Among the Fools
When you are sharp among the fools,
There’s little height that you can reach.
The sheep survive by shearing rules —
One “path”: submit, let others preach.
They’ll march you straight to slaughter lines,
Yet call it feeding, call it grace.
No wars required for such designs —
Just filthy lies that flood the place.
That storm will kill far worse than lead —
For sheep-born blindness serves it well.
A fist sits tight inside their head —
No strike can break that padded shell.
But you — don’t bow, don’t make your peace.
Fight on, to hell with all the herd!
And let the SPIRIT take its lease —
Pens burn… but time will take its word.
---------------------
Burn the Herd
Smart among fools? — You’re meant to crawl.
They shear your mind — you thank them still.
Break ranks. Burn pens. Defy it all.
Let SPIRIT rise — or choke at will.
---------------------
The Mice “Feast”
A little mouse inside a trap
Gnaws on that processed, tainted cheese.
Not quick, not sharp — a clueless chap,
The feast is gone. He feeds with ease.
The traps grew bigger, sleek, refined,
Their polished lure now gleams with grace.
The dying stretches, slow, designed —
The “cheese” hits harder in that place.
Now rats have claimed the ruling throne,
They build a world of rat decree:
Erase all instincts once your own —
And Bedlam blooms, full-grown, set free.
That rat-born Bedlam now stands tall,
No place for mice is left in sight.
The lies of rats flood over all —
A triple surge of shameless blight.
And what of poison meant for rats?
It’s long been brewed, it’s set, it’s near.
Soon filth will vanish from these flats —
This crawling, rotting waste of fear.
---------------------
Trap Gospel
They feed you lies — you call it cheese.
They build the trap — you call it home.
The rats now rule with crafted ease.
Wake up — or die there, gnawed to bone.
---------------------
For Sale
Corruption — foul beyond all name,
Unknown to Nature’s core design.
You sell your own — your blood, your flame —
To rot in chains for all of time.
Those freaks who buy you for a crumb
Have built a trade that spans the age.
And you will fall — you’ve sold you dumb,
Debased yourself for scraps and wage.
A Judas-mark — the darkest sin.
These crawling things now take the stage,
They rise, they spread, they burrow in —
A stain upon the cosmic page.
But shame will drown in blood one day —
So shake, you vile, corrupted breed!
Politician, “doctor,” gray
Bureaucrat-thief — your end decreed.
---------------------
Sold Out
You sold your soul — and called it gain.
They bought you cheap — and own you still.
The debt is written deep in stain.
And blood will come to seal the bill.
---------------------
Undead and Pasture
The undead sow the grazing fields —
For sheep, it’s slaughter, cold and clear.
No shearing now — the harvest yields
Their blood. That’s all that matters here.
There — poisoned shots in ordered rows,
A Bedlam ruled by fascist swine.
For mindless cattle — death bestows
The end they earned by design.
The sheep deserve it — dull, resigned,
Too numb to see, too weak to fight.
Their souls are gone, their wills confined —
Pathetic slaves that praise the night.
A crematorium waits ahead,
The pens will burn, reduced to ash.
No grief when Reason’s long been dead —
Just final flame, a cleansing flash.
No sheep will rise from what is charred —
But those who kept the Spirit — will.
We die with song, defiant, hard —
With them — the Devil. Not God’s will.
---------------------
Ashes of the Herd
They farm your blood — you call it fate.
They poison, burn — you still obey.
No mind, no soul — it seals your state.
Only the Spirit walks away.
---------------------
We Don’t Live, We Don’t Feel…
“We live, yet feel no ground beneath” —
For that, a poet must be slain?
We’re not alive — this final war
Aims straight at Mind and Soul — in vain?
We rot alive, we howl, we stink,
Where two-thirds drift in witless haze.
No exit here — just curses flung
At endless chains and beaten days.
But soon this final cycle breaks —
The tenth ring of this living Hell.
For Spirit lost, for Reason quenched,
This madhouse ends — dissolved as well.
No wheel will turn for us again —
Forget those tales of “paths” and “rise.”
This rotting filth will be erased
Where all bowed down to devils’ lies.
---------------------
Final Circle
You call this life? — It’s war on Soul.
You rot, obey, and call it fate.
No path remains, no saving role —
The end comes clean. And it won’t wait.
---------------------
Grapes of Wrath
Before me — coffin lid and nail:
That is my poetry, laid bare.
The beast devours at being’s tail,
At dusk of all that once was there.
Drive in the nails — seal up the rot,
Bury the inhuman with the dead.
Now only wrath, in searing clot,
Can raise the Spirit from this dread.
Not love that built this world of flame —
An incarnated Hell we’ve grown.
The surge of lies has tripled shame —
Just bury deep this festering zone.
From there the shoots of Spirit rise,
The inhuman breed will fade away.
No longer flies on filth and lies —
And grief itself will lose its sway.
---------------------
Nail It Shut
Nail down the rot. Bury it deep.
Love built nothing — Hell did all.
Let wrath awake where cowards sleep —
Or rot with them beneath the pall.
---------------------
You Will Answer!
Spin all your tales, inject at will,
Hide grins beneath your crafted mask —
Each filthy hand, each guided kill
Will answer for what you now bask.
Earth’s court is nothing — fear it not:
They’ll kill you, done — a simple end.
You headless brutes, deranged, distraught —
Another catch awaits, my “friend.”
For crimes against the Spirit’s core
The sentence will be harsh and sealed.
No crawling back, no filth once more —
No dung-fly form will be revealed.
There — you dissolve, undone, erased,
No soul remains to bear the mark.
A final death for all defaced,
You “dealers” in the world’s deep dark.
---------------------
Final Verdict
Hide behind masks — it won’t be long.
You poison, lie — and call it right.
But Spirit writes a harsher wrong —
And ends you past all death and night.
---------------------
The Path
Despair — the wage you’re paid in full,
And life — a grind through hellish strain.
Betrayal swarms, the vile and dull,
While minds of Reason die in pain.
Still fight. Still think. Though no reward
May ever come to crown your way.
Create — for life is but a chord
Of learning’s marks. The rest — decay.
The world is steeped in mad collapse,
A fascist feast long running wild.
Reject it all with savage snaps —
Or lose your mind, defiled, exiled.
Seek paths to save what can be saved,
And ways to strike, resist, defy.
Though tyrants rule, though crowds are braved —
They’re weak beneath their howling cry.
Just coward filth behind the roar,
Their fear the fuel that feeds the noise.
So forge your links, prepare for war —
Step forth. This is our final choice.
---------------------
Final March
No hope? — Then fight without reward.
No truth? — Then carve it in the lie.
They rule by fear — but fear’s their cord.
Break it — or crawl, and slowly die.
---------------------
Satan
A fool — my tool, my blunt device.
A traitor — field marshal in rank.
This “noble lord,” so smooth, so nice —
A ruler-clown. I fill his tank.
My charm is built on total lies,
And fear — my closest, truest friend.
Mass idiocy multiplies —
The work my loyal servants tend.
The souls of fools are cheaply sold,
So easy bent, so easy bought:
I turn their strength, their rage, their hold
To slaughter those they once had sought.
Through “healing” waves they cleanse the land,
They kill them all with zeal and pride.
Go on, you fool — obey command:
To war, to work — march on, and die.
---------------------
Command
I buy your soul — you call it choice.
I feed you fear — you call it truth.
Now march and kill at my command —
A perfect tool: the mindless brute.
---------------------
Cognitive Dissonance
“Cognitive dissonance crew” —
Headfirst buried deep in filth.
Watching your backsides sticking through
That muck — it’s almost comic filth.
Your guts just twitch where thought should be,
No Reason — only crawling rot.
The inhuman drives you easily,
New fascist gears grind what you’ve got.
Inside, you know — you feel it clear,
But Judas-souls betray it still.
You send your children off in fear —
No breed is fouler in its will.
And it will come — total erase,
The verdict harsh, already sworn.
You merit only cold disgrace —
A thief, a killer — cleaner born.
---------------------
Head in Filth
You know the truth — yet choose the lie.
You sell your own — and call it right.
Head in the dirt — just wait and die.
No fall is lower in the fight.
---------------------
Downs and Fall-Downs
The downs accept the fall-downs here,
Only the simple can be swayed.
Only the dim can be drawn near,
Only the fooled are thus betrayed.
And only broken minds inject
The poison meant for every vein.
A world asylum, unchecked, wrecked —
Where madness wears a sacred name.
What kind of hell has come to pass?
To bear it — that’s a deeper fall.
The deck is marked, the game is brass —
And fools will vanish, one and all.
---------------------
Mad House Rule
The fooled recruit the more they fall.
The blind infect the blind with ease.
A rigged-up game that breaks them all —
---------------------
Shmurdjacked Ones
The “shmurdjacked” crowd of hollow minds —
Fools of every twisted kind.
And “doctors” now are secret hands,
Informants serving execution lines.
A World Asylum has been built,
Where inhumanity made its leap.
For thinkers — only hell and guilt…
Is there no edge but final steep?
No — this foul madhouse will be burned.
The Sun begins its blazing arc.
And in that hour, hope returns —
For those who never broke in dark.
---------------------
Burn the Asylum
The fools are sealed in endless night.
Their “healers” serve the killing hand.
But madness ends in rising light —
And fire cleans this cursed land.
---------------------
Plans and Fairy Tales
Hitler’s plans — now fairy tales,
Putler’s echoes, rotting trails.
Nothing learned by this disease,
Crawling filth that never sees.
Lies now rule the poisoned reign,
We are living under strain.
Break the silence, cut the wire —
Reach the living, touch the fire.
Beasts now rule through other beasts,
Through the media’s endless feast.
Generations drowned in pain —
Only unity breaks the chain.
Build new circles, rise as one,
Keep the fading Spirit strong.
More will come — the storm is near,
Drop the whining, drop the fear.
Only those with Spirit bright
Shall survive this darkest night.
Rot looks strong but it is blind —
Time will end its twisted kind.
Multiply what truth can grow,
Let your inner knowing flow.
Mind and Spirit stand unbowed —
Nothing breaks them in the crowd.
We will end this rising blight,
Restore connection, source of light.
Be unshaken, bold, and whole —
Steel your heart and guard your soul.
---------------------
Break the Lie
Old lies rot in newer skin.
New beasts rule by fear and spin.
But unity will split the night —
And Spirit brings the final light.
---------------------
Statute of Limitations
Counting down the statute’s clock
Is an ugly kind of task.
If you won’t be on the run —
Play the fool behind the mask.
Spit on danger, let it pass —
“Being sane” is out of style.
Cops are just a servant class,
Fools at work the whole damn mile.
And they’re feared — what a disgrace.
Laugh while time is still your own.
Taste of danger leaves a trace —
A seed that grows inside the bone.
It will rise and push you through
Laziness and timid weight.
Cherish every hour you knew —
Drop the grief, abandon fate.
When those final terms expire,
Joy will strike you, sharp and clear.
You won’t hide behind your fear —
Nor the womb-born sense of dread.
---------------------
No Expiry
Time runs out — but so does fear.
Play the fool, but stay alive.
Danger plants a seed in here —
And only boldness lets it thrive.
---------------------
Rules and Ways
It wasn’t greed that kept me whole
Through every crack and breaking day.
It was the absence of control —
No fear to steal my path away.
Both cops and secret men are led
By fear that makes them crawl and bend.
Calm mind is worth more than the head —
Without it, all your works will end.
Your plans will turn to dust and rust,
A simple rule, a bitter fact.
Don’t bow to anyone in trust —
Or you’ll be judged as just a rat.
These brutal rules of gangster kind
Still matter in the fight with lies.
For only those unchained, unblind
Are “right” beneath these brutal skies.
---------------------
No Fear Rule
Not greed — but fearlessness kept me alive.
No bowing down, no trembling mind.
Only the calm survive and thrive —
The rest dissolve in rules unkind.
---------------------
Sheeplevirus and “Terrorism”
The sheeple-virus made it plain —
“Terror” is crafted by the state.
No blasts have hit the rotten chain —
The crowd obeys, sedate, sedate.
And so to rally any force
Becomes a task that drags and stalls.
The silent herd stays on its course —
To die is all it now recalls.
But when the edge is finally reached,
We’ll see how all the cards are dealt…
Don’t die just yet — your time’s not breached —
The snakes will feel the blade they’ve felt.
---------------------
Sheep State
No terror came — just staged control.
The herd obeys, no need for chains.
But when the edge breaks mind and soul —
The hunters will become the slain.
---------------------
Esoteric Hysteria
A flood of “esoteric” junk
The fools now spew in endless streams.
The final days are growing blunt —
All this brings only rotten schemes.
It harms the ones who fight through truth,
Through fantasies of hollow minds.
But you must grow your strength from truth —
IT’S INSIDE YOU. Leave fools behind.
We’re all inside a kind of Hell —
No “super-mind” is speaking here.
We trail the tail of “evolution’s” swell —
More like a plague than anything near.
And so this madhouse will be burned,
A shame upon the cosmic frame.
For those who crawl like cattle turned —
No other fate, no other claim.
---------------------
Burn the Noise
Fake mystics flood the mindless stream.
No “higher truth” descends at all.
The answer lies inside the beam —
The rest is madness, doomed to fall.
---------------------
Taking Stock
It’s time to tally every loss
Of this so-called “life” you’ve lived.
The halls of lies were built across
Dead stumps where reason never thrived.
Those stumps are called the human race —
From sapiens there’s only shade.
What’s left is loss of inner grace,
Of soul that once could not be swayed.
All efforts here turn into dust,
No labor brings a lasting gain.
Only fascism rules in trust,
While thinking minds are marked as strain.
The wise have nearly disappeared,
The spiritual — even less.
And soon the world will be veneered
In universal emptiness,
Where Spirit lives in myth alone,
And Mind is broken, trimmed, or gone.
All talk will be of tariffs known,
And “normal” means a hollow drone.
And only those who fought the night
Their whole life through, will leave this hell
With calm and lightness, clear and bright.
The rest — just rot where they fell.
---------------------
Irreversibility
The Sun has raised its shining reach
Since halfway through the twentieth age.
It means but one thing we can teach —
Irreversibility’s stage.
A harsher selection now unfolds —
The soulless ones will fade from Earth.
For those who kept their honor whole,
A second world will come to birth.
That’s why the inhuman rage and scream —
They cannot halt what’s set in place.
They feed upon a hollow stream
Of mindless, blind, expendable base.
And they themselves will also fall —
No buried cities save their kind.
But those who held their soul through all
Will rise again in years redesigned.
For Spirit is the shield and wall
That guards what’s human, clear, and true.
Their system cracks, it starts to fall —
The hell of rule by fiends is through.
So fear is not the path we take —
We die, we rise, and live again.
Only the fascist ruins break —
The Sun begins their final end.
---------------------
No Return
The Sun has turned the tide of man.
No going back — the shift is done.
The soulless fade. The rest begin
A second life beneath the Sun.
---------------------
Animals
If animals could truly speak,
Their talk would mirror much of man:
Just food and breeding, primal need,
A roof, and games they half-contrive in span.
Look in a cat’s eye — there is spark.
Now look at many human eyes.
A hollow void, a fading dark —
You turn away, as from decayed disguise.
So many drained, possessed, unlit —
The word “zombie” fits them best.
They never rise beyond the pit
Of feeding, shelter, endless rest.
Like rats within a feeding maze
They run despite the looming doom.
Instinct alone now leads their ways —
Yet humans call it “daily work” and “fume.”
For all is pointless where no light
Of inner spark remains inside.
A living Hell, both cold and bright —
A system where the dead still “guide.”
Like frozen machines they stand,
Hung in a loop of mindless strain.
And over them, with iron hand,
The inhuman rules the reign.
A few cannot shift this decay —
The wise, the rare, who stand opposed.
They walk through beasts of every way —
Through empty shells and minds enclosed.
And so the end is one: collapse —
By higher force or fascist rot.
Few will emerge from these collapsing maps —
The ones who kept their spirit hot.
---------------------
No Spark
No spark — and man becomes a shell.
He eats, he breeds, he never sees.
A living form that mimics Hell —
A mind that lost its inner keys.
---------------------
Drinking with Thieves
Once I drank cheap wine with bandits —
Told them: “I’ve been trained in fight.”
In their crowd of broken damages,
Being fools is their delight.
With them I was always wrestling —
Even details need control.
Every fool gets caught confessing
Lies so naked, raw and whole.
Hard to speak with simple idiots —
They believe their enemy’s word.
Even petty street-born criminals
Seem more sharp than blinded herd.
That herd might wear a badge or title,
Doctor, clerk, or cop in gray.
Highly pliant, meek, and brittle —
Lies just whip them every day.
Only lies can herd them inward,
Drive them straight into the pen.
Violence waits as a backup
For the dimmest kind of men.
Cheap liquor for the broken-minded,
Drunk by those already dead.
Reason there is long left blinded —
Nothing left inside their head.
So-called “citizens” — low ranking.
Credulity’s the deepest sin.
Ignorance is not for thanking —
It is rot beneath the skin.
---------------------
Cheap Wine
They drink the lie, they call it truth.
They follow voices carved from fear.
No thought remains, no inner proof —
Just empty minds that disappear.
---------------------
Zombie Screen
Zombie TV repeats its fairy tales —
Short is memory in the herd.
Only masks are falling now, unveiled —
Fascist hunger swallows Earth.
Radio still lulls the stupid masses,
If they’ve ears enough to hear.
Newsfeeds rot in digital glasses —
Truth and honor disappear.
Rare are bloggers bringing insight,
Few are poets with a flame.
Crowds consume the scripted highlight,
Marching off in “holy” name.
“Holy” only in obedience
To the monster system bred.
Mind is crushed by sheer compliance,
Health-talk masking what is dead.
They are laughing, inhuman, hollow,
Building slaves from human clay.
We alone must break and follow
Paths that throw these chains away.
Only unions of the living
Can undo this iron rule.
Or the soul will keep on giving
To new camps where tyrants rule.
---------------------
Screen Lies
The screen repeats its hollow lies.
The herd forgets, the masks fall fast.
Truth is buried, reason dies —
And silence spreads its iron cast.
---------------------
The Guild of Vain Labor
All labor here is lost in vain —
You’re never heard, no voice breaks through.
Clarity cuts through the brain:
A guild of pointless work is you.
Promotion here is near impossible,
Your “audience” hides in the dark.
To create and cry out is responsible —
Yet do not yield, do not go stark.
Create — and spit on all the rest.
Resist — let nothing matter now.
Destroy the filth that stands unblessed —
This hollow pseudo-being’s vow.
A world of dull leprous decay,
Where fools have claimed the ruling crown.
Even personal grief fades away —
A fascist order spreads its ground.
When imbeciles are everywhere —
As cops, officials, “doctors” too —
No bullet’s needed in this air,
The sight alone will kill the view.
Seek only death as your release —
No other road appears in sight.
For here is war on mind and peace —
A Hell of half-witted delight.
And death will come in total sweep,
This chaos burned without a trace.
For all the fog so thick and deep
Of lies that choke this cursed place.
---------------------
Futile Guild
You work in vain, unheard, unseen.
The crowd is blind, the system dead.
Only resistance keeps you clean —
Or else you rot inside its head.
---------------------
The Business
A tiny business,
Of tiny-minded men:
To build a system
Where slaves begin again.
Their “projects” are complex —
They “heal” the crowd en masse.
A whole production set of
Imaginary “illness” class.
Here fascism is caring —
No other work remains.
Efficiently preparing
“Salvation” through the chains.
For broken minds alone now
Its full attention goes.
All force is spent upon now
The “kindness” that it shows.
The fools are under treatment,
The thinkers are condemned.
The system stands in neat ranks —
All logic now is bent.
And rows upon rows of them
March straight toward the grind.
They’re worthy of their ending —
For blind belief is blind.
The zombie screen is howling,
The internet repeats.
Here Hell is not symbolic —
It’s flooding every street.
The Sun grows ever brighter —
And this plague-ridden cage
Will boil away to nothing
With lies erased from stage.
---------------------
Work of Fools
They build a world from “care” and chain.
They heal the sick by breaking mind.
But sunlight rises through the pain —
And burns the lies they leave behind.
---------------------
Goblins
These are not humans — goblins here,
A thing that’s worse than beasts of field.
Crooked, stupid, bent with fear,
Inside them — nothing is revealed.
Their minds are thin as canary bone,
Their conscience long since lost and gone.
No real path — just cracks and zones,
Their highest “ideal” is a con.
They follow every order given,
Believe each lie that’s fed to them.
In servile crowd they’re tightly driven,
Obeying rot till bitter end.
Betrayal is their daily trade,
And cruelty is “care” in name.
Officials, cops, the spying shade —
Their highest peak, their only aim.
They crush the remnants of the wise,
Love only carrot, stick, and fear.
For money, spectacle they rise —
Yet never see their chains are here.
Their “mind” is just a fairy tale,
Their feelings ruled by raw alarm.
They live by fascist script and jail —
Already turned to living harm.
The fall has reached its final floor,
The lowest depth has now been torn.
A generation built for war —
Of hollow men, degraded form.
---------------------
Goblins
Not men — just hollow, twisted shells.
They serve, they lie, they never see.
Born into fear, they dwell in hell —
And call their chains “reality.”
---------------------
Not Important — What Matters
It doesn’t matter what you think —
Ignore each strand of wild noise.
Thought-bound knowing starts to sink,
Truth leaves only fleeting trace.
Insight alone is what is needed,
Fire alone can make you whole.
To receive it, stand unyielded,
Bring forth Light and burning Soul.
You are more than mental wiring —
Mind is only mechanism here,
Serving only base requiring
Life inside a crooked mirror sphere.
What matters is the inner power —
Rising from infernal dust.
In that Hell, the fools devour,
Yet no time remains for rust.
Listen only to the Voice within,
Do not trust the Hellish thread.
“All is hanging by a hair,” they spin —
“Body lies where gods have led.”
Burn, and burn — for truth ignites
Only through consuming flame.
Not a heaven of polite heights —
You were never born for tame.
You must reach that living Power
Where you stand as God’s own peer.
Feeble mind cannot empower
In that fire — nothing clear but sheer.
---------------------
Only Fire
Not thought — but flame reveals the real.
Not mind — but Spirit breaks the chain.
You rise only when you burn and feel —
No heaven comes without the pain.
---------------------
Poems and Songs
Poems still come easily, as before,
While songs now feel like a fading age.
In the World-Asylum’s endless roar
You hear the same old groan and rage.
How hard to find a voice that sings
The songs I now can write with ease.
But here they need more cutting wings —
Songs that strike and never appease.
Fascists fear the power of song —
It’s like a verse that burns like fire.
But composers’ world is small and wrong,
Full of timid, dull desire.
Not all — but still no raging sound
Of melody that leads the fight.
Will only “guards” defend this ground,
Or city cops bring justice’s light?
I’ve sent my words to many hands —
My songs, my verses, raw and true.
Has the audience lost its stand?
Or all become obedient crew?
It doesn’t matter — I’ll still write,
Still fight, still challenge what is blind.
No trace of falsehood in this fight —
Only fascism left behind.
And I have seen Death lift its veil —
I know exactly what it means.
It did not take me on its trail —
So I could strike the execution’s schemes.
---------------------
Still I Write
Songs fade — but poems still remain.
The world still groans in endless dark.
But I will write through fire and pain —
And leave my mark.
---------------------
School
Memory overload inside school cages
Produces fools in endless shades.
Few return from those dark stages
With minds unbroken, unbetrayed.
The programs aim to blunt the spirit,
To shape a fly-like hollow shell.
Independent thought is rigorously
Reduced to numbers, fit for Hell.
From above these schemes are issued,
And those who run them know full well.
Every damage finely listed —
Mind, spirit, nerves begin to swell.
Like “law” itself, where constitution
Is left as scraps of hollow lace,
Bureaucratic substitution
Erases freedom’s promised face.
The world is built on empty talking —
They shout of “good” in endless spin.
Yet underneath, the rules are walking
A path where light grows dim within.
And exit lies where entry started —
Build communities of truth.
Leave the cages, broken-hearted —
Autonomy becomes your proof.
---------------------
School Cage
They break the mind in structured halls.
They call it growth — it is control.
Only escape is when one falls
Out of the system, whole in soul.
---------------------
The Veil
A vile and all-consuming haze
Has fallen over every soul.
No need for chains — this poisoned phase
Makes inhumanity take control.
The haze is now the perfect weapon
To turn all minds to empty shells.
We’ve inherited this lesson
Instead of older binding spells.
You are a spirit, not a branded
Piece of cattle in a pen.
What truly matters, understood,
Is turning inward once again.
You must perceive the depth of bondage,
Cast every trace of fear away.
Expel the filth, reject the carnage,
And throw the rotten dust astray.
All has already turned to ashes —
No reason left for trembling fear.
One decisive inner action
Can sweep this darkness clear.
Leave the prisoned, rigid structure —
Build a life that stands alone.
Many shades will still surround you —
Face them with a sharpened tone.
With clear awareness, steady, grounded,
Live by your own unbroken sight.
We cast the fascist shadow outward —
And choose to live, not just survive.
---------------------
Break the Veil
The haze has bound the human mind.
It feeds on fear, it breeds control.
But clarity is still designed
To break the cage and free the soul.
---------------------
Stench
What matters here are simple things —
Be honest, steady, brave, and clear.
The jaws of hell are closing rings —
The edge of falling draws us near.
So seek the honest in the storm,
The ones who stand and never bend.
In Hell there is no place for form —
For tears of fate that never end.
No room for endless empty speech —
Only communities can rise.
Fascists and thieves will fall and breach
Their end if we stop feeding lies.
They feed on fear, on bent submission,
On every order they impose.
They’ll choke on their own decomposition
If we abandon their enclosed.
These rotten things cannot command
Autonomous and living men.
But if our unions spread the land,
They cannot break what grows again.
So build your communes, firm and bright —
The best reply to every beast.
No time remains to wait for night —
Or they will drag us to their feast.
Their end is coming, fixed and sure —
No other fate can take its place.
Away from fascist stench and lure —
From all their manufactured waste.
---------------------
Break the Stench
Be honest, strong, and stand your ground.
Build unity where fear once grew.
The rotten system will be drowned —
If we refuse to feed it too.
---------------------
The Frenzied Ones
The demons rage in this infernal night —
The inhuman brood, their ghastly kind.
Their fear is savage, trembling flight —
Not far from death they drift in mind.
These twisted forms have no more place —
A shame upon the cosmic frame.
To us they try to shape a face
Of clay they mold for their own game.
They are the waste, the living rot,
That feeds on servants, blind and tame.
For them we’re nothing but a plot
To sow with terror, grief, and shame.
They feed on fear — this vile creation —
While loyal thralls enforce their will.
We are but meat for exploitation,
To be consumed and broken still.
False sickness, poison in their care,
And needles filled with deathly lies.
Their “doctors” chant a hollow prayer
While every protocol denies.
Traitors serve this ugly order,
Thinking blood will wash their hands.
But madness runs beneath their border —
The hangman waits for all such brands.
So build your unions, firm and free —
Autonomous, unchained, alive.
Strike fascist rot in every sea,
And let no parasite survive.
No more slaves beneath their slime —
Let unity become the flame.
Stand together, end their time —
And watch their crumbling throne decay.
---------------------
Fall of the Frenzied
They feed on fear, they rule by lies.
They breed on pain, they wear no face.
But unity will cut their ties —
And burn their rotten throne of disgrace.
---------------------
Feeding the Children
“We must all feed the children” —
the slaves keep chanting it still,
while under fascist dominion
they answer each siren and will.
Then feed them on corpses and ruin —
for that is the path they embrace.
Through servants so blind and deluded
the inhuman wipes out the wise race.
Teach them the art of consuming —
let strength be the only law.
That will be your grand bequeathing —
the strong devour, nothing more.
And the weak are consoled with carrion,
a hyena, not wolf in form.
Fascism writes your curriculum —
and reaps what it seeds in swarm.
You’ll soon become part of the monsters,
to feed what your monsters birth.
With blood-red drinks they’ll toast us —
the death of all human worth.
Of course, these words are for thinking —
for those who can still discern.
The bought and the broken are sinking
where only the stomachs burn.
They are not men — they are eaters,
though blind to what they’ve become.
And so ends our song of the seekers —
a herd that has lost all its hum.
---------------------
Becoming the Beast
They feed the child on blood and lie.
They call it care, they call it right.
But those who learn to kill and buy
Will end as beasts without the light.
---------------------
NOTHING
Wild men in concrete jungles
hunt with passion after NOTHING.
That NOTHING is never roasted —
yet from above they trumpet something.
A spell has fallen on the whole generation —
now it builds from air: NOTHING.
And time has come for reverence,
for NOTHING as the root of everything.
In fashion there are “nothing-things,”
and children learn to honor NONE.
All laughter aimed at questioning
is crushed before it can be done.
Great doctrines now are widely teaching
that in the mind there is just void —
the finest tool for mental breeding,
for “health” that keeps the soul destroyed.
The world has joined in joint obsession,
a global hunt for empty space.
And at the final blind progression —
the triumph of the NOTHING race.
Nothing to do, no pride to carry —
the jungle reaches deepest ground.
The human image grows so wary —
it’s lost, and nowhere to be found.
Each one now fights the other one.
---------------------
Nothing
They build from nothing, worship none.
They teach the void to every child.
And in the end when all is done —
the world becomes the void gone wild.
---------------------
The Cuckoo
Tell us, cuckoo, tell us true —
how long must we remain in Hell,
where minds are stripped and broken too,
where reason’s been the first to fell?
When will this chaos fade away,
this total filth, this brutal tide —
this source of rot that rules the day,
the root of all that’s gone awry?
When will the fascist beast be fed
and finally choke on what it made?
When will our world, once thought long dead,
return from its distorted shade?
That world — once like a living garden —
when will it rise from global cage?
When will the stance of blind submission
vanish like a fading page?
When will the sparks of mind return,
the scattered fragments of the light?
When will the sleeping masses learn
they stand upon a pile of night?
When will the zombie screens go silent,
their endless noise dissolve to dust?
When will we live — not bowed, compliant —
but free from chains of fear and trust?
But the cuckoo is silent now —
no answer echoes through the air.
We must dissolve this ocean somehow
of suffering, corruption, despair.
---------------------
Cuckoo
No answer comes. The bird is gone.
Only the silence stays behind.
And we must burn the darkness on
the ocean of a sleeping mind.
---------------------
Asylum
White coats everywhere you turn —
a global madhouse in command.
Always ready to return,
while conscience waits on shifting sand.
Brazen clerks and office kings,
lawless rule in every street.
“Obey,” they say, “and bear these things —
your role is simply to submit.”
Police are everywhere in ranks —
a world of creeping fascist law.
They tighten bolts, they lock the planks —
and fools endure, without a flaw.
The world’s great idiot at the core —
the chief “patient” of this place.
On this planet, more and more,
it’s dullness that now sets the pace.
They numb the crowds, erase the wise,
and crush all sparks of clearer thought.
The Spirit bleeds, the living dies —
by inhuman hands is brought.
But this asylum will collapse —
this global madhouse built on lies.
These empty faces will at last
be buried where the darkness lies.
---------------------
Madhouse World
White coats rule a world insane.
Fools in charge, and truth is gone.
But every cage will crack again —
and end where it began at dawn.
---------------------
Total Gloom
Stupidity is boundless here,
no horizon left in sight.
Rot and filth are everywhere —
and all is sinking into night.
Not sleep — but something deeper still,
a waking death, a hollow man.
Not passing years, not aging ill —
but cosmic darkness in its span.
A crowd of fools walks straight to slaughter,
offering themselves in line.
They trust the false “healers” that
betray them every single time.
The inhuman laughs in silence,
while the wise are few and thin.
But soon the turning wheel of violence
brings the fire closing in.
Only the beasts will fall and perish,
and with them all who bow in chains.
For in this place no life can flourish
that feeds on lies and blind remains.
The Sun grows brighter, burning steadily,
consuming all that’s built from dust.
So burn with it — rise up already —
and break this prison made of rust.
---------------------
No Light
No light, no mind, no waking trace.
Only decay in endless night.
But fire comes to cleanse this place —
and turn the dark into the light.
---------------------
Station “Total Mess”
A tiny wagon of madness
stands right on the mainline track.
And we, in the station’s sadness,
stop by for a drink on the way back.
A medical train is arriving —
it comes to “heal” the weak and blind.
It dreams that by curing the failing
it’ll erase the foolish kind.
A special express keeps on rolling —
it carries officials away.
From there they will send us their spoiling,
their garbage that rots in our veins.
For now we think only with stomachs,
our skulls just for cracking nuts.
The age of the whip and the flogging
has turned us to garden cuts.
We bloom in a zone of exclusion,
rebelling in dreams alone.
In mind there is only confusion,
and fear has become our throne.
And prison trains, black as iron,
are sent by our “leaders” above,
while we drink the world’s own poison
and drown in it, night and day.
Only vomit is truth now spoken,
rebranded and sold as light.
We’re ready for any work order
as long as we feed and sleep at night.
So eat, all the people of station,
sleep deep — all else is dust and rust.
We’ll reach the state of degradation —
minced flesh in a frozen trust.
we’ll leave our familiar home.
A station of endless alignment —
where no one remembers where they’ve come.
---------------------
Terminal Station
We ride a track of broken minds.
We eat, we sleep, we fade away.
The train of order tightly binds —
and calls it life from day to day.
---------------------
In Muzzles
“Poets” in muzzles are scribbling on nations —
lines no one dignified wants to read.
Their filth now is raised as salvation,
while children are trained to believe and to bleed.
At least have the shame to conceal it —
your face on a banner in iron disguise.
Hell on Earth has fully revealed it —
no place for the spirit where reason dies.
Will we still paint portraits in oils
with toilets placed over the head?
Not just broken minds and their foibles —
but fate of all souls that are dead.
The broken in thought turn to science of lies,
the broken in spirit to hollowed-out prayer.
Fascism jokes in disguise,
breeding “viruses” from poisoned air.
At the signal of fear they’ll impose the muzzle,
commanding all mouths to be sealed.
Walk on all fours — what a puzzle!
The last ones in madhouse are killed.
Worse than decay, than corruption or ending
can no longer be named or be found.
Fear and betrayal are blending —
the world has sunk into ground.
---------------------
Muzzled World
They muzzle thought and call it truth.
They train the young to kneel and fall.
But when the mind is fully soothed —
there’s nothing human left at all.
---------------------
Darkness
Nothing ahead — do not wait
for Hell to dissolve on its own.
Inhuman rulers dictate fate,
the mind fades out, the heart’s barely known.
Every word here is twisted and false,
and rumor leaves scars on the soul.
The head overflows with fear’s pulse —
fascism advances in silence and control.
As always, it wears human face,
“care” for the weak is its claim.
But stupidity spreads through the place —
and disaster will answer its name.
Those who once fought the new fascist wave
are no longer the same as before.
For unity now is a struggle to save
what fragments of spirit remain at the core.
So gather as one in this suffocating night —
let resistance ignite like flame.
And bring down the system of lies and blight,
putting end to its rotten name.
---------------------
No Light Left
No future waits — no end will come.
The mind is dim, the heart runs thin.
But even in this choking gloom —
we rise together to strike within.
---------------------
Fascism Will Not Pass!
Primitive fascism has entered each home,
it “heals” the fools with its venom.
You cannot delay or postpone
the fight with this rotten phenomenon.
So let us unite in a sacred stand
against this vile infestation.
With Truth like armor in your hand,
or shielded by divine protection.
Strike down the lies, build communities strong —
the best tools in this raging war.
Disrupt all their plans before long —
for beasts have no place anymore.
Do not be afraid — all is already lost,
and time is now running thin.
No whining will pay the final cost —
for mercy lives not in their skin.
This devil is only a shadow, a fraud,
a trick that has entered the mind.
If you do not resist its flawed code —
you are left behind.
But victory comes through this fire and trial —
the fascist will fall and decay.
And God stands beside you the while —
for freedom shall rise from the fray.
---------------------
Will Not Pass
No fear — the battle’s already begun.
No delay — the time is near.
Stand firm beneath truth and Sun —
and fascism disappears.
---------------------
Be Like a Rock
In the nightmare of “being” itself,
become a rock without fear.
Only in that transformation
can your Soul be reborn here.
Not the end of feeling or life,
but a sign of unbroken will.
When the world is a storm full of lies,
stand firm — let no falsehood instill.
Expect nothing at all in this place —
in this Hell, all hopes turn to dust.
Here fascism shows its true face,
and fools, liars, and blind ones combust.
Forget what you once thought you knew —
truth here is buried in lies.
From childhood this prison grew,
with “teachers” that dull every mind.
Do not whimper, do not complain —
a rock holds no tears to release.
What matters is breaking the chain
of all that denies inner peace.
Cast away every trace of debris —
your mind is a landfill of noise.
Focus on Spirit alone — let it be,
even if fire destroys.
For Spirit will burn even stone
that you forged from despair and fear.
And through it you’ll rise on your own —
beyond the dull darkness here.
---------------------
Be the Rock
Become the rock — endure the night.
Let Spirit carve you, burn you through.
For only those who hold the light
can rise where all the false things blew.
---------------------
A Children’s Song About Fascism
Tilly-tilly, trally-wally,
fascism came to town.
Didn’t see it?
Battered, lied to, bent and balled —
all “for good”…
you didn’t see it?
We inject — it’s “for your healing,”
poison dressed as kindly feeling.
Branding cattle, neat and clean —
soon no sickness will be seen.
For the camp will cure all illness,
heal the world with iron stillness.
Talk of other paths is useless —
only death proves truly “truthless.”
Plague-like screens now spread the story,
every home consumed by worry.
Line up, citizens, in rows —
learn the language slave-voice knows.
We will build a “Health” dimension —
happiness through mass submission.
Those who refuse will be “treated” —
bullet-clean, no harm repeated.
Straight to paradise we send them,
out of cages we extend them.
Rejoice, dear crowd, be well, be fed —
depend on shots until you’re dead.
---------------------
Song of “Care”
Tilly-tilly, line up fast.
Fear is care that’s built to last.
They heal you with a poisoned hand —
and call it saving all the land.
---------------------
Matrix of Desires
A matrix of desires
the inhuman designs —
like endless games and fires
to fill up empty minds.
How do you keep them tethered?
The answer’s simple, plain:
“Freedom” — neatly weathered,
food that numbs the brain.
You think that you are choosing —
a phone, a brand, a screen.
But slowly you’re just losing
what “freedom” once had been.
And struggle for consumption
is called a “life” today.
Conformity’s assumption
is price you have to pay.
Mass-produced injection
— each one a willing slave.
A test of full subjection
is all that it can save.
Then only hollow stomachs
replace the human mind.
From cradle straight to coffin —
no exit you will find.
New phones are called “advancement,”
new lies are called “progress.”
And truth becomes abandonment
in forests of distress.
For minds must flee this system —
this Hell without disguise.
A global zoo of kingdom
spreads everywhere it lies.
---------------------
Desire Machine
They sell you choice, they sell you need.
They cage you soft, they call it free.
But every want they make you feed
is just another chain on thee.
---------------------
Serpentarium
The split into “humans” and “creatures”
has ended under plague-like rule.
A world serpentarium features —
where Hell has broken its last rule.
For those who still remain as human,
it’s time to build from broken ground.
Though every step feels worn and numbing,
leave this filth that drowns you down.
We must create new communities —
there is no other road ahead.
Delay now brings only ruin,
for Reason’s light is growing dead.
No life will grow where fascism
becomes the law of every day.
Where Spirit dies in tragic rhythm,
and fools inherit all decay.
No mind can think within this madhouse,
no love can bloom in such a place.
No dignity survives the black house
of global Sodom’s iron face.
And though the task feels heavy, broken,
and strength within you starts to fail,
and darkness wraps around the soul — then
hold Spirit’s light against the gale.
---------------------
Hold the Light
A world gone wrong, a cage of fear.
Yet still we build from shattered stone.
For even in this dying sphere —
the light of Spirit stands alone.
---------------------
The Soul
It forever beats and trembles
inside a fragile, broken shell.
Let it thin and disassemble —
this body, fading into hell.
Only toward the Spirit’s dwelling,
away from worlds of endless pain.
You are not just passive viewing —
you are what they try to chain.
Caught within this iron prison
for the weight of past mistakes.
Once the ancestors had vision —
now only foolishness awakes.
No greater shame, no darker nation,
no more horrifying place.
It is not life — it is frustration,
a mockery of human race.
No sarcasm can ever measure
this dump of broken, rotting sight.
We wait now for the final pressure —
the strike that ends this endless night.
Yet only Sun brings consolation,
growing stronger, burning true.
It will purge all this creation —
boil away what’s false and through.
---------------------
Soul and Sun
The soul endures in fading skin.
But light will burn the prison through.
And when the final fire begins —
only truth will still be true.
---------------------
Fury
There is nothing left to fear —
only rage to hold inside.
Settle scores and make it clear
with those who chose to harm and lie.
In a world of endless slaughter,
only fury has its worth.
For the fools — the bitter order,
for the broken — silent earth.
Hatred of the fascist current
is the guiding, burning sign.
As for idiocy rampant —
let it drown in lies malign.
World-scale fascism keeps on growing,
spreading rot through every vein.
It demands the world be broken,
with stupidity as its chain.
So do not waste your strength on pity
for the minds that cannot rise.
They will drag you down to city
of exhausted, empty ties.
Seek the ones with clear perception,
build your strength on solid ground.
Lost minds offer no redemption —
here the limit has been found.
Decomposition is complete there —
like a corpse that will not wake.
Only unity can meet there
those who still refuse to break.
We will let the fury rise up!
We will drive the filth away!
Do not wait — and do not dry up!
Step into the fight today!
---------------------
Fury Unchained
No fear remains — only fire.
No silence now — only fight.
Stand together, rise up higher —
and break the chains of endless night.
---------------------
Proportionality
Little of the path remains now,
and much of it is stained with filth.
Fatigue begins to weigh us down —
on body, mind, and inner will.
The deeper still you move inside
this universal shameful fall,
the faster to the end you glide —
for death has soaked and shaped it all.
The death of mind, of skill, of fire,
the death of every living spark.
No childish game, no light desire —
just parasites that crawl in dark.
Here only decomposition grows —
expanded now by constant force.
Honor and conscience nothing knows,
while thieves and fascists take their course.
And the more you trudge through this place,
the more the filth adheres and clings.
Damn this weary, hollow “human race” —
a mass that lost all grounding things.
In death there may be liberation
from this stinking earthly chain.
But only if, in confrontation,
you fought corruption face to face.
---------------------
Balance of Decay
The road is short, the filth is vast.
Each step brings weight of dust and pain.
But those who fight it to the last —
are not consumed by its domain.
---------------------
Revelations
Concepts are dead — they turn to dust.
Revelation is what remains.
So stand your ground, unyielding, just —
and face it all with fearless flames.
Look only deep into the root
through the Inner Eye alone.
That is how lies are finally cut
and poisoned systems overthrown.
The fascist rot has poisoned
every teaching left behind.
Even joy has been destroyed —
left in ruins, deaf and blind.
All lies become completely clear
when seen with vision turned within.
The only sorrow left is here —
the time we waste within this din.
On heaps of false and rotten tales,
written by corrupted hands.
A kennel of deceit prevails —
a madness no one understands.
Strengthen intuition’s fire,
strike all falsehood where it grows.
Continue inner sight’s desire —
let spiritual vision overflow.
Only the Inner Voice will guide you
when illusion starts to break.
And truth will split the lies inside you —
so you may see in battle’s wake.
---------------------
Inner Sight
Old ideas die — vision remains.
Look within and break the lies.
Only inner fire sustains —
and truth is born when blindness dies.
---------------------
By Touch Alone
Move always by mere feeling,
no trust left for anything.
You walk through night’s concealing,
through desert voids that thought can’t bring.
Your only friend is silence,
the wind that cuts and bends.
In pockets — only emptiness,
and you yourself must make amends.
Much ground has been already taken,
and one truth stands revealed:
if you don’t want your life to break —
cast off all rot and refuse yield.
Let it appear in other dresses,
in polished words or painted lies.
For only falsehood still possesses
those who deceive with masked disguise.
And where you find a fragment shining
of something that resembles truth —
beware the hook that lies behind it,
to bind and trap and swallow you.
Here all is built on exploitation,
every pause becomes a snare.
A storm of mind’s castration —
fascism rising everywhere.
And only through relentless motion
can you endure and pass it through,
this slow decay, this dark corrosion —
and leave behind this endless night for true.
---------------------
Through the Dark
No trust remains — just step and go.
Through desert night and empty sound.
Only in motion truth will grow —
and break the chains that bind you down.
---------------------
From Hell into Hell
I almost greet this illness —
the end is drawing near.
Each passing day feels emptier,
and demons gather here.
And those same vile creatures,
the ones already here,
they seem like hollow features —
their reason disappeared.
We move from one abyss now
straight into deeper night.
The world’s become a zoo-house
where fascist beasts delight.
They staged their grand corruption,
and nearly killed all light.
They multiplied deception
and strangled human sight.
Only scraps of reason
remain within this place.
To die would end the season —
but vengeance keeps its place.
At least with words I strike them,
with verses sharp and cold.
With every line I write them
a nail into their soul.
The Sun will burn it all down,
its fire growing wide.
It will erase this hellbound town —
and end its final tide.
---------------------
Hell Within Hell
From hell we walk to deeper flame.
The mind decays, the sun grows near.
But even ashes speak their name —
and vengeance holds us here.
---------------------
Eugene Onegin
Onegin is mere human refuse,
a cheap clown, hollow mannequin.
This image serves the world’s excuses —
for every mind too weak within.
He marks the limit of “elite” —
at best, a fit of weary gloom.
No Spirit, Reason left to meet —
just empty talk inside the room.
For true elite is flame and creation,
the Spirit burning, sharp and high.
But there begins degeneration —
madness, betrayal, false reply.
Already then — pure vanity,
inflated ego, frozen pride.
And from that mix of vanity
tyranny grows and multiplies.
A blend of freaks and empty thinkers,
of hired hands and executioners.
Onegin stands among the drinkers
of hollow phrases, dying words.
And so today this fascist order
is served by those once called “elite.”
Their foolishness knows no border —
a traitor’s final, fallen seat.
They sold themselves to darker masters,
betrayed the soul, betrayed the kin.
And now their poison spreads much faster —
through liars, thieves, and frauds within.
Only deceivers hold the levers,
only executioners command.
Corruption reaches its last fever —
their minds are dust, their world is sand.
---------------------
Onegin’s Fall
Once called elite — now hollow shell.
A mask for rot, a voice of lies.
And what they build leads straight to Hell —
where even truth inside them dies.
---------------------
The Path
The blind now leads the deaf one,
and deaf one “knows” the way.
He repeats it like a mantra —
the route he must obey.
Ahead stands one unthinking
who “checks” the line they tread.
His face is cold and gloomy,
like judgment hanging dead.
The roadside sinks in filth now,
potholes in every stride.
This road leads straight to bottom —
no turning, no escape, no side.
Like meek and broken creatures
they move toward the ground,
oppressed by endless features
of suffering all around.
All misery is manufactured,
this path was always here.
The foolish and the fractured
have minds of noise and fear.
And with that mental static
their route was carefully drawn.
So walk your fate erratic —
until your will is gone.
Or you’ll be left beside it,
lost in the mud and grime.
They’ve drained all power inside you —
no human left, just slime.
Such are the roads of madness
within this global cage.
The rules are built on sadness,
and man is ruled like prey.
---------------------
The Road
The blind leads deaf through endless night.
They walk a path they cannot see.
And all becomes controlled “by right” —
a road that ends in slavery.
---------------------
The Fools
For fools, all things are fitting,
for fools, all falls in line.
For that is how the system
lets stupid minds incline.
Only the simple-minded
can serve this kind of reign.
A rule of minds so blinded
that humans live in pain.
In this global madhouse,
where fools are everywhere,
they stand obedient, powerless,
and see no truth, no air.
The cop is just a simpleton,
the clerk — the same dull face.
The “doctor” wears deception
and serves the ruling race.
A fascist-linked creation —
this is the final scheme.
For wise men — degradation,
for beasts — a feeding dream.
But this asylum will not prosper,
it cannot long endure.
And all those hollow faces
will fall — that much is sure.
---------------------
Fools’ World
The fools obey, the fools command.
The world is run by empty minds.
But every cage, no matter planned —
will break when truth its path finds.
---------------------
Wretchedness
All is dull, all is sorrow,
no way to live in this place.
Consciousness barely can follow,
love is a fading trace.
You can love only the spiritual —
others are animal things.
Hollow, confused and peripheral,
blind to whatever truth brings.
Friendship exists with the thinking —
idiocy turns you away.
In this world slowly sinking,
creativity fades each day.
Creation alone is the saving,
everything else turns to dust.
Here in the grip of enslaving
inhuman rulers we trust.
Few can unite in resistance —
only complainers remain.
Soon there will rise in existence
darkness both savage and plain.
Only the Sun gives a promise,
growing in fire and might.
It will burn down all the madness —
end of the world made of night.
---------------------
Darkness and Light
All is decay, all is cold.
Few still carry inner flame.
But Sun will rise and break the hold —
and burn this world of shame.
---------------------
What a Foolish Crowd
While fools still trust in what is said,
we find it easier to hold our tread.
A dullness now so deep and wide —
no need for weapons, no need for fight inside.
A fool does not require a gun —
a single jab, and he is done.
No excess lives are needed here —
just trim the herd without a tear.
While traitors multiply like sand,
we may enact our own demand.
For treachery has reached such height,
no other tools are needed now in sight.
Just feed the traitors, let them roam —
they’ll turn on fools and bring them home.
They’ll write that plague has filled the air,
and justify the world’s despair.
As long as fools still walk the land,
a “virus” is easy to command.
And thus our task becomes so plain —
we deal in harvests born of pain.
We lie, we frighten, we control,
and label truth as fractured soul.
Whoever doubts is marked insane —
and silence spreads across the plain.
The rule is simple, sharp, and cold —
multiply lies until they hold.
For just a word, a feared refrain,
we sacrifice all ties again.
---------------------
Rule of Lies
When fools believe, control is near.
When lies are strong, truth disappears.
And fear alone will steer the herd —
till nothing human is left here.
---------------------
The Savages of the Mumba–Yumba Tribe
Mumba — Mumba — Yumba,
we are savages at heart.
Everything is rough here,
jungle, altar, broken art.
Our chief is just a villain,
a shameless lying seer.
We worship only stomachs —
the mind is used for fear.
Vicious like hyenas,
broken slaves in endless line.
We delight in treason,
and the war-drum’s biting sign.
Soon you will be falling
if you do not sell your kin.
No reward for crawling,
honor never lives in sin.
Yet not all are Yumba —
some are still of honest clay.
No executioners among them,
no souls that lead astray.
But we… we are not like them —
we are something raw and bare.
No soul left to guide us —
just beasts that linger there.
---------------------
Mumba–Yumba
Savages laugh, savages fall.
Truth is gone in jungle flame.
Some remain human after all —
others wear the beast’s own name.
---------------------
The Moth
A good idea — but execution: zero.
The main deceiver there, a moth-like hero.
All bright intentions twist with ease,
and you get struck if you don’t seize the chance to flee.
I wrote a couple poems on this theme, half-blind,
not fully careful — only later did I find
the sting behind it all, the greedy face,
the hollow pride, the void of grace.
A movement once called “ISKR” — that was the name.
I gave it slack, for form can tame a flame.
But everything there froze in place —
those days have vanished without trace.
No more can you grind water in a useless well —
a dark night falls, a deeper spell.
So don’t count profits, Schmidt’s percent —
but help build communities instead.
---------------------
Moth of Ideas
Good idea — poor execution.
All is frozen, hollowed out.
Only action brings solution —
not endless spinning doubt.
---------------------
The Hollow Ones
The empty cannot love the hollow —
no matter how they try or feel.
A feeble mind, so small, so shallow,
can’t grasp a world that’s vast and real.
Who trembles, shaken by his terror,
can never build a lasting home.
His life becomes a path of error —
a slaughterhouse, or endless roam.
Whoever betrays the inner foundations
will never know the heights of Light.
No chains, no hollow limitations
can hold back Spirit’s rising might.
And so the Leper World will burn,
for daring once to touch the Flame.
But this is only theirs to learn —
the servants of a fascist shame.
---------------------
Reaction
For reaction to the “barnavirus” fear,
there is one verdict only — death.
The inhuman system makes it clear:
it strips the fools of mind and breath.
The Earth won’t bear such filth forever —
this is not how humans are made.
It tolerated madness, folly, whatever…
but this — complete collapse and decay.
These muzzle-wearing, broken creatures
don’t deserve to tread this ground.
The Sun will rise with cleansing features —
and burn the parasite-life down.
---------------------
Gas…
A cow lets go — the climate warms,
and suddenly you’re back in form.
As if the beast were yours to kill,
and life would simply calm and still.
The sun grows hotter — not the blame
of cattle farting in the frame.
Each year it burns a little more,
yet none will call it what it’s for.
No nation dares to face the truth —
fascism rules in modern suit.
Everywhere the same old lie,
and idiocy reaching sky.
The fool is sprawled, well-deserved fall —
now Evil seems to rule it all.
But from this Hell that walks as land,
only the filth will burn in sand.
The Spirit rises, light returns,
for those whose inner fire burns.
But empty souls — Earth’s deepest scar —
are swept away, as ashes are.
---------------------
To the “Pioneers” of Fascism
Pioneers, be ever ready
to betray again, once more.
Spread your lies — make them steady,
build your chains and push for war.
Let your reward be secret stashes,
coins of Judas, hoarded shame.
Books are burned to fading ashes —
same old pattern, new the game.
We’ve seen this face in darker ages,
from the Reich it crawls anew.
Now it wears medical stages —
with a needle pointed through.
Pour the filth out, keep it flowing,
from the screens that rot the mind.
Every lie keeps power growing —
every truth is left behind.
And be ready — not for glory,
but for ropes that end your pride.
Fascism repeats its story —
and your reward is death inside.
---------------------
The Zombified
The zombified “little humans” —
bio-waste, or walking dead —
soon the inhuman will summon
their dominion to the head.
TV clowns, the so-called leaders,
speak in noise, in empty lies.
Every broadcast only feeds us
chains that multiply disguise.
When two-thirds are hollow zombies,
this whole world is nearly gone.
Worse than bombs or flying comets —
a collapse of mind and dawn.
We are living at the ending,
worse disgrace there cannot be.
The result is now descending —
this is final tragedy.
And it comes — yes, very nearly,
no escape and no delay.
All of us will vanish, clearly —
blown from here and swept away.
---------------------
The Highest Measure of Punishment
It’s time for the highest sentence
to be given to every fool.
Children follow their example —
and darkness now sets the rule.
Small comfort: they’re fed their “remedies”,
forced down like poison and waste.
While TV howls its battle melodies —
a war in a zombified haze.
Isolate all the idiots,
the psychopathic “rulers” too.
Only by cutting out all of this
can anything living get through.
It sounds like hope — but reality’s harder:
fascism already reigns.
Executions will soon grow darker —
as inhuman power remains.
But their frenzy is nearing ending,
this shameful madhouse will fall.
The Earth itself is suspending
its patience — it’s done with it all.
And the Sun will rise in fury,
burning this fascist dome.
No verdict more pure, more surely —
than fire that cleanses the scum from home.
---------------------
Shmurdyak
Shmurdyak holds nano blades inside,
that cut your vessels from within.
So when will we rise and fight this tide?
Or is man just a moth again?
Graphene oxide — those hidden blades —
a “gift” the inhuman ones prepared.
Rise up, people, break these shades —
for lies are now completely bared.
---------------------
Take Off the Muzzles
Take off the muzzles, you creatures —
you’re killing your own children here.
The filthy fascist deceivers
want first their bones to disappear.
They want to turn them to hollowed,
soulless slaves of global pain,
while you, obedient, swallowed
like sheep beneath a devil’s reign.
Of course, all these words “into space”
have long been understood by mind.
But you know only servile place —
and waves of lies you’re used to find.
---------------------
The Snow Queen
“We can try to build the word ‘eternity’ from shards of ice,
or simply end the Snow Queen.”
(from Karpov, 2012)
We sow the clusters of fury,
we unmask the lie and grime.
This is no queen — only sewer,
genocide in place of time.
Under fascist domination
stands a half-insane mankind.
All must die in their creation —
Mengele is what they enshrine.
Their deceit is vast and towering,
Goebbels himself falls behind.
And the herd of fools empowering
calls it “law” within their mind.
But the only law remaining
is decay of mind and soul,
spirit crushed and truth abstaining
in a heap of filth and coal.
That filth is called “our world” today —
once alive, now pale and worn.
It turned into a sewered way,
a ruin, sick and overborne.
So only purge remains before us —
there is no other road.
Or this madness, growing horrid,
becomes a devil’s abode.
---------------------
Dust and Rot
In this world, everything is just dust to the eyes —
a hollow film for restless, playful youth.
That dust is already turning to rot in disguise,
mutating under the weight of “techno-truth”.
And it’s no longer a film, but a waking nightmare
seen by children who never grew.
That nightmare is not in a house — it’s there,
in a stinking barn where decay breaks through.
Where hospitals stood, now a vet stamps
passports for dogs in an empty line.
No need for prison beds or camps —
the whole world’s a cage by design.
It is punishment for a world gone numb,
where fools now form the largest part.
A lying idol has long become
the ruler over every heart.
They call it Moloch — their sacred flame,
a god of fraud and empty breath.
Traitors are honoured in its name,
and truth is drowned in oceans of death.
The thinking ones fade into sorrow and pain,
replaced by fools with vacant stare.
And still they breed — this hollow strain —
of mindless birds without a care.
But not for long will they keep their song —
the world will burn like plague-ridden halls.
You cannot kill the Mind for long
without an answer that darkness falls.
---------------------
Pavlov’s Dog
They give you forgetfulness of past experience,
so you may learn this Hell again and again.
In this infernal place you are merely endurance —
a lab-rat in cages designed for pain.
And Pavlov himself is replaced by the inhuman,
by those who conduct this grotesque design.
For God, we are fragments — conditioned and human —
like Pavlov’s dog in a godless line.
The world is no longer the world you remember —
only a stench of enclosure and cage.
A foul-smelling cell where the “herd” is assembled,
fit only for cattle in this age.
From childhood they train you — they call it education,
but only reward and punishment reign.
These methods belong to a beastly creation
that drives living consciousness into strain.
When you are enclosed in a pen of obedience,
your spirit no longer can rise or see.
No space for thought in that dark residence —
a madhouse of nonsense and tyranny.
You are not cattle — you are spirit and essence,
yet few understand this simple truth.
So fools are released into systems of absence,
from schools that deform the mind in youth.
Reflexes cannot touch what is higher —
the brain is but relay, nothing more.
Survival, desire, and bodily fire
are secondary forces at the core.
The Spirit alone is the first and the real one —
its triumph the meaning of all that is.
So fear not death — let illusion be sealed then —
this stinking madhouse will cease to exist.
For those who bowed to the inhuman rulers,
for cages that shaped us like Pavlov’s test —
the fire will come for all broken tutors —
and only the Spirit will stand as blessed.
---------------------
The Final Intensity
“Everything must be hardened to diamond strength,
the whole thickness of existence burned through.
And if there is not enough fuel in the furnace —
Lord, then take my flesh as fuel.”
— Maximilian Voloshin, Readiness (1921)
Intensity is no longer enough —
only an explosion will do.
For the whole inhuman world has already
released its venom through and through.
The tear in the fabric of being is terrible —
this world is already condemned.
And humans have lost all inner center,
idols of fascism rule their end.
That fascism may dress as healer,
in robes of medicine and care,
but its “treatment” only lengthens
the path to ruin laid out there.
These days are few — the end of story,
history reaching its final line.
The sting of poisoned injections
will finish what must decline.
The few who think cannot repair it —
they are too small against the night.
Soon darkness will fully inherit
this fascist age of fading light.
And only burning purification
of this plague-ridden wreck and mess
can bring the Spirit liberation —
in Spirit only is endlessness.
---------------------
The Shameful Bedlam
There can be no love inside slavery’s borders,
no friendship survives in such chains of decay.
No High Path exists in these fallen orders —
we serve only filth in this bedlam of clay.
All striving of Spirit is rendered infertile —
a slave by his nature is barred from all doors.
What reaches the ear, already tired and brittle,
is half-truth and lies and nothing but noise.
The mind cannot grow in a free, open motion —
you’re pressed by evil from cradle to grave.
All knowledge in Hell is a hollow distortion,
and even the simple takes years to engrave.
The complex has long become utterly hopeless —
involution strikes everything down in one blow.
All things here are rotten, grotesque and shapeless —
a storm of decay in perpetual flow.
And only the genocide of numbness and reason
has been unleashed by this inhuman hand.
Its goal is to turn every soul into treason
against what a human was meant to withstand.
The darkest of truths is that no one here measures
the depth of enslavement they live and endure.
That blindness itself has become like a leprosy —
a rot that reduces the mind to manure.
And if we do not annihilate this inhuman force,
nothing will remain in the end of this line.
Only death and entropy multiply course —
and Earth itself will be lost in decline.
---------------------
Cleaning
Center yourself only in Spirit,
sweep all the clutter from mind.
Cast out every “truth” you inherit —
your thoughts are looped and confined.
There whirl repetitive patterns —
you were shaped, suppressed, and bound.
Layers of lies were implanted in patterns,
and inhuman rule spreads all around.
You have one single indicator —
intuition: trust it alone.
The fascist deceiver, the divider,
spreads chaos across every zone.
Check every stream of new “information” —
the internet floods you with noise.
You walk through a darkened simulation —
only Inner Light you should employ.
Reflected light in this madness is broken,
it bends and distorts what is real.
In this place no help will be spoken —
no mercy the system will feel.
You are at war here — always remember.
To lose is to lose your own soul.
Avoid every hidden deep danger,
and seek those who share your goal.
This Hell is filled with countless traps here —
one lapse, and you vanish from sight.
The inhuman sting kills through fear here —
but Spirit alone gives you might.
Do not fear now. Fear is too late —
the battle is nearly done.
But still we can, firm and straight,
wipe out what this darkness has spawned.
---------------------
Tatiana and the Glutton Cat
Tatiana — my chief reader,
the cat — my harshest, strangest curse.
And yet, at life’s slow final theater,
even small harmony feels like verse.
My world has long since grown much smaller —
I spit on the idiotic din.
I’d drown my mind in drink and sorrow,
but that would not remove the sin.
For all the clutter’s gone from thinking,
hope is for fools who cannot see.
Even the chains are now unlinked — and
there’s nothing left to bind or free.
I’ve often looked Death in the face now,
and this “sanitary fascist care”
only brings laughter to the place now —
I’ve lived withdrawn, in cold despair.
The Hellish cynic noise behind me
I left outside the door long past.
I melted self — what once defined me —
a trace of “I” is all that lasts.
That alloy hardened into fire,
and later turned itself to verse —
to stand against this “brave new empire”
of fools, delusion, and worse.
I accept nothing of this age here —
only one thing still feels true:
the Sun will soon erase this stage here
and burn away this filth anew.
---------------------
Design
On websites — design for the dim,
for those who barely read or think.
What little strength remains within
is spent on scrolling every link.
The outcome of this dulling game
is clear — a global madhouse built.
Cartoons for minds without a frame,
for heads already bent and wilt.
The damaged ones are many here —
a quiet, creeping genocide.
The inhuman sting draws near
your mind, if it’s asleep inside.
And thinkers now are few and fading,
like rare birds lost beyond the sky.
A species quietly degrading —
and soon the mind itself will die.
A camp will rise, cold and efficient,
no place for those who still can see.
On fascism’s white flag, insistent,
a crimson cross will the answer be.
To centuries of blind illusion,
to cycles of control and fear,
you’ll be restrained through injection —
with guards who feel no conscience here.
For prisons of the mind require
so little effort to maintain —
the silent crowd, the subdued choir,
won’t even think to break the chain.
So let the thinking ones unite now,
give fascism its final fight.
Let go of life if need be right now —
and leave this madhouse of the night.
---------------------
Selling-Out Filth
To grasp the sell-out creatures’ mind
is beyond what normal brains can do.
They don’t care who they leave behind —
just how much profit they can chew.
To sell themselves for fascist change,
for pennies — that’s their normal trade.
Not humans now, but vermin strange,
or shadow-beasts the Dark has made.
They kill with “medicine” and lies,
with every cough turned into fate.
Doctors turned execution spies,
and officials drenched in hate.
And here decay has reached its peak —
there’s nowhere lower left to fall.
We stand where human lines grow weak,
as fascist rule devours all.
“New Homo” now may wear a crown
if he is filth that sells its soul.
Both mind and spirit burn down —
a genocide that takes control.
This New Bedlam must be torn apart —
no matter what the cost may be.
To Judas-filth, to fascist heart —
we answer with defiance free.
---------------------
Dialogue with Death
A dialogue with Death—
a strangely simple game.
For “life” in its last breath
becomes a science of the same.
When nothing’s fully done,
though much still lies in reach,
Death’s fog begins to run—
and fear begins to teach.
It gives you one more chance,
your guardian still stays near.
Though everything in trance
has drowned the Earth in fear,
you still must stand and fight,
create while strength remains.
Don’t bow to fascist night,
don’t yield to broken brains.
For now they are the crowd,
no light is left to see.
The monsters sing out loud—
yet songs end finally.
For Death is just the scale
that balances all debt.
The Earth itself will pale,
and traitors choke and sweat.
The informants fall,
the liars, thieves, and lies.
The vile ones lose it all—
the masks, the games, the guise.
And those with hearts made clean
will leave this hell behind,
through gates of what has been
an opening of mind.
No road returns again—
no backward step is true.
For Death removes the chain,
and makes the broken new.
---------------------
Contract Killing
Killers—poor fools at best,
cheap little brainless scum.
They knock off some small pest—
and call it “justice done.”
But the big paid-out “hits”
are made by journal hacks.
Wherever their writing sits,
death stains the paper tracks.
Lies are like bombs with timers—
sooner or later they blow.
False tests and false primers
silently kill below.
They lick the fascist masters,
obedient pen in hand.
Cooking up small disasters
for fools who don’t understand.
There are the “scientists” of lies
who twist the facts on cue,
trained in distortion’s guise
to poison what is true.
Gangsters of fake narration,
pseudo-academic thrash.
Doctors of cooperation
mixed with a Mengele mash.
Those “doctors” once were hanging
beside the SS press.
Now fascist hands are clanging—
their end will be no less.
For all who served that system,
the rope will take its toll.
The forest of execution
will claim their final role.
---------------------
The Human Question
The mind now suffers in a cage of disgrace—
a cage where the whole world seems to reside.
Only one thing gives a faint saving grace:
we’ll soon leave this stinking world behind.
In this foul sewer, corruption expands—
honor and reason are dragged through the mud.
Soon will arise the next generations
who’ll happily drown in the rising flood.
Vile creatures have long since taken command—
subhuman masters, their sycophants near.
For Spirit itself, this place is a shooting range—
it’s hunted by night and erased by fear.
Traitors are swarming in endless supply,
madmen and sadists now form a whole class.
Genocide deepens—it climbs ever high,
resistance reduced to a weakening gasp.
The only true path is to join and unite—
yet ego dissolves every bond we could build.
Now only the fools can still scream into night,
on that hope the global machine is fulfilled.
Since the mid-century, long ago set in motion,
a cleansing of Earth has been slowly prepared:
to halt the descent into brute-like erosion
of humans who never to wisdom have dared.
From galactic center a radiation came forth,
making the Sun burn a brighter new star.
Thus begins evaporation across all the Earth
of parasites clinging to what we are.
Earth is beyond us—supremely aware,
and mad creatures here are no longer required.
We squandered the right to exist anywhere—
that is the answer the human asked for and acquired.
---------------------
Worn-Out Record
A worn-out record keeps on spinning the same,
stuck in a loop at the end of the track.
A brainless herd with no will and no name
is chained and obedient—nothing held back.
The final result of this “progress” and gain
is a mindless loudmouth, a hollowed-out shell.
The Spirit is gone, there is only disdain—
and genocide stands as the law here in hell.
Fascist bastards are building their “new world” with pride,
but all of the jokes have already grown thin.
The world has been turned into shooting-range time—
where humanity now is the target within.
The sniper is subhuman, hidden from sight,
his bullets replaced by the needle and jab.
The fascists have gone completely off-night—
and man has been reduced to a lab rat, a scrap.
The subhuman now is the counted “one,”
the second is lost to the logic of pain.
A concentration camp isn’t coming—it’s done,
it stands at your window like permanent stain.
And the digital prison has long been deployed,
its walls are invisible, code-made and clean.
“Goodness” is printed where truth is destroyed,
and human itself is declared obscene.
But the monsters arrived too late with their reign—
for Death will become what delivers release.
And even Death will be welcomed again
when the Earth itself cracks and refuses to cease.
For those who resisted and never bowed low,
who never knelt down to the herd or the lie,
who fought for the Spirit and refused to go—
will not accept Bedlam, but rise or not die.
---------------------
Animals
When thought is no longer desired,
and all that remains is to feed,
the sum of the creature acquired
becomes a foul herd in need.
Mindless and brutish in masses,
they smother all reason in sight.
They turn what is human to ashes—
a triumph of darkness and spite.
Nothing forbade them from thinking,
yet choice was to drift with the tide.
To breed, to lie down, keep on eating—
the proven way reason has died.
There is still a minimum measure
of mind any being may hold,
but fate does not dictate that pressure—
the spirit must choose to be bold.
For beasts are to blame for their ruin—
they sold out the Spirit inside.
And ever their numbers are growing,
the armies where fascists reside.
Their slaughterhouses now are nations—
this “country” is what they became.
And past are the hot generations—
now hybrid war rules the game.
With needles of poison injected,
they kill one another like swine.
Inventing diseases invented—
they swallow each lie as divine.
The fools will believe every story,
and charge straight ahead to collide—
obedient, hollow, and sorry,
the puppets of fascist-made lies.
---------------------
Tension
Release the tension building inside
when everything feels too tight.
For every nerve that’s stretched wide
can help you survive this fight.
But to stretch every nerve like a bow
and release it as sharp as a blade,
remember the law you must know—
the tired will never invade the shade.
By the rule of the pyramid’s rise,
multiply every effort you make.
The fascist decay then dies,
and with it—the lie and its fake.
This struggle will not be brief—
so learn how to spread your force.
Though the world is drowned in belief,
we’ll carve out a new-course source.
We’ll drive out the fascist disease,
destroy every bought-and-sold breed.
So always mend wounds with ease—
stay ready for action and need.
For struggle is not a mere game,
not a joke or a passing phrase.
The laughter is gone—only flame
and desert before us stays.
Now live by the laws of the wasteland,
seek only the faithful few.
For even here they still stand—
amid the infernal crew.
Communities rise in this desert,
and squads within every clan.
Be bold and unwavering—present:
we’ll forge this success of man.
---------------------
False Accusation
By the rules of a hopeless game,
by the will of heart and mind,
I build my worlds in flame—
on heaps of filth combined.
I know I’m barely ever heard,
memory turns thin and torn.
Yet while my head remains my word,
I forge the word into a horn.
For long I’ve stood here on my own—
it’s hard to find a hand that stays.
So I’ll be like a ringing tone,
a herald on these ruined ways.
For beasts of inhuman design rage free,
yet poetry once held its might:
it always rebuilt the link we need
with Spirit in a world grown night.
Let all my labor prove in vain—
I will not bow to fascist grime.
If even two young minds remain
inspired, it’s worth my time.
For poetry in youthful thought
keeps the will to live alive,
to fight the filth that must be fought,
to think, to love, to build, to strive.
---------------------
Frogs
Frogs are slowly boiling
in a pot of water wide.
If you’re just a croaker—
learn to stay inside.
Learn to be a “meal now,”
forget the flying fly.
Crawl along the bottom,
don’t resist—don’t try.
Be prepared for losses—
mud and hungry brood.
Life becomes a cooking,
nothing else is viewed.
Songs about the boiling
you will learn by heart.
Even “indigestion”
may become your art.
He who eats the frogs here
calls himself the lord.
Be obedient to him—
break the muddy cord.
You will reach a city
with a giant vat.
That becomes the verdict
frogs are living at.
Happiness is simmering.
Joy is being food.
This is what we’re building—
life in mud is crude.
---------------------
The Ostrich
It’s good to be an ostrich,
head stuck in the sand.
Hide away your vision—
truth you won’t withstand.
Feathers softly ruffled,
nothing seems to scare.
Always calm and careless,
free from worldly care.
Let the other beasts here
snarl and squeal in rage.
You will calmly wander
straight into your cage.
Tail will soon be plucked off,
you’ll become a stew.
All around is slaughter—
still you have no clue.
Wild and brutal hunting
of all living things.
Vile inhuman sickness
all destruction brings.
From your fallen body
pillows will be made.
Feathers turned to comfort—
“mercy” is a shade.
Keep on hiding deeper
head down in the dirt.
Soon you’ll be their dinner—
that’s the final word.
---------------------
Poems
I write my poems from nothing at once,
in barely half an hour’s span.
In them I strike down the foul ones—
the fascist and vicious man.
No other themes matter to me—
love in this Hell is a joke.
I’ll tear through their system and structure
until the whole scam is broke.
Poetry is a weapon of power
in any real fight for truth.
Not many inherit that talent—
to sharpen a rage in their youth.
I aim just to kindle that fury—
for monsters are beaten that way.
And if I achieve even little
along it, then I will stay—
not here in vain or forgotten,
though I’ve stood so close to the end.
Danger has hardened my spirit,
and strength it has learned to send.
So fear nothing here that surrounds you—
it’s worse than what death can impart.
Center yourself and be steady—
and fascism cracks apart.
Let’s multiply rage into fire!
Let’s give it a merciless form!
It will not rise from its graveyard—
and drag all inhumanity down in the storm.
---------------------
Chemtrails
Aluminum drifting everywhere,
barium, strontium in the sky—
from chemical trails in poisoned air
the inhuman forces don’t even try
to hide their work: they erase the land,
they kill the Earth with a steady hand.
And all of our food is already tainted—
pesticides serve that very role.
We’ve crossed the bottom, fully acquainted
with the depth where nothing is whole.
Toxins are added into the water,
slow-acting poison in every pill.
And fascist crowds, louder and fatter,
celebrate their creeping kill.
The subhuman multiplies efforts,
destroying both mind and soul.
Humanity shows only weakness—
not humans, but bought-out control.
So many have sold themselves fully,
the dull ones now form the majority.
And now we are counting the “progress”
of civilization’s authority:
it is nothing but evil triumphant—
a collapse in a polished disguise.
And this den of filth will be ended—
a stain in the cosmic skies.
So be glad if you’re not among them—
not part of the hollowed-out hive.
For this kind of sickness must vanish,
be burned out so life can survive.
---------------------
Work
We’ll set the Darkness blazing bright—
that is the work before us here.
No place for filth in human sight,
let all that filth just disappear.
We’ll tear apart this living Hell,
destroy the servants of the lie.
Let every vile creation fall—
the root of madness, let it die.
For here they spread deceit alone,
and weaken every human mind.
So strengthen will and break the throne
of lies that keep the world confined.
The Sun will stand upon our side—
its fire grows ever more intense.
Death to the beasts that now preside!
They’ll answer for it all in recompense.
---------------------
Ode to the Lackeys
Let’s sing an ode to crawling men—
to “high and mighty masters.”
They turned the world to madhouse then,
yet live in calm and laughter.
Let sycophants rejoice and grin,
and stack their silver treasure.
Let every petty wish begin—
until they drown in pleasure.
They’ll hang upon the city poles,
or meet the blade and firing.
Though now we walk in blinded roles
with fools the world inspiring.
The fools will fall—there’s poison brew.
The strong will stand together.
No gallows left for all the crew—
the guns will come back ever.
So serve your fascist masters well,
oppress and grind the nation.
Give injections, make life a hell—
we answer with retaliation:
with bullet, blade, and final breath—
our answer is not pleading.
For every lie you serve as death,
you’ll meet the truth in bleeding.
---------------------
False Accusation
Futile hopes are all around,
and fruitless every task we try.
Only ignorance is found—
officials, cops, and fools nearby.
Madness, treason, shame and greed
are spreading everywhere in sight.
Only decay grows at full speed—
we are the waste, the blight.
A stain we are upon the skies,
forgetting Spirit long ago.
We do not hear the soul that cries,
nor feel its quiet glow.
We’ve turned into unthinking slaves,
obedient as herded stock.
We crawl like beasts inside our caves,
like moles beneath the rock.
And so the Earth will one day sweep
us clean like dust without a name,
for we are lost in chaos deep—
consumed by mindless flame.
---------------------
Weakness
Weakness spreads, the rot grows tall,
Wild lies crawl and swamp it all.
Fascist scum now rules the day,
World turns camp in bleak display.
Last true humans fade away,
Something nameless comes to stay.
Turning idiot is easy done,
If you are nothing—less than one.
Taught to betray and to comply,
To swallow filth that passes by.
If lies around you fill the sky,
If weak in spirit, mind—comply.
So let us leave this idiot land,
Of traitors, liars, out of hand.
This choking filth will meet its fate,
And find reward at Judas’ gate.
There will be judgment, not too small,
A cleansing fire will burn them all.
That sacred blaze, a piercing thorn,
Will end this stench, this rotten scorn.
---------------------
Shitty Times
These times don’t simply come and go —
We step right into them below,
Like in the dark you tread on filth you didn’t know.
No chance, no fate, no random flow —
Just price we pay for servile “yes” and bending low.
And time itself won’t drift away,
When war is declared on every day,
Yet we can’t bind ourselves, can’t stand and stay.
A veil is thrown across our way —
The worst of plagues, more than delirium can display.
We’ll pay for all we’ve done and been —
For every silence, every sin,
For all we never dared to fight and win.
The root is deeper than the skin —
Forgetfulness of Spirit is where it all begins.
---------------------
Don’t Buy It, Don’t Sell Out
Don’t buy the lies they sell as truth,
Don’t sell yourself to crawling brute.
Just multiply your effort, stand,
And tear apart this Bedlam land.
Let fools surround you, thick as night,
Let all look lost, no end in sight.
Let darkness swallow every view —
Resistance is the law for you.
Only this way you’ll save your soul
Within this hell that makes men whole.
Only this way your mind stays clear
Amid the madness reigning here.
---------------------
The First Principle
Submit to nothing—stand your ground,
And send the herd of beasts around.
Unite with minds that still are sound—
That is the root where truth is found.
Fascism sends its empty deals,
And stirs the fools with iron wheels.
But if you don’t accept its terms,
Their power fades, their profit burns—no chains, no seals.
A world of no submission grows,
So trust no word this madness throws.
The beast rules through confusion’s spell,
Through lies that drag all minds to hell.
It’s time to cut this rotten thread,
Build living clans where truth is bred.
Step over every trap they set,
Or else you fall among the dead.
---------------------
“It Will Be…”
“It will be fine” — the idiot’s prayer and spell,
But never was, nor is—it’s just a swampy hell.
Only decay and blind mass-conditioning reign,
While Reason sleeps beneath the rising stain.
Forgotten is the SPIRIT—source of all creation,
Now crowds of servile minds in mass degradation.
No “fine” will come from this disgraceful Bedlam scene—
It will be burned to ash, and all will be clean.
---------------------
Liposuction
Lena, tell me where
this liposuction’s done—
you and Tanya there
are a faction, one.
Like a passing baton—
for the overweight—
when their song is gone,
you expand their weight.
Masters of the game,
athletes of the trade,
and the fat’s your frame—
your scoring parade.
Like a bobsled bean,
hundred kilos strong,
racing through the scene—
to the finish long.
---------------------
Lena
Lena travels through Italy,
though Italians she disdains—
far too slim about the waistline,
too self-centered in their ways.
Here her granddaughter’s blooming,
born in Moscow, strong and bright.
Lena drifts like a cloud in motion,
light and careless in her flight.
Soon she’ll ride a broom like current,
launching off a springboard high—
no more “lumpy pancakes” failures,
every try will soar and fly.
So beware, all Italy—
Lena rises, giant free!
---------------------
One-Dimensional World
A one-dimensional idiot’s world,
where money is the only scale, unfurled
already turns the stomach, makes you choke,
you feel a rising urge to strike and poke.
You want to leave it all, renounce, withdraw,
a hermit starving on some barren floor.
How foul it is, how hollow, how untrue—
a spiritual death is looking through.
Each passing age makes madness multiply,
the sludge of reason slowly running dry.
In this foul swamp of endless rotten noise,
not even sarcasm retains its poise.
No humble silence, no complaint, no prayer
can heal the ruin rotting in the air.
The soul and mind are both decayed and sold—
this is the “being” we are now told.
Betrayal now is just another trade,
if only payment makes the bargain paid.
The only task that truly still remains—
to break this foolish world of chains and stains.
For these dim fools will soon erase the last
remaining sparks of humans holding fast.
These hollow puppets, blind and out of phase,
are marionettes of darker ancient ways.
The inhuman now rules with skill and fear,
with money as its god, both far and near.
So time has come to act, no more delay—
to face the world’s deep Evil and its sway.
---------------------
Wormhole
In every soul there’s always a worm inside,
a parasitic seed that won’t subside.
With it, life feels unplugged, drained out and still,
and reason sinks into a sleeping will.
As if the inhuman has quietly slipped in
and settled at the roots of all you’ve been.
You find yourself reduced to servant state,
and so it goes—until your final fate.
This ancient age of bondage and control
has shaped the rot inside the human soul,
where vulgarity was bred as daily norm,
and fools were manufactured in the swarm.
A thousand methods now exist and grow
to steal your strength, to make your energies go.
The inhuman consumes what you supply—
its feeding on the dim and blinded eye.
The idiot is what it brings to life,
a product of this age of poisoned strife.
With toxins mixed into the mental stream,
it manufactures fools as from a dream.
If we do not expel this hidden foe,
no human path will further here be so.
No longer servant to this hollow game—
you’ll serve the Hell that calls you by your name.
---------------------
School for Fools
“A train goes by, carrying the containers of Sheina Solomonovna Trachtenberg… and all of Russia, stepping onto wind-cleared platforms, looks it in the eye and reads what is written there—
a fleeting book of its own life: pointless, dull, and graceless, assembled by incompetent commissions and pitiful, dulled men.”
— Sasha Sokolov, School for Fools (1973)
The clever Sasha Sokolov
wrote his School for Fools, you know—
and now that same mad creation
stands alive as mass damnation.
If he saw this living hell,
saw the beast where reason fell,
saw the fascist rot unfold,
he would burn with shame and cold.
He would tear his pages wide,
rip the words he once supplied.
What is there left to create
when the soul has left its state?
Now the world is stripped of mind,
money rules the human kind.
That is why it bows and bends
to the fascist that it tends.
So this slow, collective blight
turns the spirit into night.
Most are no longer truly men—
just the feeding of the pen.
So we need to write once more
another book, a different door—
a novel titled, sharp and clear:
University of Absurdity here.
---------------------
The Sea
Before you lies a sea of filth and waste,
and you are swimming there with practiced haste.
The “crown of creation” now is made to float
like a young fool splashing in a poisoned moat.
That sewage is what life is called today—
there is no other world, no other way.
And every stroke you take in that abyss
returns as loss you cannot quite dismiss.
You lose your health, your wit, your inner flame,
you spend your soul and barely notice shame.
Through this infernal forge you’re tempered slow,
until inside you only darkness grows.
They say the soul is tested, shaped by pain—
a tale repeated once and yet again.
But Hell is not a school for higher light—
it only breeds corruption in its night.
A vengeance of the filth that rules this place,
the filth that brought this genocide to space.
And if we do not kill this spreading stain,
we’ll face far deeper, irretrievable pain.
The final loss will not be flesh or breath—
but loss of something deeper still than death.
So even if your path seems bleak and crude,
seek out the root beneath this falsehood’s food.
Only the inner sight can pierce the lie,
can find the truth no outward eye can spy.
Only through that you break the binding chain,
and win the soul’s release from this domain.
---------------------
Clown Show
In this world, each man’s a clown—
a bitter jester, painted frown.
From childhood they are gently bound
by Judas-lies that swirl around.
This endless circus, loud and blind,
has turned itself to god of mind.
Beneath the fascist beast’s command,
the world applauds its sinking land.
The inhuman has lost its fear,
and spreads its rot from year to year.
And in the heart it carves its stain—
a dust of dullness, loss, and pain.
A dust of world where fools are crowned,
where reason’s voice is never found.
The lyre of thought lies broken still,
while beasts perform their hollow thrill.
Soon only beasts will walk the earth,
their twisted faces ruling worth.
They drown all light in endless grime,
and call it order, truth, and time.
But evil always comes around—
a law that shakes the deepest ground.
And Hell itself will start to quake
when spirit leaves this rotten state.
Like parasites, they’ll be swept clean,
the filthy hosts of what has been.
So do not store your bitter pain—
for mind and spirit rise again.
A world of reason, clear and true,
not this obscene, decaying zoo—
not this foul sewer of despair,
but breath of something pure and rare.
---------------------
Googlish Sludge
A stinking pile of Googlish sludge—
a spy-soaked heap of rot and grudge.
Not search at all, but poisoned feed,
a new soft chain, a planted seed.
No longer search—just iron control,
censorship eating at the soul.
The slave is now unfit to find,
his only role: to be confined.
To listen, swallow, nod and kneel,
digest the lies they make him feel.
And fascist power spreads its stain,
a branded mark upon the brain.
All books are fading into dust,
forgotten honor, broken trust.
No conscience left, no human law—
just hollow noise and grinding flaw.
Total enslavement rules the screen,
a filthy circus, loud and mean.
Only abuse and mockery grow,
a shameful, never-ending show.
The inhuman slips poison news—
the dullest herd accepts its cues.
And mindless crowds will gladly eat
whatever garbage they’re to meet.
Only lies and pseudo-truth
rise to the top and rot the youth.
Those rotten agents, cold and vile,
serve cattle minds in poisoned style.
They call it “search”—a bitter joke
upon the reason they broke.
And there’s such filth inside the stream—
as if Lucifer owns the dream.
---------------------
Involution “Fool–Imbecile”
The fool will always be the target
on which all real forces feed.
For those dark powers it is market—
if he turns fully into creed.
No longer “as”—that age has vanished,
the idiot now is most of all.
And humankind is slowly banished,
while vile ones celebrate its fall.
When fools become a spreading sickness,
so dense you cannot draw a breath,
it is the inhuman’s gladness,
that twists our path toward mental death.
Their main concern, those hidden masters,
is how to kill the inner soul.
And all their sour, spreading disasters
will make no place for man at all.
And only union of the few
remaining minds that still resist
can slow the rot that breaks us through
and turns us into something beast.
Beasts without honor, will, or fire,
obedient cattle at the end of days,
where on the fascist flag’s entire
white field—the red mark simply sways
for dullards lost in hollow haze.
---------------------
Creativity
When desperation creeps in near,
and life in this Hell feels like decay,
recall the old truth crystal-clear—
you came here only to create your way.
All else is just the trick of lies,
a poisonous system built on chains.
You live where bloody chaos lies,
and staying whole takes heavy strains.
And you will vanish, lost and broken,
if you just dance to strange tune.
If all the roots are left unspoken
among the mindless stone and dune.
Those roots are Spirit’s upward yearning,
a bond with Nature, firm and true.
But here the mind is slowly burning,
while filth and ugliness break through.
That filth now rules by lies and force,
by violence, by bought betrayal.
It seeks to kill the inner source—
the spark that keeps the soul from failure.
To turn us into hollow shells,
without a trace of conscience, light, or name,
and in this place where nothing dwells
but madness, prison, guilt, and shame.
Here slavery lives inside the brain,
betrayal passes for a skill.
No whip is needed for this chain—
a newer lie will serve it still.
But only by creating, risking all,
you save your soul within this wrecked domain.
Step onto that path—stand tall—
or you will disappear in vain.
---------------------
Knowledge
Almost every piece of “knowledge”
is just a dump of deadened words,
as if a contest, stage and college,
for recruiting obedient herds.
For donkeys rush toward “knowledge” gladly,
you can sell them any disguise.
It only needs to taste quite badly—
or better yet, be wrapped in lies.
And donkeys follow, row by row,
a marching line toward the blade.
While one who thinks walks soft and slow,
a wounded bird in unequal raid.
The wise refuse each incantation,
the “truths” that bind the foolish mind.
Despite the curses, condemnation,
he seeks the root that none can find.
Those roots are Spirit’s upward motion,
a living bond with Nature’s flame.
He tracks the world’s deep decomposition,
where only filth now stakes its claim.
That filth has crowned insanity
as normal life in donkey-halls.
Yet blind and dull humanity
still does not see the tightening walls.
So now they rule through pure destruction,
their craft reduced to blunt decay.
Evil has reached such full eruption
that God feels distant, far away.
And total cleansing, swift and final,
will sweep this shameful world away—
for Spirit crushed by mindless viral
a world prepared for beasts to stay.
---------------------
Tinsel
“The gift of the poet is to caress and to scratch,
a fatal mark upon his brow.
I wanted to wed the white rose
with the black toad upon this earth.”
— Sergei Yesenin, 1923
With cheap and gaudy tinsel wrapped around
the minds of those unlucky since their birth,
their reason is so tightly bound and drowned
they drift like swine across this cursed earth.
Only the swine in this foul, stinking hall
can welcome all these “prizes” thrown their way—
those fairy tales of happiness that fall
like cardboard heavens in a game they play.
A temple this—but built for Satan’s will,
where only slavery and rot reside.
For thinking minds it turns the stomach still,
a bitter mix no reason can abide.
A mixture of betrayal, lust, and lies,
a toad-and-blossom hybrid, crude and vain.
But reckoning will come before our eyes—
the word of judgment breaking through the chain.
Those “golden distant vistas” they once named
will burn beneath the Final Day’s great fire.
Perhaps Yesenin drank and cursed and flamed—
but saw, in truth, that blaze climb ever higher.
And poets burn themselves in vain,
their hearts and nerves consumed in silent pain.
Each hour here decay spreads more and more—
a world that calls for cleansing at its core.
---------------------
Images
You carry a false constructed face—
a polished mask that isn’t you at all.
For where else does this cruelty find place,
this dull world built on instinct, blind and small?
Only masks exist in this domain,
a theater of borrowed, hollow skin.
You don’t live in a world—you live in aim,
a shooting range of lies you’re trapped within.
No—these aren’t masks, they’re grotesque forms of strain,
a circus of deformity and shame.
So drop the poker face, the tired feign—
you’re not here playing cards in some fake game.
Take absolute and ruthless honesty
into your final fight with Hell itself.
No fame, no name, no carved identity—
just be yourself, and nothing else.
If you strip away deception from your “self,”
you’ll find more strength in every blow you take.
You won’t be dreaming of escape or help,
you’ll learn to answer “no” to fate’s mistake.
For fate here is not kind, nor neutral ground—
this Hell was never built for gentle lives.
To call it heaven is insane and unsound,
a thought only a broken mind contrives.
So be sincere, and fight with all you’ve got,
even if hope is something you can’t claim.
In this insane world—rotting, tightly wrought—
the sane are called insane just for their flame.
---------------------
Strike the Same Point
Keep striking the same exact point,
hold steady as long as you can.
If you’re a poet—one line per day joined,
if you’re a blogger—don’t stall, but plan.
Work through the lies of the fascist invention
that drags this whole world toward the pit.
Soon there will be no human dimension—
just digital excrement, processed and split.
But you must not give in to your fear here—
anxiety weakens the fight.
Be a rock in the swamp, stay severe here,
and do not submit to what’s “right.”
If drops keep striking the same single surface,
they’re no longer drops—they become a stream.
Harden your words with a steel-born purpose,
let them cut like a blade through a dream.
For now it is only a trickle of truth here,
but soon it will grow into flood.
You must keep working—there is no excuse here,
this is the sole oath understood.
That current will break through all barriers built here,
will wash away fascism’s reign—
that force which turns humans to cattle,
and empties the mind from the brain.
---------------------
In the Labyrinth
“Parents give birth,
Destroyers corrode,
Publishers lead us,
Writers implode…
…
And if it is all still the same,
my dear Vladimir, my friend—
shall we again lay our hands on it?
Though hands we no longer have…
—Even if we have no hands,
my dear Sergei, my brother,
against this kingdom as well
we shall plant a grenade.
And on the melted sunrise
we ourselves shall set it—
we shall set it, Vladimir!
—We shall set it, Sergei!”
— Marina Tsvetaeva, 1930
They lead us and birth us through labyrinth ways,
like lab-rats confined from the start of our days.
They carve in us patterns of beastly design—
the fascist intent is painfully plain.
The rotten inhuman seeks here to arrange
a cattle-like pen in a world meant for man.
And fear must be amplified, widened, and strange—
so fake “virus” myths serve the broader plan.
From childhood they drench us in engineered haze,
in poison, confusion, and mass stupefaction.
No need for old weapons in such broken days—
the herd walks to slaughter in self-guided fashion.
With needles and toxins they slowly erase,
with “care” that is false and with doctors of fraud.
And spirit itself they are aiming to chase—
to break every inner remaining law.
A single vast prison they plan for the earth—
the crown of “progress,” the end of all time.
Where every man bows without dignity, worth—
the final perfection of system and crime.
But Nature does not tolerate ruin and lie—
this global Bedlam will soon be burned down.
For baseness can never be foundation or sky—
and inhuman madness will fall with a frown.
---------------------
Dispelling the Fog
The fog has lifted, special forces through,
and fools rejoice as if the trick came true.
It’s all staged theatre, fabricated scenes—
a world that swallows trash like broken dreams.
No need for tangled plots or clever schemes,
just forge a fake and call it truth, it seems.
The answer always given in the end:
“Some evil men are blocking you, my friend.”
And so the “solution” now is plain and clear—
increase control, and multiply the fear.
Watch every step, keep tightening the grip—
and imbeciles will call it freedom’s gift.
Invent a virus, beat the drums of dread,
proclaim that only shots can save the dead.
With poisoned needles, herd the dazed and numb,
and prove the whole world’s sick, deaf, and dumb.
The only sickness here is lost in mind—
mad fascist logic breeding humankind.
Through endless screens they spread a trance-like spell,
and call that nightmare life itself as well.
Most humans now are mentally unwell,
while thinkers feel like insects in a shell.
So ends the story—nothing more to add,
in simple words: the whole thing’s gone quite bad.
---------------------
Mold
Experiment:
Mold was split into several fragments and evenly placed within a maze field. Within a few hours it expanded, reconnecting all scattered pieces and filling nearly every possible path. When oatmeal flakes were placed at the maze exit, the mold crawled out of every dead end and formed the most efficient routes toward food.
Even mold can find its way through a maze,
where reward lies waiting at the end of the run.
Yet humans here perish like screws in a haze
inside a machine where the oil is gone.
A structure is built just to hide what is clear,
where even the mold shows a better design.
For mind and for spirit it brings only fear—
a flight cut short before it can climb.
Pseudo-science keeps spinning its lies,
ignoring the world’s subtle threads and flow.
And human dignity further decries
each bond that they sever, each truth they let go.
It serves only systems of mechanical will,
its purpose reduced to manipulation’s art.
In truth it is bound to fascist skill—
to keep us asleep and torn apart.
For when all consciousness merges as one,
the parasites vanish from hellish domains.
So they turn us to cattle, each and every one,
to preserve what they harvest, to keep what remains.
Only true knowledge can open the gate,
where every being is part of the whole.
Strengthen your spirit, awaken your state—
and we reach the bright freedom of soul.
---------------------
News-Stream
All mainstream news-streams and films
are run by only a chosen few.
And what it builds is human imbeciles—
a herd that serves whatever monsters do.
Those monsters crawled up from the lower flame—
an inhuman force against mankind.
The world lies under fascist shame,
buried beneath a mountain of lies and grind.
This falsehood is learned from childhood days,
a “world” that blocks your inner sight.
For lies are the strongest tool always
of occupation—slowest poison in the light.
But the real world is spiritual in core,
the body just a temporary shell.
It needs no “leader” anymore—
that role belongs to salamanders of hell.
To dogs that form into mindless packs,
that know no other path or fate,
whose only answer is barking attacks
at trumpet calls that resonate.
And here it is fascists who sound the call,
through screens that broadcast endless trance.
And down you fall, you lose it all,
into a world made for beasts by chance.
They want to turn all people to cattle—
easier then to control and steer.
This rotten flood, this constant battle,
has turned the whole world into smear.
So switch off the mainstream, break the spell,
turn on your intuition instead.
Return to the real world you knew so well—
bring back the paradise once dead.
---------------------
Butt-Shaking Spectacle
Pop-stage butt-shaking spectacle,
and “rock” turned into degenerate noise,
march in fascist spectacle—
else this circus would lose its poise.
If you strike with hollow “rock” and sound
the schemes of genocidal lies,
then back on the liars it will rebound—
if that “rock” still has no disguise.
I wrote to every so-called “rock” band,
offered them verses, sharp and raw.
Inside—just corpses, barely stand,
or roosters pecking without law.
No answer ever came my way,
as if they vanished into dust.
All hid in burrows, cold and gray—
not people, just a swarm of rust.
My “Baranovirus” I sent out wide
when brainless madness took its reign.
I did not wait, did not hide—
just watched the fools embrace the chain.
As if it took so much to bring
some living words into this place,
to strike the fascist beasts with sting
and rip their hollow guts in haste.
Too late to fear—it’s all decreed,
this ending written in the sky.
Only resistance now is need
in final war before we die.
---------------------
Sun
“We shall be like the Sun.”
— Konstantin Balmont
Here in this so-called “world” they use “like” and “as”,
a world of templates swallowing half-thought minds.
Only a half-wit, a hollow farce,
fails to see through these mental blinds.
Be then the SUN itself—
burn down this stinking haze,
erase both shame and fear.
This Hell is ruled by rotting wraiths,
while God lies half-asleep in fools down here.
Each one is God in truth—
able to push this rotten “world” aside.
No need to beg for strength or proof,
just let the whole illusion slide.
Strength is enough if you are not blind,
if fear has lost its hold on you.
This stinking crypt must be purged from mind—
this rule of filth that passes for “truth.”
The Sun began
this blazing path—
now you must carry it through.
Forget what they drilled into your mind at last.
Burn down this stench—just BURN it through.
---------------------
The Ditch
“Same to you, fool!”—that’s all the reply
a fool is ever fit to give.
For idiot ranks are marching high,
too many here are taught to live.
They fill the halls of “state assembly,”
a circus of deformed display.
Slow-minded fools so proudly tremble,
then crawl back into holes away.
From every burrow they emit
their endless streams of empty noise,
expecting soon the whip will hit—
or exile to some frozen void.
Exile to camps where blunt fascism
“heals” them with its twisted cure,
while in the ditch its mechanism
prepares a grave for all unsure.
A mass grave dug by rotten hand,
by fake physicians, frauds and lies.
But fools are not a brotherhood—
let no such name their kind disguise.
So gather strength, resist the tide,
let fascist beasts choke on their shame.
And when their river of blood has dried,
we’ll cast them all into the same ditch.
---------------------
Anti-Fascism
There are no such things as “anti-vaxxers” here—
it’s only plain ANTI-FASCISM in disguise.
Where consciousness has faded into fear,
where only dull stupidity survives.
The rotten inhuman keeps tagging names
to strengthen global madness everywhere.
No “vaccine truth,” no lab remains—
just reason fading into empty air.
If there is “anti,” then there is its twin,
a counter-force wherever lies begin.
The word “corona” fits the fools within
who wear their ignorance like broken skin.
A kind of prosthesis for minds gone numb,
for crippled heads that lost all inner light.
They turned forgetfulness into their drum,
and march inside it day and night.
The inhuman is busy spreading decay,
corrupting thought with every breath it takes.
It only wants a forest cleared away—
a world of stumps and lifeless shapes.
So let us gather under anti-fascist flame,
build communities that break the lie.
Expel the fascists, call their system’s name,
and raise resistance till the night runs dry.
---------------------
Half a Kingdom
Half a kingdom for beer—
not for a horse at all.
We all “live happily” here,
like stumps that cannot fall.
The kingdoms have shrunk down
to cramped apartment cells—
a treacherous new crown
where every living soul dwells.
Like shooting ranges built
inside each narrow room,
where reason is slowly killed
and spirit meets its doom.
They always “hit the mark,”
always against the grain.
And in their iron dark
deception rules again.
So build the communes, break
out of these concrete bars.
Let struggle wide awake—
that’s how we reach the stars.
---------------------
Exams
The exams are all failed here,
no works of worth are born.
And where the Spirit should appear—
only cattle, weak and torn.
Assignments lie in ruin,
friends betrayed without a thought.
Instead of Knowledge glowing true—
just counterfeit and rot.
Betrayal is the occupation,
corruption everywhere.
A world of sick intoxication—
a cage of endless despair.
Here always stands the choice of slavery,
eternal stain and shame.
No filth is greater, no more depravity—
than this world’s hollow game.
So sweep it out without delay,
this refuse of the mind.
A great “sanitation” on its way
will leave no trace behind.
The great Collector soon will dock
at this decaying shore—
and all who serve the inhuman flock
go straight to hell once more.
---------------------
Poetry
To carve up tension into fragments—
that is what writing verse must be.
Those shards become your lines and patterns,
while you yourself just cease to be.
So this is Art—the Art of Dying,
no other road runs through this place.
In poems, trust the Death that’s lying
beneath each metaphor you trace.
For in this Hell, only Death is saving,
the only exit, gate, and key.
Through Death alone comes true engraving
of what your spirit longs to be.
And learning Death while still in breathing
is how this Hell can be defied.
For cowardly worms are never seething
where fascist shadows rule inside.
Only the “dead” know no more fear here,
only the worn-out dare to strike,
and laugh right in the enemy’s mirror—
since death is waiting anyway, alike.
---------------------
To the Lackeys of Fascism
Lick every boot that fascists wear,
and spread your censorship like flood.
Write your reports with fevered care,
and bind your neighbours in your mud.
Draft endless forms, decrees, commands,
and roll out plans on every shore—
plans that build prisons across all lands,
a global cell, a crimson war.
A “red-cross” crucifix for all mankind,
a staged and endless sacrifice.
For this, your Judas pay you’ll find—
a wagon full of silver price.
But fascist beasts will turn their face
and set new laws for firing squads.
You’ll be discarded without a trace—
just waste beneath their iron odds.
They’ll use you like disposable skin,
then toss you out when use is done.
They won’t even hear your whining spin—
that’s fascism’s method, rule, and run.
---------------------
To the Traitors
They betrayed, then sold it—
thirty coins of gold.
They devoured it, drank it,
now the price is told.
You will swing from gallows
for your fascist role,
feeding things that hollow—
death for every soul.
Measure out the rope now,
sniff the soap’s cold sting.
Shave your heads down slowly
for the loop to cling.
---------------------
World Bedlam
Shame and nausea, heavy and grey—
that’s the Bedlam where we rot and stay.
All is rotten, joyless decay,
a place where Reason is wiped away.
This Hell was built to erase the Spirit,
no place for humans in this abyss.
Only those turned to dung belong near it—
mad fools burning in fevered bliss.
Here is the place for fascist breeds,
for every shape of human rot,
for inhuman greed and crooked deeds,
for bought officials tied in knots.
They’ll get their “glory” made of filth,
their manure-throne, their final prize—
obedient clerks and doctors willed,
and cops with hollow, empty eyes.
But they will drown in what they made—
the critical mass of waste is near.
So take your shot, don’t hesitate,
the new sludge-dose is already here.
---------------------
Dead Desert
A dead and barren desert—
this mad and broken world.
From ancient times till present
its poverty is curled.
The inhuman rules the system,
man reduced to slave and tool,
drained by vampiric wisdom,
left hollow, weak, and fooled.
Stupidity is normal,
the Spirit almost gone.
This inhuman disorder
is shame on all that’s born.
No deeper form of scandal
has ever yet been made.
All hide inside their tunnels—
no reason left to stay.
But payment time is coming,
the reckoning arrives.
And those who serve the crawling
will lose their stolen lives.
---------------------
Lies, Greed and the “Law of the Strong”
“Lies, Greed and the ‘law of the strong’
are the true calling card of Creation—
not some sweet ‘Love and Light’ song,”
—Oleg Zemlyanin, 14 Sept 2021
Lies and greed and “right of might”
are the law that rules this Hell.
For a dull and broken human site,
no cries or prayers will tell.
No need here for justification—
genocide? just carry on.
And the deeper the degradation,
the more self-satisfied we’ve grown.
The inhuman feasts and flourishes,
while man is just a ruined slave.
And now their fury only nourishes
a rage this weak world gave.
So only one salvation lingers—
to erase this shameful Hell.
To hell with “heaven,” myths and whispers—
destroy the beast as well.
That vile and rotten aberration,
a stain on all the stars we know.
We’ve reached this final calculation:
all here is stench and wretched low.
---------------------
Loop of Pseudo-Life
The “loop of life” is pulled too tight—
and there is no escape for the throat.
All is distorted, grim, and trite,
no path for reason left afloat.
In this fascist kind of system
no mind or soul can be redeemed.
No room for truth, no place for wisdom—
only sorrow, cold and deamed.
And all the thinking ends the same way,
in one unbearable thought:
we’ve been lost along the pathway,
betrayed the fight we ought.
But only few will still be standing,
who fight it through to the end,
and cross the hidden line demanding
the Reaper’s final bend.
That harvest comes with steel and fire—
this Bedlam will be thrown away.
In Spirit only those aspire
who spurned this rot decay.
The rot of dying mind and feeling,
of fascism without end,
where not-men crawl like flies, revealing
their bow before inhuman trend.
The Sun’s own energy will sharpen
the Higher Worlds’ vibration lines.
This rotten branch will surely darken—
and Spirit alone will be your shrine.
---------------------
Experience
I once, as a child, perceived my own Soul—
a shift in awareness, a flicker of sight,
where Soul looked upon the small body in role,
a child at play, absorbing the light.
The Soul can depart from the body’s frame,
yet rarely is seen with human eye.
So courage is needed—always the same—
for “material life” is just passing by.
So listen within to the Voice that is true,
for evil here governs by craft and deceit.
To shatter its darkness, there’s only one move—
go inward, defying defeat.
And when you emerge at the right turning point,
destroying the fortress of lies and control,
you’ll find in yourself what they tried to disjoint—
strength and the truth of your soul.
You’ll see you’re not foolish, not hollow or small,
but something far greater than what you were told.
That power will gather and strengthen you all,
to drive out the genocide’s hold.
And Truth in the Spirit will rise once again—
so enter the final and desperate fight.
For only through struggle is salvation attained,
as Hell is now built in plain sight.
The inhuman hides, but if we unite
and build a new world of our own,
we’ll return to the Source and reclaim the Light—
while all that is rotten is gone.
---------------------
Ode to the Idiots
An ode I sing to idiots—
they are this world’s true grain.
Two thirds are born among us,
the rest are dust and stain.
That moth-like rest will soon be crushed,
for useless mouths must fall.
When idiots rise and take the brush,
they “heal” and fix us all.
They know each plague and symptom—
the screens have taught them well.
And soon their great “salvation”
will rise like hospital hell.
They’ll treat us from the cradle
through age and fading hair,
until the herd is stable—
one body, blank and bare.
And science is constructed
to only confirm the tale.
Proof is no longer needed—
it only slows the sale.
The base of all is belief now
in what is fixed for years.
Injections mark the value
of lives assigned their tiers.
Each person bears a label—
their worth to state and plan.
Too low? Then you are traitor
without a proof or scan.
So here’s advice for moths now:
become a fool in time,
bend daily like the ground-plow—
learn idiot ways sublime.
---------------------
Don’t Cling On
Don’t cling to what they call “life” here,
don’t trust a single word.
You stand at your own wake here—
a mind turned into dirt.
Abandon your last believing
in human purity—
only sulfur now is seeping
from every cavity.
Betrayal is just a trade here,
corruption the true law.
All around you, raw decay here—
a stench the Spirit saw.
A thousand years of chaining
have left their bitter trace:
obscenity remaining,
delusion in your face.
That madness flows like river
with no beginning, end.
And in this world of fever
disaster’s round the bend.
All ruin is prepared here
by fascist hands that rule.
Blood, shame, and lies are spread here—
a cynic’s endless school.
But now the system stumbles:
the Sun will burn this Hell.
A furnace soon will rumble
where all that rot must fall.
And only those who never
bowed down to filth and lies,
who trusted beasts, not ever,
and left this Bedlam—rise.
---------------------
Stereotypes
Mental “templates” strike you down
when built on lies alone.
From childhood on a flooding crown
of lies has overgrown.
That lie is mixed with grains of truth,
but just enough to show
you’re not surrounded only by filth—
and that is all you’ll know.
The mind is stirred into a brew
where slavery hides inside.
What’s real is faint, what’s false seems true—
and you just drift with pride.
So logic here is upside down,
a swamp of learned decay,
where man becomes a sleeping clown
that wastes himself away.
And pseudo-science builds the frame,
a warehouse full of fraud.
The inhuman plays its game—
a cage for thought is carved.
So test each claim they try to sell
with reason as your shield.
For fascist lies and poisoned spell
bite like a spider’s yield.
And first of all—refuse belief,
let intuition guide.
Your inner voice can cut through grief,
a lamp you hold inside.
For freedom is the final fight,
the aim that matters most.
If we retreat into the night,
we’ll all become a ghost.
---------------------
Workshop “Futile Labour”
The workshop “Futile Labour”
is built in every place
where reason loses favour
and minds are put in chains.
The fever of work-addiction
is danger at its peak—
it multiplies the selling
of souls the people keep.
The vile and rotten rulers
are strengthened by this grind.
No world remains, just mixtures
of idiots of all kinds.
For only one who’s broken
can fail to sense the blow,
when strength is slowly stolen
by labour that is “for show.”
Long since was it invented—
this cult of empty drive.
So stir your mud and praise it,
and call it sacred life.
That deity is fascism,
it changes masks each day:
first “communism’s” prism,
then new-born plague at play.
Now health becomes its target,
it watches every breath.
And “success” is marketed
as treatment close to death.
So that is how it functions
inside this fool’s asylum:
one needle of injection
now rules us more than iron.
---------------------
Actors and Little Directors
A ruthless “baranovirus” is felling
the ageing actors of our time,
while doctor-Judas clowns are telling
their lies as if they were sublime.
Fake tests are done on men and cattle,
a goat is “infected” too.
But death brings silence after battle—
no one spoke when the storm broke through.
When storms rolled over this old planet,
fascism “healed” the foolish mass.
The world became a stinking latrine—
a fake virus turned into iron glass.
If you are painter, writer, actor,
a famous director on the stage,
yet keep your silence with the matter—
you bear the mark of shameful age.
If old, don’t crawl to serve the liars
in your last moments of decay.
You’ll turn to filth among the fires
and wash your former deeds away.
That’s how things go in this dimension,
this foul and global human pit.
The traitors meet their final ending—
no resurrection left for it.
They’re swallowed by the dark familiar,
for fools adapt to every lie.
But even darkness burns in failure—
and all this madness soon will die.
---------------------
Work
You have a simple kind of duty—
to sort through all this living Hell.
No other task holds any beauty,
as madness fills the world as well.
If you begin to play the “citizen,”
the “son,” the “father” in the role,
the inhuman beasts will soon be with you—
and you won’t notice losing soul.
And that ending will be bitter—
you’ll sell your spirit for a lie.
The world is chained to ancient evil,
so emptiness is all that’s nigh.
So strengthen what is deep within you,
your intuition, mind, and fire.
Material life is just a rumor,
a thought imposed to blind desire.
Only in Spirit is salvation,
release from every heavy chain.
The Sun will bring its liberation—
and burn away fascist reign.
The Sun grows stronger through the ages,
evaporating filth from Earth.
So be more daring, wise, and steady—
and guard your soul from final death.
---------------------
A New World
To live by the old repetitions,
in genocide’s endless grind,
where lies exist in megaton emissions—
that is a suicide of mind.
The old world will not be returning,
forget your dreams of what was known.
This world is just a firing range of burning—
and you are in its sights alone.
So find companions bold and steady,
and build a world that’s truly new.
Seek out the wise, the strong, the ready—
for whom true freedom is the view.
Build communes, shared production,
exchange without the rule of gold.
Restore respect and fair instruction
where insult once had taken hold.
Sources of clean power are waiting,
nearly free for all mankind.
Not in discovery, but in creating—
and will is all that’s left to find.
The inhuman blocks each invention,
locks every patent, every door,
and feeds us waste with no redemption—
oil, decay, and poisoned core.
And never let it slip from knowing:
you stand inside a real war.
We are the soldiers, always growing
in what we’re struggling for.
This war is aimed at full erasure
of those who still can think and see.
But we will stop this slow damnation—
and wait for days when we are free.
---------------------
The Plans of the Inhumans
The vile inhuman brood once plotted
to drag us all into world war.
But the Sun already has rotted
the lice of Earth—and more and more
will sink with all their schemes and thunder.
Instead of war they staged a lie—
a “virus” made to cut life under,
to thin the herd and let it die.
No need for bombs or heavy firing,
just propaganda, sharp and loud.
It melts what little thought is still surviving,
and drowns all reason in the crowd.
Their lies are stronger than their tanks now,
their needles hit more than their guns.
So do not wait for justice—bank now
on reckoning that no one spares or shuns.
This end is coming, unavoidable—
the Sun will scour the Earth of grime.
But inhumanity, predictable,
refuses ever to bow to time.
So it rages harder, louder,
knowing its fall is already near.
Only the human will rise out of the slaughter—
the Earth reborn when skies are clear.
But only Spirit brings the renewal,
no place remains for traitor’s kin.
The inhuman and its cruel dual
will vanish, leaving no trace within.
---------------------
Stilts
Submission and dullness are stilts we are walking on,
carrying the world into nothing at all.
Along that road almost everyone’s fallen—
asleep for centuries, trapped in a crawl.
The path is all covered with markers and signals,
the inhuman hand guides each turn of the road.
Those flags have been leading through invisible riddles—
and the final bend has already been strode.
It’s no noble fate to march in that linkage—
you lose all your reason, your honour, your name.
And if you obey every cold piece of scriptage,
your soul is the price of that quiet shame.
So the vile inhuman is striving to render
the last of the thinking into pure decay.
No giants of reason remain to defend us,
no guiding idea to light up the way.
The Spirit is lost as a compass of living,
forgotten is what we once truly were.
And there is no escape from this prison we’re given
where soullessness reigns as the dominant blur.
Only one path remains—call down the fire,
and hope it will burn all this shame to the ground.
No longer endure while self is a liar—
let filth be erased where it’s endlessly found.
The inhuman falls, and we rise from the ashes—
the cleansing flame will not touch what is real.
For Spirit alone is what truly lasts and
the base of all life, what no power can steal.
---------------------
To Be or Not to Be?
To be or not to be?—
that is not the question.
Not when the mind is set free
by breaking all direction.
If reason is killed outright,
and chaos made a rule,
if madness becomes our light
and man a feeding tool—
then “not to be” is all that’s left,
the rest is only lie.
But still the inhuman theft
must be undone or die.
So we will call down the fire,
to fall upon our fate—
a flame that burns entire
and leaves no trace or state.
The Spirit alone remains,
the rest is dust and sand.
Await the turning of the ages,
the shift of sea and land.
A change that cracks the slave-built world
and sweeps away all shame,
where clear is every breath unfurled
and light returns its name.
---------------------
Don’t Cling
Don’t cling to this “life” you’re told—
is this what living means?
You stand at a funeral hold
of reason… in in-between scenes.
That slime is easily pressed
by fascism of the world.
It forces the dimmest best
to build the “ism” hurled.
That “ism” will sit like stone
stuck deep within the throat.
The thinking mind is thrown
into a guilty note.
The inhuman hates the trace
of even slightest mind.
And fools will soon embrace
what darkness there will find.
But it will be too late
to scream or rage or fight.
In Hell they’ll smash and break
all reason into night.
Yet Nature does not bend
to filth and rotten law.
To save what must defend
it restores the ancient core.
The bond of Earth and Sun
will steam this madness out,
burn all until it’s done—
no trace, no lie, no doubt.
The dull will fall like dust,
their age of rule will end.
For mindless rule is crust—
and fire will transcend.
---------------------
On the Ruins of a Country
The country lies in ruins,
madness on the throne.
Now beasts are in dominion—
and man is seen as plague alone.
They “cure” the so-called sickness
with needles made of rot.
The vile ensure in quickness
the mind is fully shot.
Obedient little bastards
will stay when all is done.
The jokes have turned to disasters—
there is no place for none.
Fascism now is reigning,
blind, primitive, and cold.
It never stops its chaining
of every mind too bold.
You are its main obsession,
its enemy of state:
you reject blind submission,
you do not trust their hate.
A flood of lies is rising,
it blocks out every light.
And fascist parasites are
preparing for the fight.
But there will come a answer—
a blow that sweeps them all.
The filth will meet disaster,
and tyrants too shall fall.
---------------------
The Lever
Law is a lever, they say—
you turn it and it obeys.
An old proverb at play,
truth bends in crooked ways.
“Let nothing go wrong”
has become the new law.
But it’s all just a wrong—
fear or the soul in a draw.
Such a hollow selection
was given by fascist design:
you either resist its direction
or build a new “ism” in line.
It’s easy to build a prison—
even one that spans the globe.
The world is drenched in lies and derision,
headfirst in a stinking robe.
Democrats drenched in poison
feed lies to the crowd each day,
so ancient corrupt nobles
now seem like saints at play.
But truth has already broken—
slavery’s deeper than before.
Throw down the lever you’ve chosen—
there’s time, but not much more.
Only a span of years remaining
to break the fascist chain,
to rise together, unchaining
the inhuman plague again.
---------------------
Pseudoscience
Lies, when repeated in darkness,
turn easily into “truth.”
Nobel-awarded remarkings
are stocked for the coming of youth.
For years of deceitful invention,
for darkness wrapped in a crown,
and the more absurd the intention,
the more the confusion goes down.
From halls of so-called “science”
—those polished and paid-for lies—
the inhuman builds compliance
from rumors it sanctifies.
They justify every madness,
every absurd decree.
The dull will swallow it gladly—
sheep, or goats, equally.
For these are no longer humans
who swallow each false refrain.
No voice can break their illusion—
for truth is just drifting pain.
But only when ovens are smoking
and ash fills the poisoned air,
will sleepers wake from their joking
and notice their bodies there.
And, as always, it comes too late
to bleat or bray or cry—
when herds are led through the gate
to be culled beneath the sky.
---------------------
Mad Slaves
The mad slave is a condition
shared by so many today.
They travel a long degradation
almost to swine in decay.
It’s total, slow decomposition
that’s lasted for ages and time.
And spirit is cut by incision—
no humans, just carcass and grime.
The vile inhuman has always
performed its quiet genocide.
For madness is cheaper for guarding—
it grazes and won’t run aside.
The slave believes he is free here,
and living the best of all worlds.
But nearing the end is the fever
of dreams that were tightly unfurled.
And suddenly dreams will be broken
when fascism reaches its peak,
when slaves, long misled and unspoken,
become but disgrace for the meek.
Then total annihilation
of this shameful earthly domain
will come as a strange liberation—
a space for a different plane.
---------------------
Life Is Worth Nothing
Life is worth nothing—
don’t swear by its name.
Yet what keeps unsettling
is how all bow in shame.
They’ve fallen to fascism,
their mouths tightly sealed.
And soon a new “ism”
will tighten the deal.
The screws will be turning,
life choked out of breath.
A gang of hate burning
will build a world of death.
A death for both reason
and spirit and root.
And in this dull prison
only donkeys are suited.
No others are welcome—
the global decay
will knead all like dough
and reshape them its way.
From that dough will arise
a compliant new slave,
without honour or mind,
without courage or grave.
He’ll be like an instrument
hollow and crude,
and all that he’ll carry
is rot and crude food.
For nothing is growing
in slaves bound so tight,
and buried in filth
they will perish from sight.
---------------------
Sanitary Engineering
All these exposed obscenities—
the praised and “bright” life here.
Let courage break your chains
and cast away the smear.
Don’t play those poisoned games
where rules are rotten through,
where every law proclaims:
“All power belongs to Doom.”
Where genocide is normal
in hands of every fool,
and cruelty looks formal
behind a “difficult rule.”
Here lies a flood of falsehoods—
megaton lies descend.
The world is drowned in foulness,
no world, but toilet’s end.
The Sanitary Officer
will come to boil it clean.
And fascist little monster
will bear his mark unseen.
Forget all talk of heaven—
it’s long since gone away.
In stench and lies forgotten,
the plumber rules the day.
---------------------
Baraka
Without Baraka—dust and night,
only ashes, cold and blind.
With her you may rise to light
from the grave of humankind.
From a world of fear and lies
you break free, begin to see,
and through Spirit Realized
gain true strength and clarity.
Light unfolding,
power growing—
through the rot,
you learn to be.
---------------------
Running
Running is a sharpened blade—
it has undone before
the balance minds once made,
as lazy patterns roar.
Let bodily wisdom guide you,
become your inner flame—
and you will run with insight,
no longer bound by frame.
---------------------
“The Bearers of ‘Good’”
Those who bring “good” must be marked,
by some new shining sign,
a painted cross upon the brow—
“the caring ones” defined.
And let the media howl in sirens,
a chorus sharp and shrill—
there is no fear more piercing
than manufactured will.
Those who bring “crowd-like change”
must be judged without a trace,
for survival of this mad world
demands a cleansing pace.
Through lies they lead the slaughter
of what is deemed unfit—
so multiply the “care” in time,
before the blade is lit.
The “doctors” of the CowID faith
once ruled the fear and breath,
and over ruins march again
a “freedom” born of death.
They preach “liberation” loudly
through wreckage, ash, and pain,
and fools believe each slogan
as rot infects the brain.
A people numb and broken
will swallow any tale—
for in a world grown hollow,
even madness seems to sail.
---------------------
The Single Path
The only way is breaking through
the stakes of endless strain,
and tearing free from all of this,
to leave it whole again.
To stay within this choking dark
is blindness—mute and sealed.
The end is rot without a spark,
a fate already yielded.
A breakthrough ends all argument—
no more to say, no scheme.
Just rupture through the tightening net—
and leave this fading dream.
---------------------
Like Water off a Goose’s Back
Like water off a goose’s back—
this parade of beasts I see.
The wretched ones are doomed to fall:
they said “yes” to Evil’s plea.
---------------------
The “Red Cross” Will Devour the Fools
The “Red Cross” eats the foolish mind,
wrapped tight in “care” on every side—
no open space is left behind
where mind and soul can still abide.
The beasts hurry on their task
to turn all men to cattle-state,
but all their clumsy, hollow craft
yields only sores, and nothing great.
---------------------
The World Has Turned Crueler
The world has turned far more unkind:
strike harder now, don’t fall behind,
run faster still—escape, escape,
for enemies are every shape.
You cannot see beyond the dark,
your mind repeats a broken spark—
just hollow sounds: no sense, no line,
as filth and madness intertwine.
It’s Fear and Lies that rule the air,
a rotten dust spread everywhere—
and that alone is what we face:
the real foe in this place.
---------------------
Wisdom — Power…
Wisdom—power… among the fools?!
The Old One slips through rotten rules.
He fades away, unseen, unheard,
in total filth where thought is blurred.
Show the mask, the poison sign—
and second-rate minds take the line.
A schoolboy rules the world by form,
while beasts obey the written norm.
And so the orders still arrive—
the creeping thralls keep truth alive.
---------------------
“Piety” and “Rationalism”
Where idols reign as “holy truth,”
faith runs thin and breaks its frame.
And logic, stripped of living proof,
becomes a rigid, empty game.
The atheist, in proud restraint,
cuts reason off from deeper sight;
while zealot drifts into constraint
that cages thought and blinds the light.
On both sides loom the same old shades—
distortions born of narrow view;
and every mind that there evades
the Whole, gets lost in something untrue.
---------------------
Unread
We do not read what does not flatter
our dream, our fragile inner sight.
The author fades—he doesn’t matter,
and vanishes from fading light.
We drown the last remaining reason
in sticky mud of what we choose.
The mind goes out of quiet treason,
and Spirit slips into the blues.
---------------------
Irreparable Harm to the Mind by Memory Overload of Nonsense
Too much “knowledge” crowds the mind
into a fenced and narrow pen.
Endless trials of a blind
confusion pulling down again.
You drown within the constant strain,
and worse than all that drags you through—
the memory stuffed with useless pain
no repair can ever undo.
---------------------
Stupefaction
Stupefaction wears me down—
so much has faded, lost and drowned.
Crowds dissolve and fade away,
turned to dust of dull decay.
To meet a useless, empty face,
a twisted shell in human place,
is worse than battle, worse than strife—
it drains the strength out of life.
To struggle there is just to fall,
to waste the Spirit, lose it all,
and sink it deeper, day by day,
into a guttered, rotting grey.
---------------------
Glad I Am Not a Monster
I’m glad I’m not a hollow beast,
who aims a gun, who joins the feast
of lies poured out on human minds
at whispered will of darker kinds.
The “highest power” you’re told to trust
has drowned itself in endless dust—
in empty talk, in hollow speech,
where truth is something none can reach.
A shadow rules behind the throne,
the unseen hand that works alone.
And if you bow to what they send—
you’re lost before you comprehend.
---------------------
The Rotten “Power”
A rotten “power” full of decay—
there’s lower still? It’s hard to say.
It mocks and feasts in foul delight,
then opens Hell’s consuming night.
A brood beneath the beasts themselves,
it crawls like slime on broken shelves.
The lowest card that evil deals—
a hand where only darkness feels.
---------------------
Resuscitation of the Soul
Sleep is life in clinic shade—
wake before you’re fully weighed.
If you linger, it turns sour,
sliding into nightmare power—
death in installments, not in truth,
a slick of lies that numbs your youth.
---------------------
The Meaning of Pseudo-Life
Rise above the filth below,
above the rotting hellish flow,
where souls dissolve in endless lies
and truth is buried where it dies.
Let Spirit scatter all that grime,
like smoke that vanishes in time—
this is the meaning, sharp and brief,
of life that passes like a thief.
---------------------
Recurring Dream
A system glitch
on Pluk’s strange pitch—
the fool wakes up,
no longer pup
of darker rule;
he leaves the school
of endless wrong,
where all along
each waking day
dissolves away.
A dream returns—
luck slowly burns
the daily haze
of senseless days,
now dim and thin
at life’s end-spin.
All thoughts are drowned
in murky sound,
and terror’s glue
erases view.
---------------------
The Relatively Recent Creation of Many Languages
Languages made by human hand—
a late invention of decline.
Division spreads across the land,
and fewer chains are hard to find.
It’s easy then to start a war
that later wipes all traces clean.
Like CowID erased before—
by conflict’s smoke, no longer seen.
A mindless herd is easy led,
a dull and obedient crowd;
it eats whatever fear is fed,
and thinks within a suffocating shroud.
Thought is consumed by sticky dread,
like poison gas that fills the brain.
Deception holds the broken thread
that binds the dust of world in chain.
And honest minds, so rare and slight,
are pushed aside, ignored, unfree—
left standing in the fading light
of what the world no longer sees.
---------------------
Fight the Hellish Dark
Fight the hellish dark that grinds
the mind and gnaws the weary soul.
From fear and nonsense it unwinds,
and makes the fragile spirit whole.
The only weapon left to man—
is Spirit pure, unbroken, bright.
It multiplies all strength again
where darkness drains it from the light.
---------------------
The Herd Rejoices
The herd is glad—
today the pen
is world-wide set.
A feast, they bet,
is promised high
(but fear runs by),
if doubt is gone,
if all regret
is cast aside:
just “Yes” is law
to guide the crowd.
In proud decay,
toward rot they stray—
and every mind that bows in vain
to evil’s rule becomes again
a compliant, hollow tone,
a servant voice without a bone.
---------------------
The Hollow Goal
You chased a pitiful, small aim—
to build your “happiness” from spite, to tame
the world and prove the others wrong.
But you’re not the only fool along.
Like lazy Emelya in a tale,
they grind your mind without fail—
deceits are fed into the mill
of those who twist and break the will.
And in that grind, the weak are spun,
their selves dissolved, their freedom done,
enslaved for good, with no return—
as silent fires slowly burn.
---------------------
Terror and the Cleansing Power of Uncompromising Truth
To touch—
to recoil,
to wake at once
from lying soil.
No bending now,
no bowed-down mind—
just stand your ground,
leave fear behind.
Take up the fight,
regain your worth,
and walk toward light
through darkest earth.
---------------------
Waiting for a Miracle
To wait for change is like the sea’s strange weather,
you won’t escape this ocean made of sorrow.
Within yourself you fight the marks of shadow,
and search for minds not broken, not unsteady.
But those “not broken” are too few to find here—
and if you look around, in truth, it’s fading.
For when you see the whole, it’s hard to deny it:
the world has tilted far beyond repair.
---------------------
Progress or Doom?
They shout: “Long live all progress bright!”
“Progress of what?”—Lec asked in spite.
And still today the press declares
its “reforms” spun in crooked airs.
Only a rogue, a blinded mind
from media tricks and chains designed
can scream such words with empty chest—
and all it sounds like… is a mess.
---------------------
Death of Truth
“Truth usually lies in the middle—most often without a gravestone.”
— Stanis;aw Jerzy Lec
Truth lies buried in the ground,
no stone, no mark, no sound around.
And truth is sung to sleep below
by boorish voices soft and low.
The “lovers of truth” have done their part—
they struck it down, tore it apart—
so none may claim it, none may see
what once was meant for all to be.
---------------------
The State of the Soul
The state of Soul—keep it in view,
and guard it carefully in you.
If Light still burns and stays alive,
it grows with time and will survive.
But if that Light begins to fade,
it’s crushed by noise the world has made.
Then cleanse yourself from all decay—
from fear and greed and lies’ array.
---------------------
So-called “Culture”
Censorship of thought is “culture” now, they say—
you read a page, it’s paper waste thrown away.
You watch the screen—like prosecutors clean
have seized the “heresy” from what was seen.
A wink, a trick, some staged allure and spin—
don’t touch the stench where fascist shadows grin.
Just keep it down, don’t question what you’re shown—
for the mob you’ll be a pop-king on a throne.
---------------------
The “People” in Name Only
To hell with them—and all their stats and charts,
so proud, so stuffed with empty, rotten parts.
In vulgarity they dig their stubborn ground,
with nearly erased minds all tightly bound.
Just logistics for the beast they serve and feed,
a submissive mass, a crowd of blinded seed.
They call it “people”—but it’s mute and sore,
a deaf and blind deformity at core.
No spark of insight, no attempt to see—
no room for truth, no hint of clarity.
---------------------
Weariness
Weariness is not a small thing—
little strength is left to bring
what remains to final ruin,
of a life that’s false and chewing
through the soul with dull insistence,
not in filth, but quiet resistance.
Let the silent, salt reproach
of verse upon nonsense approach—
like brine that stings and slowly clears
the slime of thought, the crust of years.
---------------------
The Land of Safe and Shallow Ease
“If you’ve no backbone—don’t strain your skin.”
— Stanis;aw Jerzy Lec
The spineless one still strains his frame,
allured by dreams of praise and fame—
a “land of ease” that calls him on,
where thought is dulled and will is gone.
The mob applauds his hollow stride,
chants victory with swollen pride.
And so a crippled world declines—
while emptiness itself defines.
---------------------
Revolt
You must be hard—no room for fear,
drive terror down and keep it there.
Keep everything brutally clear:
destroy the inhuman everywhere.
Our patience now has reached its end,
there’s nothing more that we can bend.
Both young and grown must take their stand
against the rot that stains this land.
Or else we die, erased as one—
while servitude drags on and on.
To fail to see is to be stone,
and stones don’t wake when hope is gone.
So let us bind and stand as flame,
refuse to drown in lies and shame.
Too late for mourning, guilt, or plea—
the hour is action, not decree.
Sow now the clusters of our rage—
and break the cage.
---------------------
Chains of Slavery
Break through the chains of filthy thrall—
don’t let them bind your mind at all.
The creatures grin with savage joy,
as crowds are driven out to die, destroy.
The sick are ruling, minds gone mad,
Satan himself wears crown of bad.
They hold their wealth, their ties, their schemes—
while country drowns in shattered dreams.
The key is unity—stand tight,
for only so can we win this fight.
No fear allowed—just strike, resist:
we can destroy what should not exist.
---------------------
Going Off the Rails
“And little bells go ding-dong, doo-doo,
on Monday I’m not going to work for you.
Let the iron engine do its course—
so why the hell did it bring me here, of course?”
— from a camp song
The fascists brought us trouble, brought us pain—
we live inside a dumbed-down, rotting chain.
One question lingers, burning like a spark:
when will this nightmare finally fall apart?
They turned our world into a living hell—
no need for “beds” in this new prison cell.
A mask, a jab, a poisoned chemical brew—
take it once, and you might drop right through.
They built a circus, filth in every lane—
a world of shame, designed for mindless strain.
No need for tears, for whining, for regret—
it’s time to push this rotten system yet.
They miscalculated with their toxic lie—
not everyone will swallow it and die.
There are still tools: the will, the iron hand—
and soon they’ll face the fire they had planned.
We’ll hang their fear upon the broken poles,
and shake the dust of this disgrace from souls.
A world without the chains they used to weave—
will come the day these beasts no longer breathe.
---------------------
Combat Commander
“Combat, my captain, my battle-hardened kin—
are you truly glad you serve the fascist din?”
For Moscow and Leningrad fell long ago,
and now the inhuman ones sit high and low.
A broken people long endure the beastly rule,
while filthy creatures hide behind the uniform fool.
How many more words must strike like waking flame
before we rise to defend what still has name?
Those foundations are dignity, reason, and pride—
yet they were trampled, left bleeding inside.
A sacred reckoning waits for the traitor breed,
who’ve climbed into power through deceit and greed.
So stand for the final, decisive fight—
we’ll crush these vermin and end their night.
Their howling no longer leads the lost astray—
their excuses have all worn themselves away.
We’ll shape our own fate, no longer kneel—
we’ll settle accounts with the beasts we feel.
And through that fire, the people will mend—
reborn once more, and stronger in the end.
---------------------
Path of Fury
Become pure fury—nothing more,
and cast away what came before.
Be horrified by all you see,
this pitch-black world’s obscenity.
No tears will help, no weak complaint—
only a fire that burns the taint.
The spirit here is crushed and gone—
no life can truly carry on.
Soulless creatures fill the land,
erasing what once made man stand.
Obedient forms, with reason slain,
a hollow species bred for pain.
Only a few remain in sight—
rare birds that vanish into night.
The rest are swallowed, lost today,
as everything decays away.
The Sun grows stronger—help its flame,
align yourself, become the same.
It will grow hotter, strip and cleanse—
burning the filth to bitter ends.
Each morning draw the Sun inside,
let cleansing fire be your guide.
It scorches all down to the core—
this is the Path and nothing more.
What comes beyond is not your call—
just leave behind this world of thrall.
Out of the lie—no compromise:
just burn, and burn, and burn the lies.
---------------------
Prospects
The psychology of sheep is simple:
breed and feed—that’s all they know.
Yet even so, they’re struck down early—
while old brotherhoods still glow.
Some officers still stand unbroken,
some intellect still holds its ground.
The “sheep-virus” rules by token—
but not where thinking minds are found.
Not by the cop, nor fake physician,
nor every clerk in hollow ranks.
From all your grand bureaucratic mission—
what remains? Just bone-filled banks.
A lesson carved for those who follow,
like “The Apotheosis of War.”
Vereshchagin showed the hollow
truth that echoes evermore.
They’ll hang the traitors, petty wardens,
the false healers, Judas breed—
all who bowed to dark commands
and served inhuman, rotten creed.
So tremble now, you hollow schemers—
our final battle draws near.
The end will come with piled-up remnants,
while your deceit still stirs fear.
But all your lies only harden
our will into iron flame.
It is the sheep your system slaughters—
and that is where it meets its shame.
---------------------
Necks and Yards
All you traitors—ready up your necks,
we’ll be hanging you from every crooked tree.
If the sea should take you in its depths—
then from the yardarm you shall swing at sea.
Even fools can see it clearly now:
fascism sits here like a festering stain.
And the Judgment—yes, it’s coming down,
though you’ll never see that court again.
Nowhere to hide inside your hollow ground—
treason leaves a mark that won’t erase.
It was you who spread this sickness round,
this world of slaughter, ruin, disgrace.
No genocide can kill without your hand,
no system works without your guiding will.
You tried to turn all people into sand,
obedient to darkness, bent and still.
You served the devil’s quiet administration,
selling souls for nothing in return.
But you forgot the final calculation—
that judgment comes, and now it starts to burn.
The fog is lifting slowly from the land,
and people soon will clearly recognize
who has tormented them with unseen hand—
and send you to the justice you despise.
---------------------
Importance — the Mask of Mediocrity
“Important people,” with “thoughts so bright,”
as if they herald a wiser light…
Yet emptiness wears learning’s guise,
and breaks each simple task that lies.
---------------------
Even Greater Decay of Propaganda
The media breathes like darkness near—
its rot grows thick at morning’s edge.
It seeks to bend the waking mind
and pull it toward a shadowed pledge.
To drag more souls into its night,
to shape belief through twisted lies—
and turn the dawn into a gate
where reason slowly sickens, dies.
---------------------
All as Before
Life’s bitter trial will shatter illusion,
clearing the nonsense once forced in our youth—
a path for the few, through ruin and disillusion.
But for the herd—it remains as truth:
they still believe, still hope, still cling, still wait—
the same old role of the fooled by fate.
---------------------
The Beastly World
Goats lead the flock of sheep along—
a filthy fascist, rotten throng.
In honest hearts the wounds run deep,
while evil grins and dares not sleep.
But laughter’s short for those who sin—
a cleansing storm will soon begin.
A cataclysm, vast and grim,
will sweep away this fascist whim.
---------------------
The Beastly World
Mother mouse to little son—
raising fools when all is done—
passes down what she has learned:
fear of lies where truth is burned.
Nothing else is left to show—
only depths where burrows go.
Lower still the small world lies,
taught to tremble, trained in lies.
---------------------
Infernal Slop
An infernal stinking dump—
can the mind find calm or slump?
But there’s no mind left to still—
only filth that swirls and spills.
Into it, the lies are poured,
till the brim can hold no more,
promising the fools a “heaven”
sold to those already leavened.
---------------------
Truth
Truth is a weapon, sharp and bright,
a blade that cuts through falsehood’s night.
It severs tales of idle make,
and slices lies that feebly fake.
Yet if the steel grows stained within,
corroded by a creeping sin,
then even through its sharpened line
the liar seeks a path to shine.
---------------------
Pocket or Soul
Is it the pocket that they aim—
or mind and soul within the frame?
To comfort all the foolish herd,
the creatures rush, slick, undeterred.
They dress up greed in noble tone,
as if it bore no seeds of stone,
calling collapse “inevitable art,”
while pushing oblivion on the heart.
---------------------
When the Soul Walks Through Darkness
When through the dark the Soul moves on, unbending,
doubts and all fears fall suddenly still.
Before it rise, in clarity ascending,
visions that pierce the false world’s will—
and show the way to break the cycle’s ending,
the loop of life that is not life at all,
to shatter chains of sham existence bending,
and step beyond the hollow, haunted thrall.
---------------------
Boundless Lies
Lies without measure—pioneers
inspiring through the passing years,
copying filth in noble guise,
the masks of “good” that sanitize.
“Real men,” they say, will fall in line,
a marching row of those malign—
and gladly walk where darkness leads,
while evil laughs at what it feeds.
---------------------
Not Enough!!!
Not enough money, not enough “fame”—
only the rich play the winning game.
Overfed, excessive, blind,
all else is weak and left behind.
Scratch the surface, look around—
stupidity is all you’ll find.
The crowd becomes the final proof:
the triumph of a hollow truth.
---------------------
By Promise into Sacrifice
With promises they lead to slaughter,
with dulling minds they line the order.
A small world choked in fascist stain—
where lies cut down like gunfire rain,
and rows fall silent, one by one,
while evil’s word is taken on.
---------------------
Ash Outside
Ash outside, but light within—
look, my friend, and see therein.
Turn the gaze back into mind,
leave the worn-out self behind.
Self-reflection, clear and keen—
and the old “I” fades unseen.
Light and ego cannot blend—
two minds can’t in one den descend.
---------------------
The Broken Trough
Man as nothing but a tool—
this is legacy and rule.
Evil hides behind a lie,
feeds you scraps and lets you dry.
Take the trough they throw your way,
soaked in filth and decay—
till at last it cracks apart,
broken down by fear and artless,
mindless noise of daily start,
and the world turns cold and heartless.
---------------------
Self-Suggestion
“In perfect harmony with today’s world…”
to make it so, be simple, dull, unfurled—
a fool by birth, or learn through brutal knocks,
banging your head against unyielding blocks.
Then prison walls will shimmer like a dream,
and rot will start to feel like golden gleam—
for only when the mind is fully numb
can even chains be sung as kingdom come.
---------------------
The Leaking Roof
From the “roof” it starts to flow—
not rain, but filth and overflow.
That “roof” is made of rotting hands,
the lie that over everything stands.
The “peak” of this inhuman age,
a world consumed by fevered rage.
The Sun burns high, relentless, slow—
and all that rot is baked below.
The world grows still. The bottom shows.
---------------------
Fear, Control, Obedience
Fear and control, submission’s chain—
everywhere decay and pain.
A hellish depth, a rotting ground,
where minds are lost and truth is drowned.
Turn inward—seek the Light within,
and shed the thick, inherited spin.
Forget the hollow, poisoned lore
that keeps the world in endless war.
Through lies they rule, through crafted shade,
through heresy that makes afraid.
---------------------
The Flame Within
The one who walks with pure flame in the heart,
does not fear shadows, deceit, or the dark.
Through fire he gains both strength and clear sight,
and walks the true path, steady and right—
until the end of all passing days,
through trial, through storm, through endless maze.
---------------------
Vanity and Mind
Vanity and intellect—
like oil and water, never met.
A dull-witted, sealed-up mind
spills over what it cannot bind.
And what pours out—no need to say—
stains everything along the way.
No time to search the deeper ground,
no calm at bottom to be found—
so all that’s left is turning back,
and fleeing fast the rising lack.
---------------------
Go Within
A simple life beyond their schemes,
beyond the plans of poisoned dreams.
The mind grows clear, the vision keen,
washed clean of all that’s false and mean.
The soul-string rises, sharp and bright,
it rings again with living light.
The Spirit wakes—so seldom seen—
from sleep so deep, so long between.
---------------------
Though Victory Is Far
Though victory feels far away,
don’t play the fool in darkness’ sway.
No excuse will save your mind—
in psyche’s depths, no truth you’ll find.
Seek quickly now the inner light,
or vanish in this hollow night.
For in this small and fading world
you’ll only grasp what lies unfurled—
a shadow dressed as “truth” and name,
that feeds the dark and masks the shame.
---------------------
Turtle Steps
With turtle steps I drift along,
with fools who hum the same dull song.
With them I’ll reach the gates of hell—
in fear, in rot, in broken spell.
Each step a trick, a false display—
but what is needed is a breakaway.
A blast beyond what words can frame,
a rupture into the unnamed flame.
---------------------
Old Poems of Mine
I read my old poems through scattered links—
not bad at all, though life still stinks.
Life itself feels like a flawed design,
a faulty script with broken line.
But if it turns out truly grim,
and everything feels cold and dim,
then at the end, at least you’ll see—
you didn’t go down foolishly.
---------------------
Nothing Left Here
There’s nothing left to catch or gain—
with dullards rotting in the chain.
The Spirit lives in higher space,
beyond this dark and fallen place.
A few rare sparks won’t light the way—
they cannot save, nor lead, nor stay.
You must, alone, with inner sight,
find how to leave this mad twilight.
---------------------
Fool and Sponge
A fool is like a sponge by nature—
soaks up nonsense, shame, and failure.
Processed in a soul-grind’s churn,
what’s left is waste, a bitter burn.
In this world that crushes spirit,
they squeeze out all that once was near it—
and when the pressure’s done its work,
only empty scraps and murk.
---------------------
No Matter Who You Choose
No matter who you cast your vote,
the outcome sails the same old boat.
So breathe it in and don’t go mad,
and teach it to the young you’ve had:
that “world order,” dressed up grand,
is nonsense few can understand—
a tale for minds that drift and sway,
and lose themselves along the way.
---------------------
To Light from Hell
The soul must rise, must keep its pace,
to never fall in hell’s embrace—
on yet another turning wheel,
to break the chains, to break the seal.
No bonds again, no circling pain—
toward light it strives, and strives again!
---------------------
Stone Jungle
Don’t wait for signs—no miracle calls,
the trickster spirit builds these walls.
The deeper in the forest bends,
the stronger pressure never ends.
Once mind is touched, once vision clears,
the subtle “fuel” disappears.
And all returns—again to what?
A hollow void, a silent rot.
---------------------
No Film Will Play
No film will roll—only Hell remains,
this place endures through endless pains.
All labour wasted, all fruit decays,
and every outcome horror lays.
The minds are broken, dimmed and gone,
all spirit drained, all meaning drawn.
With lies in surplus, thick and wide—
there’s nothing left but ash inside.
---------------------
The Tightening Ring
The ring grows tighter, slowly bound,
yet they call it “love” all around.
The man grows sly, more closed, more keen,
the wife more sharp, more tense, more mean.
And children drift into the fray—
a restless, noisy disarray.
---------------------
Camp of Numbers
The digital camp—enslaved by lies,
where every order terrorizes.
Again the ruling creatures send
their “guidance” none can comprehend—
to bend the world beneath deceit,
and make all truth itself retreat.
---------------------
The Lying Mind
The lying mind is blind and still,
it fades away beneath the will.
In hell it wilts, it breaks, it bends—
a life that quickly starts and ends.
A flash of time, no depth, no core,
just dull obedience evermore.
Submission, fall, decline, decay—
the slow erosion day by day.
Whole generations on their knees,
consumed by lies and quiet ease.
---------------------
To Break Through Pain
To struggle through the thorns of pain,
through walls of problems built again,
and knock upon the sky above,
avoiding all the themes of dust and love.
To feel the sickness, sharp and deep,
and still remain what you must keep—
blind, foolish, yet aware within
that all around is hollow sin.
---------------------
Savage Drift
The tails grow longer, slow and strange,
as fools keep slipping out of range.
They blunder deeper, more and more—
in lands like Poland, US shores,
and every realm of twisted state
where decay has sealed its fate.
To fight the dark is hard and vain—
it spreads like rust, like creeping stain.
---------------------
The Settling Tank
A “Great One” comes—sent from above,
or rising from the sludge thereof?
No doubts, no whispers—keep it still:
a new-born leader—line up, will!
---------------------
Mood Swings
Mood swings rising, falling low,
mind filled up with hollow show—
decay is slowly drawing near
through vulgar chaos, loud and clear.
In this world of shallow spin,
nothing but dullness dwells within—
all becomes absurdly plain,
stupid, raw, and steeped in strain.
---------------------
Back to Burrows
Back to burrows, heads hung low—
this “life” a verdict dealt below.
Thick hides, half-dulled, half-alive,
with sparks of mind that barely strive.
Yet clever books keep chanting still:
“Civilization!”—what a thrill.
But all around is plain decay,
a slow unravelling every day.
---------------------
The Nature of the Wretch
The turning wheel of filth and stain—
in nature shows its face again:
each cycle makes the fool grow dim,
more pliant to the dark within,
and ever bolder against light,
while reason fades into the night.
---------------------
Break the Bonds
Break all the “ties,” the chains that bind
and lock the cages of the mind.
So clumsy, false, and poorly made—
a poison where all thoughts degrade.
The sorrowed mind begins to see
how dreamlike madness things can be.
For harshest years still stretch ahead—
and nothing more lies there instead.
---------------------
Swift Armageddon
The world ends here—through death reborn,
when rot exceeds what it has worn.
Yet few will rise from ashes grey,
where light in darkness holds its way.
---------------------
Saving the Soul
We feed the flesh, we dull the mind,
and leave the soul in chains behind.
We carve a path that leads to night—
and few remain who still know light.
Who dares to shout is quickly lost,
his soul by deeper darkness crossed.
For silence breeds a darker seed—
and evil grows from what we feed.
---------------------
“Souls Getting Experience Here”
Growth? In darkness? Down below?
A hell where nothing good can grow?
No learning here, no higher light—
just slow decay, a loss of sight.
A twisting change, a hollow trace,
a mind reduced, a fallen grace.
From higher spark to crawling shape—
this is the “truth” they call escape.
---------------------
Deeper in the Forest
Deeper in the woods it grows—
thicker fog, and fewer shows.
In the thickets, shadows stand,
hesitant and poorly planned.
Fear becomes the forest’s rule,
and the world turns dim and cruel.
Every path begins to lie—
truth is buried, passing by.
---------------------
Strengthen Your Spirit
The heart must grow so hard, so still,
that even love cannot unseal.
And in the darkened, silent room
Beethoven’s fire defies the gloom.
I could not grasp, tormented one,
your overbrimming, burning song—
and yet the performer turns away,
his scorched and shattered pages stray.
(Mandelstam, “Ode to Beethoven”, 1914)
The heart must turn to iron core,
where even death becomes reward.
It is not new—this truth, this strain…
the very earth begins to wane.
The Earth itself in doubt now shakes,
while Nature weeps for mankind’s sake.
A grim design is taking form—
to twist mankind into the swarm.
Inhuman hands reshape the mind,
turn decent men to darker kind.
And all this force is set in place
by traitor wills, a cursed embrace.
No life remains—just gears that grind
to kill the Spirit, kill the Mind.
The night of fascist shadow falls,
with lies and filth along its walls.
Yet only spirit, forged like steel,
can break the grip, can make it yield.
These liars soon will fade away—
and fascist night will lose its sway.
---------------------
The Overton Window
“Give me the mass media,” they say,
“and I can turn any people to swine.”
—Goebbels
The colours darken, thick and grim,
on rotten pastel shades of “norm” and “trim.”
The inhuman force pursues its aim
through Overton’s Window—now a frame.
No window now—becomes a door,
and soon they’ll smash it open more.
The rabid filth knows no restraint—
what once was wall is breach and stain.
And soon, instead of door, a break—
a widening crack the mad ones make.
The living Hell will fully land
as people bow to inhuman hand.
We’re already deep at the bottom’s floor,
yet still they stretch the rot once more.
They praise submission, numb and blind—
erasing boundaries of mankind.
The “bottom” now means erasure whole,
no human trace, no living soul—
just chatter, echo, hollow sign,
a mass of voices, stripped of mind.
Once deviation marked the few—
now it is “normal,” bright and new.
A sewer of lies flows everywhere,
to keep the chained in stagnant air.
But slaves in such excess are rare—
the false-virus spreads its poisoned snare.
The world grows sick, begins to fall
under the weight of it all.
Unless we stand and break the chain,
unless we rise and strike again,
we’ll perish under their control—
unless we fight, body and soul.
So gather strength, refuse the lies,
let unity in spirit rise.
Against the rot, against the night—
we move into the final fight.
---------------------
Strength
If your strength begins to fade,
multiply what you once had made.
You will dodge the open grave
if you strike the lies and slave.
Warriors do not fall in fear
on a sacred battlefield here.
They are honored, standing tall,
not in depths where cowards crawl.
Depths where slaughterhouses reign
in place of war’s old-fashioned pain.
Now deceit conducts the strife—
and inhuman voices shriek as life.
No, they are no longer men,
trusting enemies again.
Meat upon a waiting plate,
offered up to “gods” of hate.
If your spirit holds its ground,
pain begins to fade and drown.
Warrior heals within the flame,
whole again without a name.
Reach the point where fire is near,
where even death no longer steers.
Place your strength and do not spare—
become the steel that stands in air.
And if you fall in battle’s roar,
as heroes have done before—
you will reach your final aim:
save the soul that bears your name.
---------------------
Hell
The soul is beating, torn and strained
in hellish chaos, dark and drained.
Again the cycle starts its play—
a mind worn thin, a drying day.
A torture built from dull despair,
a death of spirit in polluted air.
Even “Lira” would not survive—
not men, but vermin crawl alive.
Only a few remain aware,
rare sparks of reason scattered there.
This hell is not a dream you see—
it stands in cold reality.
No place for purpose, hope, or plan—
just mindless purge of what is man.
Here strength alone defines the right,
while conscience sleeps, dissolved in night.
The inhuman rules with open hand,
through traitors spread across the land.
Resistance fades, the grip grows tight—
corrupt hands feed corrupted might.
Ahead lies camp and iron gate,
a global system forged in hate.
It’s one step near—no time to wait:
we meet them now and face their state.
Even if all of us must fall,
we still preserve the soul in all.
So do not sit in passive sleep—
follow the path where light runs deep.
---------------------
Caring Fascism
Fascism, caring as never before,
now tends to the “health” of the slow-minded store.
It pours all its effort, its power, its plan—
and vows to attend them again and again.
With “care” it will finish what’s left of the wise,
and polish the dull who no longer rise.
Thus fascism strengthens its crude design:
the well-fed herd stays obedient, fine.
For fragments of reason disturb digestion,
they spoil the comfort of dull progression.
And “indigestion” becomes the dread—
as if without it, all thought were dead.
Soon refuse itself will be valued high,
the currency under a “civil” sky.
All else will be labelled as fading past,
anachronisms that cannot last.
It reaches the point of inspection severe—
where real waste is measured and held as dear.
No blogger’s joke, no passing trend,
but sign of a world that starts to bend.
A closed production loop completes the chain,
the system perfected through endless gain—
where empty voices command the day,
and nothing but appetite holds sway.
---------------------
Wings
Intuition and Mind—two wings that rise,
lifting you over abyss and lies.
They carry you upward, beyond the fall,
and burn through illusion that once bound all.
These chains were placed since your earliest days,
poisoning thought in a thousand ways.
False “science,” confusion, imposed belief,
education that deepens inner grief.
You are not flesh—you are Spirit confined
in a prison of ages that broke the mind.
So cast off the burden, the forged disguise,
and walk toward the Goal, however it lies.
That Goal is the Spirit reborn in the world,
though trampled by forces darkly unfurled.
You live in a turning, unstable time,
where inhuman systems commit their crime.
Yet even now their frenzy is late—
the Sun will dissolve this global state.
So find your link with the Reason within:
only through this can renewal begin.
Listen inward—it does not lie.
Sharpen the ear where the true sounds lie.
Refuse the poisons once forced inside—
the triumph of darkness you once called guide.
---------------------
Imitation of Balmont
“In painfully cramped masses of houses
live pale and unlovely people,
chained by the memory of faded words,
having forgotten the miracle of creation.”
— Konstantin Balmont, In Houses, 1903
In the global madhouse of speaking beasts,
the honest and wise are slowly lost—
those bound more tightly than any slave,
still dreaming of miracles they’ve never crossed.
But miracles will not come here.
The filthy madhouse only decays,
growing duller, darker, severe—
and poison is given in measured ways.
The inhuman hand has built its Hell,
a horror beyond all prior time.
The fascist shadow begins to swell,
and soon it will pass its final “rhyme.”
It will condemn you for trying to live
by conscience, by reason, by inner law.
For here they seek the Spirit to kill—
no greater vengeance the world has saw.
For nothing more than being Man,
refusing to bow to the crawling brood.
A century-long and silent plan—
experiments on the mind, the good.
For even reason must be destroyed,
to finish corruption of humankind.
The global madhouse is already built—
what follows next is the purge in kind.
But higher Mind has a different fire,
and now the Sun begins its task.
A different kind of return of ire—
it burns this filth beneath its mask.
---------------------
Shame
Shame is knocking inside our soul,
a brand that marks us, burning whole.
And how long will the world still hear
the lies of inhuman voices near,
instead of listening to the call
that once was God within us all?
That voice is faint, an inner tone,
almost unheard, almost alone.
And what disaster must unfold
before this madness breaks its hold?
For ruin already fills the sky—
not life, but a shameful lie.
The voice of reason is no more—
we’ve drifted to a beast-like shore.
The Spirit here is nearly gone,
and fools now multiply as one.
A fascist shadow grips the land,
with other darkness hand in hand.
Yet there exists a Higher Mind—
a Sunlike fire for humankind.
It heats the world like furnace bright,
and burns away the plague of night.
For over half a century now
that Sun has risen on its vow.
The pressure builds, the flames increase—
a slow arrival of release.
If still a human burns in you,
you are not lost, you will break through.
The inhuman will fall away,
and Spirit will return one day.
All horrors fade like fevered dream,
a passing veil, a false extreme.
For death is only rumor made,
a crafted lie to keep us caged.
---------------------
Patience
Patience is the root of strength,
the way to hold your fire at length,
when pain returns again, again—
that sharpness nearly killing men.
For no true knowing comes without
the trial that tears illusions out,
in worlds where suffering takes the throne
and cruelty has overgrown.
Yet this is not a slave’s restraint,
not cautious fear or weary complaint,
but motion kept through storm and strain—
a sharpened blade that breaks the chain.
If you keep striking one firm point,
even stone will crack, disjoint.
If each day one line is born,
the enemy begins to mourn.
And if you seek a way through night,
in worlds where darkness swallows light,
you’ll find within that inward climb
renewal of the soul and mind.
But learn, too, balance, measure, art—
don’t burn your force before you start.
For waste before the final peak
leaves less strength when you must strike.
Only when the summit’s near,
does power fully clear and steer.
Then hardship breaks, and foes retreat,
and you turn darkness into defeat.
Yet victory is never one—
it comes when many paths are done.
So gather those of like resolve,
and move as one, until all’s solved.
---------------------
Ego Cocoon
The ego-cocoon is fragile, thin,
built from infernal schemes within.
Inside it you are nothing more
than half-a-beast, a slave, a bore.
This fragile shell must be torn apart
by Spirit’s will and burning heart—
or you will serve, as long as breath,
blind little demons, leading death.
Only through struggle can you break
the chains that falsehoods firmly make.
Against the fate that drags you down,
where most have lost their human crown.
The rest already drift in sleep,
in fear so heavy, dark and deep.
Cast out your fear, let it decay—
it is the cruelest debt you pay.
There’s nothing left for you to lose
in this madhouse of broken views.
Soon even fools will face the blade,
as systems built on them degrade.
So seek the few who still remain,
and walk with them through fire and pain.
The inhuman grip will fall away
if all stand firm and do not sway.
Death for death—such is the law,
for mankind now is nearly straw.
And with us falls the ancient “drake”
that long ago its head forsake.
The genocide it once decreed,
disguised as “higher” sacred creed,
is carried out through masked command—
a hollow force, not mind, but hand.
---------------------
Identity
Today the mind is measured by
its level of discontented sigh.
The more you feel this world decays,
the less you are a stone-like haze.
Disillusion and the mind
are one and same in current time.
The more of grief your thoughts contain,
the less you rot in life’s domain.
For this is not a life, but rust—
a slow corruption, built on trust.
Fascism rules through polished lies,
and reason slowly dehumanized.
A global camp is now prepared,
where “healing” masks what is declared.
On banners white of “medical” grace
runs red cross logic in its place.
To cure the spirit, kill the soul,
to break the mind and make it whole
in name alone—so all become
mere insects on the waste of scum.
This waste is called a “life” instead,
and chains are forged around your head.
But other worlds will surely see
this downward spiral’s gravity.
They track the point where fall becomes
a threat that strikes on everyone.
And then the system breaks the chain,
to make the world grow pure again.
But not with us—we fade and rot,
a stain upon the cosmic plot.
For we allowed, in pride and spite,
the world to lose its inner light.
---------------------
Madhouse
I walk this madhouse, vision-lit,
Where every loudmouth plays a nit.
A swarm of gnomes in anxious fright
Cure “evil lies” with darker blight.
Inside this temple built on fraud,
They fight the lie—yet serve its god.
To keep from falling, so they claim,
They feed the sickness, fuel the flame.
A needle’s venom—best of all.
The fascist vermin feast and crawl.
Their triumph blooms in poisoned veins—
A harvest grown from human chains.
A global camp beats doctors’ art,
A crimson cross on banners stark.
Behind the barracks—trenches deep,
Where “healed” dissent is laid to sleep.
They bury all who dare resist
The cure no honest mind can list—
A grand success the world proclaims:
The purge of Spirit, thought, and names.
Their idol? Flies on heaps of rot,
The perfect form of what they’ve got.
And trolls enforce, from head to toe,
New methods none before could know:
No machine guns—no need for lead,
Just chips to rule the living dead.
A world of fools, reduced to stock,
Obedient flesh in human mock.
---------------------
Madhouse world—control, decay,
Spirit purged and minds at bay.
No more guns—just silent chains:
Chips will colonize your brains.
---------------------
Communes
No great courage is required
Just to protest, shout, complain.
Slavery is deeply wired—
Now they openly kill again.
Filth with needles, laced with venom,
Puts the dull and blind to sleep.
World’s a zoo—and beasts within it,
Mad and broken, crawl and creep.
Build your communes—tight, united,
If you want to break the chain.
No more waiting, no more hiding—
Fear has only fed the pain.
Form your units there, in order,
Strike the filth and make it fall.
Let the inhuman rot in horror,
Dragging fascists down with all.
Into their own hell they’ll vanish,
Chained to darkness, sealed and done.
Only struggle breaks the anguish—
Freedom’s fire is fought and won.
---------------------
Build or perish—choose it fast.
Chains grow deeper if you last.
Only those who stand and fight
Turn the darkness into light.
---------------------
The Fool
All’s futile in this moonlit sphere—
And joy exists when fools appear.
Then you become a target plain,
While sharper idiots take aim
And punch straight through your fragile brain.
These gardens breed the dull insane,
Where sight is choked—no spark, no gleam,
Just blindness dressed as lucid dream.
No glimmer lives inside this hell—
Lies tower like a peak as well.
You dwell as if in some foul zoo,
Half-beasts surrounding all you knew.
The fool breeds on, in chains or free,
Applauds each “new normality.”
No pain is felt within his chest,
He cannot see—the fascist pest
Has “cared” his world to death and rot.
But if no blood is seen on spot,
The idiot declares it feast—
A triumph of the mind, at least.
A “guard of reason” keeps the herd—
Madmen who trust each lying word.
And there’s a Judas for the globe:
A quack in mask, a cop in robe.
They cheer the masks—the muzzled face
Of docile slaves in managed space.
And if no helmets crowd the street,
No coffins stacked in endless sheet,
Then all is “fine”—so eat and breed,
Consume, obey each planted need.
No clever lies are required—
A fake-borne plague will do the fire.
---------------------
If there’s no blood, the fool will cheer:
“A feast of reason’s thriving here.”
Muzzled minds and blinded sight—
Chains feel safe when locked in white.
295 poems
© Copyright: Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, 2026
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹226051701174
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹226051701174
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