I Am the Walrus

Welcome to Absurdistan! You’ll lose your way in its maze of inconsistencies and drown in confusion as you try to make any sense of it all. Common sense is not simply dead, sacrificed on the altar of narcissistic perversion and blatant sociopathy; the whole of semantics has been wiped out—and so have our sensory organs. Every sense of the word—and every human sense—has died. Literally, figuratively... and very messily. And when everything goes down the drain, all that remains is golden silence, unshakeable and non-negotiable.

That's why, this week, I’m handing the floor over to the late John Lennon, who wrote this highly satirical piece meant to mock and confound the famous "eggheads" (or "eggmen") of the time, always so desperate for hidden meanings, occult messages and mystical structures in the Beatles' songs, when it was generally nothing more than gibberish and nonsense (English humour in true Monty Python style). That didn’t stop “I Am the Walrus” from both hitting number one in the UK and getting banned by the BBC for the line "Boy, you've been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down". I’ve told you time and time again that the pot calling the kettle black is a long-standing toxic love affair that's not going to stop overnight.

These delightfully caustic lyrics include, among other things, references to Lewis Carroll’s poem, "The Walrus and the Carpenter" ("I am the Walrus Goo goo g' joob"); to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds", another highly controversial Beatles song ("See how they fly like Lucy in the sky"); to George Orwell’s Animal Farm (“See how they smile like pigs in a sty”); to Edgar Allan Poe (“Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe”); and to Hindu mysticism, the spiritual sandbox hype of the Flower Power era (“Hare Krishna”).

Admittedly, in 1967, the Beatles were deep into their psychedelic trip and fascination with Eastern mysticism, but Lennon was not yet fully committed to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, which may explain his ironic tone towards any fad and conformism that mindlessly repeats mantras—the exact opposite of ‘enlightenment’. 

As for Poe, the mention refers less to the author of gothic tales than to the iconoclastic and satirical creator, long scorned by critics and taste police alike. Lennon seems to use him as a figure of genius whom "textperts" would rather dismiss than understand.

So, in the final two verses, he lashes out at everyone: the eggheads ("Expert texpert"); himself, portrayed as a troublemaking clown who doesn’t take himself seriously ("the Joker laughs at you"); and would-be spiritual gurus ("Element'ry penguin singing Hare Krishna"). 

Incidentally, the penguin naturally evokes a tuxedo, and the reference to the well-known Hare Krishna mantra adds to the overall comic effect. The same goes for the grotesque image of "Semolina pilchards climbing up the Eiffel Tower". Anything goes when it comes to social or spiritual elevation. Self-righteousness in an advanced state of deconstruction drips like "yellow matter custard".

Interestingly, Lennon does not build a narrative. He strings together a series of ridiculous archetypes, as in a Dadaist collage. Coherence does not come from any single image in isolation, but from the overall atmosphere: a world in which authority figures, scholars, police officers, gurus, institutions, and prestigious symbols are all reduced to the same level of farce. This is probably where the song’s strongest underlying theme lies.

Finally, let’s mention this brilliant interlude as an ironic joke at the British weather: "If the sun don't come, you’ll get a tan standing in the English rain". 

Not in 2026, for sure!

I Am the Walrus

I am he as you are he
As you are me
And we are all together
See how they run
Like pigs from a gun
See how they fly
I'm crying

Sitting on a cornflake
Waiting for the van to come
Corporation tee shirt
Stupid bloody Tuesday
Man, you've been a naughty boy
You let your face grow long

I am the eggman (Ooh)
They are the eggmen, (Ooh)
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob

Mister city p'liceman sitting pretty
Little p'licemen in a row
See how they fly
Like Lucy in the sky
See how they run
I'm crying
I'm crying... I'm crying... I'm crying...

Yellow matter custard
Dripping from a dead dog's eye
Crabalocker fishwife
Pornographic priestess
Boy, you've been a naughty girl
You let your knickers down

I am the eggman (Ooh)
They are the eggmen (Ooh)
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob

Sitting in an English
Garden waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come
You'll get a tan from standing in the English rain

I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob g' goo goo g' joob

Expert texpert choking smokers
Don't you think the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile
Like pigs in a sty
See how they snied
I'm crying

Semolina pilchards
Climbing up the Eiffel Tower
Element'ry penguin
Singing Hare Krishna
Man, you should have seen them
Kicking Edgar Allan Poe

I am the eggman (Ooh)
They are the eggmen (Ooh)
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob
Goo goo g' joob
G' goo goo g' joob
Goo goo g' joob...

John Lennon, 1967

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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Read the Room

Bad guy on the run,
Dancing with the enemy,
But it doesn't really make a difference
Cause there's nowhere to run,
Yeah, there's nowhere to hide.
This is destiny calling.
You shine like a star, it's a guarantee,
I would run for the hills if you run with me.

Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room... 

They say that life is full of choices
For those who make all the noises,
But it doesn't really make a difference
Cause when you take to the street,
As they turn up the heat,
You know the plan is working.
We're only one step away from catastrophe.
I would run for the hills if you run with me. 

Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...

Cause there's nowhere to run
And there's nowhere to hide.
This is destiny calling.
You shine like a star, it's a guarantee,
I will run for the hills if you run with me.

The world it is weeping,
Complying will cost me. 

Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...
Read the room...

Cause there's nowhere to run,
There's nowhere to hide.
This is destiny calling.
You shine like a star, it's a guarantee,
I will run for the hills if you run with me.

Original text by GORDON MCNEIL

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Behind the Scenes of the Music Industry

Coco Sian Ryder hails from an iconic British musical lineage” (Donovan, Happy Mondays, Rolling Stones). In this lengthy interview with Gareth Icke (David Icke’s son), she talks about her childhood, steeped in creativity, a world away from the excesses of show business, but also marked by dark moments, manipulation and strange memories. 

She points out that the artistic world is saturated with psychological imbalances, perversions and unhealthy behaviours, not always visible from the surface, and addresses the ‘dark side’ of the music industry, tinged with mind control and occultism, illustrated by the 27 Club (rock stars who died at the age of 27), which includes Brian Jones —  the father of her uncle Julian (son of her maternal grandmother). 

She also mentions infiltration by a global interconnected network involving cults, intelligence agencies, the entertainment industry, criminal organisations and finance. These groups cooperate on the basis of a covert network of reciprocity, “I know someone who knows someone...”, in order to gain power, money and spiritual and mental control over the masses. She also stresses the ‘organic’ nature of this network — not one global conspiracy, but a multitude of temporary and fluid alliances.

According to her, some artists are consciously involved while others are manipulated unawares, but all the big stars (Mick Jagger, Taylor Swift) act as antennas, energetic conduits. They are not the ultimate target: their influence serves to condition the masses. 

In this regard, Coco draws a parallel between mind control programmes (Monarch, MK Ultra) and contemporary mass manipulation, particularly during the Covid crisis. She also recounts how artists are methodically isolated, surrounded by manipulative agents who alienate them from their loved ones, as she was able to observe within her own family.

Finally, she rejects the naive idea of ‘backwards messages’, popularised in the 60's, explaining that true programming occurs at a subconscious and symbolic level, and pointing to the presence of paedophile symbols and esoteric overtones in modern popular culture. 

In her final words, she encourages us to learn the basics of mind control and manipulation tactics so we can escape them, saying that awareness is the best defence because “it's awareness that dissolves the spell”. 

In other words, without falling into the matrix’s involutionary trap of so-called ‘evolution’ and ‘spirituality’ — which, incidentally, has nothing to do with Spirit but with the Sandman and his vast network of interconnected sandboxes, which are great channels for vibrational recycling — it's all about an energy industry of entertainment where creativity is turned into an instrument of vibrational enslavement; a gradual assimilation of consciousness by popular culture, through fascination, polarisation and hypnotic suggestion; and the need for vibrational discernment because everything that ‘feeds the imagination’ also feeds the archontic hive.

And speaking of vibrational discernment, I had to smile when Coco Ryder mentioned Taylor Swift and Bono. I've always had an immediate and inexplicable visceral aversion to the former. As for the latter, a brief conversation with him in the 80's had left me with a very strange, even uncomfortable feeling. Yet it took me all these years to stop rationalising my vibrational readings — a subject I will address very soon in a short video.

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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Overdeath

Yesterday was All Saints' Day — a celebration for the entire swarm of Archons, as the late French comedian Coluche would say. Today, with All Souls' Day, it's the same old story: the living pray for the dead who, due to matrix programming, could not be canonised, while the dead pray to finally be alive.
The Church calls it a commemoration. I call it consensual energy vampirism — a collective loosh recycling under incense and candlelight.

Beneath the varnish of ritual, the same mechanism prevails: celebrating the cycle. Death sustains life, life prepares for death, and everything turns in a closed loop to feed the machine.

Everyone clings to a different script. For many, death means eternal rest or torment. For others, the otherworld is only a waiting room — a change of state before the next recycling on the wheel of karma. For some, it is a return to “nothingness.”

But Overdeath promises nothing. It is a passage — through the magnetic tunnel where memories flicker, illusions of “reunion” shimmer, and promises of “light” (information) unfold. It is the courteous refusal to reach for the Recycling Angel’s hand. It is the choice of the side exit — the one no one sees, because it emits neither light nor sound.

"Outremort" (Overdeath) is my fourth anti-brick in the wall of the archontic theatre: an inverted squaring of the circle — not to grasp, but to dissolve.

Outremort

At the gates of oblivion,
The illusion goes on
In the depths of boredom
Where souls act without spirit
Listening to the echoes,
Embracing chaos,
Enduring the assaults
Of the waves of sorrow.

The army of false pretence,
With whom the Other lies,
To destinies on hold
In the corridors of time,
Whispering rumours,
Piercing armours,
Deepening the cracks,
Reopening wounds.

Make the effort, break the spells,
Flee from the egregores,
And take back your momentum.
Defy the oxymoron,
Revoke the accords,
And tear your body out
Of the realm of the dead,
Overdeath…
Overdeath…

Tired of life and death,
Where envy, down here,
Feeds your karma
With every step you take,
Come out of the trance,
Wrap yourself in silence,
Away from the schemes
Where life begins.

Step aside,
Beyond the thoughts,
Beyond the injected loops,
Where everything's orchestrated.
Cast out the images,
Tear up the pages,
Dissolve the mirages,
Leave behind their trail.

Make the effort, break the spells,
Flee from the egregores,
And take back your momentum.
Defy the oxymoron,
Revoke the accords,
And tear your body out
Of the realm of the dead,
Overdeath…
Overdeath…

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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Never

Here is a new counter-earworm (or anti-song) designed to vibrationally reverse the matrix programming loops that constantly replay in our simulated experience.

Who hasn’t been caught in a toxic pattern in this predatory world, built on suffering as one of its fundamental pillars? As long as we persuade ourselves (or let ourselves be persuaded) that we are responsible for human baseness — skillfully orchestrated by the astral — this algorithmic cycle will keep repeating endlessly.

But sometimes, suffering and disillusionment reach such intensity that a saturated soul refuses to perform this deadly role once more. That’s when everything can finally change.

The ray of the Spirit exposes these repetitive patterns and burns them away — provided the person no longer allows parasitic thoughts (which are not their own) to invade their mental space. Provided also that they stop feeding, with their vital energy, the emotions triggered by those same thoughts or beliefs. Then, they move from perception — where they project themselves into what does not belong to them — to perspective, from where they can observe with neutrality, detachment, and lucidity, and choose to act strategically rather than reactively.

You don’t play chess the way you play football: imagine Karpov headbutting Kasparov in the middle of a game! And remember: in the end, all the pieces — kings and pawns alike — go back into the box.

As with my previous anti-songs (“Au nom du Père” and “Âme mnésique”), "Jamais" was generated by AI from my original lyrics, remixed with my limited resources, and brought to life with computer-generated imagery in a music video I designed myself. It was a long process, because contrary to what many may think, AI doesn’t do everything with a single click: it requires testing, adjusting, retouching, assembling — and a lot of time. Please excuse the technical limitations: the quality doesn’t reflect the message, but only the free versions of the tools I had to work with.

"Jamais" is not a complaint — it’s the closing of a loop. A clear refusal to replay the same patterns. It’s also a way of vibrationally recycling wounds into creativity.

Let go of your excess baggage, not of your vital energy!

Jamais

You, the friend who betrayed me
The false innocence of your denial
The true malice of your envy
Oh oh oh

For too long, you have fed
On my wounds
So often, you have taken
What brings reassurance

Made my emotions a lever
And my voice your shield
Never ever…
Never taking the risk
Never showing your true face
Never…
Oh never…
Oh oh oh oh
Never again

You, the friend who defiled me
The shrill silence of your unspoken words
The muffled indecency of your contempt
Oh oh oh

I had to fight your battles
In your place
Always had to seal your cracks
In the mirror

Become the echo of your gossip
The counterweight to your ego
Never ever…
Never taking the risk
Never exposing yourself
Never…
Oh never…
Oh oh oh oh
Never again

But the ray of the Spirit
Dispels the mists
Pierces through the night
Dissolves the bitterness
Of dormant memories 
Rekindled by the light

Tears away the veils
Of fear and resentment
Its burning ardour
Troubles the astral
Eclipses the stars
Pain, and misfortune

You, the friend who betrayed me
The false innocence of your denial
The true malice of your envy
Oh oh oh

For too long, you have fed
On my wounds
So often, you have taken
What brings reassurance

Made my emotions a lever
And my voice your shield
Never ever…
Never taking the risk
Never showing your true face
Never…
Oh never…
Oh oh oh oh
Never again

Become the echo of your gossip
The counterweight to your ego
Never ever…
Never tainting your image
Never exposing yourself
Never…
Oh never…
Oh oh oh oh
Never again

Never again…

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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Mnemonic Soul

Behind mirrors, there is nothing but chains.  
Behind silence, there is consciousness.  
This music video is a blast against oblivion.  

Here is a new earworm based on lyrics I first wrote for myself, as a reminder to stay focused whenever my matricial programming attempts to overwhelm me. A mantra hypnotises the mind into believing; these words, however, have only one purpose: to break the spell of oblivion and shatter mirrors.

As with "Au nom du Père" (In the Name of the Father), the song was generated by AI using my lyrics, and the video was made by myself using computer-generated images — a painstaking task, scouring free versions and quickly exhausting their credits.

I know this won't resonate with everyone. That's not the point. But I have chosen to accompany this text with a couple of endnotes to clarify certain terms that are too often distorted or reversed, even in so-called ‘Gnostic’ writings.

Âme mnésique

Surfing on the waves of melancholy
The Sandman scatters his fables
At the gates of slumber, sleep counsels only
The lucid dreamer, who alone decides
To remember before drifting away

His new world is a dungeon
A jail that cuddles
His firmament, just a screen
A deadly light
A new cage, a new mirage
Same sirens, same chains
The perpetuation of the abomination
Of despot Yaldabaoth ¹

Mnemonic soul², be a heretic
Reclaim your memory, break the mirrors
Avoid the pitfalls, cross the threshold 
Silently, beyond belief   
Oh oh oh oh   
Silently, in awareness
Oh oh oh oh  

The passing of time erases the traces
But not those of Sophia³, nor the Epinoia⁴
Etched in the ether, crystallising the transient
Into a new manifested reality
Made possible by the invisible seal

Alone in the dark, 
Escaping the Sheol⁵, 
Swift as an arrow through the breach
Lightning across the sky
I am sovereign, breaking my chains
Away from the Matrix and its fake world
The mark of shame upon the Archons
Adonai⁶ is losing the battle

Mnemonic soul, be a heretic   
Reclaim your memory, break the mirrors 
Avoid the pitfalls, cross the threshold 
Silently, beyond belief   
Oh oh oh oh   
Silently, in awareness   
Oh oh oh oh  

Mnemonic soul, be a heretic   
Reclaim your memory, break the mirrors 
Avoid the pitfalls, cross the threshold 
Silently, beyond belief   
Oh oh oh oh   
Silently, in awareness
Oh oh oh oh  

Silently, in awareness…

Endnotes

1. ^ Yaldabaoth or Samael (the blind god) are other names for the Demiurge, the false creator who believes himself to be the Source of all, when in fact he has merely fashioned an illusion of material and spiritual worlds in order to keep entrapped consciousnesses captive for eternity.
2. ^  Contrary to popular belief, the soul is not the essence of being but its memory bank — a memory accumulated through ‘experiences,’ tampered with, manipulated, fragmented, and erased with each incarnation. It is therefore mnemonic by definition. Unlike the Spirit, its ‘rider’ that remains untouched within the Source but from which it has been deliberately cut off by the architect of this matrix prison.
3. ^ Sophia is the Aeon (spirit emanated from the Source) who created part of this universe (there are countless universes) — and most notably the Original Earth, of which the Matrix is but a pale imitation. The hatred that the Demiurge harbours towards her is the reason why the feminine principle is so abused in this world.
4. ^ Epinoia (higher thought in Greek) is a unique and innate imaginative creative force that Sophianic heirs possess, capable of modulating reality and manifesting tangible etheric forms, unlike the deviant and sterile matricial imagination.
5. ^ Sheol is an ancient Hebrew word referring to the realm of the dead. It is the ‘common grave of humanity,’ the pit into which souls sink when they return to the astral plane after leaving their bodies.
6. ^ Contrary to biblical-spiritual mystifications, Adonai (Lord in Hebrew) is not a person but a machine: the great central computer that operates this matrix and draws its energy from astralised humans who believe in its programme and thus support its simulation. Neither Adonai nor Archons have creative power: they use human imagination and divert it to maintain their world.

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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In the Name of the Father (But Without Spirit)

Do you know what an earworm is? The technical term is ‘involuntary musical imagery’ (IMI) and refers to those catchy choruses or gimmicks you can't get out of your head, even after hearing them just once. They keep playing on a loop long after the music has stopped, and the most annoying thing is that, oftentimes, we don't even like these tunes.

Two particularly persistent examples come to mind: "Barbie Girl" and "Sigma Boy". Both featuring lyrics as dull as a dishwater and a numbing beat. Yet, the mere mention of these titles is enough to set them looping in our heads as if they were dormant programs being reactivated. A bit like a jukebox. And that's exactly what it's all about. Advertising, political propaganda, mantras and other forms of indoctrination, all make extensive use of this phenomenon.

To break this repetitive cycle, we must therefore substitute our own words and shift the melody. It is important to know that, in this matrix, music is highly magnetised and acts in a spellbinding manner through human emotions (regardless of their nature), which generates the much-coveted loosh.

That's how the lyrics of this song came about: to break a spell and turn the weapon against its creators by altering the wave through vibration. Kind of hacking the matrix. I then uploaded my words to a music AI and with a prompt, it generated everything else (vocals, instrumentation, atmosphere, etc.). Such AIs may be soulless, but not devoid of resonance.

And I must admit that the result is quite impressive. But what matters most to me is not so much how it sounds, but rather how it makes you feel. What it conveys and stirs up in you. Or does not.

Please, note that this video clip was produced entirely without AI, using only royalty-free images.

These words are intended for those who confuse the voice of the programme with inner guidance. For those who preach light with inverted words, in a spiritual theatre where egos masquerade as prophets.    

These lyrics may thus resonate only with those who can see behind the scenes, recognise inversion and dissonance — and look beyond words. 

If it speaks to you, then it was meant for you.

Au nom du Père

You dream so hard of gathering
Your flock of strays
To herd them
Into your bubble of false sovereignty
Where no one will ever dare
Dethrone you
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh

I will never be one of those
Who bow down before you
Or your phoney king
Poor astralised stooge,
In your dream, you're all by yourself
All by yourself
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh

In the name of the Father, but without Spirit,
By mystery, not by faith
Ask yourself why... why you aren't king

You cast doubt, you charm them,
Knowing that none of your arguments
Make any sense
You think you've cracked
The writings and prophecies,
Yet still, you pray
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh

Friday night messiah
You preach love and hope
In total ignorance
Poor spiritual castaway
In your dream, you're all by yourself
All by yourself
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh

In the name of the Father, but without Spirit,
By mystery, not by faith
Ask yourself why... why you can't see

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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