adoration (here we call such adulation “likes”) and many apostles (again, for the proper nomenclature here: “subscribers”). Brave, noble Candace also had a whole constellation of lesser deities orbiting around her too, as was befitting such a star as herself. There were the Brothers Tate, inverted sex-magician monk-twins (in the manner of Crowley of lore) who could even see through the Matrix of the first realms! And PJW (the “P” might denote the mysterious Palantir?) - who made many brilliantly enrapturing videos, the iconography of which I communed with as with a sacrament. And the Khan of Ye, a chaos magician and court musician of the highest order who oscillated between philosophies of the different realms in such an outrageous fashion that it was rumoured that this quantum oscillation provided him with a form of multi-dimensional energy. This was later proven when he manifested, by magick, a spinning swastika on a white tunic that was so powerful it invaded even the Dionysian orgy of the first realm’s Super-Baal ceremony in affront to the High Demon.

But then things changed. The great Candace who had so enlightened me began to talk about the most grievous battle that was afflicting two of the dark Principalities of the first realm, namely the demi-Godesses named Swift and Lively, and also a demon of the second realm, the feared Brigitte of Macron. And out of loyalty to her I supped most greedily on this gossip day after day, but as I did I noticed after scant few weeks, my eyes began to sting and I grew sick with the palsy and much fevered. This malady was to to the worry of not only myself but also my guide, good Virgil. Before long, like that misguided English Poet who sung of man’s first disobedience and the mortal taste of that forbidden fruit, I too began to lose my vision. Yes my very sight would falter and flicker, in and out, darkness become light, so that I was sometimes able to see, and sometimes not.

One morning I woke aghast and to my horror I found I had no vision at all, and screaming and delirious, I had to be revived by Virgil, with much Zyn supplementation (this Zyn was a tabac potion I luckily still had in my satchel from my sojourns with the Friar Tucker of Carlson). When I finally regained my sight, opening my bleary eyes I to my horror realised I had been transported back, sans noble Virgil, to the first ring - Communism. Again I was at the altar of the High Demon’s Super-Baal, and in front of me the demi-Goddesses Lively and Swift warred with respective foes. I stood simultaneously enraptured and horrified as this battle progressed, before I cried to good Virgil “save me, oh please save me, kind poet”. And he did - oh good Virgil - he brought me back to the safety of the realm of Candace, that comforting ring of the Dark Magicians, who had given me the wisdom I so cherished. But nonetheless - I was disquieted. In future I resolved to never again let even Candace whom I loved so well, and had sworn such sincere fealty to, ever transport me back to the first realm I had been so keen to escape. As such I no longer communed with her videos on the Swift and the Lively demi-Goddesses of that benighted first rung of this dreadful Inferno.

Days I spent idly languishing still before even this realm of Truth undiluted was shaken by profound discord that reverberated up from a lower realm. The scrying mirrors proclaimed it far and wide and the entire underworld shook: “the Great Trump had been shot at. But yet he lives!” They proclaimed. All the citizens - even in this realm of truth - lost their reason, and ran to the scrying mirrors and placed their faces up against them, and did gorge themselves on the scrying mirrors’ enflamed narratives. They appeared to me then like men supping on many candies, fattened as pigs to the slaughter.

Aghast I looked over and saw even dear Lady Candace screaming dementedly: “THE BAD GUYS WANT TO KILL THE GREAT TRUMP!” But I knew that the Great Trump was but a paper monarch, having seen his hands already tied when I was in the second ring of this Inferno (that ring colloquially known as MAGA). But Candace told me he was true and good and the Deep State was trying to kill him. She showed me a picture of a bullet stopped afloat in mid air, but believe her I would not. It was here that I saw the best minds of my generation, yes even the Brothers-Tate and the High Church of PJW, destroyed by madness. For these same people proclaimed both that the Deep-State did 9/11, but yet that same Deep State could not kill the Great Trump. And they all marvelled, mouths agape and eyes entranced, and said: “who is like the Great Trump? and who can make war with him?”

I saw horrors fresh, I could never have conceived, come to pass, and one day not long from then, even my good leader Candace fist pumped and cheered the Great Trump’s second Coronation. But behind my former love Candace, lurking in the shadows I saw a man holding another man’s hand, and both were wearing white aprons and white gloves. ‘I am her husband,’ the man intoned thrity-three times, and I fainted, confused and faltering once again. The last thing I heard as I drifted out of consciousness was Candace incanting over and over: “Brigitte Macron really is a man…pop culture ephemera learn as much as you can…sell your soul for a dollar to avoid a YouTube ban…have you heard Nicki Minaj’s new song, by the way guys? So it’s about a boy she liked, his name is Dan…”. But her voice was no longer sweet, and instead sounded like the furies and the blue hairs, and caused my poor and tired, and waning soul, much consternation.

Canto IV - The Light Magician’s Staging Post

“Good Virgil, where am I?” I asked as I awoke from my sleep in an enchanted wood, replete with pixies and floating orbs of light. “We have had to leave the realm of the Dark Magicians,” he soothed me, “for such is their power that we could scarcely remain without being dragged down to the lower reaches of the first and second rungs of Hell.” “And what is this magic they practice?” I asked. “It is a chaos magic,” my guide intoned solemnly, “the magic of the Lodge, a dialectic is weaved…”.

“Oh you betcha it’s the lodge alright” interrupted a stranger dressed all in white holding a long staff, “I’ve been talking about them for decades. No one listens of course, no one listens to the High Priest David of Icke,” he lamented.

“Care you for a respite?”, the white gowned figure smiled at me from a small booth, with The Light Magician’s Staging Post written atop it. “Here why not come and read one of my parchments, I can tell you about the Freemasons and the Synagogue, controlled opposition and government assets: what’s more, I am an expert in their arts: having observed their sorcery up front, close hand”.

“Black magic , to be sure, is their fare,” continued the learned wizard, waving his glowing staff, “and the only remedy to such a concoction is to escape this energy harvesting plane all together, and to ascend thus via higher vibrations to a place of rest and goodness: and a New Age will dawn. Here let me show you the way,” he beckoned. And so relieved, I walked towards this kind soul at his urging.

“But quick, even this realm is unstable,” he warned, “I blame the lizards, harvesting our energies, of course, why look, what better example than over there,” he pointed to a great red rotten blimp of a man falling down through the Sky like a meteor.

“Super male vitalit-eeeee” screamed the porcine pink-faced balding Texan as he plummeted down through the rings of these realms at a great rate, his two AR15s (giving him a total of AR30, I reasoned) firing many spells containing quintillo-bytes of information directly at me and my guide. We dodged and ducked to avoid getting hit by these dreaded bullets. “It’s an information waaaaa-aaarrr,” he screamed gutturally, face engorged with blood.

“St. Alex of Jones,” sighed the David of Icke, “he was a white wizard like me. Threw it all away of course, cast his lot in with the Great Trump so he’s been damned down to the second ring. Poor fat wizard,” Icke lamented, “I fear his energy is most decidedly of a low vibrational state.” And as we watched the carcass of poor St. Alex of Jones spiralling down through the sky at high velocity, I looked at the vast slipstream behind him and I saw clouds of vapour with “JOHN BIRCH SOCIETY” and “1776 = JUDEO MASONRY” written in his wake, and again that same mysterious six sided star, outlined for all to see, writ clear in the sky.

“Let me come with you then, kind David of Icke,” I said, “For I am sore aggrieved and need to exit this terrible theatre of horrors”. “Of course, good chap, let us make haste” he replied, and I followed him down a darkening road into the forest, where the orbs of light gave way to pixies of great beauty and mystery. And they all sprinkled their precious fairy dust on me and my bones shook and resonated in pleasant rapture. “432 Hz, the Angelic frequency”, nodded Icke sagely. Truly, I was much enamoured and enchanted: finally the wonderful white magician would take me home.

But my guide was sore alarmed in a manner I had never yet seen, and good Virgil grabbed me to pull me back from the clutches of the white wizard. “We must depart from here dear boy,” my companion insisted, “for this Ickean magic is that which severs the soul”. “I shall not leave!” I protested, intoxicated by the fairy dust and promises of ascension. But the Poet did not heed my remonstrations, and as a being possessed of supernatural strength, he dragged me away kicking and screaming.

So away we went from the now luminescent and levitating Icke as he angrily fired great big books at me, hundreds that he had authored. “I wrote all of these,” he screamed, “every last word I wrote! No one else wrote them for me! It was all me!” But the more the David of Icke shouted, the more tears of rage ran down his red face, and the more cruel and monstrous and crimson he looked. As I was being dragged by my guide, I heard coming from the forest path where Icke was wont to lead me, dreadful shrieks of many lost souls, and they cried and wailed: “ALICE BAILEY” and “ORDO TEMPLI ORIENTIS” and “HERMES TRISMEGISTUS”, and I beheld above a great snake flying through the sky and as I covered my face in fear, the snake hissed at me: “Ordo Ab Chao”. It spat venom at us through its forked tongue, the two forks of which then extended and separated to then rejoin in the same place. And down did that venom rain upon us, and it did sorely burn and singe my flesh. But when I looked at the David of Icke, I beheld him open his mouth and throw his face up to the sky, luxuriating in this most wretched venom, and I saw his tongue was forked too, and he greedily did swallow much poison and then smiled sickly at us, eyes a-glowing. And before we finally escaped the land, I looked up to gaze one last time at the serpent, and upon that snake I saw riding it a Candelabrum and there were nine candles on it, and I took fright at all the horrors I had witnessed thus far. My heart then repented me of ever having set out on this wretched journey and I begged my guide to drag me from this place quickly, for my courage was faltering.

Canto V - The Awakened Truthers

The enchanted forest weighed heavy on me for some good time, but when it began to clear kind Virgil let me go, and said “stand up and walk, for we have escaped now the first four realms of this Inferno, and I cannot carry you for ever.” And after a short while I looked down and saw clearly the four rungs we had passed through below me, and they were Communism, The Conservatism that Conserves Not, The Dark Magicians, and The Light Magician’s Staging Post. And for the first time in my journey, I saw the sorry spectacle of all those rungs, each benighted and cruel in its own way. “Poor souls who labour therein”, I thought, “if only they knew”.

“Yah, normies,” tutted an affable man standing nonchalantly at the long drive way of an vast elegant neo-classical mansion, “come on in, I think its time for you to join the ranks of the awake. I’m Delingpole the True,” he said shaking our hands, and then opening up a door of his travelling machine, he cordially invited Virgil and I to enter which we accepted. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Why to the Truth of course,” he replied, “just a short journey in my trusty Delingpod and we’ll be at the mansion you see at the end of this road: the villa of The Awakened Truthers, home to the Perfecti”.

“Yup, yup, yup,” guffawed Delingpole as we chugged along in his Delingpod, “occultist, is Icke, Luciferian too - I vanquished him in battle you know, oh yes, many moons ago,” he smiled convivially, “and Candace, oh quite right indeed, she’s some sort of psyop, for sure.” I nodded warmly and glancing over I saw even wise Virgil didn’t seem to object, but instead remained silent, looking up towards the Heavens and out of this Infernal realm wistfully.

And so we arrived at the vast symposium of truth, and I gaily entered with my guide to be greeted by the most charming denizens of this place. “I would cordially like to invite you to meet - the Perfecti”, said Delingpole, “these are they who have ascended to a higher plane of knowledge”. I heard Virgil mutter something about Mani, an ancient prophet of Parthia so I am told, and the Cathars: but I knew not whom of he spoke nor saw any relevance.

And so the renown and charming philosoph Delingpole introduced me to all the Perfecti (I do wonder if one day I may become a “Perfecti” - enlightened as I am?). There was Whitney the Webb, so titled because of her encyclopaedic knowledge of the web of the Epstein crime syndicate, and Miri AF: “if you know their name they’re in the game,” she would boom forthrightly decrying the choristers and magicians of the lower realms. And there was a whole host of others, like Ian Carroll the younger (Boswell to Webb’s Johnson) and Jay the Dyer (an acolyte of the prelapsarian St. Alex of Jones, the former white magician now of course disgraced), all dazzling in their brilliance and complete aloofness from the sorry spectacle of the bottom four rings of Hell.

And so the Poet and I gladly passed the time for a while, and I began to finally relax with kindred spirits who also saw the insanity of the lower rungs of this Inferno we once were trapped in. There were still scrying mirrors here, admittedly, but they bore insignias I even became fond of. “Telegram”, “Substack”, “BitChute”, read their appellations, and I reason these to be the ancient deities of classical knowledge: of natural reason and the natural law. “Did you too pay obeisance to such Gods as these?” I inquired of the Roman, but he laughed and shook his head as he looked up to the sky (he had acquired a curious habit of doing so more and more).

After a few weeks convalescing here I decided in trust to discuss with Delingpole the True some of the disturbing visions I had seen in the lower rungs of the Inferno as I had been trying to thread them together. “You know, each rung has that same six-sided star”, I began innocently. But it was then that Delingpole the True took great affront, and I saw him grow strange to me and plump with rage. “Actually, it’s the Satanic 13 bloodlines and the Khazars and the Black, Grey and White Popes and the Jesuits,” he screamed petulantly as he began to throw a plate of toad in the hole at me over lunch, sorely enraged. “You’re just a big silly billy and a ninkinpooop” he cried and blew great big raspberries at me (I confess dear reader that he used far worse words than this, for he has a mouth like a sewer, but scandalise you I shall not). And I noticed that the previously clear atmosphere of the mansion of neo-classical clear-sightedness of the Perfecti had become thick and noxious, choked with smog inside and outside. And inside that smog formed the word “CONFUSION”, and outside that smog was struck through by lightning, and the lightning wrote the word “MENTICIDE” in the sky.

“It’s the transnational criminal syndicate that’s not Mossad but contains aspects of Mossad and the CIA that spun off from the 20s Italian-American Luciano Mob” ululated Whitney the Web in lurid tones. I did then see her spread forth her hands and many spiders’ webs shot forth trapping others in these and similar complexities. “What about the Talmu-” I ventured, but I could not finish my sentence before she used her silken webs of distraction to cover my mouth so I could scarcely breathe. “Did you know Brad Pitt is a woman and Julia Roberts is a man!?” screamed Miri AF. And the scales fell from my eyes and I saw the AF stood for “absolutely fried”, and not the “absolutely forthright” that the Perfecti had dubbed her. And I was sure afraid as the rational beings transformed before me, their transmogrification making them fearsome spirits.

And I turned to look at the Delingpole the True, and his countenance was no longer that of a kind wizard but instead a magical fawn of the forest, whose true name was Delingpole the Enchanter. And I watched as he ran around blowing raspberries at me and spewing many crude insults as would a child, and then he began to chant: “Globe mong, globe mong, the earth is flat and you are wrong, globe mong, you’re a globe mong, chemtrails are real, but to call out the Synagogue of Satan is WRONG!”. And then the monstrous Perfecti all screeched in unison “IT’S COMPLEX”, and I saw they were just another Chorus of this realm, like the Zio-Choir of the second. “I hereby decree, you are no longer Perfecti, nor will you ever be,” sung Delingpole in a reedy tone, “because you dared to look, at what we won’t allow you to see”. He then threw many weapons at me, web cameras and quills and podcasts, and not only me but also my guide, the good Virgil (whose existence he incidentally refused to believe, instead saying he was composed a committee of various people). Breaking myself free from Whitney’s Webb, we ran as fast as we could to beat a hasty retreat out the door of this subterranean School of Athens, engulfed in the fog of confusion. Whilst behind us the Perfecti all danced the merry jig of menticide to lyre and flute around and around in a circle eternally. As we exited the Mansion of the Awakened Truthers, I glanced back and saw them all still swirling in their ourouboros dance, and I heard the Delingpole of the Forest chanting: “buy gold, buy silver, precious metals here, for all to pilfer!” But regarding, the Mansion one last time, I saw it had beautiful stone work of fine masonry, compassed all round about it, and on the cornerstone I beheld in horror, that same six pointed star yet again.

“Come, dear Poet,” I sighed, “we shall never find a home in this place, I fear I am resigned to wander this shadow land for all my days, cursed like Eurydice of old, to never escape this Gehenna”. But sweet Virgil took pity on me, and said, “dear boy, you shall yet live, come hither with me, and unburden yourself of such worries, for all we have seen thus far is a tale of sound and fury, wherein I do confess, like the Bard, that confusion hath made its masterpiece too in this benighted ring of Hades. But it need not ever be thus.”

Canto VI - The City of the Simulacrum

It had taken many months, but Virgil had shepherded us somehow to a remote upland. I had long given up trying to escape these Infernal cloisters, but one day as we crossed the brow of a hill, he said “look, ahead”, and for the first time since we embarked, I did see the horizon with the setting Sun upon it, and so I knew for certain we had reached sea level: terra-firma at last.

“Here, take a seat” said Virgil, and at the top of the hill we sat, and the Sun behind us illumined our vision, and in the orange twilight, he said to me, “Do you see over there, that great and fearsome City, behind us, near from where we came? I want you to look upon it,” and so I did, and he said, “now I will expound to you the many things we just saw”.

“When the Florentine took me as his companion he first remarked to me, that midway in his life’s journey, he went away from the straight road and woke to find himself in a dark wood. Well, perhaps his good fortune was better than yours, for you all begin life now in that dark wood. That dark wood is the first rung of the inferno whence we alighted, many months ago. But if you keep looking at the City you see in front of you, you will see there are no rings, there is but one City: such is also the Inferno where you so laboured too.

“And the ruler of that City we gaze on, is the Prince of the World, Satan. And his servants, they are his Synagogue of Satan, and their language, it is the Kabbalah. And that language, the Kabbalah, it has many dialects, and the lesser known tongues are Gnosticism and Esotericism and Discordianism, like those of the Perfecti of the Inferno’s fifth ring. And the foundational texts for all tongues of the Kabbalah are the Talmud and the Zohar. And in that City every neighbourhood of it is merely a different manifestation of this same foundation. And if you look now at that City, you will now see a great battle there raging. On one side the Bear’s tricolour, on another side the golden trident backlit yellow and blue. And yet that battle is still operating within that City, and the same Synagogue are still coordinating that battle, for the same King of that City. This is the dialectic. This is why, if you look at the districts of the City, people move freely in and out of them, and are sometimes shepherded by scrying guides to and fro within them. And even the opposing districts, whilst attacking each other, never serve to attack the foundation of the City. And the ruler of that City, remains always seated on his throne, and his acolytes, they remain forever in malign stewardship of that polis, promulgating and enforcing his dictates.

“And the choruses,” Virgil continued, “and the truthers, and the magicians of the scrying realm, all want to gain much lucre in that City, and to do so they must prevent anyone from leaving that City: as all Cities, naturally, need citizens. “Look!” he exclaimed, “look there, do you see the young man at the City’s gates, about to leave? Why observe how he has supped for too long on all its filth and rotten whoredoms: and he is now ready to depart indeed. And yet observe, there goes out to the gate to meet him a guide. But if you look closely, on the guide’s cape is the insignia of that City’s King, do you see? He is a false guide indeed, and he has been appointed by the Prince of the City to convince the young man not to leave. See, watch how he agrees with all the wearied pilgrim’s concerns, and measures them only ever so slightly, and dilutes them only by the smallest seasoning of equivocation, and adds in but a sprinkle of poison. And then the young man is now made content to remain in the City, and he has neither uncovered its secrets, nor extricated himself from the City, do you see? Watch as he goes back to the scrying mirrors of the City placated but even more confused, and watch how he speaks into them. But his scattered diatribes about the City’s vile whoredoms, only serve to make the City wax stronger and stronger”.

Virgil paused here and remarked to me, “you see, you call where we were, an Inferno - and rightly so, but it is not an Inferno.”

“Then what is it?” I asked.

“It is that same City I am pointing out to you, this great City of Man, and many souls would try to understand it, and many fail, and many think they are leaving it, but many are only entering further therein, only to get better enmeshed in its rings”.

“Watch”, he said, tracing a circle on the ground with his hand, “this is your Inferno, not a layered hierarchy as you so supposed, but a chaotic sphere. And each ring of the inferno supports the other rings, and maintains balance for the ball of lies that compose this simulacrum. Even when a chorus of one ring opposes another ring, they make sure to add in enough untruth so that the Synagogia - that is the ball’s core - is never identified. And so long as the core of the ball remains unchallenged, the ball can continue to roll and move slightly, and adjust its trajectory. And what is under the ball but what my very hand traces over now: dust. The dust of many souls.

And my eyes were opened and I fell back aghast, and I saw the Inferno we had laboured through anew. And I beheld with horror a prominent putrid thread of rotten silk running through it from top to bottom and side to side and round and round and to and fro. And that thread read: “SYNAGOGUE OF SATAN”. And I fainted once more, and fell into Virgil’s arms as the sun set. And I slept a deep sleep: sans dreams, sans thoughts, sans sense.

Canto VII - Sapientia Laudabit Animam Suam

Waking finally from my reverie, the travails of our excursion seemed like a long passed nightmare, and it was by only noticing Virgil still sitting there calmly on the hill that I was made sure it had indeed happened. Finally feeling rested and turning my back to the City, I wondered where we could find that peace we did so long for: where we could find Truth?

“But good Virgil, whither shall we go”, I sung, “for the City is all I know, and corrupt though it may be, it needn’t always be so”. “Oh child”, he replied, “have you really not yet surmised, that if there is a City of Man, then a City of God, must too survive?

“And have you not yet thought, with all the tikkun olam we just saw, that being in this simulacrum, is not what we were made for?”

“Come, let us leave now in good spirits,” he said. And so, our souls buoyed by the Poet’s true song, we did go over that Hill, and before us we would indeed find salvation far from the spectacle. But that, dear friends, is another story for another day.

To be continued…

Should you wish to find out what became of Virgil and the Traveller, the full INFERNO can now be found here at Stabat Mater Press.