66 poems

Delirium

Delirium’s reached its terminal height —
A giant gray stallion of nonsense is here.
The vile inhuman fiends rule minds through lies,
Turning crowds into hellish sludge of fear.

A mixture of treason, deception, and crime,
Of fraud and betrayal — what honor survives?
Soon no excuse will be needed in time
To force any madness they wish on our lives.

They’ll order the carrying toilets on backs,
The whipping of microbes wherever they hide.
Once reason is murdered and spirit turns black,
Then idiots march with a leash and with pride.

And then any spell will control them with ease,
Like shamans convulsing in senile disease.
The world will become one vast slaughtering ground —
Yet fools will still praise it while kneeling around.

For idiots always find some excuse
For every corruption, each vile new decree.
They know only hunger and fear of no food —
All else is but smoke they refuse to see.

Go mad even faster, humanity — run!
Or shame will strike dead every cowardly soul.
Far better uproot all the inhuman scum —
And end this obscene masquerade once for all.



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Too Little — Must Rise

Too LITTLE, little, little
Reason fills this sphere.
Venom, VENOM dripping
From inhuman sneers.

Filth spreads, FILTH keeps spreading —
Genocide runs wild.
You’re the vermin’s servant
If your mind’s defiled.

They strike, they STRIKE the Spirit,
Craving souls made weak.
Even humans help them —
Rot too far gone to speak.

Must rise, MUST rise, MUST rise now —
Crush the crawling scum.
Death to fascist monsters! —
Now the war has come.



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The Whirlpool of Pseudo-Life

Nothing but oppression
Nothing but deceit
Feeds the weak submission
Of the crawling sheep.

Nothing here is genuine
In this world of rot,
Save the fatal poisoned root
From which all torment’s wrought.

That foul inhuman vermin —
With lies and genocide,
This stinking breed keeps dragging death
And spreading filth worldwide.

Across the ages echoes still
That reeking, cursed decay.
Long ago this monstrous plague
Deserved the axe’s sway.

And liberation will arrive —
A Renaissance will blaze.
Yet one grim detail stains the dawn
Within those coming days:

Together with the inhuman horde
The masses too shall fall,
For they became obedient thralls
Without a war at all.



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Pig Farm

This world resembles a pig farm —
A filthy mechanical pen.
The pig loves being the “first one,”
Unaware he’s marked for the end.

He rushes first to the trough there,
Believing the farm is his home.
Not knowing he merely nourishes
This rancid and festering dome.

The farmer here is inhuman —
A shame and disgrace to the stars.
And pigs are not even servants,
Though blindness has blackened their hearts.

Only the rebirth of Spirit
Will help us escape from this cage.
Then flies and bloodsucking vermin —
Those inhuman beasts — we shall slay.



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Rot

And today, just like yesterday’s lie,
Pseudo-life spews its vomit again.
The same rotten garbage keeps flooding the mind,
While stupidity’s factory roars without end.

It is no longer frightening — only absurd
To watch this zoo-circus convulse and perform.
The age of pure horror has long since been burned;
Now sarcasm greets every grotesque little storm.

Only vicious clowns remain everywhere now,
And the last living nerves have been scorched into dust.
Only curses still crawl from the mouth somehow,
And no women remain — only harpies and lust.

Once again conscience and shame disappear,
And reason finds no place inside this madhouse pit.
As before the Flood, Spirit’s slaughtered here,
And mankind is reduced to a shapeless lump of grit.

They twist him to anything, any design,
Yet only the vile are applauded and crowned.
And Earth once again in horror will shake,
As the world in this foulness and vomit will drown.

Then the world will revive — but not together with us,
This disgrace fit for nothing but endless oblivion:
A disgrace where Spirit was trampled to dust,
Where reason went dark in the last slave generation.



---------------------



The Sovereignty of Mind and Spirit

The twisted little human creature,
Like a puppet in a Theater of Shades,
Fed on nothing here but falsehood —
Lies fit only for rotting graves.

He knows nothing except for suffering,
He believes every fool’s deceit.
They sold the masses one grand delusion:
“That chains make the soul complete.”

Supposedly “kind and caring mentors”
Test your spirit for some higher role.
No — you are torn by foul predators
Who dream of annihilating the soul.

Spirit’s destruction — that is their mission,
That alone festers deep in their schemes.
Everything else is rumor and fiction;
You drown in the sewage of manufactured dreams.

And there is one exit — found at the entrance:
Restore Mind’s Sovereignty, Spirit’s command.
In a world where monster stands upon monster,
It is the sole way not to sink in the sand.



---------------------



Wings

Loneliness and creation — two battered wings
That briefly can lift you above all the grime.
Yet their lifting force is fragile and thin —
Soon you crash like a stone through the jaws of time.

And the pain always comes — it is payment for this:
You refuse the routine of the slave and the herd,
You refuse to keep lowing among mindless beasts,
And betray the foundations where true thought was born.

So the labor with pain becomes central itself —
It’s the weapon that lets you continue the climb.
Not arrogance, not empty pride in yourself,
But renewal of strength is the thread through the night.

This pendulum’s savage, ferocious, extreme;
Its centrifugal force tears the spirit apart.
And no one will place any net in between —
You’ll go tumbling headfirst straight into the dark.

So the wager is life — there is no romance here,
Those old myths about art were for gentler days gone.
Now creation means pressure, disaster, and fear —
That’s the law under which modern art must be born.

For true art can’t be purchased — and therefore prepare
For the harshest of fates and the cruelest attack.
Yet creation is forged only this way, my friends;
Only thus can a furious answer strike back

At this mad world enslaved for eternity’s span,
Where spirit and reason and honor are dead,
Where the artist inherits catastrophe alone,
And revenge is entwined with the path that he treads.

Soon the global madhouse will be burned to the ground,
And creators’ endurance will mark what survives.
Nature never will suffer such cattle-like swine
To become truly human — the Fascist Beast dies.



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Anguish

Nothing but lies, nausea, anguish, decay —
A mad world collapsing in senile disgrace.
And this foul vomit flooding the day
No longer provokes even sarcasm’s face.

Sarcasm is finished — exhausted and dead.
Now only to howl and lament remains.
And trapped in this stinking abominable spread,
You are not even free to die from the chains.

For bodies alone are the object of care —
Fascism “protects” every creature alive.
And no other labor is left anywhere
Except forging “success” so the system survives.

Success means “health preservation,” they claim,
Protection from “evil diseases” and fear.
And now it has practically turned into crime
If you are not utterly broken in here.

Only a madman still swallows the fraud
That seeps from each crack and pours out of the walls.
But the thinking man tests it through logic and thought:
Fascism — the senile collapse before fall.



---------------------



On Reality

This strange poet writes about reality now,
Having poured out a whole filthy bucket of bile.
But comrades, romance has become nonsense somehow
While fascist corruption rules all with a smile.

We’ll write songs about passion and tenderness later,
We’ll praise what is worthy with warmth and with grace.
For fascism now turns mankind into cattle —
And this is far worse than a mere prison space.

The genocide raging before us today
Must be stopped — even poetry must join the fight.
The inhuman vermin has shouted “Release!”
We’ll discuss all the details once darkness takes flight.

But no protest is heard from the factory of rhymers —
Only sugary nonsense drifts out through the air.
At least there are few informers among them,
At least their cheap verses are valued nowhere.

No one burns with the Word anymore — not this breed.
All are shallow, corrupted, ridiculous clowns.
These are signs of the rot and the spiritual ruin,
The cost of collapse dragging whole nations down.

So shut both your eyes and stuff wax in your ears,
Seal your burrows up tightly and hide if you dare.
Soon the fascists will come for the souls of you all —
And death will not care who once breathed open air.



---------------------



Hitler’s Hysteria

Adolf Hitler would fall into hysterics
If he witnessed the new fascist breed:
How this modern monster shatters the world —
Even he would recoil from such deeds.

For Hitler at least still had limits
To slaughter, deception, and hate.
To annihilate all humanity
He’d have called the blackest disgrace.

Beside today’s fascist monster,
Old Hitler looks almost naive.
No pleasure delights this new tyrant more
Than to slaughter with merciless speed.

That is why Resistance must strengthen,
Must spread and grow harder each day.
Or else comes the near-total ruin of mankind —
And the brand of eternal slavery.



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In the Name of Health

“In the name of health,” soon shells will be fired,
As fascist vermin return once again.
History’s wheel has grotesquely reversed,
Dragging the world back to slaughter and chains.

For “well-being” this pack will destroy the whole world —
That rabid fascistic brigade of hounds,
Whose torrents of lies only multiply shackles
While falsehood and panic keep pouring around.

A fascist can never sincerely care
For the lives of the ordinary crowd
Whom he drowns in the vomit of fabricated sickness
Till they grunt like swine, obedient and bowed.

Soon only pig-people grazing in filth
Will remain in this rancid domain,
Until all of them perish in fascism’s “miracle” —
Needle-therapy driven by bayonets and pain.

And this will be hailed as a “scientific triumph”
After poison injections “for nothing at all,”
Where killing is framed as an act of compassion —
A grand “health-burial” celebrated by all.

Such now is this wretched world of idiots,
Still bending to fascism just as before:
A world of bureaucratic Judases, medical informers,
Where humans are rare — and the rest something far lower.



---------------------



No Need

"I do not know which capital remains —
Any place where human beings cannot live..."
— Marina Tsvetaeva


No need now to struggle and crawl
To preserve this decaying “life.”
Both country and capital crumble to dust —
Not a world, but a funeral rite.

A requiem sung for Mind and for Spirit,
For honor, for dignity, dreams.
We turned into creatures that barter their souls,
Like cattle corrupted and mean.

For only a herd would permit
Such genocide spreading so wide.
We have forgotten what freedom once meant;
Conscience and shame have both died.

Total destruction already awaits
This shameful and festering madhouse of fear —
For desecrating the purity of Earth,
While inhuman tyrants still reign here.



---------------------



Chronicles

A hundred years ago the chronically ill
Were nearly nine times less widespread than now.
The same with addicts and alcoholics —
Our darkest enemy works hard somehow.

It’s the result of poisoning everywhere —
In water, in food, in the air we breathe,
And also of mass stupefaction,
Where humans sink down into beasts beneath.

Then comes the falsehood of “medicine,”
Built almost in mockery of mankind.
Cattle now “heal” the suffering masses —
Dull creatures unlucky in body and mind.

Too dim to awaken with reason —
A sign of it: fabricated disease.
Their foolishness endlessly multiplies;
Their handlers never sleep in peace.

Those handlers unleashed upon them
Another synthetic plague of despair,
From which the last fragments of thinking humanity
Could vanish almost into thin air.

Yet all this obedient cattle
Still cannot finally comprehend:
They too will become disposable
When their usefulness reaches its end.

For such is the logic of genocide —
Its mechanism cold and grim:
It always breeds fresh generations
Of Judases eager to serve within.



---------------------



The Experience

Such was the lesson: through freezing waves
I swam out swiftly, distant and far.
I conquered the instinct nature engraves,
Though the struggle was bitter and hard.

The calculation proved to be right —
Enough strength remained for the long way back.
But all power vanished near the end…
And this is the truth you must never neglect:

When tension reaches its uttermost limit,
When no trace of strength still survives,
The soul almost loosened itself from the body —
For one fleeting instant, the pulse went silent.

For there, no heartbeat exists and no suffering,
Nor the foul little dramas of men.
Abandon your wailing and useless lamenting —
Think on the Spirit, composed and intense.

The gap between body and soul was tiny,
Only a moment — a razor-thin seam.
Yet the message was vast and unmistakable:
Only a madman believes, “I am merely this flesh.”



---------------------



Defilement

“All your misfortunes come from the fact that you are children of Earth and Cosmos… You destroyed the knowledge of your ancestors and repeat only their mistakes… You are slaves and destroyers. Through your hands we defile the Earth…”
— from a 1991 alleged “revelation” attributed to a representative of a ruling inhuman elite.


The anti-entropic Spirit was the force
That once upheld the ancient cosmic course.
But inhuman fascism shattered that design,
Defiled the Earth and poisoned every mind.

Corrupted logic, twisted poisoned speech,
Have spread through us and sunk in far too deep.
The unity of Spirit, human bond and trust,
Were crushed beneath the systems built on rust.

Animal instinct — “fight or flee” before —
Was simply reshaped into “strip and hoard.”
Exploit the world, extract and dominate:
“You’ll get your iPhones, wealth, and social rank.”

Consume the planet down to ash and bone,
Destroy all doubt wherever it is shown.
Soon we will build that final idiot state
Whose shape recalls the Reich consumed by hate.

Only fools will gladly join the brutal ranks,
And imbeciles will march beneath the banners raised.
As always, filth still governs over all,
Determined now to murder Reason’s call.

Yet even this infernal scheme contains a flaw:
We are not merely mixtures forged for hellish law.
Humanity still holds the strength to rise
And strike against the darkness and its lies.

Our bond with Earth and with the Sun remains,
Though faint and hidden deep beneath the chains.
If we invoke the radiance of living Light,
The inhuman horde will perish in that fight.

Thus Earth shall one day cleanse itself from stain,
And Spirit shall awaken once again.
For those who still possess both mind and nerve,
This is the final road to honor restored.



---------------------



Cesspit

A stinking cesspit — not a world
Worthy of praise or pride.
Here everything becomes a fight,
And fascism’s deified.

An idol for the mindless herd,
Fit only for the flame.
The last true humans choke with shame
To witness what became

The Day of Shame, the End of Time,
History’s final scar:
Where thieves and fascist parasites
Are crowned as sages now.

This cesspit only merits fire —
Nothing else remains.
The struggle too will end one day,
Along with all this shame.

No other ending waits for us,
No brighter fate ahead.
For Nature will pronounce the sentence:
We all may vanish dead.



---------------------



No Need…

Do not expect salvation in this madhouse,
Do not waste breath lamenting doom.
Absurd it is to sift through piles of garbage —
That total lie flooding every room.

Whole oceans of deception drown the planet,
And slavery has hardened more than stone.
You no longer live within a world — but in a shooting range,
Where soon your spirit too will be overthrown.

All hope has long been slaughtered and discarded;
No humans now — just blinded beasts remain.
Half-animal ignoramuses surround us.
The world will never be the same again.

Reason will no longer keep ascending,
Nor Spirit always shine its guiding flame.
All that now is marked for eradication —
The final years of Mind have truly came.

Do not pretend that you are free of guilt,
No need for hollow gestures or despair.
You long stopped seeing the beam within your own eyes,
Still bowing to a slave’s obedient snare.

This world deserves annihilation only,
And even the Sun will aid us in the end.
Its blaze will rise until all filth is ashes —
And burn this rotten madhouse to its end.



---------------------



Disgrace

Disgrace resounds like funeral bells —
A maddened world gone fully insane.
It’s time to write all poems in curses now,
A storm of blasphemy, fury, and pain.

The rot of reason has reached its limit;
Beyond it waits only death’s domain.
The Spirit’s infernal corruption deepens —
Even Earth itself now trembles in strain.

The program has already been launched
To cleanse the planet entirely of us.
Earth can no longer endure the brute —
So to the Sun it whispered: “Enough.”

And the Sun now burns ever fiercer,
Evaporating lice from the land —
Creatures that through centuries grew duller,
And never became truly human in the end.

And with us, the vomit of inhuman rulers,
Who govern by lies and the sword they raise,
Will also be shamefully wiped from existence.
So let us die boldly within the blaze!

Better death than drowning in shame,
Not knowing what remains to defend.
Death from the Sun — not from false plagues,
Whose purpose is Spirit’s destruction in the end.

Then rebirth shall awaken through Spirit,
While the inhuman breed perishes forevermore —
The payment at last for all those torments
That lasted centuries, not mere years of war.



---------------------



Poets

Now poets are fading away,
Leaving scarcely a trace behind.
They offer no answers needed
For these catastrophic times.

For sugary whispers and love songs
Are useless in this foolish age —
In a world where fascism governs,
In this Hell where the inhuman rage

Seeks together to slaughter the Spirit,
To extinguish whatever still sees.
Yet with their hundredth sweet ballad
They keep soothing the minds of fools with ease.

Halfwits, liars, and trembling cowards
Sing of romance, flowers, and rain,
Blind to the monstrous chains around them,
Blind to the gathering reign of pain.

This is already the end of the war,
And victory still feels far away,
Yet those “songbirds” keep chirping of heartbreak,
Of forests and love songs today.

And no camp will remember their verses —
That vast global prison now grows.
Upon fascism’s pale banner already
A red cross for the “mad” grimly glows.



---------------------



The Order

An Order of the Halfwit
Should be founded with pride.
For the brainless blockhead
Now can easily triumph

Over thoughtful and spiritual souls,
Who remain the minority here,
Through bloodless forms of warfare —
A victory driven by fear.

That is the triumph of vermin
Who dislike open bullets and scars.
Genocide suits them better
When conducted from shadows afar.

Quietly, calmly, the dullards
Will inject poison straight into veins.
These are the new kinds of warfare
Where fascist corruption reigns.

With falsehood and calculated cunning
The monster strikes whole crowds to the floor.
The kingdom of imbeciles rises —
And you will be lost for sure

If you keep merely sleeping and whining,
Refusing to open your eyes.
You’ll arrive at the camp they are building,
Whose purpose is simply: demise.



---------------------



Healing

Both people and poets are shrinking away,
From the world only smoke remains.
The song has been sung to its final decay —
The Seraph no longer descends as it came.

No six-winged fire of old revelation,
Only a cat appeared in its place.
And hope finds no room in this devastated nation
Where instinct is honored and reason erased.

The colors of twilight grow thicker and darker,
The Soul has no refuge, no peace to defend.
Evil has cast off its last disguises —
And all things converge on a singular end.

That end is the erasure of darkness itself,
And us as well — since we are enslaved.
Only then comes the healing of Earth from the stench
Of a cruel fate and the path we have paved.



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Contrasts

"The heart is torn apart with pain,
Hard to believe in goodness still,
While in the world resound again
The drums, the chains, the axe’s will."
— Nikolay Nekrasov, 1863


Now there is neither pain nor ache,
And with the heart the mind is gone.
And vile, corrupted minds now make
The “thoughts” this rotten world lives on.

And those “thoughts” are pure deformation —
A herd-instinct, bestial and blind.
All noble feeling has long been abandoned
Where “success” rules over mankind.

That “success” is a strange kind of madness —
To be first among broken men.
Such a “path” has become the new standard:
Out-ruthless your rivals again.

That “path” leads straight into the prison,
And fools themselves pave every mile.
There all will be turned into cattle,
All standing in line in a file.

That line is a queue at the slaughterhouse gate,
Where all are first shorn of their pride.
And it’s deemed even better than warfare itself —
To be clipped and then butchered inside.



---------------------



Galleys

Once there were the galleys
Where slaves were chained in rows,
Till in this grey old valley
Reason itself grew slow.

And now the queue to galleys
Is formed by slaves again —
A plague worse than cholera valleys,
A line of mindless men.

They walk toward their slaughter,
They guard and shear themselves,
And even bring their daughters
Along this road to hell.

The sheep — the ultimate servant —
Believes he’s safe and free,
No fences needed around him,
He trusts it blindly, see.

We’ll kindly inject the herd now
With poison, smooth and bright.
And they will call it caring
Until their blood runs light.

No need for warlike carnage,
New methods do the work —
The fascist hand has long since learned
How silent toxins work.

Those poisons are efficient
At killing tamed and meek.
For war is too inefficient —
Less profit in its sweep.



---------------------



Clutter

Your consciousness is nothing but clutter —
A heap of filthy, rigid clich;.
And that is why you speak like a gutter,
And why such minds bring worlds to decay.

This rotten debris was implanted
Through centuries of bondage and shame,
Yet sold to us all as enlightened —
As reason’s pure light, not disgrace.

Your mind is forever monitored tightly,
Under total and constant control.
Someone else’s dirty laundry, quite lightly,
Is presented as “freedom” and soul.

Another man’s lies become knowledge there,
The only truth that you’re shown.
What was forced into slaves beyond bearing
Until it became overgrown.

From this suffocating compression of falsehood
The remnants of knowledge have died.
The world is reset like a broken old record
In contests of madness and pride.

A looping hell — a mixture of terror,
Submission, delusion, and fear.
Nothing will ever be reborn in this wasteland —
Only one act can end it here.

This shame will be shattered and broken,
Fit only for ruin and dust.
And even our death, though disgraceful,
May bring Earth’s long-awaited trust.



---------------------



Prostitutes

Prostitutes are gentle and compliant,
Even shared a brandy once or two.
But the others — cold, devoid of spirit,
Even maniacs would envy what they do.

These “prostitutes” are modern journalists,
Servants of the filth of crafted lies.
Rotten creatures, twisting every sentence,
Selling truth for a command that never dies.

Lies pour out like an endless, bottomless river,
Sweeping everything that stands in its way.
Goebbels knew: to make evil grow bigger,
Just let falsehood become the new law of the day.

Now they’ve built whole “Everests” of deception,
These prostitutes of the modern age.
And you no longer carry a cross upon your shoulders —
But the filth of a fascist parade.

That poison seeps into the thinking,
Into minds already bent and weak.
You are guided by a herd of corrupted voices,
Almost lifeless, too numb now to speak.

For the poison destroys even spirit,
If you learn to accept it each time,
If you bow to the inhuman whisper,
If you answer “yes” without a crime.

“Yes” to this entire inferno —
To this stinking earthly decay.
And you’ll start to resemble the monsters
If you listen to journalists’ sway.



---------------------



Synergetics

Good genetics lives inside you,
Quietly, enduring every day.
Synergetics will guide you,
Saving honest work along the way.

It will rise against all tyrants,
Against the dictates of the few.
And the hour soon will surface
When the fools no longer rule you.

Not deceitful hands will guide us,
But exchange that’s clean and true.
Life itself will reorganize us,
Replacing false money with something new.

New systems of exchange unfolding
Everywhere across the land.
No propaganda, no pretending —
Synergy will rise and stand.

On the ruins of the old world
Where dictatorship held sway,
Where the system turned to sewage
And decayed in every way.

We will pull from that foul gutter
Every honest human soul,
And without a single battle
Make the triumph of the whole

Of equality and brotherhood —
A world at last made bright.
All its riches will be shared there
As a feast of honest light.



---------------------



Nonsense

What first appears as utter nonsense
Is usually just that — no more.
So trust your own perception,
And drop all praise you’ve heard before.

Ignore the voice of “learned idiots,”
Shake off the stuffing in your head.
Find strength within to keep on digging
Until the truth is finally said.

And truth is usually quite simple —
This world is not as complex as claimed.
The vile inhuman system whispers
That only lies deserve the name.

An idol for the programmed weaklings,
Raised carefully by system design,
Where every bit of filthy nonsense
Can pass for truth and be assigned.

The “virus of the herd” confirms it —
Only fools believe its call.
A symbol of corruption spreading
And multiplied deception’s sprawl.

Mountains of lies now rise like Everest,
Ready to bury all in their fall.
And still you carry the fool’s cross in silence,
Destroying yourself and all.

Enough of believing in nonsense,
Enough of bowing to rotten will.
Clean out your ears from their poison,
And leave this deceptive spill.

Seek out not fools but the thinking,
Join them in a furious stand.
Or else the inhuman nausea
Will drag all life into sand.



---------------------



Drop by Drop

“I choose Freedom — rough, uneven, true,
Let it be coarse and flawed and torn.
And you — go on, drop by drop, if you want to,
Squeeze out the slave that you were born.

Drop by drop is still just drop by drop —
Clever, patient, slow in tone.
Drop by drop is for the rich in Capri,
For us — bring a bucket, not a stone.”
— Alexander Galich, 1970


It is not drop by drop, but always fully
You must expel the fool within.
Do not step again on old rakes blindly,
Repeating centuries of sin.

Be always cautious in accepting
The so-called “foundations” they proclaim,
Or you will find your will is crippled,
And join the herd of donkeys tame.

Those donkeys are strong in blind belief,
But weak where reason should reside.
Leave this gray and wretched system,
Where you are only prey inside.

Just prey for inhuman predators,
Who keep the world in chains and fear.
To them you’re something sweet for feasting —
A dish prepared, inviting, clear.

Let the inhuman choke on poison —
But not because of you, my friend.
For you are not yet their possession,
And this is not your final end.

Only one task remains before you,
A final strike to break the wall:
Destroy the filthy madhouse system,
And free the slaves once and for all.



---------------------



Shadow Spheres

I was once almost a bandit —
A lawyer of shadowed domains.
And that old trade is not forgotten,
It still can serve as a chain.

A lesson in what must be never done —
Don’t play games with the “State” in the end.
For under the rule of some fascist scum
It only can rot and offend.

It murders your dignity, reason,
Your honor, your conscience, your fire.
And spreads a contagious derangement
To forge obedient liars.

Blind servants of Lucifer’s kingdom,
Who long ago took over the game,
Where all sense of measure is shattered
And reality rots into shame.

So people must move together,
Withdraw into shadow and space.
For only escape from their system
Can bring life back into place.

This is not life, what the bastards
Have forced on the world as the norm.
It’s fragments of decay and corruption,
A cage where the broken conform.

Beyond this there’s another direction —
A system where sparks evolve bright.
So spit on the rotten old fragments,
Be fearless, be swift, take flight.



---------------------



Surroundings

Mindless, heartless human masses
always circle round your way.
In their midst you’re like a parasite
on a plate of flesh and clay.

And the living are almost vanished —
cut down by this “life” that kills.
Hunger, weariness and ruin
drain the last of human will.

No intelligent life can endure here,
no sane and living mind,
where existence is a shooting range —
targets pierced from behind.

For those who refuse submission,
who reject this fascist throne,
who will not bow to degradation
stand and fight it all alone.

That lone fight is theirs to carry
when no comrades can be found,
and it brings a final ending
to this thorny, hostile ground.

Yet death is only freedom —
the final stop in sight.
And to avoid becoming monsters,
you must reach it through the night.



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No Need for Pathos

"And dust-laden weathervanes are dancing —
the fool and the whore. That is us…
We are all guilty, all of us who remain alive."
— Salvador Espriu, Holy Week (1971)


No need for poses, rapture, false devotion —
that childish age is long since gone.
When only rot spreads like an ocean,
I spit on this circus and its “health brigade” and law.

No need to play the hero of some poem
that no longer exists — only farce remains.
Where all are guilty, weak, and broken,
and soon there’ll be no place left for us again.

We squandered the world, we lost deliverance
from demons ruling this infernal reign.
Only one sane decision now remains —
to shatter this hell and leave it again.

We won’t all leave — just scattered fragments,
the few who did not sink in slave decay,
those who preserved a spark of living essence
and did not sell their inner flame away.

And the Sun already burns more fiercely,
scorching all shame from this tired Earth.
We only need to help it rise more strongly,
draw down its fire for cleansing birth.

We are but scum — a stain on creation,
forgetting why we ever came.
We sold our Spirit, killed our consciousness —
a mixture of fear, greed, and shame.



---------------------



Cyclic Pattern

The “sheep-virus” is nothing new —
No modern invention at all.
It was known back in 1918 too,
When millions were driven to fall.

The same old scheme keeps repeating,
With no imagination or end.
The problems created by inhuman planners
Return in a loop that they send.

Every ten years: an economic collapse,
Twice in a century — world war again.
Then after a century, a “pandemic” arrives
To shorten the lives of the plain.

One thing is painfully obvious here:
These monsters must not be spared.
Or what is left of human reason
Will also be thoroughly bared.

That “virus” has echoed for over a century —
The liars have nothing but clones.
Masks came after the wars and disasters,
And injections filled graves with bones.

They laugh at humanity openly, freely,
Turning people into their herd.
Cycles of madness repeat through the ages,
And the world becomes chaos deferred.



---------------------



Signs

The sky keeps drawing quiet signs
In drifting pastel cloud and shade.
So many signs — yet human minds
Prefer the lies that they have made.

A swamp of chains in this decay,
A rotting world that’s lost its thread,
Forgot that Nature once was kin —
Like reverence for Mother’s bed.

And when that bond is torn apart,
No answer fits the staged demand.
The question itself is false at heart,
Misread against the higher plan.

And not just signs — the Sun itself
Now strips the lice from Earth below.
We turned this world into a dump,
A stinking pit where wastes can grow.

It’s now becoming clearly seen —
The Sun is white, no longer red.
Which means all things will be erased,
Swept clean until the traces end.

The torment of this Earth will finish,
Its burdened herd of filth and scum.
Both Earth and Sun now move toward cleansing —
To break the chains that once had come.

We are the chains — decay and poison,
A blight upon both sky and soil.
Without us Nature would find freedom —
If only minds could grasp that toil.

That now the hour has struck its limit,
No road returns to former pen.
And if a Goblin rules our world here,
Then death will grow from what he sows again.



---------------------



Linden (The Fake World)

A hollow little human
in a hollow, counterfeit land —
fed on triple-layered falsehood
that he barely understands.

Everything here is “linden,” false-made,
fairy tales for fools to chew —
things to read inside the toilet
while the chains are ringing through.

Only chains are truly solid,
only madness has its price.
All of this was made deliberately —
war has long been in disguise.

War against the human spirit,
war upon the human mind,
till you end up like a maggot
or obedient cattle, blind.

Linden blossoms bloom and fragrance
spreads its sweet and blinding veil,
but it does not know the backlash
that will answer, fierce and pale.

And the answer will be ruthless —
everything will burn away.
And once more it will be needed
to rebuild the world someday.



---------------------



The Narrowing of the World

The common curse of every life today
is how the world keeps growing small and tight —
where once a man could see and understand,
now lives inside a dim, enclosed cell’s light.

For “human plankton” it is just a room,
where foreign lies have quietly castrated thought.
And learned fools have drawn the narrow frame,
where everything is split and neatly caught:

Not fragments of the Whole, but male and female —
a circus of absurdity and sign.
And some foul priest now sings his empty hymns
to idols born of fabricated lie.

Everywhere clich;s, dead labels, empty forms,
illusion, pressure, nightmare, and disguise.
And as the world grows ever more constricted,
so alienation in each cell will rise.

For from division comes obedience —
small units always drift apart and fade.
And from that separation grows devotion
to evil’s global will and dark parade.

A plague now spreads where no space is remaining
for dignity, for spirit, or for mind.
You carry not a cross but mark of darkness —
both prison and your burden intertwined.

All are reduced to idiots and madmen —
for nature cannot bear such broken law.
Everything is priced and labeled merchandise;
the fascist beast now governs all we saw.

And there is one escape — it lies at entrance:
to restore the broken world’s lost thread.
A kind of Renaissance reborn in fire —
that sweeps away the inhuman and dead.



---------------------



The Madmen

We’re all of us mentally broken —
a sorrowful, simple truth.
There’s hardly a sane one left living,
so spare me polite kind of smooth.

Yet everyone here still believes
he’s a titan of mind and of will,
as if that alone is confirmed
by the “talent” he claims to fulfill.

A talent for grabbing and hoarding,
and for learning to swallow it all.
But nothing is worse than this silence
before genocide’s tightening wall.

To accept such an infernal system
requires a deranged kind of mind —
the kind that, before fascist monsters,
bows down and stays perfectly blind.

Who watches the zombie-screen stories,
who wears the obedient mask,
is already beyond saving fully —
no place left in the human task.

The global madhouse is rotting,
consumed by senile decay.
But soon the Sun will erupt here
and vaporize plankton away.

Plankton of half-thought and ruin,
plankton that barely are men —
for far too long now the demons
have ruled in this suffocating den.



---------------------



The Thinker

The thinker must be daring,
must strike at every “truth”
so carefully prepared here
for dogs in chains of proof.

The servant dogs of fascism
that rule this place unseen,
must be dismantled calmly,
without a trace of dream.

Break every rigid pattern,
smash every lie in sight —
a mountain of deception
that drowned the world in night.

The poison spreads in silence,
it owns each hollow mind;
and everywhere are traitors
who forge its chain designed.

Corrupt and bought deceivers
stand guard at every gate,
preserving all the prisons
that time has learned to hate.

They carry thick old doctrines,
dead words in endless piles —
the pillars of the Shadow,
the code of canine trials.

Not man but only mongrel
can now survive this land —
a bought and broken creature
that’s lost all moral stand.

And what is left for humans?
To shatter rotting schemes,
to tear apart this madhouse
and laugh at fascist dreams.



---------------------



The Thorny Path

A thorny road across the wasteland
is set for those who will not kneel,
who spit upon the false “sacred” idols —
the roots of bondage, forged like steel.

A poison aimed at inner spirit,
that kills you quietly inside,
until at last only death may free you
so you don’t end as cattle tied.

The desert of decay and blindness
stretches ahead in burning sun.
To break the grip of this confinement
you must advance like battle won.

Walk on the path of free reflection,
and labor shaped by creative fire,
though many there have long grown bitter
in years of solitude and mire.

Take ruthless will as your companion,
let nothing false stay in your chest,
discard all masks and all pretending,
and crush your fear without arrest.

No joy will bloom along that journey —
only the Muse will briefly shine.
Yet Spirit lives within your silence,
grieving for a life that’s mine.

For this is not life, but sticky darkness
that wrapped around you long ago.
You were not born — you were imprisoned
in stagnant filth and undertow.

One day you’ll leave that barren wasteland
and step into a final fight,
where false foundations collapse in thunder —
you die, but take your foes in light.



---------------------



Fatigue

A mortal, crushing weariness
in this madhouse of the not-human
has fallen to our share.
And those who carry living thought

are penned and crushed as always here —
weak, harassed, confined,
when fascism sits upon the throne
and slavery rules every mind.

You may overcome this fatigue
only if you come to see:
the only thing that truly remains
is to shatter this rotten debris.

Burn all this stinking corruption,
sweep every trace away —
and dare to become defiant
and leave the flesh’s decay.

By the energies of the Sun itself
the world will be scorched and torn,
its force descending to the core
until all filth is gone.

And you may help that burning light
if you call its power inside,
if you let its force pass through you
like a cleansing rising tide.

Then life in Spirit will awaken —
joy will break the chain.
But here it is only rumor,
a wake of endless pain.

A wake for purity and Spirit,
a mourning for the mind.
You are no beast, no crawling insect —
you will break the dark behind.



---------------------



Crises

"For us it’s nothing — to destroy food supplies, factories, ecology, free speech, art, and so on. For us it’s nothing to bring you hunger, sabotage, poverty, ruin, disease."
— revelation attributed to a ruling inhuman elite, Moscow, 1991


Creating crises is an art
among incarnate devils here.
But first they must destroy the mind
and every feeling held sincere.

Let the world not grasp the scale
of corruption bred in chains,
and let the slaves not see the hand
that rules their lives through pain.

We’ll pin it all on scapegoats made —
presidents, politicians too,
the rooster class they love to blame
for every scheme they push on you.

With those “roosters” we ignite
wars they will never understand —
bring hunger, sabotage, and ruin,
all crafted by a hidden hand.

And fools will later do the killing
themselves, in madness overfed,
while drifting in distorted thinking
inside their hollow, fractured head.

Sustaining delusion is another art —
the highest one this world can bear.
But there’s no shortage of raw material —
no mind left sharp enough to care.

So we will hang every obscenity,
and science itself will play along;
and fake “art” will deepen degradation
until the human turns to throng.

We stage a false viral catastrophe
to wipe out trusting minds in waves —
for those are not truly human anymore
who swallow every chain that saves.

And it ends with the world as a prison,
cold and total, iron-tight.
We stand already one step from it —
genocide enthroned as light.



---------------------



To the Readers

My best and truest reader — Tatiana,
calm in spirit, sharp of mind.
Though imperfections mark these verses,
their worth is not so easily defined.

And from far-off Singapore,
the site is visited each day —
such is fate’s absurd direction,
or fascism’s wider play.

I would not write with such persistence
about the days we now endure,
if not for rights so trampled over,
for dignity made poor and pure.

I wish all readers strength and fortune
along their difficult, uneven way.
And ropes for those who sell our spirit,
who multiply our world’s decay.



---------------------



Alternative

In seas of drifting waste and poison,
the islands of our ruin grow —
the Earth is fouled beyond all measure,
and ruled by those who drag it low.

Mankind, once bright, becomes like vermin,
a swarm that feeds on its own decay.
“Progress” expands in endless motion,
yet drives all life to break away.

An exponential rise of madness
has led the world into the flame.
It halts upon a frozen moment
where evil openly lays claim.

A new fascism spreads its shadow,
unfolding wings of darkest night.
It pushes Earth toward a prison —
our days are shrinking out of sight.

But still there is an alternative —
a path of sparks that seek to rise.
A system built on true development,
on clarity and open eyes.

And life may yet regain its meaning
if one moves quickly toward the light,
if one joins those who think in reason
and stand for what is just and right.

From scattered peoples, torn and broken,
a single will may yet be born —
the finest idea ever spoken,
the age of unity reborn.

The madness of mere “quantitative” growth
will finally collapse and cease.
And thought itself will find its order
in structured, living inner peace.

The true development — qualitative —
the only path that leads ahead,
where fractured nations come together
to lift the freedoms long since dead.

And then a good globalization
will be the outcome of it all —
no more decline or degradation,
no triumph of the inhuman thrall.



---------------------



Soul

The soul is by no means immortal —
for entropy works even there as well,
unless you labor, sharp and defiant,
to struggle against the herd-like hell.

The cattle and fools are soulless matter —
mere waste that is destined to burn.
To fascism they always surrender,
again and again in each turn.

The destruction of soul is the basis
of every occupation imposed;
then reason itself is dismantled
till you’re nothing but cattle exposed.

So only through struggle and resistance
can a soul be preserved from decay,
preventing you from becoming a monster
and keeping you on the Spirit’s way.

Creation must always be living —
for this is the soul’s true design.
Though difficult, heavy, and painful,
you must save what is truly divine.



---------------------



The Sense of Impending Doom

No need for explanations,
no clouds of abstract speech,
no esoteric teachings
that claim the truth they preach.

To understand you’re living
inside a constant Hell —
a stinking zoo of living ruin —
you feel it all too well.

And the only real indicator
is a sense that never ends,
familiar to each generation
like water that descends.

So much of that dark water
has already passed away,
yet nothing has grown better —
only evil holds its sway.

And people grow still weaker,
tormented by unseen foe.
The same old rake awaits them
wherever they may go.

We step on it again and again,
we multiply the dark domain,
we deepen all the misery
and spread collective pain.

And everyone must understand this
once and for all, as truth:
the mark of Hell is simple —
a mind consumed by doom.



---------------------



Winnie the Pooh and Tatiana

Winnie the Pooh is never hungry —
Tatiana feeds him like a dream.
But nature always brings indulgence,
and fat builds up in silent stream.

That “reserve” is just the layering
of flesh he stores upon his frame.
Though he won’t touch the sweetest pastry,
his sense of smell still stays the same.

That nose can track all forms of feeding
Tatiana so skillfully provides
for all her “flock” — the dog, the bear now,
the mad Pooh stumbling through the tides.

The dog is sharper than old Pooh Bear —
he doesn’t write his verses blind.
They never reach the ears of hearing,
for Pooh is not the speaking kind.

For all the platforms belong to power —
to fascism’s voice and staged display,
where lies must be delivered loudly
to shape the minds that drift astray.

And for Pooh Bear, there is no ending
but consequences of excess —
just cleansing measures for his gluttony,
the final act of emptiness.



---------------------



The Seasoning

"I have been left with one amusement:
my fingers in my mouth, a joyful whistle.
A wicked rumor has gone spreading round
that I am vulgar, rowdy, and unsettled."
— Sergei Yesenin, 1923


We too are left with just a seasoning —
a layer masking slavery’s true core,
and also with the empty entertainment
of false culture knocking at the door.

It leads us toward a prison-camp horizon
whose gates are already open wide.
And once again the foolish man believes
the system comes to keep him safe inside.

Safe from the “virus” of imagined doom,
from death by clouds of unseen “plague,”
where idiot treats even more idiotic,
and two-thirds live in mental haze and vague.

If two-thirds of all become distorted,
and others live in constant fear and strain,
then Nature itself is deeply insulted —
humanity becomes a mortal bane.

Such sickness must be fully eliminated —
exterminated by the Sun’s own flame,
that drives away the stubborn parasites
and burns the fascist beasts of shame.

The Sun has already begun its labor,
its brightness growing stronger every day.
It will soon vaporize the filth completely —
the root of Earth’s unending decay.



---------------------



Poetry

Only Poetry can carry
the fire that the Spirit breathes,
and through its flame it only multiplies
the grace that gently seethes.

Prose can never truly capture
the subtle tones of inner soul;
it has always stood as danger
to regimes of shadowed control.

For only verse — or better, singing —
can ignite the human chest,
and in people’s hearts awaken
hope that rises with its zest.

That hope is freedom from all bondage,
when dignity and honor rise,
reborn once more from ruins,
and liberation fills the skies.

And poems of that coming triumph
become the omen of the day —
the end of chains, the end of darkness,
the Spirit’s bright and living way.



---------------------



Trash

Our filthy refuse is the portrait of a man —
he serves as though he serves the good and just,
yet in reality he’s broken in the mind,
a gendarme shouting “glory” into dust.

He serves the regime with blind devotion,
while crime is nothing to the ruling hand.
He even drinks with petty criminals,
and buys their freedom where the bribes can land.

The system grants him all his license,
as long as he protects its gain and throne.
No fall is lower, no corruption deeper —
the triumph of the inhuman, fully grown.

And every man like this is double-faced —
a polished mask, a hidden rotten core.
A hardened “crack” shaped through the years of practice
until the truth is buried ever more.

We are not servants of the good or justice —
we sold ourselves for scraps of filthy gain.
And all attempts to fix this living nightmare
are lost inside its structure of decay.

There is one path — to burn this stinking ruin,
to wipe this shameful wasteland from the earth.
And what remains must dare to call the Sun’s fire,
and leave behind this prison’s hollow birth.



---------------------



Veterinary Hospitals

In Moscow’s clinics now they say
they only take the injected crowd —
those poisoned slowly, led to fade away
in silent “care” beneath a shroud.

Veterinary stations now are hiding
behind the name of human wards,
where fools in white are blindly guiding
the broken, bent beneath their cords.

They take in fools, already poisoned,
treated like cattle, numbed and weak.
No true physicians dwell within them —
just bought-off beasts that barely speak.

These filthy creatures have already squandered
their mind, their conscience, all their shame.
Yet what they’ve failed to understand is simple —
they too will answer for their game.

The judgment that once fell on fascism
after the war’s last bloody end
will come again — not with a syringe,
but gallows raised where none can bend.



---------------------



Tragicomedy

The tragic poses now have turned to laughter,
their staged emotions lose their claim.
Artificial tears no longer matter
inside this madhouse of the same.

The work is over, curtain falling,
the stage has dimmed, the lights are gone.
Only one thought remains still calling:
to leave a trace — then move along.

But even that trace is not required —
the bond with world is torn and thin.
Once you are noticed, you are tethered
by filth that drags you further in.

It rules this world through cunning violence,
through sword and lie entwined as one.
And everything becomes irrelevant —
a hollow act already done.

Slander, escape, and wasted striving,
a legacy of hollow days.
We inherited a world now governed
by fools enthroned in senseless ways.

The fool now blooms and spreads like vermin,
multiplying without end.
But soon the Sun will strike in judgment —
and Earth will cleanse and mend.

The planet, wiser than its makers,
will shed our rotting human stain.
And life will rise in forms unfamiliar,
beyond this age of shame and pain.

Something more fitting will inherit
this world we failed to keep.
Not this decay, this final vomiting —
the last disgrace that made Earth weep.



---------------------



Total Slavery

Total slavery grows ever stronger,
fascism now holds full command.
The inhuman crushes whole peoples
with barely a chance to withstand.

All is destroyed — family and community,
madness is sown in each school.
Man has been turned into cattle —
just eating, breeding, a tool.

Everything’s poisoned — food and “medicine”,
conscience, mercy, honor are gone.
What truly remains is a system of genocide
where hatred is method and law.

Only a handful refuse to surrender —
those who have neither sold nor betrayed.
They follow the voice of the Spirit alone,
breaking the lies that are made.

Salvation exists only in Spirit,
and struggle is needed as well.
The bastards will perish beneath the Sun’s fire
when the final resistance breaks hell.



---------------------



Drag of a Dull Life

The sticky drag of what you call “life”
has wrapped you in its hell from youth.
Surrounded by decay and nonsense,
you rot inside your private booth.

That little booth — a self-made prison,
a world you built to flee from strain,
from difficult and harsh awakenings,
from pressure of the slave domain.

You always keep excuses ready —
a skill you mastered long ago.
But all your stance is built on falsehood,
and in truth you’re just fear and woe.

You never stand against the new rot,
your voice is lost before it starts.
You’re sick with conformity and blindness,
a slave world beating in your heart.

You cannot see that only struggle
can give this place a single aim —
for otherwise enslavement deepens
and walls become an endless chain.

Degradation is the outcome,
no humans left, just hollow forms.
Even God has turned away now
from this world’s corrupting storms.

There will be no forgiveness coming
for betrayal of the inner flame.
What follows is the slow extinction —
a world consumed by shadowed shame.



---------------------



Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday, Tatiana —
may a radiant Light be yours,
healing all the heart’s deep wounds and
opening every closed-off door.

That Light is always with you,
given at your very start.
And reason, too, was granted —
to guide you through the dark.

This fog of toxic corruption
was cast across the world we see;
the Earth lies trapped beneath it,
stripped of strength and clarity.

May you be given power
to walk this path with honest will,
to keep your health and spirit steady,
and grow in courage still.

May hardships pass around you,
may joy remain your way —
be happy, truly, always,
in freedom every day.



---------------------



The Black Muse

My Black Muse like a nightmare
has swallowed all the air I breathe.
And harsh truth is never given freely —
it offers no flight, only a path to leave.

And to disappear is also an art form,
a road only the wise can take.
Not everyone endures such madness,
not all can bear the world’s mistake.

Not everyone is so foolishly loyal
to play a role till their final gray.
Not all submit to fear’s persuasion,
not all are afraid to drift away.

Not every reader of empty sweetness
will search through the ruins of time.
Not every fool is brave enough
to dig to the roots of a crime.

Not only in articles must there be judgment,
poisoned truth between the lines.
This rotting corruption can no longer be tolerated
in a world where genocide shines like divine.

Though the insane world falls into chaos,
you must not rise and fall with it.
There is another path for the thinking —
we burn the madhouse bit by bit.



---------------------



Autobiography

For many years I’ve stayed inside,
no friends, no ties, no hand to hold.
The world’s foul cancer has consumed me,
and weariness has taken hold.

I’ve thought of all this far too often —
the things I’ve lately tried to say.
And I have long been certain clearly:
we’ll answer for this shame someday.

I’ve waited long for death to find me,
walked many roads in search of truth.
I looked in every place around me —
yet nothing real emerged in youth.

No Light remains in this existence,
Reason itself has nearly died.
We’re just a dish upon their table —
the inhuman devours us with pride.

I tried to act, to find my comrades,
to stand as fighter, rankless, free —
but no one cared for such resistance,
no one would join the fight with me.

And later I began to notice
the planet cleans itself alone;
our song is over, nearly finished —
the filth will all be overthrown.

And long ago I also noticed
the Sun is all that matters here,
growing ever brighter, burning
this hellish mixture year by year.

We are just filth mixed into weakness,
betrayal, fear, and endless moan —
a dull, exhausting, empty nuisance,
a shame upon existence’s throne.



---------------------



In a World of Idiots

In a world of fools, where the wise are almost gone,
there are few paths left where strength can be placed.
A crowd of dimwits spawns endless nonsense upon nonsense —
and fools will swallow it all without haste.

Those lies have already eclipsed the last fragments of truth —
madness now reigns everywhere as a law.
To speak the real truth has become almost fearful —
and “almost everyone” turns traitor in awe.

If war is now waged through deception and silence,
and speech turns into more lies and decay,
then one betrays one’s inner divine spark completely —
and without it, no victory comes anyway.

We need that victory, or we will perish
in a slave-world made for the mindless and weak.
If we do not crush the inhuman that governs us,
no light for the future will anyone seek.

Only by uniting for this final struggle
can the last spark of Spirit be saved from the night.
Remember these words like a solemn prayer spoken —
without unity there is no sight, no light.



---------------------



The Snakes’ Den

The world has long become a den of snakes,
of half-formed men with hollowed-out souls.
And what remains of humankind now aches
in breathless fear beneath the demons’ tolls.

Beasts walking upright in a human skin
are now the standard, common everywhere.
With bull-like rage and dog-like hunger in,
they feel no shame, no prison, no despair.

Those prisons they were raised inside to call
a “normal life” — obedience and grind:
to bow to masters, never rise at all,
just breed and work, with emptiness of mind.

Another type: the engineered slave mind,
a bio-robot trained by coded lies,
inside the grid of culture, pre-designed,
afraid to even think beyond the lies.

And third — the filth: the ones who lost the trace
of conscience, spirit, anything at all.
No act too vile to happen in this place —
they serve whatever darkness may call.

They serve the hybrid lords of twisted form,
half-human, half a thing that feeds on dread.
They carry out the doctrines of the storm
that rot the living and corrupt the dead.

And through them demons act in human guise,
turning the Earth into a forged Hell.
And soon this spinning madness, through its lies,
will drag the whole world where the shadows dwell.

For humankind, there’s little time or space,
and fewer paths to keep its fragile flame.
But still — despite exhaustion, we must face
the demon-born and strip them of their claim.



---------------------



Honor

“I don’t need such dubious honor,
to have my statues rise from roses’ breath
in parks where tubercular spit is wandering,
where vice and syphilis are bound with death.”
— Vladimir Mayakovsky, Full Voice, 1930


I won’t write tales of faded fantasy,
of dreams that only live inside the mind.
No need for myths or false philosophy —
just rot and fear of every modern kind.

The world is now a drive toward slaughtered ends,
a run-down stall where filth is called “the norm,”
a place where everything breaks down and bends —
and final battle gathers in its storm.

That battle may be hopeless from the start,
since fools now wear the mask of every foe,
but if your mind remains an honest part,
you shake off dust and refuse to bow low.

And even if you fall, you fall with flame,
protecting spirit no one can destroy,
and break the cages forged in demon-name,
and smash the bars their hammer will deploy.



---------------------



Sweet Little Nothings

Dedicated to romantic poets


I want to write only sweet little fluff,
to curl up inside my cozy little den.
It feels so good to just not give a fuck
about the hell that swallows up all men.

I’ll scribble verses about “eternal love,”
and sing my praises in a polished tone,
of this bright world that smiles from above
as long as you accept it as your own.

I’ll become a humble craftsman in their trade,
the ones who shear the flock and send it blind,
while in my songs the “noble human” parade
still fights the madness choking up mankind.

I’ll praise my homeland once again with pride,
that “always wins” against the fascist tide,
while I ignore what’s rotting deep inside —
a world already broken, dead, and dried.

Broken by treason from within its core,
like worms that hollow everything they touch.
Devoured by the vultures evermore,
until there’s nothing left — not even much.

So let us all just drift in dreamy haze,
and search for silver lining everywhere,
while we are turned to cattle in a cage
by filthy hands that judge us without care.



---------------------



To the Fear-Soaked Lackeys of Fascism

“User has been blocked!
Reason: lines do not rhyme.”
— notification from a “poetry” site


And suddenly rhyme has vanished from “Fighter for Freedom,”
the rhythm is broken in a poem called “Honor.”
The lackeys all hurry to bow to the kingdom
of ugliness reigning where fear is the corner.

They dream that the world of slaughter and cattle
will somehow ignore all the filth they defend,
but systems of genocide always do battle
with traitors and cowards who bend till the end.

They don’t even dare call it “extremist” or “danger,”
though rhythm and rhyme still remain in each line.
Yet the beasts will choke down their own self-made anger —
when honor and dignity cease to be “mine.”



---------------------



Soulless “Healers”

Soulless “makers,”
spawn of crawling slaves,
have fed the power of darkness
and split the world with shoves.

And those they split — the fools and sheep —
believed each lie they fed,
and many fell into the deep
by needles that bring death.

That filth injects its poisoned craft
into obedient minds,
beneath the rule of fascist wrath
that shames and brutal blinds.

Such disgrace, so thick and sour,
has not been seen for years —
but soon will come the reckoning hour
for “doctors” drowned in fears.

Across the world the trials will spread,
no hiding place remains.
And for the people, light instead —
a country freed from chains.



---------------------



Leakage

Life leaks away from the body in threads,
a thin slow stream that quietly drains.
And strangely enough, I’m almost glad it spreads —
this fading release from the grip of its chains.

Yet still there remains one task in the end —
that vile neofascist world pressing in tight,
a crushing regime that pretends to defend
while feeding on darkness and calling it “light.”

On one hand it’s freedom from horror and pain,
from nightmares of half-living, endless decay.
On the other — the urge that refuses to wane:
to judge and to strike that corruption away.

And spare me the sermons — “don’t judge,” they insist,
as if that command wasn’t planted in lies.
If you truly believe it, you’re deep in the mist,
already consumed by its hollow disguise.

Soon I will leave. I was not born to kneel,
nor to multiply chains or submit to their hand.
I lived through the pain that too few can feel —
the rule of the inhuman over the land.

And I learned one truth: our Sun is alive —
and it brings liberation not far from this hour.
It will cleanse the poor Earth, help the wounded survive,
and burn off the rot of a world gone sour.

So do not fear death — it is not the end,
it saves this Earth from its parasites’ feast.
It saves even us from the fascist trend,
destroying the rulers along with the beast.

And we, too, can help the Sun in its fire,
calling its blaze into ourselves as a flame.
Better that path than a world that grows dire,
begging its tyrants to spare us from shame.



---------------------



The Voting Barn

In a world of endless, age-old slaughter,
so-called “elections” serve one simple aim:
to build a list of those who’ve lost their order —
the crowds who still believe they have a name.

They call it “voters’ list” with solemn faces,
but what it really gathers, deep inside,
is proof of who accepts the tightening laces
and signs away what’s left of human pride.

The voting barn exists for lists they’re making —
a census of the ones deemed not awake.
And soon arrives, already overtaking,
the equal reign of cattle they will make.

Equality of sheep and goats in freedom,
a paradise for beasts in neat control.
The wounds will “heal” — but only as they feed them,
with hay for bodies, and a cage for soul.

And happiness will come in full formation —
just choose your role within the great parade.
Sign “I’m a free and willing registration,”
then headfirst into the ballot you have made.



---------------------



The Odds

The last remaining strength is fading,
everything now turns to nausea and dread.
All around — betrayers, fools, invading,
while Global Evil strikes its final spread.

There are only fragments left of humans,
scattered, lonely, stripped of unity.
Faces flash by — hollow, broken tokens,
no country left, no sense of “we.”

Don’t endure this filth by blind submission,
don’t bury your head down in the sand —
instead allow a sharp, defiant decision:
to leave it all, and do so when you can.

Even Nature will no longer tolerate
this offspring of the half-human breed.
And the Sun itself accelerates its burning state,
growing stronger year by year indeed.

Such are now the odds in this dark valley,
of fools and traitors, blind and led astray,
where fascist shadows rule the alley,
and every path is bound in chains of gray.



---------------------



Schmurdyak

“Night, street, lamp, pharmacy,
a dull and meaningless light.
Live another quarter-century —
and nothing changes in the night.

You die — and start again from zero,
and everything repeats once more:
night, icy ripples of the river,
pharmacy, street, lamp at the door.”
— Alexander Blok, 1912

Schmurdyak, a sheep, a fool, a pharmacy —
a nightmare born of fevered, broken dreams.
Not many humans left in memory —
you “live” inside a hell of inhuman regimes.

You die — but nothing restarts in cycles,
no return to that old familiar scene.
The world is drained by nonhuman disciples,
and what remains is something cold and mean.



---------------------



Asymptomatic Sheep-Virus

The sheep-virus here is never silent,
it never hides without a trace.
Once swallowed whole by greater violence,
you learn to live on lies you face.

You take the bait they carefully deliver,
you line up for the tests they make you take.
Then comes the “shot” they sell as life’s redeemer —
but it is just another chain they make.

And if you still believe this circus story,
you hardly qualify as truly free.
A mind that drinks this manufactured glory
will drown inside a sea of falsity.

So every symptom shows quite clearly,
on every fool who plays along.
They’ve known it since the start, sincerely —
the fooled repeat the same old song.